Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

Its doorway was brighter lit than most, surrounded by a double band of light, gold and green, and there were two trees outlined in lights to either side of the entrance. As usual, a slumped figure, so wrapped in layers of shaal s and tunics as to be little more than a dark lump, sat just outside the pool of light, and extended a bowl marked with the Cripple’s crutch as they passed: Aldinogh, who owned Shinbone and three other houses along Harborside, was careful to propitiate the spirits, and anyone living who might be jealous of his prosperity. Warreven reached into his pocket, came up with a handful of small change, and dropped it into the bowl, saying, “From the lady, too.” He jerked his head toward Folhare.

The lurking figure didn’t answer, but Folhare gave him a grateful glance. Warreven hid a twisted smile. She might claim to be fully assimilated, a true Modernist, but she, none of them, could quite free themselves of the teachings of childhood. Oh, it was easy to explain why the customs had developed the way they did—Hara’s population was relatively small, but there were always people who ended up outside the mesnie system, either by choice or accident, and the tradition that said you could not safely refuse anyone who asked help in Caritan the Cripple’s name had obviously grown up to protect that minority—but, even knowing that, it was almost impossible to break those old habits.

The hulking doorkeeper nodded to them as they passed—from him, a major concession—and they went on into the single long room. Like every other dance house in the city, Shinbone had mechanical bars in each of the four corners, and a band platform at the far end of the hall, but at least here the tables surrounding the dance floor weren’t strictly divided between trade and the wry-abed. The groups crowding the tables were fairly well mixed— or at least , Warreven amended, the ones in the light were mixed . There was no way to know if the people groping in the dark at the edges of the room had stuck to the more usual divisions. “Do you want a drink?” he said, to Folhare, but she was looking past him into the shadows by the closest bar.

“I—there’s someone I need to see first, thanks.”

Warreven glanced sideways, to see a group sitting around one of the larger tables. A tiny luciole glowed on the center of the table, between bottles of sweetrum and a smoking pot, but it had been turned low, so that its light barely reached the faces. Even so, he recognized one of them—Lammasin, without the makeup and the padding that had made him look so much like Temelathe—and that meant that the rest of the group would be the other actors from the presance . “Do you think it’s smart?”

“Æ?”

“Do you want to be seen talking to them right now, for your sake or theirs?”

“It’s a wrangwys house,” Folhare said, impatiently. “Who’s going to talk to the mosstaas ?”

That was sheer bravado, and they both knew it: the mosstaas had a network of informers that ran throughout the Dockside houses. But there was no arguing with her in her present mood, Warreven thought. He looked back at the table, ignoring the sound of the drums calling the next dance, and saw a stranger, a woman in the full skirt and shaped, peplumed jacket marked with the silver rings of the port administration, leaning over Lammasin’s shoulder. She said something, her face shielded by the fall of her chin-length hair; Lammasin waved her words away, then, changing his mind, beckoned for her to sit beside him.

“If it’ll be a problem for you, of course,” Folhare said, and made the words a dare.

Warreven barely heard her, seeing a second figure emerge from the shadowed corner where the bar stood. Mhyre Tatian, his blond hair and beard unmistakable, handed the off-world woman a bottle of something Warreven didn’t recognize, then stopped behind her chair. He looked almost protective of her, as though he were guarding her, Warreven thought, though she hardly seemed aware of his presence as she leaned toward Lammasin, her bottle already pushed aside. He realized that Folhare was looking curiously at him, and said, “No, not a problem.”

Folhare’s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief, but Warreven ignored her, heading for the table.

“Mir Tatian, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Tatian looked at him over the neck of his bottle, one corner of his mouth curving up into a sardonic half smile. “Mir Warreven. Congratulations on the election.”

He hadn’t spoken loudly, but a couple of the people at Lammasin’s table heard and looked up. Warreven took a step away, deeper into the shadows—no need to be overheard as well as seen—and saw Folhare touch Lammasin’s shoulder, whisper something in his ear. “Thank you. I think we have some unfinished business, you and I.”

“If you mean Shan Reiss’s statement,” Tatian answered, “it’s finished business. Sorry.”

Warreven blinked, startled by the refusal even to discuss it, and said, “Feeling that way about trade, I’m surprised to find you here.” He waved his hand toward the dance floor, and the mix of off-worlders and indigenes watching from the side tables.

Tatian made a face. “I came with Annek.” He looked at the table, where the off-world woman was still talking earnestly. Lammasin hardly seemed to be listening; seemed more intent on the smoke now rising from the pot in front of him. “Is that guy, what’s-his-name, Lammasin, a friend of yours?”

“A friend of a friend,” Warreven answered cautiously.

“We, Annek and I, were at the Stane party at the White Watch House tonight,” Tatian said. “Mir Temelathe was not at all happy with that parody your friends put on. He threatened to keep him from working, and Annek thinks he can do it.”

“Of course he can,” Warreven said. “He recognized Lammasin, then?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” Warreven looked back at the table, at Folhare still hovering, an expression of faint disgust shadowing her face as she watched Annek talking to Lammasin. If Temelathe had recognized the actor, then Lammasin would indeed need to lie low for awhile—it wouldn’t be a bad time to visit his home mesnie , wherever that was, as long as it was out of Bonemarche. Irenfot wouldn’t be far enough away, was too much under the influence of the Stanes, like all the cities on the Westaern, to be truly safe. And besides, he added silently, the job that was supposed to take him to Irenfot would almost certainly vanish, if the Most Important Man was angry.

“Tendlathe was very upset, too,” Tatian said. “You might also tell your friends he wanted to set the mosstaas on them.”

“So what else is new,” Warreven said sourly. He remembered Tendlathe in the library at White Stane House, hand clenched on the arm of his chair. “He doesn’t like off-worlders, he doesn’t like Modernists, he doesn’t like trade, and most of all he doesn’t like being reminded that there really are five sexes. Facts like that confuse him. But I appreciate the warning.”

“It was Annek’s idea. I can’t take credit. But if you can convince him it’s serious—”

“Maybe Folhare can,” Warreven answered, and knew he sounded dubious.

At the table, Annek shook her head, and pushed herself up out of the chair, leaving her drink untouched on the table. “Let’s go, Tatian. I’m not doing any good here.”

Tatian nodded, looking around for a place to leave his own drink, and Warreven said, “Wait.” Tatian set the bottle on an unoccupied table and looked back at him.

“I do have other business with you,” Warreven said, “in my new job. I’d like to discuss the surplus with you.”

Even in the uncertain light, he saw the flicker of interest cross Tatian’s face, quickly muted. “Our office is in the Estrange, Drapdevel Court. You’re welcome to come by.”