Melissa Scott: Shadow Man

“Whatever.” Isabon reached for %er quarta and took a long swallow.

“It’s not really a dynasty,” Shraga said. “There must be somebody else in the clan who could take over, if Tendlathe and Aldess don’t have kids.”

“I can’t see Temelathe letting the position go to anyone out-side the direct line,” Isabon said. “In fact, I wonder if the indigenes would accept someone who wasn’t a direct descendant.”

“Do you mean of Temelathe, or of that Captain of theirs?” Tatian asked.

“Is there any difference?” Isabon grinned, and Tatian nodded.

“True enough. Still, I’m surprised they haven’t had kids by now.”

%e shrugged. “For my money, he looks like a herm—Tendlathe, I mean. Which would explain a lot.”

It was a common and constant rumor, circulating through the Nest and the off-world community on the average of once every four-and-a-half kilohours. “It doesn’t really matter,” Tatian said, and bit back the rest of the sentence. It doesn’t really matter what he is, as long as the indigenes say he’s male : that was stating the obvious, and in any case he was tired of dealing with the oddities of the Haran system. Let the Harans deal with it, he thought—no, let Temelathe deal with it. It’s his son and his dynasty: his problem, not ours.

“Another game?” Shraga asked, and reached for his beer. “Isa owes me a chance for revenge.”

“Sorry.” Isabon shook %er head, glancing sideways as %e triggered %er implants, calling up some display visible only to %erself. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“I thought you had tomorrow off,” Tatian said.

“I did,” Isabon answered. “But then I heard there’s a textile fair in the Ferryhead market. I’m curious to see what’s on offer.”

Tatian nodded, accepting the excuse, and switched off the queens-road board. The fields that shaped it and formed the playing pieces collapsed, and he began to roll the now-limp board into a tidy cylinder.

“How can you make money exporting that stuff?” Shraga asked, and reached for a wedge of flatbread. He broke off a manageable piece and dug it into the relish, then said indistinctly, “I mean, doesn’t mass alone eat up half your profits?”

Isabon gave another of %er austere smiles. %er company was small, but growing; in five years, Tatian thought, %e would probably pass NAPD on the gross-profit list. He was just glad %e didn’t run a rival pharmaceutical company.

“It would—it does, on the biggest pieces, the premade things, quilts, bodices, other clothing, and we don’t buy much of that. We only take the best for the art market. But the silk isn’t that massy, and it sells very well. The same goes for flaxen.”

“But—”

Isabon shook her head. “Sorry. Anything more is trade secrets.”

Shraga lifted his hands in instant apology, and Tatian slipped the dice and the random-box back into their cases. “Are you doing anything tomorrow, Shraga?” he asked, and the other man shrugged.

“I took the day, too. I’m going to sleep late, eat real food, play a few games of basieball, and then I’m going to watch a vidik on the big screen downstairs.”

“Want to hit the Glassmarket before the vidi-show starts?” Tatian asked. “There’s going to be drumming and a dance.”

“I don’t plan to leave the Nest tomorrow,” Shraga said. “That’s my idea of a holiday.” He set his beer aside—empty already, Tatian saw—and stood, stretching. “And, since I have such strenuous plans, I think I’d better get my beauty sleep. It was a good game, people.”

“See you next week?” Isabon asked, and Shraga shook his head.

“I’m off to the Estcote—three days in Estaern, and then four on the road, bouncing around the Delacoste mesnie s. I’m free the week after, though.”

“That’s good for me,” Isabon said, and looked at Tatian.

He touched the input pad between the bones of his right wrist and flinched as a wave of static rose from the failing connection. Static danced in front of his eyes, but resolved itself almost instantly to the familiar scheduling grid. “I’m free then, too. It’s your turn to host, Shraga.”

“It would be,” the other man said, but grinned. “I’ll have a four-pack just for you, Tatya.”

Tatian laughed, acknowledging the offer, and touched the sequences that unlocked the main door. Shraga let himself out, waving, and Tatian closed down his implanted system, feeling another wave of cold static rise to break over his shoulder.

“You should get that seen to,” Isabon said.

“I will.” He didn’t add—he didn’t need to add—that it was hard to find technicians on Hara who were both competent and affordable. And the system was his own; NAPD would pay for the surgery, but not for replacement parts.

Isabon gave a knowing smile, and took another sip of %er quarta. “So, you’re spending an evening at the Glassmarket. Going with Prane Am?”

“We’re not seeing each other at the moment,” Tatian answered. And maybe not ever again, but that really wasn’t Isabon’s business.

“I’m sorry,” %e said. “I hadn’t heard.”

Tatian couldn’t help raising his eyebrows at that. Hara’s off-world community was small and intimately connected, practically incestuous.

Isabon shrugged. “People don’t gossip to me, Tatya. Nobody told me.”

%e left a silence more compelling than a question, and Tatian found himself filling it after all. “It was the usual thing. She thought I was going native, playing trade on her. And then I heard from Kaialis that she’s seeing some mem up at the port.”

“I thought she was man-straight,” Isabon said, startled.

“She was when we were dating.”

“I’m sorry.” There was another little silence, and then Isabon sighed and put aside %er empty bottle. “Kaialis isn’t the most reliable person around anyway. It may not be true.”

“I know.” Tatian managed a smile that was almost real. “I just don’t need my life to be this complicated right now.”

“Ah, the joys of the Midsummer contract,” Isabon said. “I don’t envy you druggists.”

“And I don’t envy you at the Quarter-days,” Tatian answered. He worked the door controls for %er —using the wall box, this time—and depressed the latch.

“See you in two weeks,” %e said, and the door slid shut again behind %er.

Left to himself, Tatian slid the rolled-up board and the boxes of dice and number generators into their place in the storage cells that filled the inner wall, and then gathered the empty bottles and fed them one by one to the apartment’s recycling system. He re-wrapped the flatbread, poured the relish back into its jar, and tucked them both away in the narrow cabinets. Then he went back out into the main room, and crossed to the single large window, dragging Isabon’s chair back into its proper place as he went. He unlatched the curtains and drew them back, so that only the sunscreen remained between him and the glass. He could feel the day’s heat radiating inward and released the screen as well. It slid up into its housing, and he had to look away for a moment before his eyes adjusted to the brilliance. His apartment faced east, over-looking the city of Bonemarche—his choice; the other option had been to face the starport, and he had known he would be homesick if he could see the shuttles leaving. He looked out between the two towers that made up the Nest, the Expatriate Housing Blocks One, Two, and Three, across the maze of low buildings tot he Harbor proper. The sky was white with haze, the red spire of the lighthouse at Blind Point all but lost in the milky radiance.

He had not particularly wanted to think about Prane Am, or Jons Kaialis’s gossip: it was bad enough to be falsely accused, but worse to think that Am might really be doing what she had charged him with. He slapped the window controls, lowering the sunscreen again, and turned to the media console as the fierce sunlight dimmed. Rather than risk the implant, he pulled out the little keypad, paged through the menus of his personal datastore until he found the file he wanted. He flicked the shadowscreen to retrieve it and reached for his bottle of quarta, settling himself on the couch opposite the display screen. Codes flickered, mere sparks of light, and then the main screen windowed. Lolya Masani, the Old Dame who had built NAPD, looked out at him, %er dark face drawn into a frown. Of course, it was rare to see Masani smile: he thought he had seen it twice, once when be hired him, and the second time when he had brought in the Uldamiani job against all odds.