Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

They went back out into the bay. Reiss was sitting with the technicians, passing a bottle of something from hand to hand. He rose hurriedly at Tatian’s approach, but not so quickly that Tatian couldn’t recognize the familiar squat brown jar of quarta. He lifted an eyebrow at that, but said only, “I need you to run me out to the port.”

Reiss nodded. “No problem.”

“It had better not be,” Tatian said, and Reiss had the grace to look abashed. He looked at Starli. “I’ll contact you then, mirrim, about the scheduling.”

“As I said, give me warning,” Starli answered. “I’ll be ready.”

Tatian nodded, and swung himself into the jigg’s passenger seat. Reiss kicked the starter twice, and the engine caught with a roar that was almost deafening in the confined space. He twisted the throttle, muting the sound, and backed decorously out into the hot street.

Traffic was heavier than ever, and Reiss took an indirect route through the city, skirting the Souk and the congested streets that led into Startown. Even so, progress was slow, and he glanced over his shoulder in apology.

“Sorry—” His eyes slid sideways then, fixing on something in the crowd behind the jigg, and he swerved abruptly, pulling the jigg into a partially cleared space between a four-up and an unloading shay.

“Reiss?” Tatian looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing immediately out of the ordinary. Then Reiss was wresting himself free of the safety webbing. “Hey—”

“Æ, mosstaas ,” Reiss called, and levered himself out of the jigg before Tatian could even think of stopping him. The crowd parted for him, and Tatian swore under his breath. In the center of the square they had just skirted, by the dry fountain, two of the city militia had stopped a woman—were questioning her, by their stance and her gestures. Reiss shoved his way through the crowd, which melted around him: not a good sign at all , Tatian thought, and freed himself from the jigg. Why the hell does he have to do this? He started after the younger man, hoping that their off-world clothes, and the pharmaceutical mark on the nose of the jigg would keep them out of trouble.

“—mistake,” Reiss was saying, as Tatian came into earshot. “Astfer works with me.”

“So the wyfie’s yours?” one of the mosstaas demanded, smirking, and Tatian bit back another curse. Reiss was getting them involved in trade, despite his—despite Masani’s—explicit prohibitions.

“We work together,” Reiss said again.

The woman looked warily from him to the mosstaas and back again. Or, rather, the fem: this close, Tatian could see the height, the full breasts and narrow hips, the typical build that %er off-world shirt and trousers did nothing to conceal. The other militiaman gave a snort of laughter, and the first one said, “I just bet the wyfie gives excellent—service.”

He wore a pin at his collar, not a rank marking, but an anchor on a bed of red and white flames. Both were symbols of the Captain, Tatian knew, and then remembered someone saying that Tendlathe’s party had adopted the combined signs as their badge. So this was trade again, Tatian thought. And more than that, the damned two-sex model. He said, “Is there a problem, officer?” He spoke in franca : it was unlikely either of the mosstaas understood creole, but more than that, the reminder of off-world power could only make the situation worse.

“Œ,” one of the mosstaas began, and Reiss cut in quickly, in creole.

“Ser, I told them Astfer works for us, for NAPD. She’s a good friend, they say she was throwing rocks at one of the ranas last night—inciting trouble.”

“Which I was not,” the fem said, in franca . %e sounded more annoyed than anything, but Tatian could see %er hands trembling. %e seemed to realize it %erself, and shoved them into %er pockets.

Tatian took a deep breath. One way or another, this was likely to be expensive—and could be very expensive, if the Old Dame found out and didn’t believe his explanation—but he’d taken a dislike to the mosstaas the minute they called %er “ wyfie .” “What’s the problem, miri?” he said, in franca .

The militiamen exchanged glances, and then the taller of the two, a bulky man with a ragged mustache and beard, said, “Mir, this—woman—was seen throwing rocks at a rana band last night. There have been a number of complaints filed against the wrangwys lately, and they have to be investigated.”

“Last night?” Tatian said, and kept his tone remote. “Our people were working late last night, getting ready for the harvest.” He slipped his hand into his pocket as he spoke, a familiar, ostentatious movement. The taller man’s eyes followed the gesture, but his partner was looking at the fem.

“We’ve got witnesses, and a complaint from someone who matters—”

“Witnesses who could be mistaken,” the first mosstaas said firmly. “With people like her—hells, they look alike.”

“I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” Tatian said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He kept a wad of White Watch bills folded there, for emergencies, and let the corner of the folded packet show as he extended his hand. “Let me recoup your losses.”

“She works for you,” the shorter man said flatly, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

People were watching them, Tatian realized suddenly, watching from a distance, kept at bay by the mosstaas ’ truncheons and the certainty of a holstered pistol, but watching nonetheless. He allowed his eyes to slide sideways, scanning the faces, but couldn’t read the expressions. Some would be disgusted, certainly, seeing this as trade, one more sexual transaction; maybe a few would be radicals, glad to see the mosstaas humiliated, but most of them were silent, wary, and he didn’t know what they thought. And it didn’t matter, not at the moment, so long as no one else interfered: Reiss had started this, it was up to him to get them both, all, out of it. “That’s right,” he said. “Works for our botanist, Derebought Stane.” And I must remember to tell Derry that, when we get home . “Is there a problem?” He gave the words bite, let his hand, still holding the money, sink a little, and the taller militiaman reached hastily for it.

“Not at all, mir, I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m sure there’s been some mistake—but she’d better be more careful next time.”

“I’ll see to it,” Tatian said, grim-voiced, and the mosstaas turned away. He looked at the fem, then at Reiss. Reiss gave him his best smile.

“Thanks, baas —”

Tatian shook his head. “Later. I have an appointment at the port. Bring your friend—charmed to meet you, serram—and you can take her home on your way back to the office. We’ll discuss it when you get back.”

Straight: (Hara) one of the nine sexual preferences generally recognized by Concord culture; denotes a person who prefers to be intimate with persons of one of the two “opposite” genders.

The fem was very quiet on the ride to the starport, perched uncomfortably in the space meant for cargo, but Tatian was very aware of %er presence, %e meant trouble, %er very presence meant trouble, both with the Old Dame, if—when— %e heard about it, and quite possibly with the local authorities. If Reiss had just looked the other way…. It was hard to think that with the fem %erself sitting behind him—the mosstaas were notorious for the efficiency of their confessional techniques—and he sighed and looked sideways out the jigg’s scratched windscreen.