Melissa Scott - Shadow Man

Of its type, it was an unusually easy case, Warreven acknowledged—trade wasn’t a real job by anyone’s definition—but he couldn’t afford to let his attention wander, especially after his run-in with Tendlathe three days before. Temelathe was vigorous, but he wasn’t getting any younger; it was important to get precedents established now, while the Most Important Man could still be relied on to accept them as part of customary law. Still, it was hard to concentrate in the warmth of the courtroom, with the edge of thunder, the faint sharp smell of the coming rain that seeped into the building through the ventilators. He had always liked thunderstorms, had been born in one, or so his aunts said, and even at his age the promise of a storm was like a drug.

The judges settled back into their places, and Warreven fixed his eyes on the bench. Malemayn—he was the speaker for this particular case, as the most traditionally acceptable of the three partners—rose to his feet at the Stane judge’s gesture. The brokers’ advocate stood too, expressionless, showing no sign of the defeat he had to expect, and Taskary copied him at the IDCA table. Warreven touched the edge of the noteboard, closing files, and then folded his hands over the screen. The gray-haired judge—she was the Maychilder judge, closest kin to the brokers—was watching him, and Warreven met her stare without regret or anger. The brokers had a job to do, and a difficult one; people lied to them, would say anything to get out of the Equatoriale, if they were at the bottom of their mesnie , or their kinship, or just hated knowing that in Bonemarche, not quite two thousand kilometers from the jungle tracts, anyone could have all the technology, all the luxuries, just for ready money. And people lied to their advocates, too: he and Malemayn had learned early to verify the stories of anyone who claimed they had been lured into trade unwillingly. But this time, it was the brokers who had lied, and Chattan deserved some recompense.

The Stane judge nodded to the nearest clerk, who reached across to sound the court’s bell. It was metal, like the bells at the White Watch House, and its note silenced the murmured conversations in the back of the room. Even Warreven, who had heard it and other metal bells many times before, shivered at the sound. In the sudden quiet, thunder rumbled.

“The court speaks,” the clerk said. “Archer Stane speaks for the court.”

“The court decides,” Archer said, “that the Carrier Labor Brokerage, represented by Langman and Richom Maychilder and Bellem Aldman, are required to repay the fees paid to them by Chattan Trencevent. The question of fares back to his mesnie is continued until after the Midsummer holiday.”

“Mir Archer,” Malemayn said, “Chattan is living in the Red Watch’s holdfast here in the city, he has no means—”

Archer shook his head. “The case is continued,” he said, and gestured to the clerk. “Ten-minute break, Aldane.”

The clerk repeated the words, touching the metal bell again, and there was a rustle as the people in the back of the room began to move, some turning back to conversations, others moving forward as their cases were called. Overhead the display board changed, announcing the next case. Warreven looked instead at the brokers’ advocate, who met his stare with a bland smile.

“How much do you suppose he… contributed?” Malemayn said, bending over the table to collect his noteboard.

“More than we did,” Warreven answered. Malemayn managed a sour smile at that, and behind him, Warreven could see Taskary shaking his head as he joined the other IDCA representatives. “The Stane baanket should be lavish this year.”

“It had better be,” Malemayn muttered, and turned away. They all knew how the case would end now. The brokerage would return the original fee, and Chattan would vanish, ready to pay his own money to be back in his own mesnie for the approaching Midsummer holiday. The brokerage would demand at the continuation that Chattan appear, and—since it was unlikely he’d return—the case would be dismissed for lack of a plaintiff. Chattan Trencevent would get his money back, which was most of what he wanted, and the brokers who provided the off-worlders with a lucrative service weren’t unduly embarrassed. It was, Warreven thought, an elegant, if not an ethical, solution.

“We’ll send the voucher as soon as it’s processed,” the brokers’ advocate said. “Will tomorrow morning be convenient?”

Malemayn nodded. “Fine.”

“I have every confidence in you,” Warreven said, and meant it. The sooner the fee was returned, the sooner Chattan would head for the Equatoriale, no matter what any of them said to him about court dates.

The other advocate nodded in ambiguous acknowledgment, the hint of a smile just touching his thin mouth, and turned away.

Malemayn sighed. When he was sure the brokers and their party were out of earshot, he said, “Well, so much for this one.”

“We got the fee back,” Warreven said.

“True.” Malemayn glanced at the window and the massing clouds. “You want to catch lunch in the district? I doubt we can get back to Blind Point before that breaks.”

Warreven nodded, and they threaded their way through the crowd to the door. Outside, in the wide hall, it was suddenly dark. Warreven blinked twice, and nearly walked into a woman in full traditional dress. The hem of her weighted skirt, heavy with shells and glass, slapped his shins, but she was hurrying and did not look back. He made a face, and a tallish person—male by dress, but as ambiguous as Warreven himself in face and body—gave a sympathetic smile. Warreven smiled back, glad as always of the odd-bodied’s unpredictable kinship, and started down the stairs to the central lobby.

The air smelled abruptly of rain, the thread of breeze from the main doors suddenly cool and cleansed. Malemayn muttered something under his breath, but Warreven threw back his head, enjoying the change. The noon rains would bring no more than temporary relief from the day’s heat, but even that was worth savoring, with Midsummer so near. Thunder rumbled outside, along, sharp roll like the sound of a tonnere drum, and Malemayn said, “So much for getting in before the rain.”

Warreven shrugged, and pushed through the doors onto the narrow portico. It was raining, all right, the big soft drops that preceded the main storm, and the clouds were almost blue in the eerie dark. A breath of wind wound around the columns that held up the roof, tasting of sea and storm, licking at his skin like electricity. He suppressed the desire to run out into it, down the five stairs that led up to the courthouse and out into the open space of the plaza, and turned his face to the clouds. A drop of rain struck his cheek, carried by the fickle wind; he blinked, and lightning split the clouds overhead, a great streak of light followed half a heartbeat later by the crack of thunder. He stood dazzled, and someone ran up the steps into the shelter of the porch, colliding with him at the top.

“Sorry—”

They had caught at each other instinctively to keep from falling, and Warreven found himself looking up into a handsome, bearded face. He smiled, and the stranger smiled back and released him.

“That was close.”

The voice was off-world, as were the fair skin and hair. Warreven let go with some reluctance, and answered in the off-world creole, “But off the ground, anyway.”

The off-worlder nodded, and looked back over his shoulder at the clouds. He was breathing hard from his dash across the plaza ,and his shirt was splotched with damp patches the size of a child’s hand. A few drops of water clung to his neat beard, and some of his golden-red curls were flattened against his skull. He was, Warreven realized, extremely handsome.