Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (30 page)

Temelathe nodded. "Which
is something, I suppose. You're making my life very
difficult, my son, I hope you know that."

Warreven said nothing.
This was not what he'd expected when he'd received this summons,
and he didn't know how to handle Temelathe in this mood.

"You're very good,"
Temelathe said, after a moment. "I'm almost sorry I ever
encouraged you to take up the law."

He had used the Creole
term, not the traditional word that meant both Haran statute law and
the web of custom that gave it context. Warreven said, "Yes, I'm
good at it. I warned you, my father."

Tatian grunted
something, said, more clearly, "I could make life extremely
difficult for NAPD. They'll have other contracts, you know, and not
just with Stiller."

"We've--discussed--this
before," Warreven said.
Though
not so openly--what in all hells is he up to?
"The Big
Six make all their contracts this way, favors done here and there,
and they wouldn't thank you for throwing their usual methods into
question."

"So you bring the
whole question of trade into the courts," Temelathe said, "and
you and your partners can posture to your hearts' content, and all
the while we--my people, your people, the odd-bodied are my
responsibility, too--lose their one decent source of income."

"Decent?" Warreven
laughed.

"Are you ashamed of
what you did, my son?" Temelathe asked.

His voice was
deceptively mild, and he was not, Warreven thought, as drunk as he'd
appeared. "No," he said, "of course not."

Temelathe tilted his
head in unspoken question, and Warreven shook his head, managed a
smile that was genuinely amused. "No, you won't bait me, my
father. I didn't particularly enjoy it--I wasn't even
particularly good at it--but, no, I'm not ashamed."

"Then why do you want
to close down the trade? It's a safe space--this is a delicate
balance, my son, the Six and I and IDCA and the Watch Council and now
Tendlathe and his people. If trade ends, your kind will have no place
left to go, and if you and Haliday keep pushing, I'm going to have
to give you an answer, and there aren't any good ones. If I say
yes, we'll follow the Concord, follow their laws, then IDCA will
step in to regulate prostitution, and people like you, my son, will
be whores all their lives. The
mesnie
s
will drop you from the rolls, the clans will pretend you don't
exist, and you certainly would be neither
seraaliste
nor advocate. If I say no, we stand by our laws and custom, then
Tendlathe wins. I have to close the dance houses and the
wrangwys
bars and he and his have an excuse to go hunting you out. If I ignore
the whole issue--if you and Haliday and the rest of you let me
ignore it--then you all stay safe."

Warreven stared at him,
knowing that everything he said was true, and not nearly enough of
the truth. "The fact is, the odd-bodied exist. Sooner or later, my
father, we--you, the Watch Council, the
mesnie
s,
even Tendlathe--are going to have to admit it. Better now, when
you're running things, than when Ten takes over. We need names of
our own."

"If you meant that,
my son," Temelathe said, "you'd call yourself a herm, 3e,
3im--like Haliday."

That stung, especially
since Tatian had said very nearly the same thing. Warreven said, "I
call myself a man because you only allow two choices, and this was
the closest fit. I call myself a man because I'm better at that
than at being a woman--and certainly better at that than being Ten's
wife." He stopped abruptly, tipped his head to one side in sudden
question. "I've played by your rules, my father. I made my
choice, I lived with it, but it won't ever be good enough, will it?
I'm only a man as long as it's convenient for you."

Temelathe smiled, but
said nothing.

"And if the bars are
safe," Warreven went on, "how did Lammasin die, my father?" He
touched the mark on his forehead. "I came from his
memore
."

Temelathe's smile
vanished. "That was none of my doing, Warreven, I give you my word
on that." Warreven said nothing, and the older man sighed. "The
trouble with you, my son, is that you've always been able to figure
out just about anything, but you've never had a grain of common
sense with it. I've no use for those people myself. I wanted
Lammasin out of work for a few months, not dead. Not a martyr. But
now that they've tasted blood, it's going to be harder to keep
them in line."

"In Bonemarche, they
say that someone in the White Stane House paid off the
mosstaas
not to find the killers," Warreven said.
Which
leaves Tendlathe, if it isn't you
. He left the words
unsaid--he didn't need to say them; Temelathe would know as well
as he what was meant--and Temelathe leaned back in his chair.

