Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (40 page)

"I bet. I think I'd
rather watch the narrowcast, myself."

"The other half is
perfectly happy to," Warreven said. He looked at the screen again. "I
wonder if Temelathe is going to try to negotiate with them?"

"He'd be smart to,
I think," Tatian said, pushing himself away from the wall and
coming to collect the dishes that remained on the table. "Do you
want anything?"

Warreven started to
shake his head, said instead, "No, thanks."

Tatian nodded vaguely,
and started for the kitchen. Warreven leaned back against the
cushions, grateful for their softness, and watched the rainbows
gather around the lights. The doutfire would be wearing off soon; he
thought about asking Tatian to bring him some, but couldn't muster
the energy.

The media center buzzed
again, startling him fully awake. He touched keys automatically,
accepting the call, and frowned as a string of codes flashed across
the base of the screen. The forming image split, dividing in half and
then in thirds, and steadied. Three faces looked out of the screen,
slightly elongated despite the system's attempt to keep the
pictures proportional. Folhare he recognized at once; the other two,
both men, were less familiar. He frowned, and then recognized the
darker of the two. Losson Trencevent was one of the Modernists'
regular speakers, one of the people who were usually seen on the
narrowcasts and quoted in the broadsheets. He had never much liked
Losson and didn't bother to hide his annoyance.

"Folhare? What is
it?"

"Trouble," Folhare
answered. At least, Warreven thought, she didn't start by telling
him how bad he looked. "I--we need your help."

Warreven looked from
her to the others. Losson was looking at something out of sight,
while the second man--Dismars Maychilder, he remembered suddenly,
the Modernists' nominal leader, and their perennial candidate--was
frowning impatiently. "What for?"

"You know Losson--"
Folhare began, looking sideways, and Dismars cut her off.

"Temelathe is willing
to negotiate. You--he likes you, and you're one of the Important
Men. We need your voice as well, if we're going to get concessions
on the Meeting."

Warreven stared at the
screen, looking past him at pale green walls with a delicate
stenciled tracery of flowering vines. "I'm not exactly an
Important Man," he said, and stressed the final word. "Does this
include the
wrangwys
?"

Losson drew an angry
breath, and Dismars said quickly, "We've got a chance to get
concessions on a lot of things, Warreven. There's no one issue. We
should be able to get the big things through, that's the important
thing."

Which doesn't include
me, Warreven thought. I should have guessed--should have known.
"Folhare?"

"What?" Her head
lifted warily.

"You're a fem,
coy
,
as
wrangwys
as
me. What do you say to me?"

In the other two
screens, he saw Losson start to roll his eyes, and as quickly
suppress the movement. Dismars, more controlled, looked sideways as
though he wanted to dictate Folhare's answer. And that, Warreven
thought, was the real problem. If you weren't a man, you were a
woman, and neither of the roles fit a herm. Neither role fit
3im--Haliday had known
that for years, that was why 3e
had gone before the Council. "Well, Folhare?" 3e
said, and didn't bother to hide the cold anger that filled 3im.

"I--" Folhare
stopped, made a face. "No, I'm not completely happy, Raven. But
this is the only chance we're going to get."

And that was true,
Warreven acknowledged, but it wasn't good enough. Ȝe
tilted 3er head to the
side, ignoring the streak of yellow light that shot across his
vision, fixed his good eye on the split screen. "All right," 3e
said. "I'll come down with you. I'll talk to Temelathe with
you--not for you, you've been warned, but I will talk to him."

"We need to present a
united front," Losson said, and Dismars waved a hand at him.

"I understand what
you're saying. And I'm not ignoring your concerns, I promise. But
Folhare's right, this is our best, maybe our only chance, to get to
speak at the Meeting."

"I'm on my way,"
Warreven said, and jammed 3er
thumb down on the remote, switching off the machine. Ȝe
pushed 3imself to 3er
feet, still furious, and saw Tatian standing in the door- way,
frowning. "Don't tell me I shouldn't do this--"

The off-worlder shook
his head. "Do you want me to drive you? I've still got the
rover."

