Shadow Man

The trouble at the harbor would only be worse after full dark. Warreven sighed, mentally dismissing his earlier plan to call Chauntclere or Shan Reiss, and leaned back against the cushioned seat, resigning himself to a quiet night. As the driver swung the coupelet onto Tredhard Street, turning north to skirt the harbor area, he saw a familiar figure striding up the long hill. He leaned forward to hit the intercom and said, “Pull over.”

The driver’s eyebrows rose, but he did as he was told. Warreven slid back the coupelet’s window. “Folhare!”

She turned, her practiced smile shifting to a more genuine expression as she recognized the face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Thanks.” Warreven took in her clothes at a glance, a short off-world style skirt over heavy leggings, the low-cut traditional bodice only partly concealed by a length of spangled gauze. “Working tonight?”

“Yeah, but you’re not buying,” Folhare answered.

“No. Were you going any place in particular?”

Folhare gave him a wary glance. “There’s a club up in Startown, I was going to go there. There’s a band of sorts, and they’re open all night.”

“Would you mind company?”

“For old time’s sake, or are you really bored with Clere? ’Cause you really don’t need the money.” Folhare’s smile was wry. They had, briefly, shared rooms above a land-chandler’s shop before Warreven had become a clan advocate.

“Old time’s sake, and no one’s home,” Warreven answered. “And there’s trouble at the harbor and I want to go dancing.”

“I was down there earlier myself,” Folhare said, and sighed. “All right, but I really do need to make my rent.”

“I won’t get in your way,” Warreven said. He knew better than to offer to help. He turned back to the intercom. “You can let me out here. I won’t need you after all.”

The driver shrugged, visibly disapproving, but wasn’t too proud to accept the Blue Watch assignats that Warreven offered. He pulled the coupelet away decorously enough, and Warreven stood for a moment looking up the busy street. There were bars and dance houses here, mostly catering to the locals, but the doors were closed, uninviting. If you weren’t known to the bouncers, you wouldn’t get in—especially tonight, Warreven thought. He said, “So where is this place?”

“Just over the hill,” Folhare answered. She sounded tired, and Warreven gave her a wary look.

“Business off?”

Folhare snorted and started up the long slope. “Not great. A sale I was counting on fell through, so not only am I left with a custom quilt and no idea how I can resell it, but I’m short the rent.”

“Lovely.” Warreven glanced sideways as he fell into step with her, unable to stop himself from making the offer. “Is there anything I can do?”

Folhare shook her head, managed a laugh. “I doubt it. But thanks, Raven.”

“If I can loan you anything—”

“No.” Folhare looked sideways at him, wide mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m still enough of a Stane not to take from Stiller.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Warreven began, and Folhare shook her head.

“No.” After a moment, she added, “Thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Warreven said. They walked in silence toward the top of the hill, Folhare stretching her long legs against the slope. He matched her step easily enough, though she was taller, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He had known Folhare since the boarding school at Riversedge, had shared rooms with her in Bonemarche for almost six local months, all one winter and half the spring, eighteen bioyears ago. She had just been kicked out of her home mesnie then, less because she was a fem than because she wanted to do more than just replicate the usual traditional textiles for use and the off-world trade; he had just refused to marry Tendlathe Stane and was afraid to go home to the ensuing controversy. Half the Ambreslight mesnie had been furious that the marriage had been proposed at all, the other half had been furious that he hadn’t accepted it regardless of the gender shift, and he himself had wanted to forget it had ever happened. Neither he nor Folhare had had much money: he had worked odd jobs and played trade when the rent ran short, which was more often than not, while Folhare had worked for a sweatshop making bad copies of traditional tunics, tried to save enough to buy the good material she needed to make the quilts that were already starting to win notice, and played trade. Warreven touched the edge of the vest he was wearing, rich red silk printed with gold, scrap from a quilt she had made him then. They could have solved all their problems by marrying, founding a proper mesnie of their own and thus qualifying as adult members of their clan, eligible for the clan subsidies that supported most indigenes, but the option had not appealed to either of them, and had never been mentioned aloud. Besides, Folhare was a fem, as well as a Black Stane, and any one of those factors would have made a legal marriage difficult. Probably his own mesnie would have stretched the point, Warreven admitted silently—he had already been suspected of being wry-abed, and the mesnie was desperate to remedy that situation—but Folhare would never have agreed. Or would she? he wondered suddenly, looking sideways to see her strong, broad-boned face caught in the light from a street sign, the planes of cheek and jaw made harsh by the deep shadows. Neither of them were getting any younger; if they had married, she wouldn’t be hustling trade to pay her rent.

She saw him looking, and lifted an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Just thinking,” Warreven answered, and Folhare gave him another smile.

“I’d be careful of that, if I were you.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said sourly, and they reached the top of the hill. The landward slope was gentler, and the street was quiet, empty except for a work team unloading crates outside a small chandler’s. The trapdoor in the street was open, the handlers sweating even in the relative cool of the night air; both the driver, sitting with his arms folded on the steering bar, and the storeowner gave them a curious glance as they went, but the clothes were enough to make sure they passed. Seeing them watching, Folhare made a face, but sensibly said nothing.

The club was a small place and very discreet, the door marked only by a faintly glowing touchpad. Folhare laid her hand against it, waiting for a signal; only as she took her palm away did Warreven see the small brass plate that gave the club’s name.

“Jerona’s?” he said, and Folhare shrugged again.

“She runs the place.”