"Tendlathe and his
friends are frightened. They don't like change, my son."

Which was as close to
an admission as he was likely to get. Warreven took a deep breath,
inhaling the smoke from the brazier, and felt the first familiar
touch of the drug's lassitude.
Donnetoil
had been a good choice, better than feelgood or dreamsafe; it relaxed
without offering visions, made one less cautious, and less
argumentative, too. He thought Temelathe was telling the truth, at
least about Lammasin's death, stared at the glowing embers in the
center of the stove. He said at last, "I know what I should say,
that I'm not afraid of the ghost ranas, but I'm not that stupid.
And I know Tendlathe's temper hasn't gotten any better. But
people are angry. Lammasin was a good man."

"I know that,"
Temelathe answered, and visibly bit back something more. After a
moment, he said, "I'm not happy with this contract, my son. Not
at the price you're getting for it. I can't afford it. I'm not
going to make it easy for you."

"I didn't expect
you would," Warreven said. "With your permission, my father?"

Temelathe waved a hand.
"Put another scoop on the fire, my son, as a favor, and you're
free to go."

Warreven did as the
older man asked, ladling out another measure of the
donnetoil
and pouring it carefully onto the embers. Smoke
billowed out more vigorously this time; he left Temelathe sitting in
its cloud and made his way back out into the hallway.

It was quiet, quieter
than he'd expected, no noises, none of the household
faitou
s
anywhere in sight, and he hesitated, startled by the silence. The air
smelled of the night breeze, sea and salt and the night-blooming
starshade; he looked around for the open window and instead saw the
curtains that hid the garden doors moving in the fragrant air.

"Raven?" Tendlathe
pushed the curtain aside, stood framed in the doorway. "Aldess said
you were here. I'm glad I caught you."

Warreven hesitated
again, searching hastily for an excuse--he was hardly in the mood
for a conversation with Tendlathe--and the other managed a rueful
smile.

"Look, I'm sorry
about last time. I got carried away--it's something I feel
strongly about."

"So do I," Warreven
said. "I--feel strongly--about a lot of things, too."

"I know." Tendlathe
glanced over his shoulder. "I got your message, and--look, we
can't talk here. Come out in the garden with me?"

"Ten--" Warreven
broke off, shaking his head. I don't want to talk to you because I
think you caused a man's death, and I've just come from his
memore
: it was
not a tactful comment, and at the best of times Tendlathe wasn't
likely to respond well. And this was hardly the best of times.

"It's important,"
Tendlathe said. "Please?"

Warreven sighed. If
Tendlathe was in a conciliatory mood-- and he had to be, or he
wouldn't bother being polite--it was worth swallowing his own
anger to meet him halfway. "All right," he said aloud, and
Tendlathe held aside the curtain. Warreven stopped under the hanging
fabric, the silk gauze just brushing his head, and only then thought
to wonder at the gesture. It was courtesy, certainly, but from a man
to a woman, not between two men. He was being oversensitive--not
surprising, after the events of the evening, but hardly useful. He
shook himself, walked on down the path that curved away from the
house. The light dimmed a little as Tendlathe came to join him,
letting the curtain fall back into place. The low hedge that
separated the upper terrace from the flower walk below was wound with
starshade, the white flowers, large as a man's hand, almost
luminous in the darkness. Their scent was heavy in the air, the
honeyed sweetness almost drowning the smell of the sea.

"I know what you're
thinking, Raven," Tendlathe said, "but I didn't do it."

Warreven glanced back
at him, eyebrows rising in unspoken question, and Tendlathe made a
face.

"I didn't kill
Lammasin. I swear to you by the Captain, by the Watch and the clan, I
didn't do it."

"I never thought you
did it," Warreven said, after a moment, and saw something, relief,
maybe, or possibly contempt, start to cross the other's face. "I
never thought you stabbed him, or knocked him over the head, we don't
know which yet, and then set the fire. Not personally. But I do think
you know who did it, and I think you're responsible."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" The
light from the house was falling across Tendlathe's face, throwing
half of it into shadow, striking a fugitive spark from the pin,
anchor and flames, that closed his plain collar. Warreven watched
him, an odd, clinical anger filling him. It was the same anger that
sometimes consumed him in the courts, giving passion to his
arguments, and he welcomed it, welcomed the power, the strength it
brought him. "And would you swear to that, by the Captain, on Watch
and clan, that you had no idea this would happen?"

