Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (37 page)

"I mean it,"
Warreven said, and reached for the bundle of clothes. Ȝe
fumbled it open, dropping the shirt, and stooped to pick them up,
wincing, before Tatian could do it for 3im. "Can you get me out of this
thing?"

The technician, her
face still with disapproval, moved to release the monitor cuff. Over
her shoulder, Malemayn gave Tatian a speaking look; responding to
that appeal, the off-worlder said,

"Look, she said you
need to rest, Warreven. Let me take you home."

"I can stay and look
after Haliday," Malemayn said. "I'll get the doctor's name
from Mir Tatian, talk to the doctors here, see what--if anything,
you don't know anything's wrong, Raven--see what needs to be
done."

Warreven turned 3er
back to them all, shrugged off the torn tunic. The end of the bandage
was just visible where it crossed 3er
hipbone and vanished beneath the waistband of 3er
trousers. There was blood on them, a little darker than the fabric
itself. The technician made a clucking noise, half sympathy, half
embarrassment, and reached for the clean shirt, deftly easing it up
over 3er arms and
shoulders. "Thanks," Warreven said. "Sorry--"

The woman waved away
the apology and turned back to her machines.

Tatian looked from 3im
to Malemayn, frowning. He didn't like the position the other
advocate was putting him in, the tacit invitation to side with him
against Warreven, to brush away Warreven's real fears. "I think
Warreven's right, Mir Malemayn. No reflection on the staff here,
but Mir Haliday is a herm, and our doctor has more experience
treating them."

Malemayn's mouth
twisted, but then he had himself under control. "I agree that a
second opinion would be a good thing--"

"The doctor's name
is Jaans," Warreven said. Ȝe
jammed 3er feet into 3er
shoes.

"Jaans Oddyny,"
Tatian said, and reached into his pocket for the thin disk. "These
are her codes."

Malemayn took it, and
Warreven said, "Give me your word, Mal, that you'll call her."

"I'll call her,"
Malemayn said grimly. "I promise, Warreven."

Warreven sighed, and
relaxed slightly. Tatian said, "Let me take you home. Can you walk,
or do you want a floater?"

"I can walk,"
Warreven began, and the technician shook her head.

"I've called for a
wheelchair."

The chair, when it
came, was exactly what she had called it, a chair with wheels instead
of legs. Tatian walked beside it to the entrance and bribed a waiting
faitou
to bring
the rover around to the entrance. Warreven got 3imself
into the passenger compartment without much help and leaned back
cautiously against the padding.

"Do you know how to
get to my place from here?"

"I'm assuming you
can tell me," Tatian answered, and Warreven nodded. Tatian looked
sideways at 3im, thin face
outlined in the light from the hospital entrance, and was privately
less sure. Ȝe roused
3imself enough to give
directions, however, and guided him competently enough through the
maze of narrow streets that lay between the Terminus and Blind Point.
Tatian wedged the rover up against the side of the building, leaving
enough room for a shay to squeeze past, if its side wheels bumped up
onto the opposite walkway, and came around the rover's nose to help
Warreven climb out of the low-slung compartment. The indigene was
already out, leaning against the rover's roof. Ȝe
saw Tatian looking, straightened painfully, and led the way down the
narrow passage between the buildings. Tatian followed closely,
grateful for the first pale light of dawn, wondering if he should
offer his hand, but Warreven seemed determined to make it on 3er
own. Ȝe stumbled once,
halfway up the stairs, and Tatian steadied 3im,
bracing himself to offer whatever help the other would accept, but
then 3e rallied and
climbed the last half dozen steps without help. Ȝe
fumbled with the key for a few moments, bending close to the lock,
but then the door opened and Tatian followed 3im
inside.

As the lights came on,
he looked around with unabashed curiosity. There wasn't much
furniture--a carved, heavy-looking bench padded with bright
cushions, a cast ceramic stool painted to look like a drum, a length
of polished wood propped on glass bricks that served as a table, more
cushions piled on the floor beside the bench, media center wedged
into a corner--but one short wall was lined with storage shelves
filled with stacked disks and hardcopy. A cheap reader lay on the
floor in front of the media center, and there was another on the
floor beside the bench, a crumpled tunic half covering it.

"God and the spirits,
I want a bath," Warreven said.

"You sure?" He
looked sideways, winced at the rush of static that blurred his
vision, looked at the media center instead. The time display was
dark; he said instead, "It's almost dawn."

