Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (39 page)

Warreven looked again,
seeing the line of dockers and ranas mixed together, the crude
barricade--and also the drums and dancers, a pair of flute players
now leading the performance. "It's still a rana, still within the
law," he began, and broke off, hearing the absurdity of his own
words.

"So was yesterday,"
Tatian muttered.

"I know." Warreven
stared at the screen, seeing not these dancers but Faireigh, hearing
her voice soaring easily above the other voices.
Go
down, you snow-white roses
, she had sung, and Tendlathe
would never forget that, any more than he had forgotten Lammasin's
insult. Or Warreven's own, the insult of his existence. Warreven
suppressed a shiver, looked away from the screen. "What have they
been saying, what's the Most Important Man doing about this?"

"Staying clear,"
Tatian answered. "Oh, they said about an hour ago that he's
meeting with the harbormasters and the head of the
mosstaas
,
supposed to be deciding if this is interfering with trade, but as
best I can tell, he's waiting for it to die down on its own."

"That's smart."

"Not necessarily."
Tatian glared at the screen, and the image shifted to a pan along the
length of the Gran'quai and the boats tied up there. "See there?
It is interfering with commerce, and the pharmaceuticals aren't
going to put up with that for long."

Warreven frowned, for a
moment not seeing anything different, and then realized that the
usual traffic of dockers' drags and devils was completely absent.
No one was off-loading; the ships' crews were idle, or with the
dockers at the barricades. "It's only been one day," he said. "Does
that make enough of a difference?"

"Not one day,"
Tatian said, grimly. "But if this isn't settled--well, I already
spoke to my people. They said the Big Six are starting to get a
little nervous. They're shipping a good million a day right now,
and they can't risk losing the harvest."

Neither could the
mesnie
s,
Warreven thought. They would be putting pressure on Temelathe to end
this, too, especially the conservative
mesnie
s
of the Equatoriale--and with the pharmaceuticals and Tendlathe also
pushing to close down the protest, Temelathe would have a hard time
balancing all those demands. And if there was more trouble--if
Temelathe tried to send the
mosstaas
in again, tried to disperse a legitimate raria after they'd
singularly failed to stop the ghost ranas and their violence.... The
people at the Harbor wouldn't stand for it two days in a row. They
would fight, and then Temelathe would have no choice but to turn the
mosstaas
loose
on them. And that would give Tendlathe the excuse he needed to act.

"What about
Tendlathe?" he said aloud. "Where's he supposed to be?"

"With his father, I
guess." Tatian looked at him, his expression very serious. "Look,
did you mean what you said--God, was it only the day before
yesterday? That Tendlathe was behind the ghost ranas, and Lammasin's
murder?"

Warreven laughed.
"Despite what Hal thinks, I don't say things like that lightly.
Yes, I think he's responsible--and I told him so to his face--which
didn't exactly endear me to him, I suppose. But we'll never prove
it."

"So he's
responsible for this, too?" Tatian waved his free hand, the gesture
taking in the bandaged eye, the second bandage hidden under
Warreven's tunic. "Beating up you and Haliday?"

"Probably,"
Warreven answered. It hurt more than he'd expected, admitting that,
acknowledging that the man he'd grown up with had almost certainly
arranged the attack, was the person who'd planned not just the
beating but the ritual humiliation. "He--Tendlathe thinks that
we--the
wrangwys
,
and you off-worlders, too--aren't really human anymore."

Tatian made a small,
mirthless noise. "Funny. There're people in the Nest--other
off-worlders--who think the same about Harans."

Warreven smiled in
spite of himself. "God and the spirits, I'd like to see Ten's
face if you told him that." This was hardly to the point, and he
forced his mind back to Haliday. On the screen, the dancers were
twisting themselves into a long spiral, a country dance that wound
into a tight knot and then usually dissolved into laughter and
cheerful chaos before it could unwind again. The dockers on the
barricade were watching, but distantly, their attention on the roads
that led down from the Embankment. "You may be right about moving
Hal," he said, and reached for the remote. "I'm assuming the
port is defended?"

"Of course." Tatian
looked back at him steadily, defying him to be insulted. "Nobody
spends this much money on a backward planet without making sure they
can protect the investment."