The peephole opened then, and a moment later the door swung back, letting a gust of sound and sweaty air out into the street. Folhare grinned with unforced delight and stepped up into the narrow entranceway. Warreven followed, grimacing as the door closed behind them, doubling the noise. The doorkeeper leaned out of his alcove.

“I know you, serram, but serray—?”

It had been a long time since anyone had given him the off-world title. Warreven drew breath to answer, and Folhare said quickly, “It’s all right, he—3e’s—with me.”

There was a little pause, and then the doorkeeper nodded. “All right.”

The entrance hall opened into a single long room, mechanical bars in the corners, the dance floor brightly lit in the center, the band platform at the far end, and tables and tabourets in the darkness along the walls. It was almost a parody of a traditional mesnie hall, with the band replacing the Important Men and Women and the Names of the ancestors and the carvings of the spirits, and Warreven wondered if it had been done deliberately. Folhare leaned close, the length of gauze brushing his arm, and said in his ear, “Do you want a drink or are you just going to dance?”

“Let’s get a table anyway,” Warreven said, and she gave a snort of laughter.

“Sure, but which side of the hall?”

Warreven looked again. He was used to Shinbone and the other, newer clubs down by the Harbor, where the wry-abed and trade mingled easily. Here the tables were divided, the wry-abed to the left of the band platform, trade—easily distinguished by the mix of off-worlders and indigenes—to the right. He sighed—the mixed bars were easier; trade tended to want him as a herm, and the wry-abed too often wanted actual men—but there really wasn’t much of a choice. “Trade, I suppose.”

Folhare nodded. “You find a table, I’ll get drinks.”

“Let me get this round,” Warreven said, and reached into his pocket. Folhare hesitated only for a moment, then took the proffered assignats.

“All right. But the next one’s on me.”

“No offense,” Warreven said, “but I hope we’ve both found someone else before the next round.”

Folhare flashed him another quick smile and turned away toward the nearest bar. Warreven made his way through the first row of tables—it wasn’t that crowded, but the empty tables tended to be toward the walls, where the lights were dimmer and the customers could see each other less clearly—aware of eyes scanning and dismissing him. He was old for this, certainly, but hoped it was less that than that he wasn’t dressed for trade tonight. The music was ending, the lines of dancers spinning toward the conclusion of the dance, and he picked a table quickly, seating himself with his back to the wall, so he could watch the dance floor. The dance ended with a rattle of quick, high notes from the contre drum, and the lines broke apart as the individual dancers began to move back toward their tables. The noise of conversation was suddenly louder. Warreven smiled at a broad-built indigene with the speckled hair of a sailor, but got only a polite smile in return. The man moved purposefully past him, seated himself at a table of off-worlders, three women and a man, all in drably expensive clothes.

“No luck?” Folhare asked, and set a bottle and a handful of cheap pottery glasses on the table in front of him. Warreven frowned—there were four glasses, not two—and then realized that the men behind her were coming to join them. “You know my clan-cousin Bonnard, I think.”

Warreven nodded. He knew Bonand Stane, all right, and, de-spite their both being of the same Watch, had never been fully sure that he could trust the man. There was no denying that Bonand was a Modernist and wry-abed, but they hadn’t had much else in common.

“This is Alex,” Bonand said, and nodded to the man behind him.

Warreven nodded again, studying the stranger. He was an off-worlder, unmistakably, and as unmistakably new to the planet, fair skin not yet marred by the sun. Classic trade, he thought, and held out his hand in the off-world greeting. “I’m Warreven.”

There was no need to give clan or Watch, not yet—and not ever, given that the man was from another world, no possible kin—but he saw Bonand’s quick, malicious smile and wished he’d given his full name. Alex accepted the handshake with a nod and a quick, flickering glance, interest visibly flaring and then vanishing before Warreven could be quite sure what had gone wrong.

“I need to talk to you, Raven,” Bonand said, and pulled one of the chairs away from the table.

“Sit down, why don’t you,” Warreven answered flatly, and Bonand smiled again.

“I will. I hear I should congratulate you—Stiller seraaliste is nothing to sneeze at.”

He had spoken in franca, and Warreven answered in creole, earning a quick look of thanks from Alex. “Nothing’s been decided yet. I may not remain on the ballot.”

“Temelathe’ll have something to say about that,” Bonand said, switching to creole. His accent was less clear, Warreven noticed, and was meanly pleased. Alex—any trade—was fair game, and he was good-looking. Bonand grimaced, and switched back to franca. “You do know what’s going on, don’t you, Raven? He wants to keep you off his back, and he doesn’t want anyone pushing trade this season. Plus he doesn’t want any clan changing brokers this season. So who better to promote for seraaliste than a man who doesn’t know how to make a bargain?”

Warreven swallowed his first, furious response. “And where’d you hear this bit of gossip?”

“I’m in the White Watch House now, for my sins,” Bonand answered. “In the secretarial pool. It’s not common talk, but it’s what the Important Men are saying. And Temelathe is very pleased with himself for the idea.”

Folhare leaned forward, planting both elbows on the table, all thought of trade, her own business, forgotten for the moment. “That’s pretty baroque, Bonand.”

“So’s Temelathe,” Bonand answered, and laughed nervously, looking over his shoulder. “Well, it explains it, doesn’t it? Why else would he nominate Warreven, they’re not exactly best friends anymore. But if he gets Warreven out of dealing with trade, then that just leaves Malemayn and Haliday to make trouble. And at the same time, with Warreven as seraaliste, he can pretty much count on Stiller staying with—who is it, Raven, Kerendach?”