"I know," Warreven
said. "But I'll be glad I did later."

Ȝe
disappeared down a short hallway. After a moment, Tatian followed,
not fully certain he'd been invited, but very certain the other
shouldn't be left on 3er
own. The hall led to a dark bed- room, the piled quilts of the bed
just visible in the rising light, and the bathroom and kitchen opened
to either side. Water was running in the bathroom, and he tapped on
the half-closed door.

"Need a hand with
anything?"

The door opened at his
touch, and Warreven looked out at him. "Actually, yes, if you don't
mind. I'm really sore."

"I don't mind,"
Tatian said, and stepped into the sudden warmth. The tub was
enormous, nearly long enough for him to lie with arms outstretched,
and deep, the edges rising well above his knees. Both taps were
turned full on, and the air was thick with steam.

"It's the shirt,"
Warreven said. "I can't get it off." Ȝe
had loosened the neck, and Tatian stepped forward, lifted it
carefully off over 3er
head. Warreven murmured a thank you, turning 3er
back to step awkwardly out of 3er
trousers. Ȝe lowered
3imself into the steaming
water, leaned back stiffly to hold 3er
head under the still-running tap. At that angle, 3er
body was fully exposed, bruises dark on 3er
ribs and one thigh; the synthiskin bandage ran from 3er
left collarbone all the way to 3er
right hip, slicing across the shallow curve of one breast, ended in a
broader patch of synthiskin that covered the hipbone and a deeper
cut. He was on Warreven's blind side, a third of 3er
face covered by the lump of dark bandage, and he suspected they were
both glad of the illusion of privacy. Warreven shifted then, penis
bobbing in the moving water, started to reach over 3er
head, and stopped, muttering a curse.

"Could you--" Ȝe
stopped, though whether it was embarrassment or pain Tatian couldn't
be sure. It didn't matter; 3e
looked miserable, the bruises on 3er
face and shoulders and across 3er
unexpectedly muscled stomach darkening rapidly, and Tatian took a
step forward.

"What do you need?"

"My hair," Warreven
said. "I need--I want to wash my hair, and I can't."

Tatian lifted an
eyebrow--it didn't seem like a good idea--but on second thought
it was probably better not to argue with 3im. "No problem," he said,
shoving his sleeves back above his elbow,
and knelt cautiously beside the tub. A squat pottery jar stood on the
tiles in the corner, and he loosened its stiff lid. It was filled
with a pale green cream that smelled strongly of catseyes and, more
faintly, of witches'-broom. Tatian eyed it warily--would even
Harans put hallucinogens into soap?--and said, "Is this it?"

"Yes." Warreven
seemed to have learned better than to nod. Ȝe
leaned back again, bending from the hips only, dipping 3er
head into the stream of water from the tap. Tatian suppressed the
desire to look for a pair of gloves--the witches'-broom was
topically active--and dipped two fingers gingerly into the jar. The
musky smell of the catseyes made him sneeze; Warreven blinked and
shifted so that he could reach 3er
hair.

"What happened to
your chest?" Tatian asked, and smeared the cream onto 3er
hair. His fingers were tingling already, but he told himself that was
purely psychological.

Warreven looked
embarrassed again. "A rana with a cargo hook," 3e
said, after a moment.

"He could've killed
you," Tatian said.

"He wasn't trying
to," Warreven answered. "They, their leader, was trying to make a
point about herms. Or about me, that I was one. Cutting me was
actually incidental."

Tatian shuddered,
unable to suppress the vivid image, began to rub the soap into 3er
hair, cautiously working up a lather. "What did the
mosstaas
say?"

"Æ?" Warreven's
good eye blinked.

"You didn't call
the
mosstaas
?"

Ȝe
made a noise that might have been laughter. "They wouldn't've
come. Tendlathe's paid them off."

"Bastards." Tatian
looked away from the bruised face and body, the massive bandage
covering 3er injured eye,
the thinner strip running from shoulder to hip, made himself
concentrate on the mass of hair under his hands. Even tangled as it
was, it felt like silk, heavy and so smooth that the strands seemed
to catch on the calloused skin of his fingers. He winced, thinking of
the pressure on Warreven's neck, and carefully freed himself.
Warreven sighed, suddenly and deeply, and let 3imself
relax, so that 3er head
lay heavy in Tatian's hands.

