Wiidfare’s receptionist was nowhere in sight, but before Tatian could ask, the door to the inner room opened, and the young mem appeared, tucking ρis data lenses into ρis pocket. His pocket, Tatian amended silently, and his lenses. Beivin Stane was clearly a mem—ρis real gender was obvious in ρis beardless face, ρis slight, almost boyish build, even in ρis temperament, the stolid precision with which be managed Wiidfare’s business—but on Hara, ρe was legally and culturally a man.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mir Tatian—Ser Mhyre, that is,” Beivin said, ρis light voice completely without expression. “Ser Tillis, I’m afraid the appointment is filled after all. If you come with me, Ser Mhyre?”
ρe held open the inner door, but Tatian looked at the other off-worlder. “Poaching?”
Carlon shook his head. “Call me.”
“I will,” Tatian answered, and followed Beivin into the inner rooms.
Wiidfare rose from behind his massive desk as the door opened and gestured expansively toward the visitor’s chair. “Mir Tatian, how good to see you. I trust everything was in order, that the package met your expectations?”
Tatian seated himself, leaning back with a comfort he didn’t entirely feel. “The permits came through fine, thanks, Mir Wiidfare, but the numbers seem to have gotten garbled in the transmission. I have two more exploration tags than I need, and an extra residency permit for Bonemarche. I need to clear this up before I can authorize the release of payment.”
Wiidfare made a production of consulting his desk. It was a recent model, Tatian realized, had been standard in the Concord Worlds as recently as five years ago: one more reminder of Wiidfare’s status. Wiidfare was Temelathe Stane’s nephew, and Temelathe was the unofficial master of Hara’s indigenous government—the Most Important Man, the indigenes called him, with bleak humor—but then, Temelathe had a dozen nephews. Not all of them were as close to Tendlathe as Wiidfare was, either, Tatian thought. I’d give a great deal to know how many of them have desks like this one.
“My records show that you requested five exploration tags,” Wiidfare said, “and four residency permits. One for you and for each of your employees. I’m rather surprised you’re able to manage with so few people.”
“We hire locals where we can,” Tatian said. “Company policy. Which is why Stane Derry—Dere bought Stane—doesn’t need a permit. It’s an easy mistake to make, but I do need to clear it up. And we only want three tags.”
“There must have been a transmission error.” Wiidfare looked at his desk again, one hand moving gently over the shadow screen embedded in its polished surface. “I can withdraw the tags without a problem, but rescinding a residency permit is always difficult—almost as hard as issuing one. The Colonial Committee, IDCA, they make it very tough to grant them on the spur of the moment. I should warn you that if you find you need a permit on short notice, I can’t guarantee that you’ll be able to get one. I would suggest that you keep it—you never know when you’ll have visiting staff, technical advisers, coming in.”
So that was what this was all about, Tatian thought. Wiidfare was playing trade—not for the first time, either—and playing the game rather crudely. Tendlathe’s people didn’t usually participate, but then, Wiidfare was in a position to make serious money, metal money, out of it. He said, “I understand. The permits are expensive, though, and we’re not projecting bringing in anymore staff for at least a couple of years. Under the circumstances, I’ll have to pass.”
“It wouldn’t be that hard to find someone to split the costs,” Wiidfare said. “I know, oh, at least a dozen people who have been trying to get permits for years.”
And all of them are players, Tatian thought. And probably high-paying players, too. He hesitated for a moment, considering his options, and then smiled widely. “Mir Wiidfare, let me be blunt. We’ve had a good relationship in the four years I’ve been on Hara, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. But you know my boss’s position on trade. I appreciate the opportunity, but I have to refuse.”
“There are other companies,” Wiidfare said.
“I know,” Tatian said. “But thank you for thinking of me.”
There was a silence, and for a moment Tatian wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far. Then Wiidfare leaned back in his chair and laughed, and the off-worlder released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“All right, suit yourself,” Wiidfare said. “Three exploration tags and three residency permits, one a semi-permanent for Shan Reiss, who was born in Irenfot of off-world parents.” His hands were busy on the desktop as he spoke; an instant later, a disk writer whined to life on the far wall. “Though if your boss so disapproves of trade, I’m surprised Mir Reiss has lasted this long.”
“Really?” Tatian said, and made his voice as bored as possible. Reiss was hardly a player, except by the Haran definition; he was omni, but that was all—and he’d been raised as a Haran and, could be excused a little confusion. More to the point, he didn’t profit from his games.
Wiidfare snorted, and pointed to the diskwriter. “The forms are there, if you’ll sign them.”
Tatian collected the disk and, at Wiidfare’s impatient gesture, spun a secondary reader to face him on the desktop. He fed the disk into it and paged quickly through the files, making sure all the codes were correct. “Thank you, Mir Wiidfare, this looks perfect.” He touched the locking sequence as he spoke, fixing the text and signing his name and various identification numbers at the same moment.
Wiidfare nodded, his expression sour, and accepted the disk. “I’ll need payment within twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll transfer the—processing fees—this afternoon,” Tatian answered. He did not need to add that they would include a sizable payment for Wiidfare himself.
“Excellent,” Wiidfare said. “Then, if you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
Tillis Carlon was no longer in the outer office, and Beivin was cloistered behind ρis view lenses, fingers busy on an analog pad. For a moment, Tatian was tempted to interrupt him, to demand to know where Carlon had gone, but controlled his anger. Haran corruption was like nothing else in human space; one paid what one had to and put up with the side games. But he would call Carlon and find out what he had been doing here.
The rain was still loud in the main hall, and Tatian was not surprised, as he pushed his way through the doors onto the narrow porch, to find the two indigenes still waiting, both looking out into the rain. One was definitely male, legally and in reality, a tall man, light-skinned for a Haran, with close-cut black hair and a beak of a nose that dominated his profile. The other, the one he’d run into on the stairs, was shorter and darker, and the loose silk shirt and vest and soft trousers effectively hid the relative sizes of hip and breast and shoulder. Deliberately hid? Tatian thought, and wondered again about a Haran who would conceal legal gender. Haran law and custom demanded that everyone belong to one of the two acknowledged sexes; society enforced that artificial distinction rigorously. It was even rumored that there were still mesnies, along the southern coast toward Fariston and in Pensemare on the Southland, where children born mem, fem, or herm were surgically altered to conform to the parents’ wishes. That seemed unlikely—even on Hara, the child’s health was usually considered paramount—but the thought was discomfiting. It was almost as odd to imagine a Haran embracing ambiguity of body.