Warreven nodded.

“As long as you stay with Kerendach, Temelathe gets his cut, Kerendach makes a nice profit, and nothing changes.” Folhare reached for the wine bottle. “And in the meantime, you’re having to play catch-up just to figure out who’s who among the druggists.” She glanced at Alex, made a face. “Sorry. Pharmaceutical companies. But you know what I mean.”

Warreven reached for the wine himself. The Stiller contract with Kerendach had been a matter of debate for nearly seven local years. Previous seraalistes had proposed changing both it and the brokers, but had never been able to come up with an acceptable alternative, though the margin of the Traditionalists’ victories had been getting smaller and smaller. The more radical Modernists—and the conservative Traditionalists, like the Red Watch Feranes—swore that the largest pharmaceuticals were in collusion, had banded together to make sure that each of them got its share of the twice-yearly harvests at a bargain price. Warreven himself doubted that: the way the Big Six, and the Lesser Twenty, for that matter, bickered over labor and the special individual contracts for the harvest surpluses, made him fairly confident that they wouldn’t be able to work together on anything bigger. It was more likely—if Bonand was right—that Temelathe had quietly passed the word, through the Stanes in the Licensing Office and in Trade Service and Export Control, that the Most Important Man would frown on a new contract with Stiller. “Are you with a pharmaceutical?” he said, to Alex, meaning, or are you just trade?

The off-worlders blinked. “Well, yeah. Not Kerendach, though.”

“Good,” Folhare said, with a smile, and poured him a glass of wine.

“He’s with DTS,” Bonand said impatiently, and Alex flicked a glance at him.

“That’s right.”

Warreven nodded. DTS was one of the thirty-odd midsize companies that did business on Hara, specializing in the sea-harvest from Casnot and Newcomen—not a big company at all, not even one of the Lesser Twenty—but large enough to afford to pay Stiller’s prices. And small enough, specialized enough, he thought, to be less dependent on the Stane and Maychilder harvests than the larger companies. Always assuming, of course, that he ended up with the job. “Do you find yourself dealing much with Temelathe and Stane?” he asked, and Alex gave him a wary look.

“Not much, really.”

“Some,” Bonand said in the same moment, and the off-worlder sighed.

“DTS pays its—fees—like everybody does. What do you want me to say, that I think it sucks? I’m not in marketing, I’m a tech. I’m just passing through.”

Bonand lifted his eyebrows, caught between annoyance and not wanting to alienate his date, and Warreven said, “Sorry, I wasn’t being clear—or meaning to insult you. It’s more … I was curious, really. I know the Big Six have to be careful of Stane—they get most of their goods from them, right?—but I didn’t know if that was true for companies your size.”

Alex looked away. Even in the dim light, Warreven could see that he was blushing. “I’m—just a technician,” he said again, and Warreven felt himself blushing in turn. Alex was trade, a player, though maybe not by the off-worlder’s own definition. If he was a technician, of course he wouldn’t know DTS’s real policies.

“Would you like to dance?”

Alex blinked again and glanced toward the dance floor. “Sorry. I’ve no idea how to dance to this.”

“It’s not that hard,” Warreven began, and Bonand pushed back his chair.

“I’ll dance with you, Warreven. Keep you honest.”

There was no graceful way to refuse. Warreven followed him onto the worn floor, took their place in the nearer of the lines, linking arms with Bonand and a thin woman who took the place to his left. The drums were already well into the entrait, the twisting rhythm signaling a cross-step dance, and Warreven sighed. He was not a terribly good dancer, for all that he enjoyed it; he would have preferred not to screw up the complicated patterns in front of Bonand, or Alex. The lead drum sounded, and the line moved forward into the first figure in ragged unison, the stuttering, high-pitched contre calling the changes. Warreven kept his head down, concentrating on the steps, until he was sure he had settled into the pattern of the movements. The woman at his left dropped his arm and began adding the dipping spins of an expert; he spared her an admiring glance, but knew better than to try to imitate her.

At least Bonand was no better: at the first tempo change, he shook his head, and dropped back out of the line, pulling Warreven with him. Warreven went willingly enough; they stood with the others who had given up on the change, watching as the triple line swept the length of the hall and retreated again. The woman who had been next to him was very good, Warreven saw, and he watched her with remote envy. She was at the center of her line now, thin face a mask of concentration, her skirt flying out in an almost constant circle as she added spin on spin and still kept her place with the others. The tempo changed again, slowed abruptly, and most of the dancers slowed with it, glad of the break, gliding through the basic pattern at half their previous speed. The woman kept spinning, riding the quicker beat implicit in the lead drum’s call. And then the counterpoint came in again, faster still, and she flung back her head and matched it step for step.

“She is good,” Warreven said, to no one in particular, and Bonand looked at him.

“Yes. Do me a favor, Raven, leave Alex alone.”

“I’m not serious,” Warreven answered. “And if he is, that’s not my problem.”

“It’s not that,” Bonand said. “He’s gay, Warreven.”

“So?” Warreven began, and only then did the foreign word, the Creole word, register. “What do you mean, exactly? He’s trade.”

Intense distaste and a deepening anger flickered across Bonand’s face, and then he had himself under control again. “Yeah, he’s trade, but he does work for DTS—he really is a tech, he hasn’t just bought a permit—and he’s still gay. Off-world gay—that means he wants another man, not a halving like you.”

