Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (34 page)

"Æ, brother, did
you
come from the Market?"

Warreven nodded, not
moving.

"I have friends
there," she said, "and I worry."

"They should be all
right," Warreven said. "I was there. The
mosstaas
shut down the ranas that were there--" He bit down hard on his own
anger, seeing the same shock reflected in the other's face, and
continued more calmly. "Nobody was hurt, though, everyone went
peaceably."

The flower seller
sighed, and set her basket between them on the lip of the basin.
"That's good news, brother." She reached into the water,
cupping a double handful, and drank noisily. She shook her hands,
water still running down her chin, and said, "I heard there was
going to be trouble. But I also heard that Temelathe told the
mosstaas
hands
off."

Warreven hissed between
his teeth, the country sound that indicated incredulity. "I
wouldn't count on it, my sister."

The flower seller
shrugged, wiping her hands on her thighs. The fabric clung,
sweat-damp, outlining thin legs. Warreven was suddenly aware of their
shape, of the fullness in her-- 3er--crotch,
and the breasts padded to fill the too-large bodice. It had been
years, it seemed, since he had looked at another
halving
,
another herm, besides Haliday, and really seen the bodies that
mirrored his own. And even Haliday had always seemed more man than
herm or woman, if only because they'd been boys together.... And
Haliday was right, he realized suddenly. They couldn't pass, none
of them, no matter how much they tried, at least not well enough to
satisfy Tendlathe and the people like him.

"If they haven't
done anything," the flower seller said, "it might be true."

"They haven't done
anything yet," Warreven said, and 3e
grinned, revealing a missing tooth at the side of 3er
mouth.

"And I don't intend
to count on that, my brother." Ȝe
hoisted 3er basket,
resting it on 3er narrow
hip--a woman's gesture? a human gesture?--and stepped gracefully
off the edge of the fountain.

He didn't watch 3er
go, suddenly, coldly, afraid.

Jillamie
:
(Hara) literally "girlfriend"; always very casual, and can easily
become an insult.

10

Warreven

The fog had come in while they
were in Bon'Ador, filling the streets that led up from Harborside.
From the doorway of the club, Warreven could see the lighthouse tower
at Blind Point rising above the heavy layers of vapor, the beam of
light cutting a golden wedge through the dank air. To his left, the
empty street ran straight to the Glassmarket, drowned in cloud. The
sunken center held the fog like a basin, only the poles of the
streetlights rising out of the mass: even if it hadn't been well
after hours, the merchants would have had to close. A single figure
was moving on the larger sales platform--a cleaner, or maybe a
late-closing merchant,
shaal
-hooded
against the damp. He or she was knee-deep in fog, and more wisps
curled and eddied, fine as smoke, around her/his shoulders, clearly
visible in the market lights. Warreven caught his breath, admiring
the image, and the door opened behind him.

"Any luck?"

Haliday stepped up
beside him, shaking 3er
head. "There's not a car or rover to be had, for love or money.
The service said, maybe in an hour, but Reinier wants us out of
here."

"He could let us
wait," Warreven said, irritated, and Haliday shrugged.

"He's got his
license to think of. He said the
mosstaas
and the Service Board have been breathing down his neck."

"He could close the
damn bar," Warreven said, and sighed, looking back toward Blind
Point. There was no one else in sight--not surprising on a night
like this--and the street seemed to vanish before it reached the top
of the hill, obscured by a drift of fog. "I don't suppose we
could get a trolley."

"It's a
fifteen-minute walk to Harborside, or thirty to Terminus, and we'd
never make that before they shut down," Haliday said. "We could
make it home in that."

Warreven hesitated. He
didn't want to walk, not tonight, not with the ghost ranas still
loose, but he especially didn't want to have to cross the streets
above Dock Row where they'd been most active to get to the trolley
station at Harborside. "I guess we walk," he said, and Haliday
nodded.

"There's two of us,
and it's a nasty night. Even the ghost ranas have to take a night
off sometime."

"You hope,"
Warreven said sourly, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his
trousers. It was cold--he was cold, and the fog was seeping through
the fabric of his tunic, damp on his skin.