Warreven took a deep
breath, silenced in the middle of 3er
anger, and opened 3er
mouth to say one thing, then shook 3er
head, said simply, "Why?" Tatian blinked, looked almost hurt, and
Warreven made a face, felt the anger rising again. "It's not that
I don't trust you, it's just--I'm not sure I understand. And
I'll be damned if I'll accept it if it's pity, or you presuming
to take care of me--"

Tatian shook his head.
"You're right. It's not that simple. The Concord went through
this I don't know how long ago, and we've forgotten what it was
like. But those people, they've missed what's really wrong here,
and you're the only person I've met who does see it--well, you
and Haliday. So I want to help." He shrugged, looked almost
embarrassed by the sentiment. "And I doubt you could get a car
tonight, even if you paid metal."

Warreven nodded,
appeased. It had never occurred to 3im
that the Concord Worlds must have once faced the same issues, the
same questions, what was and wasn't human, but it was reassuring to
hear it said and to know what their decision had been. "Thanks.
Yes, I'd like--I'd be grateful if you'd drive me. I just have
to get some things."

Ȝe
pushed past Tatian into the hall and went into the kitchen to get
more doutfire. Ȝer hands
were clumsy on the lid, and it took 3im
several seconds to shake loose another curl of the bark. Ȝe
pocketed the rest of the box and turned back toward the door. The
bathroom door was open, and 3e
caught a glimpse of 3imself
in the mirror above the tub: a thin person--herm--in black, one eye
hidden by the black bandage. It was Agede's image, Agede the
Doorkeeper, and 3e lifted
a fresh bottle of sweetrum in salute. Agede looked back at 3im,
Agede with his bottle and his cane, and Warreven smiled fiercely,
knowing what 3e was going
to do. Ȝe collected a
walking stick from the bedroom--red, not black, but it would do--and
went back to the main room, lifted 3er
bottle to 3er reflection
as 3e passed. Tatian,
blond hair and beard golden in the light from the media center,
looked at 3im uncertainly,
and Warreven grinned.

"I'm ready when you
are."

Tatian steered the
rover through the darkened streets, empty except for the
occasional--very occasional--hurrying figure. They ducked into
doorways or side streets as the rover passed, and Tatian shook his
head.

"I don't like this.
Are you sure--" He broke off then, shook away whatever else he
would have said, but Warreven gave a rueful smile.

"Am I sure it's
smart, or am I sure I know what I'm doing?"

"Either." Tatian
negotiated the turn onto a narrow street, easing the rover around a
shay drawn up to shield someone's main doorway.

"I know what I'm
doing," Warreven answered, and hoped it was true. At least, he
thought, I know what I'm planning.

Tatian nodded. "I
don't want to try to get too close to the Harbor Market. Is there
someplace we can stash the rover-- someplace we can get to, and get
away from, fast, if we have to?"

Warreven frowned, then
nodded. "Take the next left."

Tatian turned
obediently, and the rover slid down a suddenly brightly lit street
between rows of brick-fronted warehouses. The heavy doors--ironwood,
rather than true steel, but strong enough to keep out all but the
most determined looters--were barred, security lights flickering
their warning above the lock plates. At the end of the street,
however, a space opened abruptly, shallow, but wide enough to keep
the rover off the main traffic way. A pair of shays, one with company
marks, the other without, were already parked there, and Warreven
nodded to them.

"Good enough?" 3e
asked.

"How far are we from
the Market?" Tatian asked; but he was already easing the rover into
the space between the shays.

"There's a
stair-street right there," Warreven answered. "It leads down
directly to the Market, comes out behind the auction platform--where
the stage is now. Now a lot of people use it."

Tatian nodded again.
"All right. If we get separated, or if there's trouble, we get
away and meet back here. With any luck, everybody will take other
streets." He popped the rover's doors and levered himself out of
the compartment.

"You sound like
you've done this before," Warreven said, and followed.

Tatian sighed. "I got
caught in a riot on Hermione when I was just starting out. It's not
something I particularly want to repeat."

"Who does?"
Warreven said, pleased with the lightness of 3er
voice, and led the way down the half-lit stairway.