Warreven felt a familiar fury rising in him, at the name, at the exclusion, at the whole incomprehensible system of off-world sexuality, with its finicking distinctions that were no distinctions a tall as far as he himself could see. “He’s still trade,” he began, and the drums stopped, silencing him. He clapped automatically with the rest of the crowd, biting hard on the rest of what he would have said—he’s still trade, and what trade wants, what they come here for, is sex with us outside that system, so I’ve as good a chance with him as you do—and Bonand looked aside, sorrow chasing hope across his mobile features.

“I suppose he’s trade,” he said softly, voice barely audible in the sudden rush of conversation. “I know he’s trade. But he is gay, and he does really work for DTS—he’s different, Raven.”

Warreven looked at him again, the situation rearranging itself into a new pattern in his mind. Alex might not be trade after all, might just be one of the temps who came through the system and decided to try Hara’s well-known delights, but Alex wasn’t what mattered. Bonand was in love with him, or had convinced himself he was in love with him, and Warreven didn’t need the rest of that dream spelled out for him. He’d felt it himself a few times, the heady combination of sex and desire and something like friendship that he’d allowed to grow into the hope that maybe this one off-worlder would fall in love with him and take him with him when he left Hara. It had never happened to him, almost never happened to any Harans; IDCA almost never gave emigration permits to even part-time prostitutes. He remembered the case waiting on his desk: if Destany Casnot couldn’t get a permit without a fight—Destany who had half a dozen friends willing to swear he, 3e, had been out of trade and ’Aukai’s lover for seven years, there was no chance that Bonand would get one. And even less chance that Alex would make the effort for him. “He’s your—” he began, and broke off because franca didn’t have an inoffensive word for what Alex was to Bonand, “—yours. I wasn’t poaching, not seriously. I’ll leave him alone.”

Bonand nodded, visibly regretting the confidence. “Thanks,” he muttered, and turned back to the table. Warreven glanced over his shoulder and saw Folhare leaning back in her chair to talk to an off-worlder who seemed to know both her and Alex. The drums were starting again, and one of the middle drummers abandoned her drum for a reed-whistle, signaling a ring-dance. Those were courting dances in the mesnies, served the same purpose even in the wrangwys bars, and Warreven took his place in the outer circle, nodding to the short, fair-skinned man opposite him. By the time he’d made his way around the circle, he should surely have found someone. … At the very least, Folhare would have had the chance to finalize her arrangements. As he moved through the first figure, the fair man’s hands hot in his own, he caught a glimpse of the table: Folhare still laughing, practiced and easy; Bonand leaning on the back of Alex’s chair, one hand draped, unobtrusively possessive, over the off-worlder’s shoulder. Only Alex himself looked uncertain, as though he didn’t understand the rules. Then he swept on to the next partner, and when he looked again, only Folhare and her jackamie were left at the table.

~

Mairaiche: (Hara) farm; source of cultivated crops rather than harvest.

The spirits: (Hara) celestial beings that occupy an intermediate position between God (defined as ineffable, unknowable, and not terribly interested inhuman beings) and Man. The spirits intercede for and interact with human beings, and grant favors more willingly, and, as a result, their worship, through services and offerings, is far more important to most Harans than the distant God. Harans generally believe that a man or woman can take on some of the characteristics of a spirit, either through dance, concentration, or sheer serendipity, and when in that state, his or her acts are seen as the actions of the spirit.

Mhyre Tatian

Reiss was late, as usual. Tatian peered over the edge of the heavy display glasses—his implants were worse than usual this morning, making it almost impossible to work on line—and out into the bright morning sun-and-shadow that filled the courtyard, wondering irritably if the younger man was ever going to show up for work. Data from Derebought’s preliminary analysis of the hungry-jack he’d bought from the market woman danced just below his line of sight, the green and gold symbols forming a twisted, familiar pattern. There were a few variants, helpfully highlighted in a brighter yellow, but not many: interesting, but it was hard to tell if it would be worth pursuing the analysis. He sighed and slipped the glasses back into place, focusing on the globular shape that swam in the sudden darkness. The outer cords were mostly inert, but they seemed to bind to the same receptors used by the psychoactive harrodine that was the drug’s most active compound. That might help moderate or control hungry-jack’s some-what unpredictable effects—if, of course, Derebought had added, her note flashing tart orange below the visual analysis, the inert whatever-it-was was picked up preferentially over harrodine. Further analysis would be needed to determine any possible utility, and she wasn’t prepared to make a guess either way.

Tatian sighed. This morning in particular he resented having the decision handed to him, when he couldn’t switch easily from system to system, but reached for the shadowscreen to bring up the financial system. Its icon was cold and hard as ice to the touch, a bit of whimsy from a previous user; he flicked it into the center of the screen, activating it, and its cold spread as the numbers spilled across his vision, overriding the chemical shapes. The controls rearranged themselves under his fingers, new spots of warmth and cold and the fugitive suggestions of shape. He adjusted them, searching for the latest budget files, then made his query. The numbers swam dizzily for a moment, then presented him with his answer. There was still money in the budget to buy time on one of the larger systems at the starport, and to buy more of the uncleaned pods, if needed. NAPD could afford to have Derebought run the more detailed analysis, which put the question squarely back on his desk: was it worth the trouble? Probably not, he admitted silently—it was unlikely to come to anything really usable—but NAPD couldn’t afford to pass up the chance at something new.

He sighed again and flattened his hand against the shadow-screen, shutting down both programs, and set the glasses aside before the cascade of codes had properly begun. “Derry?” he said, to the general pickup.

