The routing codes jingled past, and then there was dead air while the last tone pulsed steadily. Warreven waited, counting, and was about to break the connection when a voice answered.
“Æ?”
The secondary screen lit, tardy, the image streaked with static. Warreven stared at it, at the visual pickup behind it, and said, “Hello, Chauntclere.”
“Raven.” Neither the tone nor the expression were welcoming. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”
“If you must,” Warreven answered. Chauntclere Ferane stared back at him from the viewscreen, patently skeptical. His hair and short beard were streaked with salt stains, patches of odd, paler color, rust and amber and straw-gold, from a season spent aboard his tender. His crew, and the divers in particular, would be piebald from the mix of coral salts, wind, and the kelps they harvested. “It wasn’t my idea, Clere.”
“I believe you.”
“God and the spirits!” Warreven glared at the screen, and after a moment, Chauntclere looked away.
“Anyway, congratulations. It says a lot for Stiller that they elected a Modernist.”
It was a peace offering of sorts, though not strictly true—Warreven was more of a moderate, if not by Ferane then by Stiller standards—and Warreven nodded, accepting it as meant. “Thanks. And, speaking of celebrations, how would you like to go to the first-night’s baanket with me? We wouldn’t have to stay long, and I thought we could hit some of the harbor bars, maybe a dance house or something, afterward.”
There was a little silence, and then Chauntclere shook his head, mouth twisting in a grimace that was intended to be a smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, I just wanted company.”
“And to hit the bars, and screw around afterward,” Chauntclere said. He shook his head again. “I don’t think so.”
Don’t flatter yourself, Warreven thought, but knew better than to say it. It would take months to talk Chauntclere out of his anger—and besides, that was exactly what I meant. I can’t slap at him for getting it right and saying no. He said, “Clere—”
“Some other time,” Chauntclere said. “You know that, you know I want to see you. Just—not tonight, not at the baanket. It wouldn’t look right, not for you, not for me.”
“Would you meet me after?”
“I—don’t know,” Chauntclere said. “Where are you going?”
“The Embankment, probably, probably to Shinbone,” Warreven answered.
Chauntclere made a face and looked away. “If I’m there, I’m there, but don’t expect me. I’ve got the boat to think about.”
Warreven sighed, acknowledging a half truth: sailors did care not what their captains did, but that certain proprieties were observed. And two of the most important rules were no trade, and sleep wry-abed in foreign ports, not at home. “All right. Did you hear anything about Catness? That was the other reason I called.”
Chauntclere answered the lie with a quick grin, but said only “I told you, I don’t know him. And I haven’t run into anyone else who does—I doubt he’s a diver, no matter what he says, or not a very good one. I’ll let you know, though, if I hear anything.”
“Tell Malemayn,” Warreven said. “I’m not handling the case anymore.”
“All right.”
“Thanks,” Warreven said, and broke the connection.
In the main screen, a team of faitous were stacking the last cord of wood into the main balefire; a second group, supervised by a vieuvant in black and someone in traditional dress who had to be part of the outgoing clan administration, were draping the smaller fires with braids of feelgood as thick as a man’s arm. Behind them, women in traditional dress were loading clay kettles with mealie-fruit and gollies the size of a man’s fist, while other women, more practically dressed, fed the cooking fires and the stone grills set up behind the serving table. Warreven wondered what the fatuous commentators were saying, how they were explaining the quaint indigenous customs for the off-world audiences, but didn’t bother to turn up the sound. Instead, he touched keys again, typing in another mail code, and waited while the system routed his call. The holding tone sounded twice, and then the secondary screen lit again.
“Yes?” Folhare’s face in the screen was dark, hawk-nosed, strong in its cold beauty.
“Hello, Folhare,” Warreven said, and felt the old familiar fondness steal over him. If she had been a man, or he a woman—and as always put aside the knowledge that the latter, at least, was a kind of possibility, that his calculations were based on unreal gender—he, at least, would have pursued. “How’d you like to come to tonight’s baanket with me?”
Folhare blinked once, still smiling, and cocked her head to one side. “This is sudden, coy, what’s brought this on?”
“I don’t want to go by myself,” Warreven answered.
“So who turned you down?” Folhare’s smile turned wry.
“Is that fair?” Warreven demanded, and made himself sound more indignant because it was true.
“I suppose not. Are you—I can’t imagine this would be entirely smart, Raven.”
“I wish everyone would stop minding my business,” Warreven said.
“So someone did turn you down,” Folhare said, with mild satisfaction. “Clere?”
“Does it really matter?” Warreven forced a smile. She was right, of course: bringing her as his guest would be deliberate provocation, but in his present mood, it seemed the thing to do. “I would like your company, Folhare.”
There was a little silence, Folhare still with her head tilted to one side in question, and then she sighed, straightening. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you might want to know there’s going to be a presance at the baanket.”
“Ah.” Presance was a new word, a Modernist word; it meant the sort of performances the ranas had always given, drums and dancers and singing, but the songs of a presance generally had a more focused sting in their lyrics. “How—?” Warreven began, and then shook his head. “You made the dance-cloth.”
“I painted the banner, actually.”
“Well, then.” Warreven spread his hands, nearly knocking over the now-empty cup. “Don’t you want to see what happens?”
Folhare grinned. “I do, but I don’t want to cause you trouble. Or me, for that matter.”
“It’s over for both of us,” Warreven said. “No one would expect any of the makers to show up—except the dancers, that is—and I could use female company.”
“As if I count.”
“The law says,” Warreven began, and Folhare made a sound of contempt, as though she would have spat.
“The law, as you’ve quoted me more than once, is an ass. Oh, hells, yes, I’ll come. When do you want me?”
“We hired a coupelet to take us to the market,” Warreven said. “Malemayn, Haliday, and anybody they invite, and me. I’ll pick you up at eighteen-thirty, if that’s all right. We should miss the worst of the crowds.”
“And still get the best of the baanket,” Folhare said. “I’ll be ready.”
“Thanks, Folhare,” Warreven said. “I’ll be glad of your company.”
“Say that again when this is over,” Folhare said, and broke the connection.
Warreven replaced the monophone’s handset, wondering if he was making a mistake. The other Important Men and Women of Stiller would be there, and he would be compared to them, not just by the Stillers in Bonemarche, but by the rest of the clan in the mesnies north of the city. But then, they would probably be delighted to see him with any woman, even one as unlikely as Folhare Stane, he told himself, and went into the bedroom to change for the baanket.