"Under the
circumstances," Warreven said, "I find that reassuring." Under
other circumstances, it would be less so, but he put that thought
aside for later consideration. He touched the keypad, recalling the
codes Malemayn had left.

"I'm relieved,"
Tatian said. He paused. "What's Tendlathe's problem with herms
anyway? I--well, I was at the
baanket
,
remember. The
presance
really bothered him."

Warreven shrugged,
watching codes shift on the communications screen. "I don't
know," he began, then shook his head, ignoring the faint thrust of
pain. He owed Tatian more than that, after all the off-worlder had
done for him. "That's not strictly true. We're built a lot
alike, look alike--you've seen him--and everybody knew I was a
herm, so he got teased a lot. And then the marriage didn't help."
Because he did want me, at least a little, Warreven realized
suddenly, but it wasn't something he could say, sounded too
conceited, too much like a cheap romance.

Tatian was nodding
thoughtfully. "There was always a lot of gossip in the Nest about
him. A lot of people think he's a herm."

"I'm glad he
doesn't know that--" Warreven broke off as the screen changed,
displaying Malemayn's image. "Mal, I'm glad I caught you before
you left."

"So am I," Malemayn
answered. "I was going to call you."

"Is--" Warreven
broke off, suddenly afraid, and Malemayn shook his head.

"No, Hal's fine.
But Dr. Jaans says things are strange in the city; she wants to move
3im tonight."

"Trust Oddyny to have
her finger on the pulse," Tatian muttered.

Warreven said, "That's
what I was calling you about, actually. I--we've been watching the
news channel, and I thought Hal might be better off at the port if
anything goes wrong."

Malemayn nodded. "That's
what Oddyny said. I wanted to tell you first, though, see
what you thought."

Warreven shivered. "I
think too many people are saying it's the right thing for us not to
do it."

"I've seen some of
it," Malemayn said. "Everybody's watching it here, too. Have
the
mosstaas
moved in at all?"

"I haven't seen
them," Warreven answered, and glanced at Tatian.

"The last I heard,
Temelathe was supposed to be holding them off."

"Well, that would be
the first good news in all of this," Malemayn said sourly. "I'll
tell Oddyny we agree."

Warreven nodded.
"Thanks."

"Not a problem,"
Malemayn said, and the screen went blank.

Warreven sighed,
touched the keypad to shut down the communications system. "Are you
hungry?" he asked, and was surprised to find that he himself was.

They ate in near
silence, just the occasional words from the media center to break the
stillness, watching the light fade over the Harbor Market and outside
the flat's windows. Warreven listened for a while to the
newsreaders' chatter--nothing new, still no word from Temelathe or
Tendlathe or the
mosstaas
,
though the Big Six were rumored to have asked for a meeting with
Temelathe the next morning--and then pushed himself up off the couch
and went out onto his porch, taking the bottle of sweetrum with him.
It was almost empty, and he could feel it slurring his movements, but
at least the pain had receded. He leaned against the railing, the
land breeze eddying past, warm against his shoulders, looked through
the deepening twilight toward the Harbor Market. In the pens next
door, the land-spiders trilled and purred, disjointed bits of sound,
but no one came to comfort them. That was unusual--the spinners were
always very conscientious--but then, this night was hardly ordinary.

It was still hard to
believe that Tendlathe was doing this--that Tendlathe, whom he'd
known, man and boy, for almost twenty-five years, had put him and
Haliday and everyone like them, firmly outside the human race. But
that was the problem, of course: he himself had never been boy nor
man, except perhaps in law, and that had meant that Tendlathe had
always had forbidden possibilities--impossibilities, by his
definition--dangling before his eyes. And it hadn't helped,
Warreven admitted silently, that he'd enjoyed teasing Tendlathe,
had made no secret of the fact that he would sleep with him, as long
as no change of gender, of identity, had been required. And I would
have done it, too, and cheerfully, up until a week ago.