“Æ?” A moment later, the botanist stuck her head around the edge of the doorway.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Derebought wiped her hands on the skirts of her thin jacket, and came into the office. The scent of musk and mint clung to her, to her unbound hair, and she looked tired: it was closing on Midsummer, barely a local week, six planetary days, until the holiday, and even the most assimilated indigenes had obligations to fulfill. Those obligations would culminate in the Stane baanket on the second day of Midsummer, when her branch of the clan, or as much of it as could possibly afford to, returned to the gran’mesnie at Gedesrede to feed and be fed by their patriarch. With her off-world training and a job that paid in concord dollars, Derebought was easily the richest member of her mesnie; it was her particular responsibility to stand in for the rest at Midsummer. Tatian glanced down at his desktop, reading the schedule displayed there. She and Mats were scheduled to fly to Gedesrede on Fives and come back three days later: not, Tatian thought, the sort of holiday schedule I’d want.

“What’s up?” she said, and lowered herself into the client’s chair.

“I want your advice,” Tatian said.

“If it’s the analysis,” Derebought answered, “I already gave you my best guess.”

“Which is, you don’t know whether it’s worth it.”

Derebought nodded. “That’s the shape of it. I ran—well, you saw the results. I honestly can’t say if it’ll go any further.”

“I think it’s worth one more round,” Tatian said.

Derebought sighed, and shrugged, turning both palms to the light. Both her palms and the backs of her hands were streaked with faint lines and symbols—marks of the spirits, Tatian knew, but he had forgotten which ones. “I’m inclined to do another set, yes, but if that doesn’t get results, I wouldn’t pursue it. Always assuming, of course, there’s money left in the budget.”

“I checked. There’s enough—go to Buram-Hattrich or Seals, they owe us a favor.”

Derebought nodded, and in the same moment, a shadow crossed the courtyard window. She looked up sharply, and Tatian was startled by the relief he glimpsed in her eyes. The main door opened and closed again with a thud. She pushed herself out of her chair and went to the office doorway. “Reiss? Is that you?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Reiss peered around the door frame, doing his best to look contrite. His dark hair stood up in tufts, uncombed, and he was wearing a Haran tunic Tatian had never seen before. “I—there was some trouble at the Harbor Market last night, and I had to help some friends with bail. Then I overslept. I’m sorry, Tatian.”

“What kind of trouble?” Tatian asked, and didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. He had seen the news that morning—the local narrowcasts as well as the main feed from the port—and there had been no mention of any trouble. There had been talk about the harvest, and contract speculations, and how much the Stillers were spending on their baanket, which would be held in Bonemarche as usual…. “It didn’t make the news.”

“I’m not surprised,” Reiss said sourly. “It wasn’t anything serious, just some rana bands, but the mosstaas cracked down. And a bunch of people got arrested.”

“And one of them called you to post bail,” Derebought said.

Reiss gave her a wary smile, half embarrassed, half ingratiating. “Actually, a friend of a friend called, to see if I’d contribute to the bail, and maybe help get people home from the iron house. It was more of a bribe, anyway, and I had the car last night. But the judge let most of them off without charges.”

“Did you have to give your name?” Tatian asked.

Reiss shook his head. “Renai knows a bondsman, 3e handled it.”

“Good.”

“What was it all about, anyway?” Derebought asked. “I heard at the ceremony that there’d been something at the Souk, but nothing about the harbor.”

Reiss shrugged. “Some ultra-Modernists were dancing for the Meeting—to bring local law into line with the Concord—and some of the Traditionalists got pissy. The mosstaas stepped in, arrested the ranas before a fight started.”

Which meant, Tatian translated, that the issue was gender law again. The Centennial Meeting would open after the new year, its ceremonies marking the five-hundredth anniversary of Hara’s settlement. It was as close to a universal forum as Hara had, the only possible counterbalance to Temelathe’s control of the traditional mechanisms of mesnie, clan, and Watch. It didn’t seem like much of an adversary, not when one looked at the power Temelathe held, but the Most Important Man was taking it very seriously indeed. And maybe he was right to do so: with the Meeting due to open in about eight local months, about six thousand hours by the more conventional reckoning, every political group on Hara was doing its best to get its issues put before the Meeting. And right now, the question of gender law—of whether or not Haran law would acknowledge the existence of mems, fems, and herms—was becoming a major issue. Temelathe Stane was doing his best to keep it from reaching the agenda, or so rumor said, not least because of the various ways he profited from trade. Tatian wasn’t fully sure he believed the talk—after all, there were five sexes, no matter what local law said about it; he couldn’t help thinking that Tendlathe’s well-publicized opposition to off-world influence and trade was just another way to raise prices—but he wasn’t surprised that Temelathe would prefer to see the debate center on gender rather than on his own domination of Haran politics. The Meeting would be an acrimonious one, whatever happened. He said, “Do you still have your meeting on Kittree Row?”

“Yeah, I called. It wasn’t until noon anyway.”

“I suppose it was too much trouble to call here?”

“I only had local access,” Reiss said. “I am sorry.”

Tatian glanced down at the desktop, tacitly accepting both the apology and the excuse. Still, it was half an hour to noon, which left only half an hour to negotiate the worst traffic in Bonemarche.

“That’s why I came straight in,” Reiss said. “We’ll make it.”

