“Mir Stane is waiting,” the housekeeper said.
And standing on his dignity, too, Warreven thought. Or maybe it was just her habit to refer to Temelathe by the most exalted form of his name. He nodded, and gestured for her to precede him into the house.
The party hadn’t started yet, but a few of the guests were already present, gathered in one of the anterooms outside the main hall. The housekeeper swept him quickly past the doorway, but Warreven saw Aldess Donavie standing in the center of a circle of admirers. She saw him, too, and smiled graciously, showing perfect teeth, but did not beckon him in. There was no sign of Tendlathe—which was probably just as well, Warreven admitted. After their last argument, he’d rather keep out of Tendlathe’s way for a while.
The housekeeper stopped outside a familiar door and tapped lightly on the frame. “Enter,” a voice said, only slightly deadened by the dense wood, and the housekeeper pushed open the door.
“Mir Warreven, Mir Stane.”
Temelathe was sitting in his favorite chair, beside the massive cast-ceramic stove. It was unlit, of course, wouldn’t be lit until the coldest nights of the winter, but it was more expensive evidence of the clan’s power. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said, and Warreven heard the housekeeper shut the door behind him. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Liquertie?”
Warreven glanced at the tray that rested on the cold stovetop. The flask was filled with indigo liquid, and a dark, twisted shape floated in its depths: not just ordinary liquertie, then, but black nectar, liquertie infused with the root pod from a vinegar tree. “Thank you. May I pour you a glass, my father?”
Temelathe nodded, a slight, slightly indulgent smile on his weathered face. He had never been handsome, had broadened with age until he looked like one of the aged wood carvings of the Captain. He cultivated that resemblance, of course, but it was still compelling, the fierce brown eyes enmeshed in the web of fine lines that covered his face. Warreven filled the delicate glasses with liquor that flowed like thick ink and handed one across with a slight, polite bow, falling into a familiar role. The dutiful son was useful, and generally safe: it gave no opportunity for criticism and rarely required one to commit oneself to anything.
“Sit,” Temelathe said again impatiently, and Warreven lowered himself into the second chair.
“Now, what’s all this about not wanting to be seraaliste? Strictly speaking, it’s not an honor you can refuse.”
Warreven sipped the nectar, enjoying the thick, cinnamon-lemon taste. “I didn’t ask to be on the list. I didn’t even know my name was on it until today—and that, my father, is hardly appropriate procedure.”
“You couldn’t have been nominated without some sort of permission, at least by proxy,” Temelathe said.
“Nevertheless—”
“A recording error,” Temelathe said, and waved the idea away with his free hand. “Something didn’t reach you—the mails can be unreliable, especially this new net you like so well. That’s why I wanted to keep the old systems in place.”
“It’s a good reason to question my candidacy,” Warreven answered. “That sort of—error—could be held to contaminate the whole slate.”
Temelathe frowned. “The Modernists would love to hear you say that.”
“Yes. And I agree with their positions.” Warreven took another sip of the nectar, and a fragment of root-pod landed, bitter and stinging, on his tongue. “Which is why, my father, I don’t understand your attitude. Let’s be frank, I won’t do you any good as seraaliste.”
Temelathe regarded him over the rim of the liquertie glass. “Let’s be frank, then, my son. You don’t do me any good as an advocate, but not opposing your name for seraaliste does me good with your less-radical kin. So, my son, I want you to run. I don’t really care whether or not you’re elected—though I think you’ll care, given your opponent—but I will not have you challenge the slate.” He paused, and continued with a smile, “I’m sure you’ll find, if you check your records, that you received word that your name would be put in nomination months ago.”
Warreven allowed himself a rather bitter smile in answer. “I’m sure.” And someone will find himself a little richer at the network offices, too, for adding a backdated note to my file. “I won’t campaign,” he said, and knew he sounded merely petulant.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Temelathe said.
Warreven sighed, admitting his defeat. He wouldn’t need to campaign, not if Temelathe was backing him, and the threat of challenging the slate was just that, an empty threat. The Stillers would never agree to that if he invoked Modernist politics—the Modernists were too radical even for a clan known to be progressive—and without the backing of the full clan, he could never hope to overthrow the candidacy. “I hope you don’t regret this, my father,” he said, and Temelathe’s smile widened.
“I doubt I will.” He paused. “I’d like to see you and Tendlathe friends again.”
Several answers rose to Warreven’s lips, but he controlled himself. He said, “First, that’s his problem more than mine. Second, you don’t help things by reminding him of a marriage neither one of us really wanted.”
“You’d’ve been a better wife than Aldess.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Warreven stood. “Good night, my father.”
Temelathe shook his head. “You’re making a mistake, Raven. Tendlathe’s the person you need on your side. But, good night, if you want it that way.”
“I do,” Warreven said, and wondered, too late, if Temelathe might not be right after all.
~
Marianj: (Hara) part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays a passive or woman’s part.
Marijak: (Hara) part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays an active or man’s part.
4
Warreven
The trouble at the harbor would only be worse after full dark. Warreven sighed, mentally dismissing his earlier plan to call Chauntclere or Shan Reiss, and leaned back against the cushioned seat, resigning himself to a quiet night. As the driver swung the coupelet onto Tredhard Street, turning north to skirt the harbor area, he saw a familiar figure striding up the long hill. He leaned forward to hit the intercom and said, “Pull over.”
The driver’s eyebrows rose, but he did as he was told. Warreven slid back the coupelet’s window. “Folhare!”
She turned, her practiced smile shifting to a more genuine expression as she recognized the face. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Thanks.” Warreven took in her clothes at a glance, a short off-world style skirt over heavy leggings, the low-cut traditional bodice only partly concealed by a length of spangled gauze. “Working tonight?”
“Yeah, but you’re not buying,” Folhare answered.
“No. Were you going any place in particular?”
Folhare gave him a wary glance. “There’s a club up in Startown, I was going to go there. There’s a band of sorts, and they’re open all night.”
“Would you mind company?”
“For old time’s sake, or are you really bored with Clere? ’Cause you really don’t need the money.” Folhare’s smile was wry. They had, briefly, shared rooms above a land-chandler’s shop before Warreven had become a clan advocate.
“Old time’s sake, and no one’s home,” Warreven answered. “And there’s trouble at the harbor and I want to go dancing.”