Malemayn--they were both Stillers, and closer kin than clansmen, had been born in the same mesnie--nodded, and touched the noteboard's screen, highlighting a meaningless bit of text. Warreven pretended to study it, and brought himself back to the matter at hand. So far, they had succeeded in keeping the case out of IDCA's hands--the Interstellar Disease Control Agency had a deep and bitter interest in matters of trade--but they still had not convinced the judges that their client, a Trencevent from the Equatoriale, had been duped by the brokers and deserved his passage home. He could still see Chattan, a thin, wiry herm who looked almost convincingly male, sitting in their office, sea-scarred face composed, only his knotted hands betraying his embarrassment as he tried to explain his problem. The brokers had promised him a sea-factory job, he said, but had told him it wouldn't start for another week; in the meantime, they suggested, he could make quite a bit more money playing trade for the off-worlders. Chattan had agreed--though he was not, he had said, lifting both hands for emphasis, wry-abed, had only gone with people who called themselves women--but when the week was up, there had been no factory job waiting. The brokers had shrugged off his complaint: they had found him a job, after all; they would neither return his fees nor find him something else.
Of its type, it was an unusually easy case, Warreven acknowledged--trade wasn't a real job by anyone's definition--but he couldn't afford to let his attention wander, especially after his run-in with Tendlathe three days before. Temelathe was vigorous, but he wasn't getting any younger; it was important to get precedents established now, while the Most Important Man could still be relied on to accept them as part of customary law. Still, it was hard to concentrate in the warmth of the courtroom, with the edge of thunder, the faint sharp smell of the coming rain that seeped into the building through the ventilators. He had always liked thunderstorms, had been born in one, or so his aunts said, and even at his age the promise of a storm was like a drug.
The judges settled back into their places, and Warreven fixed his eyes on the bench. Malemayn--he was the speaker for this particular case, as the most traditionally acceptable of the three partners--rose to his feet at the Stane judge's gesture. The brokers' advocate stood too, expressionless, showing no sign of the defeat he had to expect, and Taskary copied him at the IDCA table. Warreven touched the edge of the noteboard, closing files, and then folded his hands over the screen. The gray-haired judge--she was the Maychilder judge, closest kin to the brokers--was watching him, and Warreven met her stare without regret or anger. The brokers had a job to do, and a difficult one; people lied to them, would say anything to get out of the Equatoriale, if they were at the bottom of their mesnie, or their kinship, or just hated knowing that in Bonemarche, not quite two thousand kilometers from the jungle tracts, anyone could have all the technology, all the luxuries, just for ready money. And people lied to their advocates, too: he and Malemayn had learned early to verify the stories of anyone who claimed they had been lured into trade unwillingly. But this time, it was the brokers who had lied, and Chattan deserved some recompense.
The Stane judge nodded to the nearest clerk, who reached across to sound the court's bell. It was metal, like the bells at the White Watch House, and its note silenced the murmured conversations in the back of the room. Even Warreven, who had heard it and other metal bells many times before, shivered at the sound. In the sudden quiet, thunder rumbled.
"The court speaks," the clerk said. "Archer Stane speaks for the court."
"The court decides," Archer said, "that the Carrier Labor Brokerage, represented by Langman and Richom Maychilder and Bellem Aldman, are required to repay the fees paid to them by Chattan Trencevent. The question of fares back to his mesnie is continued until after the Midsummer holiday."
"Mir Archer," Malemayn said, "Chattan is living in the Red Watch's holdfast here in the city, he has no means--"
Archer shook his head. "The case is continued," he said, and gestured to the clerk. "Ten-minute break, Aldane."
The clerk repeated the words, touching the metal bell again, and there was a rustle as the people in the back of the room began to move, some turning back to conversations, others moving forward as their cases were called. Overhead the display board changed, announcing the next case. Warreven looked instead at the brokers' advocate, who met his stare with a bland smile.
"How much do you suppose he... contributed?" Malemayn said, bending over the table to collect his noteboard.
