“I—there’s someone I need to see first, thanks.”
Warreven glanced sideways, to see a group sitting around one of the larger tables. A tiny luciole glowed on the center of the table, between bottles of sweetrum and a smoking pot, but it had been turned low, so that its light barely reached the faces. Even so, he recognized one of them—Lammasin, without the makeup and the padding that had made him look so much like Temelathe—and that meant that the rest of the group would be the other actors from the presance. “Do you think it’s smart?”
“Æ?”
“Do you want to be seen talking to them right now, for your sake or theirs?”
“It’s a wrangwys house,” Folhare said, impatiently. “Who’s going to talk to the mosstaas?”
That was sheer bravado, and they both knew it: the mosstaas had a network of informers that ran throughout the Dockside houses. But there was no arguing with her in her present mood, Warreven thought. He looked back at the table, ignoring the sound of the drums calling the next dance, and saw a stranger, a woman in the full skirt and shaped, peplumed jacket marked with the silver rings of the port administration, leaning over Lammasin’s shoulder. She said something, her face shielded by the fall of her chin-length hair; Lammasin waved her words away, then, changing his mind, beckoned for her to sit beside him.
“If it’ll be a problem for you, of course,” Folhare said, and made the words a dare.
Warreven barely heard her, seeing a second figure emerge from the shadowed corner where the bar stood. Mhyre Tatian, his blond hair and beard unmistakable, handed the off-world woman a bottle of something Warreven didn’t recognize, then stopped behind her chair. He looked almost protective of her, as though he were guarding her, Warreven thought, though she hardly seemed aware of his presence as she leaned toward Lammasin, her bottle already pushed aside. He realized that Folhare was looking curiously at him, and said, “No, not a problem.”
Folhare’s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief, but Warreven ignored her, heading for the table.
“Mir Tatian, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Tatian looked at him over the neck of his bottle, one corner of his mouth curving up into a sardonic half smile. “Mir Warreven. Congratulations on the election.”
He hadn’t spoken loudly, but a couple of the people at Lammasin’s table heard and looked up. Warreven took a step away, deeper into the shadows—no need to be overheard as well as seen—and saw Folhare touch Lammasin’s shoulder, whisper something in his ear. “Thank you. I think we have some unfinished business, you and I.”
“If you mean Shan Reiss’s statement,” Tatian answered, “it’s finished business. Sorry.”
Warreven blinked, startled by the refusal even to discuss it, and said, “Feeling that way about trade, I’m surprised to find you here.” He waved his hand toward the dance floor, and the mix of off-worlders and indigenes watching from the side tables.
Tatian made a face. “I came with Annek.” He looked at the table, where the off-world woman was still talking earnestly. Lammasin hardly seemed to be listening; seemed more intent on the smoke now rising from the pot in front of him. “Is that guy, what’s-his-name, Lammasin, a friend of yours?”
“A friend of a friend,” Warreven answered cautiously.
“We, Annek and I, were at the Stane party at the White Watch House tonight,” Tatian said. “Mir Temelathe was not at all happy with that parody your friends put on. He threatened to keep him from working, and Annek thinks he can do it.”
“Of course he can,” Warreven said. “He recognized Lammasin, then?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” Warreven looked back at the table, at Folhare still hovering, an expression of faint disgust shadowing her face as she watched Annek talking to Lammasin. If Temelathe had recognized the actor, then Lammasin would indeed need to lie low for awhile—it wouldn’t be a bad time to visit his home mesnie, wherever that was, as long as it was out of Bonemarche. Irenfot wouldn’t be far enough away, was too much under the influence of the Stanes, like all the cities on the Westaern, to be truly safe. And besides, he added silently, the job that was supposed to take him to Irenfot would almost certainly vanish, if the Most Important Man was angry.
“Tendlathe was very upset, too,” Tatian said. “You might also tell your friends he wanted to set the mosstaas on them.”
“So what else is new,” Warreven said sourly. He remembered Tendlathe in the library at White Stane House, hand clenched on the arm of his chair. “He doesn’t like off-worlders, he doesn’t like Modernists, he doesn’t like trade, and most of all he doesn’t like being reminded that there really are five sexes. Facts like that confuse him. But I appreciate the warning.”
“It was Annek’s idea. I can’t take credit. But if you can convince him it’s serious—”
“Maybe Folhare can,” Warreven answered, and knew he sounded dubious.
At the table, Annek shook her head, and pushed herself up out of the chair, leaving her drink untouched on the table. “Let’s go, Tatian. I’m not doing any good here.”
Tatian nodded, looking around for a place to leave his own drink, and Warreven said, “Wait.” Tatian set the bottle on an unoccupied table and looked back at him.
“I do have other business with you,” Warreven said, “in my new job. I’d like to discuss the surplus with you.”
Even in the uncertain light, he saw the flicker of interest cross Tatian’s face, quickly muted. “Our office is in the Estrange, Drapdevel Court. You’re welcome to come by.”
“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.
7
Mhyre Tatian
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—