There was a shantytown
at its foot, a cluster of maybe half a dozen shacks built with the
cast-off wood of shipping crates and the occasional bright-blue sheet
of plastic, tucked into the dubious shelter of a disused factory
outbuilding. Warreven hesitated, but there was no easier way--and no
time to turn back, 3e told
3imself, not if 3e
wanted to get to the Market in time to deal with Temelathe. Behind
3im, 3e
heard Tatian mutter a curse and ignored him, kept walking, setting an
easy pace, down the last steps and out onto the paving.

A low fire was burning
on the patch of bare ground between two of the huts. The sound of the
drums came clearly from the Market, and someone, no more than a slim
shape behind the fire, was tapping out a counterpoint on a hand drum.
Another figure--male, or maybe mem--stood silhouetted against the
flames, bottle in hand. Warreven ignored them and kept walking, aware
of Tatian at 3er back, all
the muscles in 3er back
and sides protesting the sudden knotted tension. Ȝe
was expecting catcalls, or worse, but heard nothing except the
stutter of the drum, and then even that fell away, so that 3e
was moving in step to the drums at the Market alone. At the edge of
the Market, 3e could stand
it no longer and looked back, to see the shanty folk standing silent,
the man and the drummer joined now by a woman, child on hip, and then
another and another, gender blurred by the shadows. Not knowing
certainly why 3e did it,
Warreven lifted 3er bottle
in salute and turned back to the Market. The murmur of a name
followed, not his own, and 3e
heard Tatian swear again.

The Harbor Market was
bright and abruptly crowded, light and shadow jagged against a sky
black and emptied of stars. The crowd in front of the band platform
was mixed, looked like a holiday crowd more than a protest, sailors
and dockers in rough work trousers, wrap-shirts thrown on against the
cool night air, dancing with ordinary people in rough-spun silks and
shads. There were people from the
wrangwys
houses in a mix of ordinary and off-world clothes, and even a few
genuine off-worlders, caught between curiosity and fear. Maybe a
third of them--and every one of the odd-bodied, Warreven realized
with a thrill of pleasure--wore the ranas' multicolored ribbons,
every color, any shade of every color, but not black or white. The
air was thick with smoke, smelled of charcoal and feelgood and
spilled
liquertie
;
at the foot of the Gran'quai, in front of the barricade, a bonfire
was lit. The smoke of it rolled off toward Ferryhead, carried by the
fitful wind, almost white against the dark sky.

The band was drumming
on the makeshift stage, playing a cheerful rhythm, a song 3e
had danced to in the
wrangwys
houses. It still sounded festive, more of a celebration, Midsummer or
Springtide rather than a rana protest, but then 3e
saw the line of people between the bonfire and the barricade. They
stood shoulder to shoulder across the end of the Gran'quai, and
even at this distance 3e
could see the firelight reflecting from metal--more metal than he
had imagined the docks might possess, metal in chains, in bars, maybe
even in the barrels of guns. The dull sheen reminded 3im
of the ghost ranas, emphasized the defiant solidity of their stance,
and 3e shivered, suddenly
afraid again.

"Are you all right?"
Tatian asked quietly, and Warreven nodded.

"Give me a minute,"
3e said, and sank down on
the nearest of the fused-stone bollards that marked the first ring of
stalls. Ȝer eye was
aching again, streaks of light searing 3er
sight; 3er neck throbbed,
a dull pain that promised worse to come, and the cut was burning
where 3er clothes had
rubbed the bandage. Ȝe
grimaced, tugging at the waist of 3er
trousers, and lifted the sweetrum bottle to 3er
lips. It was almost empty already, and 3e
caught a crazed glimpse of the sky, a single pinpoint of light--a
pharmaceutical satellite, almost certainly, not a star--blazing in a
rainbow halo before 3e
lowered the bottle. There was a flower lying at 3er
feet.

Ȝe
looked at it, startled, and looked up to see a woman standing a meter
or so away, two fingers to her lips in conventional acknowledgment of
the spirits. For an instant, the gesture was shocking--3e
had meant it, had courted that identification, but it had been a long
time, a decade, maybe two since 3e
had worn the mask of any spirit--and then training reasserted
itself. Ȝe lifted the
bottle in salute, and another flower, this one blue with a gold
heart, landed beside the first. Ȝe
nodded to that giver as well--a pot-bellied, well-dressed man in
company badges, who should probably have known better--and pushed
3imself to 3er
feet.