"More than we did," Warreven answered. Malemayn managed a sour smile at that, and behind him, Warreven could see Taskary shaking his head as he joined the other IDCA representatives. "The Stane baanket should be lavish this year."
"It had better be," Malemayn muttered, and turned away. They all knew how the case would end now. The brokerage would return the original fee, and Chattan would vanish, ready to pay his own money to be back in his own mesnie for the approaching Midsummer holiday. The brokerage would demand at the continuation that Chattan appear, and--since it was unlikely he'd return--the case would be dismissed for lack of a plaintiff. Chattan Trencevent would get his money back, which was most of what he wanted, and the brokers who provided the off-worlders with a lucrative service weren't unduly embarrassed. It was, Warreven thought, an elegant, if not an ethical, solution.
"We'll send the voucher as soon as it's processed," the brokers' advocate said. "Will tomorrow morning be convenient?"
Malemayn nodded. "Fine."
"I have every confidence in you," Warreven said, and meant it. The sooner the fee was returned, the sooner Chattan would head for the Equatoriale, no matter what any of them said to him about court dates.
The other advocate nodded in ambiguous acknowledgment, the hint of a smile just touching his thin mouth, and turned away.
Malemayn sighed. When he was sure the brokers and their party were out of earshot, he said, "Well, so much for this one."
"We got the fee back," Warreven said.
"True." Malemayn glanced at the window and the massing clouds. "You want to catch lunch in the district? I doubt we can get back to Blind Point before that breaks."
Warreven nodded, and they threaded their way through the crowd to the door. Outside, in the wide hall, it was suddenly dark. Warreven blinked twice, and nearly walked into a woman in full traditional dress. The hem of her weighted skirt, heavy with shells and glass, slapped his shins, but she was hurrying and did not look back. He made a face, and a tallish person--male by dress, but as ambiguous as Warreven himself in face and body--gave a sympathetic smile. Warreven smiled back, glad as always of the odd-bodied's unpredictable kinship, and started down the stairs to the central lobby.
The air smelled abruptly of rain, the thread of breeze from the main doors suddenly cool and cleansed. Malemayn muttered something under his breath, but Warreven threw back his head, enjoying the change. The noon rains would bring no more than temporary relief from the day's heat, but even that was worth savoring, with Midsummer so near. Thunder rumbled outside, along, sharp roll like the sound of a tonnere drum, and Malemayn said, "So much for getting in before the rain."
Warreven shrugged, and pushed through the doors onto the narrow portico. It was raining, all right, the big soft drops that preceded the main storm, and the clouds were almost blue in the eerie dark. A breath of wind wound around the columns that held up the roof, tasting of sea and storm, licking at his skin like electricity. He suppressed the desire to run out into it, down the five stairs that led up to the courthouse and out into the open space of the plaza, and turned his face to the clouds. A drop of rain struck his cheek, carried by the fickle wind; he blinked, and lightning split the clouds overhead, a great streak of light followed half a heartbeat later by the crack of thunder. He stood dazzled, and someone ran up the steps into the shelter of the porch, colliding with him at the top.
"Sorry--"
They had caught at each other instinctively to keep from falling, and Warreven found himself looking up into a handsome, bearded face. He smile
d, and the stranger smiled back and released him.
"That was close."
The voice was off-world, as were the fair skin and hair. Warreven let go with some reluctance, and answered in the off-world creole, "But off the ground, anyway."
The off-worlder nodded, and looked back over his shoulder at the clouds. He was breathing hard from his dash across the plaza ,and his shirt was splotched with damp patches the size of a child's hand. A few drops of water clung to his neat beard, and some of his golden-red curls were flattened against his skull. He was, Warreven realized, extremely handsome.
"Still too close for me," the stranger said, with another smile that showed white and even teeth--off-world teeth, Warreven thought, automatically. The stranger nodded, still casually polite, and walked past him into the building.
Warreven watched him go, and Malemayn said, from the doorway, "Do you know him?"
Warreven shook his head. "I wish I did."
"God and the spirits." Malemayn looked quickly over his shoulder. "Do you mind, Raven?"
