Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (29 page)

"Show some sense for
once," Haliday went on, and jammed 3er
hands into the pockets of 3er
trousers. "Anyway, you're wanted,
coy
.
The Most Important Man would like to talk to you--nicely phrased, he
just wants to talk, but he took the trouble to track you down here."

"Who was it who
called?" Warreven asked. If it was one of Temelathe's
functionaries, he might be able to get out of the meeting, arrange to
do it later--

Haliday shook 3er
head, as though 3e'd
read the thought. "Not one of the secretaries. A woman, I think,
might have been Aldess, but I couldn't be sure." Ȝe
paused. "It probably wasn't Aldess, I think she'd still speak
to me. If she recognized my voice, of course."

Warreven nodded,
already wondering if he could get a rover. With the ghost ranas
active again, he would rather not walk to and from the trolley
stations. Haliday smiled again.

"And I called the
service. No cars available tonight."

"Damn." Warreven
looked back toward the harbor. The light was fading fast now, the
rising moon barely more than a hazy patch of silver, its shape
diffused and distorted by the layers of cloud. The streetlights
beyond the next line of houses seemed unusually dim, muted by the
weight of the evening air.

"I can give you a
ride there," Tatian offered. "You'll have to find your own way
back, though."

"Thanks," Warreven
said. Temelathe would probably offer him a ride home, or, at worst,
he should be able to find a rover.

He followed Tatian down
the long stairs to the street, passing still more people coming to
pay their respects, and was glad to see that the jigg waiting under
the streetlight did not have pharmaceutical markings.

"The security's
on," Tatian said, and Warreven froze without touching the
fibreplast body. He could feel the field's edge only a few
centimeters away, lifting the hairs on his arms. "Okay, you're
clear."

The field vanished in
the same instant, and Warreven gingerly opened the passenger door. He
settled himself in the passenger seat and watched in fascination as
displays sprang to life along the edge of the windscreen. Tatian
glanced at them casually and kicked the engine to life.

"What's the best
way to get there?"

"The easiest way is
along Harborside," Warreven began, and Tatian laughed.

"Under the
circumstances, maybe there's another way?"

Warreven paused,
considering. He rarely had to find his way around in Bonemarche,
relied always on the network of hired rovers and coupelets or on the
trolleys and his own feet.... "Take a right at the end of the
street," he said at last, "and follow that around onto Crossey."

Tatian nodded, and put
the jigg into gear. He was a good driver, Warreven realized, with
some surprise--he had thought that was Reiss's job, to ferry the
company's important people from place to place--and managed the
narrow streets with ease. Even the pack of children playing in the
circle of a houselight didn't seem to bother him. He sounded the
whistle, but softly, more a warning than a demand, and kept the jigg
moving at a steady, inexorable pace, so that even the oldest boys
thought twice about playing chicken. Only when they were past did he
look into the mirror, face thoughtful, and Warreven cocked his head
to one side, watching him curiously.

"Problem?" he said,
after a moment, and Tatian shook himself.

"No, not at all, just
something I hadn't realized. There aren't that many kids in the
Nest--the housing block where I live."

It didn't seem that
strange, and Warreven shrugged. "I wouldn't think you'd want to
uproot your family for, what's the norm, a four-year contract?"

"Maybe not," Tatian
answered, and didn't sound convinced.

"Usually there are
more, that's all. At least there were on all the other planets."

They crossed Tredhard
Street just above Soushill Road--Warreven was careful to keep them
away from that street, just in case the ghost ranas were active
again--and the sound of drums was suddenly loud. Warreven looked
toward the Harbor, felt his own pulse quicken, seeing Tatian's
sudden frown, relaxed as he saw the people gathered in the circle of
lights just inside the Market square. "It's all right," he said
aloud, "it's just a regular rana."

Tatian allowed himself
a sigh of relief, and eased the jigg across the traffic. "How can
one tell?"

Warreven looked back,
seeing the drummers facing each other, lifted above the group around
them by a makeshift platform, a sheet of fibreplast balanced on fuel
cells, and the dancers with their clusters and knots of multicolored
ribbon. "Ranas--real ranas--will always have drums or a singer,
that's what makes them legitimate, not political."

