Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

“I will,” Warreven answered, and the off-worlder nodded and turned away. Warreven watched them go, Tatian looming over the smaller woman, a protective presence at her side, and wondered if they were lovers. He didn’t think they were, but couldn’t give a real reason—something in Tatian’s voice when he’d said it had been Annek’s idea to come to Shinbone, maybe, or just something in his stance, too casual, almost automatic, to be more than courtesy. And those reasons were nothing more than wishful thinking; they were hardly relevant to the job at hand.

Ser, serrem, serray, serram, sera: (Concord) honorifics placed before the surname to indicate the gender of the person (man, mem, herm, fem, woman), considered in Concord usage to be part of the person’s full name; the generic plural is sersi.

The bad connection in his wrist was getting worse. Tatian tried to ignore it, to concentrate on the desktop display, on the patterns of rough and smooth on the shadowscreen, instead, but the sensation was too irritating. He rubbed his wrist gently, barely touching the protective plate, and winced at the sudden rush of pain. The pressure set off a feedback loop—as he had known it would, as it had done every time he had touched his arm—and the stinging, pins-and-needles sensation shot up his arm and across his chest like the precursor of a heart attack. He swore under his breath and grabbed the edge of the desktop with his good hand, squeezing his fingers into the wood until the pain and tingling had eased again.

He took a careful breath and touched the main control switch, turning off the implanted system. The itching, like the fizz of bubbles under his skin, stopped instantly, and the figures for the newly drafted contract vanished from in front of his eyes. He muttered another curse and worked the shadowscreen, projecting the same numbers onto a secondary screen. It was hard, slow, and clumsy, working without the implants, but the system was getting bad enough that he couldn’t afford to work with them, either. If Am would just hurry up and confirm that she’d bought the box—his eyes strayed to the message screen, obstinately dark despite the golem he’d set to forward him any incoming messages from the port—then he could get the surgery done and get back to normal. If Am was still angry—

He shoved that thought away and touched the shadowscreen to transfer the new numbers from the secondary to the main screen, filling in the blanks in the draft of the new contract with the Liassan mesnie . The numbers looked good, and he’d only had to deviate from NAPD’s preferred standard contract in a couple of places. Even with those changes, and even factoring in the worst possible weather and harvest conditions, the company should show an acceptable profit. And if the weather followed the predicted patterns … He ran his hand over the shadowscreen again, fingers pressing hot and cold spots that changed and shifted under his touch. If the weather stayed within the meteorologists’ predicted limits, NAPD would increase its revenue by a little under seventeen percent. That wasn’t just Liassan, of course, and it didn’t account for fee increases from the various Stane offices—and there would be increases, once Temelathe’s people realized that NAPD’s profits were up—but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Temelathe’s share was like an act of God: one paid and was grateful it was no worse.

It was still hard to be philosophical about it, especially after Wiidfare’s latest attempt to drag NAPD into permit trading, and Tatian found his thoughts drifting away from the contract details, wondered instead if there was any way to avoid Temelathe’s levies. There was plenty of opposition to the Most Important Man, the presance at the Stiller baanket had been ample proof of that; maybe there was a way the pharmaceuticals could use that opposition to force Temelathe to take less. He shook himself then, scowling at the screens. First, the pharmaceuticals wouldn’t cooperate if it affected their profits, and, second, the Modernists made no particular distinction between one company and another. All he would do is get himself kicked off the planet, and NAPD either banned entirely or at best severely restricted. He thumbed the selection menu and called up the file of contracts waiting for renewal. Without the implants, checking them would be a tedious business. Tatian eyed the first screen without eagerness and was grateful when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Ser Mhyre.” It was Derebought’s voice and the formal tone and title she used to warn him of something out of the ordinary. “There’s someone to see you, if you’re free. Mir Warreven—the Stiller seraaliste. ”

Tatian stared at his desktop without seeing the open screens, mind racing. Warreven had mentioned the Stiller surplus—which rumor said was considerable—at the dance house, Shinbone; unfortunately, any offer was almost certain to come with strings attached, strings that led directly to Shan Reiss and his withdrawn statement. Tatian suppressed the memory of Reiss’s face when he’d heard the ultimatum, the expression of frantic guilt, and touched the intercom. He would be foolish not to listen to what Warreven had to say—and beside, he admitted, silently, I’m curious. “I’m free. Show 3im in, Derry, please.”

“Right away.”

Tatian blanked his screens—though there wasn’t much point; copies of the same documents would be sitting on Warreven’s desk already—and the door opened. Derebought said, “Mir Warreven.”

Warreven nodded 3er thanks and stepped past her into the office, holding out 3er hand in off-world greeting. Tatian leaned across the desk to take it and was aware again of the jewelry, thick hoop earrings, half a dozen metal bracelets, and even the long necklace was more metal than glass. Warreven was, at a conservative guess, wearing half an ordinary indigene’s yearly income: it was a sobering reminder of 3er importance, and Tatian guessed, a deliberate one.

“Shall I make up a tray?” Derebought asked, and Tatian looked past Warreven to see the botanist frowning slightly. Her message was clear: this was an important person and an important meeting; the traditional amenities should be observed.

“Please,” Tatian answered, though he doubted someone as assimilated as Warreven would be unduly impressed by anything NAPD could provide, and gestured for the indigene to take the visitor’s chair.

“Thanks,” Warreven said, with a glance over 3er shoulder that included Derebought, and sat down opposite Tatian.

Tatian reseated himself at the desk, glancing again at Warreven. The seraaliste was dressed much as 3e had been at the dance house, a soft silk tunic over soft trousers, all expensively casual, and 3er thick hair had been pulled back into a single braid. The planes of 3er face looked harder without the mane of hair; Tatian was suddenly aware of the shadows under 3er eyes, and the lines just beginning at the corners of 3er mouth. Ȝe was unexpectedly attractive—handsome rather than beautiful, but still the classic herm looks—not to his usual taste, and Tatian looked down at the empty desktop to break his stare. This had happened before, and not just on Hara, would happen again. Herms and women shared some physical attributes; it was easy to be attracted to the “feminine” aspects of a herm, and ridiculous to think of acting on that attraction. “What can I do for you, Mir Warreven?”

“I hope quite a lot,” Warreven answered, “as I hope I can do something for you. I understand you’ve already been buying from Stiller?”

“ Mesnie contracts only.”

“I wonder if you’re still interested—or able—to buy?” Warreven tilted 3er head to one side, wide-set eyes narrowed slightly, as though 3e might smile. The door opened then, and Derebought came in, carrying a tray laden with imported coffee and a triple jug of liquertie . Tatian’s eyes narrowed for an instant, inspecting the offering. Derebought knew the traditional proprieties better than anyone else on NAPD’s staff—that was the reason she was responsible for these social duties, though it always gave Tatian an odd feeling to see the botanist handling protocol—and she was saying, as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, that Warreven was very important indeed.