Tendlathe opened his
mouth, closed it again, and said at last, "Someone overstepped
himself."

"What'd you have in
mind, just beat him up, teach him a lesson?"

"Not exactly."
Tendlathe glared at him. "But people are angry, Raven, angry and
scared, and you might've known some- thing like this would happen
if you kept pushing things."

"Me?"

"You, Haliday, the
rest of the Modernists."

Warreven laughed.

"God and the
spirits!" Tendlathe reached out blindly, snatched a flower and a
spray of leaves from the hedge, let them fall, crumpled, to the
stones of the terrace.

"Oh, that's very
helpful," Warreven said. He didn't think to be afraid until he
saw Tendlathe's fist rise. He ducked, the reflexes honed in a dozen
bar fights taking over, caught the other's wrist, forcing his hand
down. He could feel the bones shift under his fingers, saw Tendlathe
flinch, rage vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, didn't
release his grasp until he felt the tension disappear from the
other's arm. Tendlathe jerked himself free, swearing, and they
stood facing each other in the dark, each a mirror image of the
other. They had fought like this once before, years ago, over the
marriage. Warreven remembered with painful, physical clarity how it
had ended, himself finally astride Tendlathe, pinning him down, one
hand in the tangle of his hair. They had lain there for a long
instant, anger warring with unexpected, unwelcome desire, and then
Warreven had pulled free and stalked away. He had thought he had won,
until he felt the next morning's bruises and started to face the
consequences of his decision.

He could see the same
memory in Tendlathe's face, the color high on his cheeks, visible
even in the dim light. Warreven took a deep breath, not wanting this
to end the same way, and said flatly, "So what did you want,
Tendlathe?"

Tendlathe blinked, head
lifting, a little movement, but it was as if he'd been slapped.
Something, regret, shame, anger, was briefly visible in his face, and
then it was gone, his expression con- trolled again, shuttered, all
emotion suppressed. "I was going to offer you a deal. Drop this
case--I don't want Father to bring in the off-worlders, let them
get their hands in our government-- drop this case, and I'll see
that those women of yours are left alone."

"Women?" For a
moment, Warreven didn't understand, then remembered the marketwomen
outside the Blue Watch House. If the ghost ranas or even the
mosstaas
turned on them, they would have no way of defending themselves. Even
if Folhare and Haliday had managed to talk their ranas, the Modernist
ranas, into offering protection, it might not be enough, not against
the ghost ranas-- And then they would have to wait for another case,
another chance, to question Hara's laws, to bring them into line
with the Concord--with reality--never mind what it would do to
Destany and 'Aukai. "You bastard," he said, almost
conversationally, and turned, and walked back up the path toward the
house.

"You'll regret
this, Raven. I promise you."

Warreven lifted a hand,
jerked it upward, an ageless, universal gesture, but kept walking. He
might have won--though, like the last time, he'd have to wait
until morning to be sure--but he didn't like the potential cost.

Wrangwys
: (Hara)
literally, "wrong way," generally used to refer to herms,
mems, and fems, and anyone whose sexual preferences don't match the
male/ female model; has been adopted by that group as a
self-referential term, and is not insulting within the group.

9

Warreven

The housekeeper was
able to find a rover for hire--and a good thing, too, Warreven
thought; he had no desire to see anything more of the Stanes--and he
waited on the steps while the driver maneuvered the awkward vehicle
up the long drive. The driver was stocky and good-looking, with a
beardless face and a line like a scar at the corner of his mouth that
deepened when he smiled. He held the door politely as Warreven
climbed into the passenger compartment, then returned to his place
behind the steering bar. He wasn't too proud to take the tip the
housekeeper discreetly offered, palming the
assignats
with the ease of long practice. Or maybe e
was a mem, Warreven thought suddenly, looking at the other's body,
the straight, blocky lines, a solid cylinder from shoulders to hips.
Certainly he was dressed as a man--almost aggressively so, if he was
passing, trousers and tunic cut on exaggerated lines. But then, the
odd-bodied had to pass, no matter what Temelathe said. Even Haliday
passed at times, either as man or woman.