"Anyone would think you were wry-abed, not me," Warreven said. "There's no one here, Mal. Relax."
"You should still be more careful," Malemayn said. "What if one of the judges heard?"
"If they haven't taken my license yet," Warreven began, and Malemayn shook his head.
"They haven't taken your license yet because Temelathe likes you. Don't push it--"
The rain came down in earnest then, drowning his words in the rush of water. Warreven looked out across the plaza suddenly obscured, as though by fog; overhead, the clouds were already lighter. He raised his voice to carry over the downpour. "Do you know him?"
"Æ?"
"Him. The guy who ran into me."
Malemayn gave him a look, exasperation and affection com-pounded. "You don't give up, do you?"
"No." Warreven looked up at the sky, gauging the storm's progress. Lightning flared again, and Malemayn's curse was covered by the thunder. "Do you?"
"Yeah, sort of," Malemayn said. "He's a pharmaceutical--NAPD."
"I don't know them."
"No reason you should, they're not that big--one of the Fifty, I think. This one, he runs their local office."
"Do you know his name?"
"Raven--" Malemayn stopped, shook his head. "Titan, Tatian, Tatya, something like that. I think his family is Mhyre. Can we go now?"
"I thought you didn't want to get wet," Warreven said, and heard Malemayn swear again.
Player: (Concord) one who participates in trade; a person who does not con-form to any of the culturally recognized patterns of sexuality or who wishes to indulge in sexual behaviors and roles not acknowledged by Concord culture, and who is willing to pay professional or semi-professional prostitutes to take on the reciprocal role(s).
Trade: (Concord) commercial or "specialty market" sexuality; on Hara, specifically the practice of paying indigenes of any gender for sexual favors and to assume sexual roles not usually taken by persons of that particular gender. Commercial sex is normally regulated by the IDCA, which provides medical and legal recourse for all parties, but Haran trade remains outside Concord law. In conversational usage, "trade" can also refer to the various quasi-legal markets for residence papers, travel permits, etc. that make it possible for Concord citizens to remain on Hara.
Mhyre Tatian
Tatian shook himself as he passed into the dimly lit main hall. His shirt still clung to his back, and he shrugged his shoulders until he'd freed the damp cloth. Then he glanced sideways, waking his system and bringing up the sleeping file. The time and place of the meeting blazed against the shadows, and he blinked them away, the room confirmed. At least he had gotten to the courthouse before the worst of the storm had hit. He could hear it now, a steady roar against the roof, filling the near-empty hall with the sound, and he wondered if the person he'd run into at the top of the steps had far to go. Whoever--she? it had been a long time since Tatian had seen an indigene who did not dress to demonstrate legal gender, but he had distinctly felt breasts beneath the thin silk of her tunic, in the moment they'd collided. Still, who-ever she was, she was rather nice looking. It was just a pity she--or 3e? 3e could be a herm, which would be too bad--was an indigene. Of course, working in the courts, she might be assimilated-- He broke that train of thought sternly. She might also be a herm, which would mean he himself wouldn't be interested. And, anyway, Masani was right: even the most assimilated indigenes were very different from off-worlders. Besides, he had work to do. He reached for the control pad buried between the bones of his right wrist and fingered it, summoning a second display. A summary of the last two years' licensing agreements, with the legal and extralegal payments that had accompanied them, flashed into the corner of his vision. The display was accompanied by the tingle deep in his nerves that meant that the failing connection was getting worse. He shook his hand tentatively--it had helped before--and felt another jab of static. Isabon was right, he was going to have to get it repaired soon, but where on Hara was he going to find techs who could do that kind of microsurgery? There were techs in Startown, sure, but too many of them stayed on Hara only because they weren't good enough to get hired off-world. The technicians in the port itself were good, but they were hardly surgeons, and they charged what their monopoly would bear. NAPD would pay for the surgery, but he himself would have to buy the parts, with no guarantee that the Old Dame would reimburse him for anything. And on top of that, going to the port would mean seeing, and probably dealing with, Prane Am. It was an old problem, new indecision. He put it aside again and passed through a green-painted door into the maze of inner corridors.