He heard the chime of
an incoming call from the media center, but didn't turn his head.
Something wasn't right, something more than the restless spiders
next door. The air was damp and heavy, a haze of light hanging over
the Gran'quai, but that was nothing unusual. He tilted his head
carefully to one side, listening, and then realized what it was. The
streets were silent, none of the usual murmur of traffic on the ring
roads or down by the harbor. It was as if Bonemarche was waiting,
everyone either already at the harbor, with the ranas, or hiding in
the safety of their houses--

"Warreven?" Tatian
was standing in the doorway, hair and beard turned brighter gold by
the lights behind him. "There's a call."

Warreven made a face,
pushed himself away from the rail. His bruises had stiffened while he
stood there, and he had to catch himself against the door frame.
Tatian stood watchful, not offering help, but within reach, and
Warreven had to admit it was gracefully done. "Who is it?"

Tatian shrugged, and
Warreven looked at the screen. Chauntclere Ferane looked back at him,
broad face and salt-stained beard framed by the darkness of a
dockside office. The windows were closed behind him, light glinting
from the narrow panes, but the noise of the drums was still loud,
doubling the sound from the news channel.

"Raven, it's me."

Warreven looked around
for the remote, and Tatian handed it to him. Warreven nodded his
thanks and hit the button that activated his own camera. An icon lit,
warning him that the transmission was now reciprocal, and Chauntclere
flinched visibly.

"God and the spirits,
you look a mess."

"I'm getting tired
of hearing that," Warreven said, and immediately wished he hadn't. "I'm
all right. It looks worse than it is."

"It looks bad
enough," Chauntclere said. The sun-carved lines at the corners of
his eyes and between his eyebrows were suddenly prominent. "I
thought--they said the ghost ranas had nearly killed you, but I
didn't believe it."

Believe it, Warreven
thought. And a lot worse for Haliday. He said, "I'm--I will be
all right. Hal was hurt a lot worse than me."

"I'm sorry. Is
she--?" Chauntclere stopped, as though he didn't know how to
ask.

"Ȝe's
going to be all right," Warreven said. He saw Chauntclere's eyes
flicker at the creole word and used it again deliberately. "That's
why they attacked us, Clere, because 3e
and I are herms."

"And because of who
you are," Chauntclere said automatically. "I mean, you're the
seraaliste
, and
everybody knows Haliday--"

"Everybody knows
Haliday because 3e went to
the Council to get the legal right to call 3imself
a herm," Warreven said. "And they know me because I handle trade
cases. The other herm who works with Haliday." Out of the corner of
his good eye, he saw Tatian shift as though he were uncomfortable and
made a face. "I'm sorry, Clere, it's been a bitch of a day."

"Yeah." Chauntclere
gave a slight, embarrassed shrug, one shoulder moving under the faded
cloth of his working vest. "But Hal is going to be all right, isn't
she--zhe?"

Warreven nodded, and
Chauntclere sighed with what looked like genuine relief.

"I'm glad."

And to be fair,
Warreven thought, he probably was. There was nothing mean about
Clere. He said, "Are you at the Harbor? What's going on down
there?"

Chauntclere glanced
over his shoulder, turned back to the camera. "Oh, yes, I'm still
on the 'quai. I can't get off, the ranas won't let me
past--won't let any of us past, they say they won't let us
off-load cargo until Temelathe agrees to the
mosstaas
hunting the ghost ranas. I heard about an hour ago that Temelathe was
supposed to come down here himself to talk to the leaders, but I
don't know if it's true."

"Wonderful,"
Warreven muttered. Still, it might do some good: Temelathe knew how
to balance the various factions; he had been doing it better than
anyone else for almost thirty years.

Chauntclere looked over
his shoulder again and shook his head. "I've got to go, this is
the only working line on the 'quai, and I can't hog it. But I'm
glad you're all right."

"I will be,"
Warreven said. "I'm glad you called, Clere--" The screen went
dark before he could be sure the other had heard. He let himself sink
back onto the couch, wondering how he'd fallen into the middle of
all of this. Part of him wanted to be at the Harbor--he had earned
that much, to see this through--but another part cringed at the
thought of facing the darkened streets again. The memory of the ghost
ranas returned, black robes and white faces, so that for an instant
he could almost taste the fog and the shame and the fear. He made a
face, as though that could erase the memory, and saw Tatian looking
at him curiously. "I half-wish I was down there," he said
defiantly, and Tatian gave a lopsided smile.