"That feels better."
Ȝer voice was slurring--a
combination of the broom and whatever else they'd given 3im
at the hospital, Tatian thought, and probably a very good thing.

"Good," he said
aloud, and took 3er
shoulders, guiding 3im
back under the stream of water again. Warreven let 3imself
be moved, the visible eye closed now. Tatian was reminded again of
Kaysa, she of the long mahogany braid, and the long, graceful limbs.
Not that 3e was
particularly feminine, anymore than 3e
was masculine--3er body
beneath the water drew his eyes, long legs, long, clearly defined
muscles, cock and the swell of the cleft scrotum behind it. Ȝe
had forgotten to hunch 3er
shoulder, and 3er breasts,
herm's breasts, small and definite against the bony ribs, were
fully exposed. A perfect herm's body, Tatian thought, and felt
himself flushing, embarrassment as much as desire, well aware that he
was responding as much to the memories of Kaysa as to Warreven's
presence. The broom sang in his blood, Warreven lay passive in his
hands, and he made himself look away, feeling depressingly
adolescent, concentrated on rinsing the last of the soap from 3er
hair until his erection subsided.

"All done," he
said, and Warreven nodded and sat up slowly. Tatian stepped back, but
stayed close enough to steady 3im
as 3e climbed carefully
out of the tub. He handed 3er
a towel before 3e could
ask and looked away while 3e
dried 3imself, moving as
slowly as an ancient.

"Do you want me to
comb out your hair?" he asked, and Warreven wound the towel
awkwardly around 3er
waist, wincing as the coarse fabric touched bruises and the bandaged
cut.

"I'd appreciate
it," 3e said, and
lowered 3imself carefully
onto a padded stool. "I don't think I could manage on my own."

A wooden comb lay on
the edge of the tub. Tatian picked it up and began to work out the
snarls. Kaysa had taught him how to do this--her hair had been one
of the pleasures of the relationship--and he worked slowly, careful
not to put too much pressure on Warreven's neck. The bandage hid
most of 3er expression,
but when Tatian looked more closely, 3er
good eye was closed again, and he thought 3e
might be falling asleep under his hands.

"That's finished,"
he said at last.

Warreven sighed,
straightened slowly, and turned to face him, drawing the towel up
over 3er chest. "Thanks.
God and the spirits, I hurt."

"Did you get anything
from the hospital for it?"

"No." Warreven
moved 3er shoulders
experimentally, grimaced, and stopped. "I have deepdream, and
doutfire; one of those'll be fine."

"Where are they, in
the kitchen?"

"Yes." Warreven
roused 3imself with an
effort. "The blue cabinet."

"Go to bed," Tatian
said. "I'll get them."

"What about you?"
The towel slipped; Warreven started to reach for it and let it slide
back down to 3er waist,
held it there. "You're welcome to stay."

"If you don't
mind," Tatian said, "I'd be glad of a bed. It's almost
morning, and I'd like some sleep."

Warreven started to
nod, checked 3imself
instantly. "There are quilts in the chest--the one under the media
center--and the couch isn't too bad. I'll--"

"I'll find them,"
Tatian said, startled by the rush of protectiveness--more of the
broom, he thought. "Go to bed, Warreven."

Ȝe
gave him a wincing smile and turned away, dropping the towel on the
floor behind 3im. Tatian
picked it up, folded it automatically, and set it back on the rack,
then went into the kitchen to find the drugs.

There were several
boxes and canisters, jumbled into the cabinet with pottery dishes and
half-empty boxes of food, and he pried open lids until he found a jar
with dried doutfire. He shook out four of the thin cylinders of
bark--paper-thin, fragile in his clumsy fingers--and brought them
into the bedroom. Warreven was already in bed, the top quilt drawn up
to 3er shoulders, but 3e
roused 3imself enough to
chew and swallow the doutfire. Tatian hesitated, wanting to do more,
not knowing what more he could do, then switched out the light and
went back into the main room.

The sky was pale beyond
the windows, and he studied the controls of the media center for a
moment before he found the time display. If there was a remote, it
was nowhere in sight; he fiddled with the rudimentary keypad instead
until he'd located the local communications system. The smaller
screen lit, offering him options, and he scrolled through the
unfamiliar menus until he found the way into the secondary system
that most off-worlders used. Then he punched in Derebought's
codes--audio only, no visual at this hour--and waited while the
call went through. The screen flashed white, and Mats' voice said,
"Yeah?"