These halls were brightly lit and narrow, and the sound of the rain was abruptly distant, as though someone had thrown a switch. He blinked in the sudden light, then found his bearings and turned down the first of the corridors that would eventually lead him to the Licensing Bureau. It was always tricky dealing with Wiidfare, and NAPD's general export permit was up for renewal in another year; it was going to be awkward to turn down the extra personnel permits without jeopardizing next year's negotiations, or this year's harvest permits. All in all, he thought, it promises to be an interesting meeting.
The door of the Licensing Bureau was half open, as always, and the waiting room was crowded. Half a dozen indigenes were sitting in the lesser chairs toward the left side of the open space, and Tillis Carlon was already waiting in the place of honor beside the empty secretary's desk. Tatian lifted an eyebrow at that--Carlon was chief-ops for Norssco, NAPD's closest current rival--but schooled himself to present an indifferent front. Carlon nodded a greeting, but said nothing. Tatian matched the gesture and looked through the glazed green glass wall behind the desk into the clerks' room. It was as cluttered as ever, crowded with indigenes and old-fashioned data disks the size of a man's palm and binders and folders crammed with real print. The computers were plainly visible, boxy monsters dominated by their display screens and touch- and keypads, and half the secretaries wore dark view-lenses that made them look blind. That was the best there was, on Hara, and Tatian wondered again where he would find someone to repair his implants.
Wiidfare's receptionist was nowhere in sight, but before Tatian could ask, the door to the inner room opened, and the young mem appeared, tucking is data lenses into is pocket. His pocket, Tatian amended silently, and his lenses. Beivin Stane was clearly a mem--is real gender was obvious in is beardless face, is slight, almost boyish build, even in is temperament, the stolid precision with which be managed Wiidfare's business--but on Hara, e was legally and culturally a man.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Mir Tatian--Ser Mhyre, that is," Beivin said, is light voice completely without expression. "Ser Tillis, I'm afraid the appointment is filled after all. If you come with me, Ser Mhyre?"
e held open the inner door, but Tatian looked at the other off-worlder. "Poaching?"
Carlon shook his head. "Call me."
"I will," Tatian answer
ed, and followed Beivin into the inner rooms.
Wiidfare rose from behind his massive desk as the door opened and gestured expansively toward the visitor's chair. "Mir Tatian, how good to see you. I trust everything was in order, that the package met your expectations?"
Tatian seated himself, leaning back with a comfort he didn't entirely feel. "The permits came through fine, thanks, Mir Wiidfare, but the numbers seem to have gotten garbled in the transmission. I have two more exploration tags than I need, and an extra residency permit for Bonemarche. I need to clear this up before I can authorize the release of payment."
Wiidfare made a production of consulting his desk. It was a recent model, Tatian realized, had been standard in the Concord Worlds as recently as five years ago: one more reminder of Wiidfare's status. Wiidfare was Temelathe Stane's nephew, and Temelathe was the unofficial master of Hara's indigenous government--the Most Important Man, the indigenes called him, with bleak humor--but then, Temelathe had a dozen nephews. Not all of them were as close to Tendlathe as Wiidfare was, either, Tatian thought. I'd give a great deal to know how many of them have desks like this one.
"My records show that you requested five exploration tags," Wiidfare said, "and four residency permits. One for you and for each of your employees. I'm rather surprised you're able to manage with so few people."
"We hire locals where we can," Tatian said. "Company policy. Which is why Stane Derry--Dere bought Stane--doesn't need a permit. It's an easy mistake to make, but I do need to clear it up. And we only want three tags."
"There must have been a transmission error." Wiidfare looked at his desk again, one hand moving gently over the shadow screen embedded in its polished surface. "I can withdraw the tags without a problem, but rescinding a residency permit is always difficult--almost as hard as issuing one. The Colonial Committee, IDCA, they make it very tough to grant them on the spur of the moment. I should warn you that if you find you need a permit on short notice, I can't guarantee that you'll be able to get one. I would suggest that you keep it--you never know when you'll have visiting staff, technical advisers, coming in."
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 4