"Not political?"
Tatian said, in spite of himself, and Warreven grinned.

"Political according
to the law, anyway. The way things have always been done, political
gatherings can be suppressed--that's supposed to be reserved to
the
mesnie
s--but
political gets defined as 'getting together to talk about issues.'
If you dance and sing-- particularly if you're clever--it can't
be politics."

"Oh, right," Tatian
said. "Like having dinner regularly with the Most Important Man is
neither politics nor business."

Warreven laughed.
"Exactly like. Turn left here."

Tatian swung the jigg
onto the broad street that ran parallel to Harborside. "I bet it
works, though," he said, after a moment. "If you can't say
anything directly, but have to make it a song--no, you make it a
symbol, don't you? you have to talk in symbols--then you can't
ever move from opposition into the system. At least not without
losing the power you had before."

Warreven looked
sideways at him, not liking what he'd heard. The ranas had real
power, effective power--the very existence of the ghost ranas proved
that; they wouldn't take on the distorted image of true ranas if
true ranas weren't real--But it was true that it was hard to go
from protest to holding office in the clans and Watches: the
Modernists had been trying for years and still didn't win the
elections. Still, you won elections through compromise, through
consensus, not debate, and the ranas, true ranas, were a powerful
tool there. "You can tell real ranas by the ribbons, too," he
said. "Ranas are supposed to wear lots of colors--all the colors
of the spectrum, supposedly, it's to prove they're not
political--and they usually use ribbons. These days, nobody wears
black, either."

"I'll remember
that," Tatian said. "I can't say it was hard to recognize the
ghost ranas when I saw them." He paused. "None of this is making
me feel any too happy with our agreement, Warreven. Tendlathe's
people are looking a lot more powerful than I thought."

Warreven hesitated,
debating a lie, then made a face. "More powerful than I'd
thought, too. He's got more support among the
mosstaas
than I'd realized."

"Not good."

That was, Warreven
admitted, an understatement. He slanted another glance at the
off-worlder, the strong planes of his face briefly highlighted as
they passed a door lamp. "Killing Lammasin--that's got to be too
much, even for his people. And I--I don't intend to be driven off,
yet."

Tatian nodded. "I
figured. This is personal, right?"

Warreven blinked,
startled, then shrugged. "In a way, certainly. But I'm not like
Haliday. I--I'm sure you've heard the story, I could've
married Tendlathe--"

"Lucky you," Tatian
said, under his breath, and Warreven grinned.

"--but I didn't
want to change gender. I'm perfectly happy as a man."

"But--" Tatian
broke off, shaking his head.

But
you're not a man
. The words seemed to hang between them,
and Warreven sighed. He had forgotten, for a moment, that he was
talking to an off-worlder, who couldn't see beyond the physical
body. "Legally and by choice, I am. That's what matters."

"I know." Tatian
took his eyes off the road long enough to offer an apologetic
grimace. "I do know. I'm sorry."

Warreven nodded. "But
you're right, the situation's more complicated than I thought.
I'll be very interested in what Temelathe has to say to me."

"So would I be,"
Tatian said. "If you can tell me."

"I'll do what I
can," Warreven answered.

They reached the Stane
compound at last, and without being asked Tatian pulled up well
outside the light from the gate. "I doubt it would do you any good
to be seen with me, just at the moment," he said, and Warreven
nodded.

"Probably not. I
appreciate the ride, very much."

"Not a problem,"
Tatian said, and shrugged. "I'm sorry I can't stay. Do you want
me to try to come back for you?"

Warreven shook his
head, but he was obscurely pleased by the offer. "No, but thanks. I
can get a ride from here." He climbed out of the jigg before he
could change his mind and stood for a moment leaning in the open
door. "Be careful."

Tatian nodded. "You,
too."

Warreven straightened,
letting the door fall closed again be- hind him, and started toward
the compound gate. He heard the whine of the engine as the jigg
pulled away, but did not look back. There were four
mosstaas
guarding the gate, not the usual two--at least one of them armed,
pellet gun and ironwood truncheon-- and Warreven was careful to move
slowly as he came into the light.

