“Here,” Malemayn said, and Warreven turned, startled, to seethe other holding out a wreath of catseyes. Lyliwane, laughing at his side, wore two great sprays of the flowers tucked into her crown of braids.
“Æ?”
“For you,” Malemayn said, and set it precariously on Warreven’s head.
“I don’t need flowers,” Warreven said, adjusting it anyway. Looking around, he could see half a dozen other couples wearing them, all officially, passing for men and women, though he thought he saw at least one other herm, and maybe a plump mem, among the group. He scowled, reaching for the wreath, and Malemayn shook his head.
“You’re our seraaliste now, Raven, our very own Important Man. You should be wearing.” He turned to Folhare. “And for you, mirrim.”
Folhare took the wreath he held out to her, slung the bright blue flowers like a necklace across her shoulders. “Where’d you get it? It’s lovely.”
“There was a boy selling them,” Malemayn said, and gestured vaguely toward the crowd behind him. Warreven looked and saw a thin herm holding a basket piled high with greenery. Boy, indeed, he thought, and the flower seller winked at him. He smiled back, temper somewhat restored, and looked away again.
“You’re taking this a little seriously,” Haliday said, but 3e was smiling. Ȝe, too, wore a crown of catseyes, the vivid yellow bright against 3er black hair. “And, speaking of Important Men, you, Raven, should be getting to the platform, I think.”
Warreven made a face, but had to admit 3e was right. The platform was filling up with dignitaries; it was time, he supposed, to take his place with them. He looked to his right, over the heads of the crowd, and saw the windows and narrow balconies of the White Watch House crammed with bright-clad figures: Stanes and their Maychilder kin-by-marriage and the occasional Landeriche or Delacoste, come to watch the Stiller display from an appropriate distance and to judge its probable cost and the clan’s generosity. There were a few duller figures, too, drab among the locals: off-worlders, almost certainly pharmaceuticals, who were Temelathe’s guests. Tendlathe would be there, too. “I hope they enjoy the show,” he said, and held out his hand to Folhare, less as a courtesy than to keep from getting separated in the crowd.
Folhare took it, her fingers cool in his, leaned close again as they started toward the platform. “I guarantee they’ll be—impressed.”
~
Woman: (Concord) human being possessing ovaries, XX chromosomes, and some aspects of female genitalia; she, her, her, herself.
Mhyre Tatian
Tatian stood on one of the narrow balconies of the White Watch House, his shoulder jammed painfully against the coarse brick of the building shell, and wondered if carved ironwood was really strong enough to hold the seven adults who filled its platform. The single child, no older than sixty-nine or seventy kilohours, hardly seemed large enough to count. He pressed himself harder against the bricks as the child wriggled past, disappearing back into the main room, and waved away a faitou offering a tray of feelgood wrapped for stick smoking. The other people crowding the window greeted her gladly, and he winced at the acrid cloud that cloaked the balcony for an instant before the wind carried it away.
“So, Mir Tatian,” a familiar voice said, and Tatian turned awkwardly to face Wiidfare Stane, a glass beaker of liquertie in his hand. “I’m glad you could make it this year.”
“My pleasure,” Tatian answered, and hoped the Licensing Officer couldn’t hear the insincerity in his voice. Wiidfare had invited him every year before, as he invited all the off-world heads-of-station, and every year Tatian had refused—until now. And I wouldn’t be here this time if Reiss hadn’t managed to piss off Stane and involve me in it. The party was a blatant display of Stane’s power—Stanes and off-worlders standing together to lookdown on the celebration of a lesser clan—and Tatian, who did a great deal of business with Stiller mesnies, had never felt it was entirely wise to attend.
“But you’re not drinking,” Wiidfare said. “Let me get you something.”
From most other Harans, Tatian thought, regarding the other man with detached dislike that would be mere forgetfulness, an inappropriate courtesy that he wouldn’t mind declining. But from Wiidfare, it was always a challenge. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, and met Wiidfare’s ill-concealed sneer with a bland smile.
“Surely a little sweetrum-and-water won’t hurt.”
The voice was unfamiliar, but the face was not. Tatian nodded warily to Temelathe’s son, said, “Mir Tendlathe.”
Tendlathe lifted a hand, summoning one of the hovering faitous. He was a slender man, willowy where his father was solid, and Tatian had to make an effort not to glance down, looking for a herm’s breasts and hips. In any case, Tendlathe wore a narrow, neatly trimmed beard and moustache: it wasn’t an infallible indicator, but it was a sure guarantee of legal gender. A bonne-faitou came scurrying, ironwood tray held at waist height, and Tendlathe gestured expansively. “Do try some, ser Mhyre, I think you’ll find it to your liking.”
“Since you insist,” Tatian said, in his most colorless voice, and lifted the jug that stood in the center of the tray. He sniffed it—odorless, and probably just water, though one could never be entirely sure on Hara—and then added it to one of the glasses, cutting the sweetrum even more. He set the jug back, murmuring his thanks to the bonne, and smiled at Tendlathe. “Your health, mir.”
The Haran tipped his head in graceful acknowledgment. Tatian sipped carefully, barely letting the liquor past his lips, and was glad to see that Tendlathe, at least, had told the truth. With the additional water, the sweetrum was tolerable even to an off-world metabolism.
He looked away from Tendlathe and Wiidfare, back out over the crowds filling the Glassmarket. He had been unable to pick out Warreven among the candidates presented; there had been several people, all passable men, who wore their hair loose and ragged as Warreven had done, and it had been impossible to recognize anyone’s face at this distance. The speeches—which had been inaudible, anyway—seemed to be over now, and the action was divided between the tables where the food was served and the side platform where the band was playing. Just the drums were audible, their rhythm vying with the inchoate noise of a thousand voices.
“Impressive, isn’t it, mir?” Tendlathe said.
Tatian made a noncommittal noise, a Haran proverb dancing in his brain: never praise Stane to Stiller, or Stiller to Stane.
“It’s nothing to Gedesrede, of course,” Wiidfare said, “but it’s nice enough.”