Haliday made a sound
that was almost laughter and started up the hill. Warreven followed,
hunching his shoulders against the chill. "At least the meeting
went well," he said.

Haliday nodded. "We
should have a couple of good
presance
s
worked up, and then the ranas--our ranas--can start playing them."

"If that's enough,"
Warreven said. He shook his head, trying to shake away the memory of
Tendlathe in the Harbor Market, denying that the off-worlders were
human.

"It will be,"
Haliday said, and smiled, the expression wry. "It has to be.
Temelathe hasn't left us any other way."

Warreven shook his head
again. They reached the top of the hill and started down the other
side, the fog rising to meet them, damp on their faces and necks. The
streetlights seemed to make the mist more opaque than ever, so that
for a moment he could barely make out the buildings on the other side
of the street. Haliday's face, little more than an arm's length,
was blurred, as though seen through smoke. Haliday glanced at him
again.

"Pity the poor
sailor," 3e said, and
the words were half a prayer.

Warreven nodded,
thinking of the seascape tonight: no wind, calm seas, all the
familiar sea- and landmarks flattened, just the lights and mostly the
bells and horns to mark the coast's worst hazards. He'd been at
sea once in a similar fog, coming down from Ambreslight with
Chauntclere, and Clere had made no pretense of bravado. They had
dropped anchor, set all the lights blazing and rigged the boat-horns
to sound steadily, and had been very glad of the dawn. He tilted his
head, wondering if he could hear any of the ships that must be caught
offshore, but heard only the familiar tri-toned howl from Ferryhead.
It was followed a few seconds later by the louder double note of
Blind Point, and then the Sail Harbor buoy.

"Do you think the
off-worlders will support us?" Haliday asked.

Warreven shrugged. "Some
of them, maybe. Tatian will--they, NAPD, are already
sticking their necks out for us, with Reiss's statement."

"He's getting
enough for it," Haliday said. "And remember, Raven, by all
accounts he's so-abed."

"That's not the
point," Warreven answered, all the more sharply because he'd
heard the same rumors. "And this could do a lot for us. What was it
Astfer said, all we need is one clear case?"

Haliday nodded. "But
this isn't going to be it, that I'm sure of. Destany's hardly
the perfect candidate."

"Neither's 'Aukai,"
Warreven muttered.

"Temelathe is being
smart," Haliday said. "He's letting Tendlathe do all the dirty
work, and then he goes out to the
mesnie
s
and wonders aloud if the pharmaceuticals will go on dealing with us
if he can't keep the peace."

"There's not much
the
mesnie
s can
do about Bonemarche," Warreven said.

"You hope," Haliday
said, with another crooked smile.

The fog had thinned a
little, was drifting in patches across the roadway. The buildings to
either side were changing, becoming older, residential, tall narrow
buildings jammed close to the street to leave room for gardens and
spider pens at the back of the property. There were no streetlights
here; instead, each household was responsible for a light above the
main door, so that the street was lit by a line of orange globes,
each a little above head height. In the fog, they looked like strands
of night-pearls, the glowing spheres stretching the length of the
street. They reminded Warreven vaguely of holidays, of dancing on the
Irenfot beaches when the shedi were spawning and the strings of
phosphorescent egg cases washed ashore with every wave. The last time
he'd seen night-pearls had been three years ago, after the
kittereen
races,
the year he'd met Reiss.

A shape loomed out of
the fog bank ahead of them, the low-set lights throwing its shadow
back across solid-looking mist. Warreven stepped sideways into the
middle of the street, looking around for a police light, and slipped
his hands out of his pockets again. Two more shapes joined the first,
instantly and silently, familiar shapes in the loose black robes and
hoods and the white, doll-faced masks. Warreven looked over his
shoulder, ready to run. Five more ranas blocked the street behind
them, three in the lead, two shadowy in the fog behind. He turned
back to the first group, heard Haliday swear under 3er
breath beside him. The ranas moved toward them, not hurrying, and
instinctively he shifted so that he could see both groups. Haliday
matched him, so that they stood back-to-back in the middle of the
open road. On any other night, there would have been traffic, some
chance that a rover or shay would come by, disrupt the line, give
them a chance to run, but they hadn't seen a vehicle all night. He
glanced quickly at the windows on the upper floors, saw a few still
with lights behind them, and raised his voice to shout.

