"Sit," Temelathe said again impatiently, and Warreven lowered himself into the second chair.
"Now, what's all this about not wanting to be seraaliste? Strictly speaking, it's not an honor you can refuse."
Warreven sipped the nectar, enjoying the thick, cinnamon-lemon taste. "I didn't ask to be on the list. I didn't even know my name was on it until today--and that, my father, is hardly appropriate procedure."
"You couldn't have been nominated without some sort of permission, at least by proxy," Temelathe said.
"Nevertheless--"
"A recording error," Temelathe said, and waved the idea away with his free hand. "Something didn't reach you--the mails can be unreliable, especially this new net you like so well. That's why I wanted to keep the old systems in place."
"It's a good reason to question my candidacy," Warreven answered. "That sort of--error--could be held to contaminate the whole slate."
Temelathe frowned. "The Modernists would love to hear you say that."
"Yes. And I agree with their positions." Warreven took another sip of the nectar, and a fragment of root-pod landed, bitter and stinging, on his tongue. "Which is why, my father, I don't understand your attitude. Let's be frank, I won't do you any good as seraaliste."
Temelathe regarded him over the rim of the liquertie glass. "Let's be frank, then, my son. You don't do me any good as an advocate, but not opposing your name for seraaliste does me good with your less-radical kin. So, my son, I want you to run. I don't really care whether or not you're elected--though I think you'll care, given your opponent--but I will not have you challenge the slate." He paused, and continued with a smile, "I'm sure you'll find, if you check your records, that you received word that your name would be put in nomination months ago."
Warreven allowed himself a rather bitter smile in answer. "I'm sure." And someone will find himself a little richer at the network offices, too, for adding a backdated note to my file. "I won't campaign," he said, and knew he sounded merely petulant.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Temelathe said.
Warreven sighed, admitting his defeat. He wouldn't need to campaign, not if Temelathe was backing him, and the threat of challenging the slate was just that, an empty threat. The Stillers would never agree to that if he invoked Modernist politics--the Modernists were too radical even for a clan known to be progressive--and without the backing of the full clan, he could never hope to overthrow the candidacy. "I hope you don't regret this, my father," he said, and Temelathe's smile widened.
"I doubt I will." He paused. "I'd like to see you and Tendlathe friends again."
Several answers rose to Warreven's lips, but he controlled himself. He said, "First, that's his problem more than mine. Second, you don't help things by reminding him of a marriage neither one of us really wanted."
"You'd've been a better wife than Aldess."
"No, I wouldn't." Warreven stood. "Good night, my father."
Temelathe shook his head. "You're making a mistake, Raven. Tendlathe's the person you need on your side. But, good night, if you want it that way."
"I do," Warreven said, and wondered, too late, if Temelathe might not be right after all.
Marianj: (Hara) part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays a passive or woman's part.
Marijak: (Hara) part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays an active or man's part.
4
Warreven
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 n
ot 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.
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 9