Tatian looked at him warily. Now that it actually came to dealing with an unlicensed indigene, he was nervous, which was not entirely unreasonable, either. But then, her rates had to be better than the prices the port technicians could charge. And if he didn’t get the system fixed before the Midsummer bargaining began, he would be worse than useless. “Right. Let’s go.” He touched the shadowscreen as he spoke, securing the desktop and telling the system when he would be back.

“I’ll get that analysis started,” Derebought said, and Tatian nodded.

“Great.”

Reiss had left his battered jigg outside the office’s back entrance, as usual. Tatian followed him out into the rutted alley, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rotting seaweed, and lowered himself into the open passenger seat. Reiss kicked the motor to life and brought the jigg out into the main street at a relatively decorous pace. Traffic was heavy, as always, heavier as they reached the warren of alleys and narrow lanes that led into the Souk, until the jigg was barely moving as fast as a person could walk. He could feel Reiss’s weight tipping the jigg from side to side as he scanned the passing shays, and he braced himself against the edge of the car as the jigg accelerated suddenly, darting through the gap between a three-up and a shay piled high with bales of fonori. Reiss steadied the machine almost absently—he was, Tatian reminded himself, a very good driver—and swung out and around a slow-moving caleche before the driver could do more than open his mouth to shout. And then they had made the turn onto Kittree Row, the traffic vanishing almost magically.

The buildings were low and long, like most of the buildings in Bonemarche, but instead of the usual open bay at street level, most of them showed blank faces, closed off from the street by gray-painted doors. They looked almost metallic, but Tatian knew they would be wood or cast clay. Each one was marked with a house mark like a sign—a wave, a crudely drawn crescent moon, a top-hatted skeleton—and most had a bar of black paint running horizontally across the door. Stiller was a Black Watch clan, and most of Bonemarche’s population were at least nominally Stillers.

The jigg slowed, pulled sideways into the shadow of a building distinguished by a painted star and a wide band of green paint. Massingberd was a Green Watch clan, Tatian remembered, and loosely allied with Stiller against Stane. The door was propped upon a balk of wood, raised maybe a meter to let the breeze in, and Reiss leaned out of the jigg to touch a button on the wall beside the doorway. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then the door began to rise, jerking along its tracks. Reiss ducked forward slightly and brought the jigg into the bay. The engine was very loud in the confined space.

“Æ,” he called, and flicked the engine off completely. “Starli, are you there?”

There was a little silence. As Tatian’s eyes adjusted to the light—the bay was well lit, but seemed dim after the brilliance of the street—he could make out a knot of mostly men, gathered around a stand-alone diagnostic unit. They said nothing, watching the jigg, and then a woman pushed her way through the group, wiping her hands on a bright blue rag. One of the men switched off the diagnostic unit, and another reached halfheartedly for a tool kit that stood open beside a disassembled jet-car frame.

“So what’s up, Reiss?” The woman—Starli, she must be—came fully into the light, stopped perhaps three meters away, her arms folded across her breasts. She was tall, even by Haran standards, her long hair tied up in a square of blue-and-green-and-pink print fabric, and Tatian caught himself looking again to see if she was really a fem.

Reiss said, “You remember the other day I asked if you still did work on off-world implants? My boss is having problems with a connection, and I wondered if you could help.” He nodded side-ways. “Ser Mhyre Tatian.” The off-world names sounded harsh amid the flow of franca.

Starli nodded, some of the tension easing from her stance. “Mir Tatian. I’m Starli Massingberd.”

“Honored, mirrim,” Tatian said, and knew better than to offer his hand. “Reiss tells me you repair implants.”

“For kittereen racers, yes.” Starli tipped her head to the side, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes tightening either in contemplation or the beginnings of laughter. “And you should know I’m not licensed.”

“Reiss told me. He also said you were good.”

Starli smiled then, a quick baring of teeth. Tatian was suddenly aware again of the hovering technicians, pretending to work while they listened. “He’s right, mir, and good costs money. But I give discounts for metal, and I’m willing to make terms.”

“And I,” Tatian said, “would like to hear what you can do for me before we start talking prices.”

Starli’s smile widened, became for a fleeting instant genuinely amused. “Fair enough. Will you step into my office, mir?”

Tatian looked at Reiss, who said quickly, “I’ll wait here.” Tatian nodded, and the younger man moved to join the technicians, who relaxed at his approach.

The office was tucked into a corner, a square room that had obviously been an afterthought. The walls were glass brick, the cheapest of Hara’s building materials, half clear, half translucent, and in the instant before Tatian followed her into the milk-white room, he could see how the interior lights glowed through the walls, like radiant ice. It was an odd image, on a planet as warm as Hara, and he was smiling as she shut the door behind them. Starli gave him a curious look, as though she wondered what had amused him, but said only, “What’s your system, then?”

Tatian shrugged out of his suncheater, laid his arm on the battered desktop, turning his wrist to expose the control plate on the inside of his right forearm. “Inomata Cie., parts and bioware.” Their implants were the standard throughout the Concord Worlds; if you didn’t wear Inomata’s implants, you wore their clones.

Starli grunted, switching on a powerful viewlens, and tugged it down toward his arm. She turned away and rummaged on shelves crowded with bits of equipment to produce a black-foam cradle and a set of multicolored cables. “Have a seat and let me run a few quick tests. No charge.”

Tatian nodded, and pulled a stool close to the desk, sat down opposite her. He placed his arm in the cradle, plate uppermost, and Starli pulled the viewlens closer still, its thick edge blocking his sight. He could feel the heat of the lights, and then, more distantly, the click of the plate release. He tilted his head slightly, wanting to see what she was doing, but the viewlens was still in his way. Starli saw the movement, however, and glanced up, a quizzical expression on her face.

