Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

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 mesnie s, 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.

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.”