"I'm here to see
Mir Temelathe," he said. "My name's Warreven."

The leader of the
mosstaas
looked
less than pleased, and Warreven resigned himself to the tedious
ritual of identifying himself to their satisfaction. They let him
through after a dozen questions and two calls to the house while he
stood under the lights for the imported security cameras, and
Warreven walked up the long curve of the drive, deliberately slow to
give himself time to control his temper.

The housekeeper, the
same woman Warreven had seen the last time, was waiting again on the
steps, but this time Aldess Donavie was waiting with her. She looked
completely recovered, very elegant in the off-world style that was
just becoming fashionable in the Stanelands
mesnie
s,
narrow trousers and vest under a heavily beaded
shaal
-cont.
It looked like one of Folhare's designs, Warreven thought,
irrelevantly, and the housekeeper stepped back to hold the door open.
Aldess came to meet him, holding out both hands. She knew her
status--Tendlathe's wife, Temelathe's daughter-in-law, and blood
daughter of Bradfot Donavie, the richest man on the Westland--and
knew, too, that it would be acknowledged.

"Raven. It was good
to see you at the reinstatement. I appreciated your coming."

Warreven took her
hands, aware of metal rings, a broad metal bracelet, bigger and
heavier than his own, and they mimed a kiss. "Not at all. I was
sorry to hear of your loss."

Aldess waved that away.
"I wish we'd seen you the other night. I know Tendlathe was
disappointed."

I bet, Warreven
thought. In the hallway lights, her coat glowed the deep blood
scarlet of ruby melons, its subtle woven floral outlined in
glittering flecks of red glass. Not Folhare's work--she was never
so restrained in her designs, and besides, Aldess would never buy
from her--but probably much more expensive. He said, "I was on
business, and I didn't want to interrupt the party."

"You should have
done," Aldess said. "We would have been glad to see you, and I
know Tendlathe would like to congratulate you on becoming
seraaliste
.
You must be very proud."

"I'm--enjoying the
work," Warreven said, with perfect truth. He didn't trust Aldess,
anymore than he trusted any Stane, and he was doubly wary when she
was sent to meet him, doing what was properly a servant's job.
Temelathe wanted something badly, to offer such an acknowledgment of
status.

Aldess smiled, showing
perfect teeth. Once, Warreven remembered, the front teeth had had a
fractional gap between them; it had vanished within a year of her
marriage. She tapped gently on the door of Temelathe's study,
pushed it open without waiting for a response. "Warreven, father,"
she said, and Warreven walked past her into the little room.

Temelathe was sitting
in his chair beside the stove, feet resting on a low stool of carved
ironwood. The designs were worn away in places, the rounded shapes
blurred, and Warreven wondered just how old the piece was. Ironwood
was almost as hard as its namesake; it would have taken generations
of use to blunt its glossy finish. The air smelled of
donnetoil
, and looking closer, he could see the rough-cast
bowl resting in the chamber of the stove, piled embers showing gray
and orange. There was a wheel of milkcheese on the table, the hard
brick-brown sailors' version, and a basket of flat sailors'
bread, too: all the trappings of a casual visit, Warreven thought,
but none of the reality.

"My father," he
said, and knew he sounded as wary as he felt.

Temelathe waved toward
the guest's chair. "Sit. No, wait, throw some more
donnetoil
on the fire. This is almost gone."

The basket was sitting
on top of the stove. Warreven filled the shallow scoop with the
coarse, red-black grains--they were about the size of sea salt, the
freshly dried kind that the old people preferred, before the mills
had crushed it--then opened the stove door and sprinkled them
cautiously over the embers. The first few flashed like lightning as
they hit the coals, and then the rest stabilized, sending a fresh
cloud of smoke into the room. Warreven inhaled its fragrance--sharp
and almost oily, the various seeds and leaves that went into the
compound blending into a bitter, complicated smoke, dominated by the
chimetree resin--and turned back to the guest chair without taking
any more. Temelathe watched him morosely, and Warreven could see that
the smoke subtly reddened his eyes. How long have you been sitting
here, my father, with only the stove for company? he wondered, but
that was not the sort of question one could ask Temelathe. He said,
"You asked to see me, and I'm here."