“Do you want to watch?” Most people don’t, her tone implied.

Tatian said, “Yes. If you don’t mind.”

She shook her head. “No problem.” She pulled the viewlens down and slightly to one side. “How’s that, can you see all right now?”

“Thanks.”

Starli mumbled an absent acknowledgment and leaned close over the lens. Now that the flesh-toned plate was removed, Tatian could see the shallow cavity, and the gray, faintly spongy surface of the interface box, with its remote reader, circular i/o port and the quintet of smaller needle ports surrounding it. Flesh welds bound it into place, the ridged scars normally concealed by the protective plate: Frankenstein welding, the cheapest kind of implant surgery. Starli fanned a handful of fine wires and plugged them deftly into the needle ports; watching her certainty, Tatian began to relax. She was more like a mem than most women, certainly more so than the fem he had briefly suspected she might be, stolid and quietly competent in her work—but that was an old stereotype, and just as untrue as all the less flattering ones. Prane Am had been a technician, too, and a good one, and there was no mistaking her for a mem.

“All right,” Starli said, and plugged a jack into the main port. “Tell me when it hurts.”

“Right now,” Tatian said, and winced as more static sang along his nerves.

Starli murmured something, squinting through the viewlens. Tatian could see blue lines and pale pink shapes drifting in the glass, but it was impossible to read their message at this angle. Static ebbed and flowed along his arm, was replaced briefly by numbing cold, and then the sensations vanished.

“Well, you’re in luck, mir,” Starli said. “It’s the port, that’s all.”

“All” was a relative term, Tatian thought, but he understood her point. “Which one?”

Starli pushed the viewlens to one side, met his eyes for the first time across the desktop. “I can run some more tests and tell you for sure—at a price—or you can replace the box altogether. Frankly, I’d recommend the latter.”

Tatian waited and, after an instant, tilted his head to one side. Starli sighed and folded the viewlens back down to the desktop, then tugged the cables one by one from the needleports.

“You can get a better deal at the port yourself, and you’re likely to have better luck getting it officially imported—or whatever—than I would.”

That was also true, and Tatian nodded slowly, thinking of Prane Am. If he wanted a good deal, he would have to go to her, which was not a pleasant thought—or maybe Reiss had connections there as well. He said, “Probably. Do you do installation?”

“Yes. But—” Starli showed her teeth again. “I’d want to be paid in metal.”

“And I’d want to see your medical set-up,” Tatian said, and matched her tooth for tooth.

“Fair enough,” Starli said. She pushed herself up from her chair, went to a cabinet built into the wall, and tugged open the double doors. The first layer of the interior folded down automatically into an operating table, the clean-field lighting automatically; the multicolored telltales of the monitoring system glowed in the space behind it. Tatian scanned it quickly, recognizing the bulk of a doc-in-a-box and the familiar stacks of test equipment, and only then saw the twined KJ etched into the edge of the table. It was an older system, but it had been top of the line once: it was certainly good enough to replace an interface box.

“Okay,” he said aloud. “What are you asking?”

“Fifty kilos of hard steel,” Starli answered promptly.

“Try reality.”

“That’s two starcrates,” Starli said. “NAPD must be able to spare that much—especially compared to what it’d cost you to get this done in the port.”

She certainly bargained like a fem. Tatian said, “I still have to buy the box. You’re not saving me anything there. Besides, star-crates aren’t cheap, and they come out of my budget. Twenty thousand meg.” That was eighty percent of what he’d pay in the port, but she wanted metal: she would take less in cash, if she could get a starcrate or two with it. He ran the company inventory rapidly through his head, enjoying the game. He knew they couldn’t spare any of the working crates—they were too expensive, nearly a thousand concord dollars apiece—but most of the value was in the electronics package. If there were any damaged crates, he might be able to use the metal shell to buy her services.

“I’ll take a crate instead,” Starli said, as though she’d read his thought. “Or just the metal. Forty kilos hard steel.”

“I can get you ten,” Tatian said. “And five thousand meg in cash.”

“Thirty kilos, and no cash needed,” Starli answered.

“Twenty and six thousand,” Tatian said. “I—even the company doesn’t have that much metal to spare. And you’re not supplying the parts.”

There was a little silence, and then Starli sighed and touched the latch plate to refold the operating theater into its cabinet. “All right. Twenty kilos hard steel, and six thousand meg, White or Red cash. Agreed?”

The currencies issued by the White and Red Watches were the most stable, had the best rate of exchange against the concord dollar, though most Harans didn’t bother with those considerations. But then, Tatian thought, Starli would be buying metal, or metal parts, with a good bit of her fee, and that meant dealing with the port technicians. “Agreed.”

Starli bowed, touching lips and forehead. “Then it can be done at your convenience, mir. Whenever you get the box, give me an hour’s warning, and I can put it in.”

“Good enough,” Tatian said. “Thanks, mirrim.”

They went back out into the bay. Reiss was sitting with the technicians, passing a bottle of something from hand to hand. He rose hurriedly at Tatian’s approach, but not so quickly that Tatian couldn’t recognize the familiar squat brown jar of quarta. He lifted an eyebrow at that, but said only, “I need you to run me out to the port.”

Reiss nodded. “No problem.”

“It had better not be,” Tatian said, and Reiss had the grace to look abashed. He looked at Starli. “I’ll contact you then, mirrim, about the scheduling.”

