“And we won’t win this kind of case if it’s a Bonemarche whore complaining,” Haliday retorted.
It was an old argument, and Warreven looked back to his screen, jabbed halfheartedly at the list of files to open one at random. Over the last two calendar-years, the partnership seemed to have been spending more and more of its time dealing with the fallout of the off-world sex trade, with the full-time prostitutes and the part-time marijaks and marianjs who worked the harborside, and with the off-worlders and wry-abed indigenes who patronized them. Temelathe preferred to turn a blind eye to the business—as long as he got his discreet share of the bar and dance-house profits, he didn’t care who went there, or for what—but at the same time he had to stay on good terms with the Colonial Committee and the Interstellar Disease Control Agency, who existed to regulate trade. At the same time, most of the pharmaceutical companies, from the Big Six down to the smallest pony-shows, turned a blind eye to their employees’ thriving sideline in the residence and travel permits that were the other side of trade. And Hara was dependent on the pharmaceuticals for all of its hard-cash income. It was not, Warreven admitted silently, an easy situation for Temelathe, but it was a lot harder on the wry-abed.
Malemayn and Haliday were still arguing, voices low enough to ignore, and Warreven fixed his attention on the open file on the screen in front of him. It was an application-to-emigrate for someone named Destany Casnot, herm passing for male—a Black Casnot rather than a Blue, which made him distant kin; Casnot, like most of the large clans, was split between two Watches—and he paged quickly through the file, looking for the inevitable problems. The partnership didn’t get the easy cases; if this had been a straightforward emigration case, it would have gone to ColCom without the need for legal backing. Sure enough, the person sponsoring the application was listed as Sera Timban ’Aukai, who called herself Destany’s common-law wife. He knew ’Aukai, all right: all of the wry-abed did. She had for years managed an import service just off the Soushill Road, where indigenes looking for trade could sell or pawn traditional goods and find safe introductions. And now she was ready to leave Hara and wanted to take a current lover with her.
“Who took this emigration case?” he said, cutting through the others’ continuing argument.
“Æ?” That was Malemayn.
Haliday leaned over the cubicle wall. “It’s not what you think, Raven.”
“Oh?”
“I know you never liked ’Aukai, but she’s all right. Destany hasn’t done trade for ages, they’ve been living together for the last seven calendar-years. ColCom’s kicking her out—they caught heron a technicality, selling foodstuffs, for which she isn’t licensed. She’s appealing that, too, but she and Destany want to stay together.”
Warreven sighed, some of the irritation fading. ’Aukai had told him, years ago, when he’d first come to Bonemarche, that he wasn’t suited for trade—which had turned out to be true, but it hadn’t been much help at the time. Trade was the quickest way for the odd-bodied to earn a decent living in Bonemarche; the wrangwys bars and dance houses where trade was played were also the places where the wry-abed found each other. He had lived on the fringes of that world, a marijak and occasional marianj rather than a proper whore, for almost two years before he’d agreed to become a clan advocate. And it still pained him to admit that ’Aukai had been right. “Do we have any other support?”
“Mostly Destany’s kin,” Haliday answered. “But your friend Shan Reiss has offered us an affirmation. He says he’ll swear Destany and ’Aukai have been monogamous for the last five years at least.”
“That’s something,” Warreven said, and Malemayn’s voice rose from the depths of his cubicle. “Isn’t Reiss some sort of Casnot himself?”
“He’s still an off-worlders,” Haliday said. Ȝe looked at Warreven. “I wanted to ask you to pull the precedents.”
Warreven sighed again, and nodded. He looked down the list of files and saw another familiar name. “All right. But I want Ironroad then.”
“It’s all yours,” Haliday answered. “If I have to see Astrede’s smug face again, I’ll rearrange it for him.”
Ȝe turned away, and Warreven looked back at his screen, mousing quickly through the linked files. Stiller had built the iron road, the railroad that ran from just south of Luccem town down to Bonemarche, and then from Ostferry to Irenfot and on up the coast to Gedesrede, and despite the impossible cost—a price Stiller was still paying—Harans of every clan remembered it with respect. The Ironroad Brokerage was a Stiller company, and was evoking a Stiller triumph, which made this a matter of pride as well as law, if the complaint was true. And it probably was: Astrede Stiller held the Red and Green Watch Traditionalists who applied to the brokerage in genial contempt and tolerated no deviations from his decisions. If he said they were to go to the plants that processed the harvest for the off-world pharmaceuticals, to the processing plants they went, regardless of personal preference or any objections they might raise. The ones who didn’t cooperate found themselves locked out of any job Astrede controlled. Warreven scowled at the letters on the screen, caught in a mesh of symbols, and flicked the on-screen toggle to clear the overlay. Cooperate was hardly the word he would have chosen; obey seemed closer to the truth. He flipped back to the previous file, noting the complainants’ names: Farenbarne Trencevent and Catness Ferane, both of the Red Watch, both giving their occupation as diver. Chauntclere might know the Ferane, he thought. In any case, it was as good an excuse as any to see him.
He reached for the monophone again, touched the keys to call the dockyards where Chauntclere kept a mailbox when he was ashore. As he’d expected, there was no human response, only the familiar too-sweet mechanical voice announcing the box number and the box-holder’s name, and then silence for the message.
“Clere, it’s Raven,” he said, into the recorder’s faint hiss. “I need to talk to you informally about a case we’ve got going. Can you give me some time when you’re back?” There was no need to leave codes: Chauntclere, of all people, knew where to find him. He touched the break key and heard someone pass the cubicle’s doorway. He turned to see Haliday looking at him again over the wall.
“It’s gone five,” 3e said. “I thought you might like to know.”
“Thanks.” Warreven glanced back at the screen, touching keys to begin the shut-down. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah. Malemayn’s gone.”
“Give me a couple of minutes, and I’ll go with you.”
“Lost your keys again?”
“No, I just—” He broke off to touch a final set of codes, and the screen went blank. “They’re in my carryall somewhere, and I don’t feel like digging.”
Haliday grinned, but mercifully didn’t pursue the matter. “Your dinner’s at, what, seven?”
Warreven reached under the shelf desk for his bag and straightened up carefully, reaching across to sweep an untidy handful of disks and papers into the carryall’s main compartment. “Six-thirty. At least, I’m supposed to be there at six-thirty. Whether I get dinner depends, I expect, on whether or not I agree to run.”
“I wish to hell I knew what he was up to.” Haliday shook 3er head. “There’s no reason in this world for him to make you seraaliste—”
“Unless he’s counting on my apparently legendary inability to bargain,” Warreven said, a little too sharply. He stood up, slinging the still-open carryall over his shoulder. “I don’t know what he wants, Hal.”
“Sorry.” Haliday stood aside to let him out into the entrance-way, and followed him out through the reception room into the painted hall. The sun was low on the eastern horizon, the band of light stretching now almost to the door, falling heavily on the sandals stacked haphazardly in the mud tray. Warreven shoved his feet into the nearest pair, the leather warm under his toes.