"Hey! What do you
want with us? Leave us alone, or there'll be trouble."

He had pitched his
voice as low as he could, but it still came out contralto, more woman
than man. One of the ranas pointed and mimed laughter, arms crossed
over its belly. Warreven felt himself flush.

"Let us past,"
Haliday said, in the same tone 3e
would have used to a dream-drunk sailor.

The ranas ignored 3im,
circling to surround them. There were at least a dozen of them, most
of them carrying the clubs and spider-sticks Warreven had seen
before. There was no drummer, this time, no bell carrier, and he
tasted fear, sour at the back of his mouth.

"What have we here?"
The whispering voice came from the nearest of the ranas, one of the
three who carried a spider-stick. A man's voice, Warreven thought,
but the mask seemed to have an electronic distortion unit built into
it, hiding his identity completely. "A pair of titticocks--and one
of them pretty, too."

Again, several of the
ranas mimed laughter. Warreven could feel himself shaking, looked up
at the windows, hoping someone would see what was going on, would
help. Instead, the windows that had been lit were suddenly darkened:
the neighborhood had made its decision. The rana leader lifted his
stick, shook it so that the joints snapped suddenly into place, three
sharp clicks like breaking bones, turning it into a rigid bar of
ironwood.

"You,
jillamie
."
He pointed the stick at Haliday. "You got a pretty face, but the
body's a mess. What the hell are you?" The circle moved closer,
closing in.

Warreven looked up at
the darkened windows, unable quite to believe they'd been abandoned
to the ranas. Haliday took a step toward him, so that they were
almost touching, close enough that Warreven could feel the faint
warmth of 3er body against
his back.

"And how about you?"
The stick cracked again, bending all along its length, snapped rigid
pointing at Warreven's chest. "Dressed like a boy, yells like a
girl. So which are you,
swetemetes
?"

Warreven took a deep
breath and played the only card he had. "I'm Warreven. The
Stiller
seraaliste
."
To his relief, his voice sounded almost normal, deep enough to pass
for male.

"Warreven. We know
Warreven." Even through the distortion box, the leader's voice
was rich with satisfaction. He gestured with his stick, and the
nearest of the ranas lunged like a dancer, flourishing a docker's
hook in his left hand. Warreven dodged by reflex, but the hook caught
his tunic, ripped down and away, the sharp tip scoring a painful line
across his chest and side. He spun away, too afraid to cry out,
turning his shoulder to catch the next blow that never came.

"What've you got
under there?" the leader asked. "Show us, Warreven. Show us what
a man you are."

"Go to hell,"
Warreven said, and the docker raised his hook again.

"Show us," the
leader said.

Warreven stood frozen
for an instant, the fog cold on his exposed skin, burning on the long
cut that ran from collarbone to hip. He couldn't fight them, not
unarmed--not even if he was armed--and it might get them out of
this alive. He'd done worse, he told himself, and didn't believe
it.

"Need some help?"
the leader asked, and Warreven achieved a sneer.

"Not from you," he
said, and lifted his hands to the tunic's neck. He pulled the torn
cloth apart, baring his breasts to the fog and the cold. The
house-lights left no hope of concealment; he stood half naked and
fought to seem unashamed. The ranas mimed laughter--no, he thought,
they were laughing behind their masks and knew his cheeks were
burning.

The leader laughed
softly and turned to Haliday. "And what about you,
jillamie
?"

"Go to hell,"
Haliday said.

Behind 3er,
a window scraped up in the wall of houses. Warreven looked up,
letting the torn tunic fall closed again, but saw no one in the
narrow opening. All the windows were still dark, just the one open a
handspan at the bottom. A voice came from it, high and quavering with
age or fear.