“As I said, give me warning,” Starli answered. “I’ll be ready.”

Tatian nodded, and swung himself into the jigg’s passenger seat. Reiss kicked the starter twice, and the engine caught with a roar that was almost deafening in the confined space. He twisted the throttle, muting the sound, and backed decorously out into the hot street.

Traffic was heavier than ever, and Reiss took an indirect route through the city, skirting the Souk and the congested streets that led into Startown. Even so, progress was slow, and he glanced over his shoulder in apology.

“Sorry—” His eyes slid sideways then, fixing on something in the crowd behind the jigg, and he swerved abruptly, pulling the jigg into a partially cleared space between a four-up and an unloading shay.

“Reiss?” Tatian looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing immediately out of the ordinary. Then Reiss was wresting himself free of the safety webbing. “Hey—”

“Æ, mosstaas,” Reiss called, and levered himself out of the jigg before Tatian could even think of stopping him. The crowd parted for him, and Tatian swore under his breath. In the center of the square they had just skirted, by the dry fountain, two of the city militia had stopped a woman—were questioning her, by their stance and her gestures. Reiss shoved his way through the crowd, which melted around him: not a good sign at all, Tatian thought, and freed himself from the jigg. Why the hell does he have to do this? He started after the younger man, hoping that their off-world clothes, and the pharmaceutical mark on the nose of the jigg would keep them out of trouble.

“—mistake,” Reiss was saying, as Tatian came into earshot. “Astfer works with me.”

“So the wyfie’s yours?” one of the mosstaas demanded, smirking, and Tatian bit back another curse. Reiss was getting them involved in trade, despite his—despite Masani’s—explicit prohibitions.

“We work together,” Reiss said again.

The woman looked warily from him to the mosstaas and back again. Or, rather, the fem: this close, Tatian could see the height, the full breasts and narrow hips, the typical build that %er off-world shirt and trousers did nothing to conceal. The other militiaman gave a snort of laughter, and the first one said, “I just bet the wyfie gives excellent—service.”

He wore a pin at his collar, not a rank marking, but an anchor on a bed of red and white flames. Both were symbols of the Captain, Tatian knew, and then remembered someone saying that Tendlathe’s party had adopted the combined signs as their badge. So this was trade again, Tatian thought. And more than that, the damned two-sex model. He said, “Is there a problem, officer?” He spoke in franca: it was unlikely either of the mosstaas understood creole, but more than that, the reminder of off-world power could only make the situation worse.

“Œ,” one of the mosstaas began, and Reiss cut in quickly, in creole.

“Ser, I told them Astfer works for us, for NAPD. She’s a good friend, they say she was throwing rocks at one of the ranas last night—inciting trouble.”

“Which I was not,” the fem said, in franca. %e sounded more annoyed than anything, but Tatian could see %er hands trembling. %e seemed to realize it %erself, and shoved them into %er pockets.

Tatian took a deep breath. One way or another, this was likely to be expensive—and could be very expensive, if the Old Dame found out and didn’t believe his explanation—but he’d taken a dislike to the mosstaas the minute they called %er “wyfie.” “What’s the problem, miri?” he said, in franca.

The militiamen exchanged glances, and then the taller of the two, a bulky man with a ragged mustache and beard, said, “Mir, this—woman—was seen throwing rocks at a rana band last night. There have been a number of complaints filed against the wrangwys lately, and they have to be investigated.”

“Last night?” Tatian said, and kept his tone remote. “Our people were working late last night, getting ready for the harvest.” He slipped his hand into his pocket as he spoke, a familiar, ostentatious movement. The taller man’s eyes followed the gesture, but his partner was looking at the fem.

“We’ve got witnesses, and a complaint from someone who matters—”

“Witnesses who could be mistaken,” the first mosstaas said firmly. “With people like her—hells, they look alike.”

“I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” Tatian said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He kept a wad of White Watch bills folded there, for emergencies, and let the corner of the folded packet show as he extended his hand. “Let me recoup your losses.”

“She works for you,” the shorter man said flatly, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

People were watching them, Tatian realized suddenly, watching from a distance, kept at bay by the mosstaas’ truncheons and the certainty of a holstered pistol, but watching nonetheless. He allowed his eyes to slide sideways, scanning the faces, but couldn’t read the expressions. Some would be disgusted, certainly, seeing this as trade, one more sexual transaction; maybe a few would be radicals, glad to see the mosstaas humiliated, but most of them were silent, wary, and he didn’t know what they thought. And it didn’t matter, not at the moment, so long as no one else interfered: Reiss had started this, it was up to him to get them both, all, out of it. “That’s right,” he said. “Works for our botanist, Derebought Stane.” And I must remember to tell Derry that, when we get home. “Is there a problem?” He gave the words bite, let his hand, still holding the money, sink a little, and the taller militiaman reached hastily for it.

“Not at all, mir, I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m sure there’s been some mistake—but she’d better be more careful next time.”

“I’ll see to it,” Tatian said, grim-voiced, and the mosstaas turned away. He looked at the fem, then at Reiss. Reiss gave him his best smile.

“Thanks, baas—”

Tatian shook his head. “Later. I have an appointment at the port. Bring your friend—charmed to meet you, serram—and you can take her home on your way back to the office. We’ll discuss it when you get back.”

~

Straight: (Hara) one of the nine sexual preferences generally recognized by Concord culture; denotes a person who prefers to be intimate with persons of one of the two “opposite” genders.