“I was down there earlier myself,” Folhare said, and sighed. “All right, but I really do need to make my rent.”
“I won’t get in your way,” Warreven said. He knew better than to offer to help. He turned back to the intercom. “You can let me out here. I won’t need you after all.”
The driver shrugged, visibly disapproving, but wasn’t too proud to accept the Blue Watch assignats that Warreven offered. He pulled the coupelet away decorously enough, and Warreven stood for a moment looking up the busy street. There were bars and dance houses here, mostly catering to the locals, but the doors were closed, uninviting. If you weren’t known to the bouncers, you wouldn’t get in—especially tonight, Warreven thought. He said, “So where is this place?”
“Just over the hill,” Folhare answered. She sounded tired, and Warreven gave her a wary look.
“Business off?”
Folhare snorted and started up the long slope. “Not great. A sale I was counting on fell through, so not only am I left with a custom quilt and no idea how I can resell it, but I’m short the rent.”
“Lovely.” Warreven glanced sideways as he fell into step with her, unable to stop himself from making the offer. “Is there anything I can do?”
Folhare shook her head, managed a laugh. “I doubt it. But thanks, Raven.”
“If I can loan you anything—”
“No.” Folhare looked sideways at him, wide mouth twisted into a grimace. “I’m still enough of a Stane not to take from Stiller.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Warreven began, and Folhare shook her head.
“No.” After a moment, she added, “Thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Warreven said. They walked in silence toward the top of the hill, Folhare stretching her long legs against the slope. He matched her step easily enough, though she was taller, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He had known Folhare since the boarding school at Riversedge, had shared rooms with her in Bonemarche for almost six local months, all one winter and half the spring, eighteen bioyears ago. She had just been kicked out of her home mesnie then, less because she was a fem than because she wanted to do more than just replicate the usual traditional textiles for use and the off-world trade; he had just refused to marry Tendlathe Stane and was afraid to go home to the ensuing controversy. Half the Ambreslight mesnie had been furious that the marriage had been proposed at all, the other half had been furious that he hadn’t accepted it regardless of the gender shift, and he himself had wanted to forget it had ever happened. Neither he nor Folhare had had much money: he had worked odd jobs and played trade when the rent ran short, which was more often than not, while Folhare had worked for a sweatshop making bad copies of traditional tunics, tried to save enough to buy the good material she needed to make the quilts that were already starting to win notice, and played trade. Warreven touched the edge of the vest he was wearing, rich red silk printed with gold, scrap from a quilt she had made him then. They could have solved all their problems by marrying, founding a proper mesnie of their own and thus qualifying as adult members of their clan, eligible for the clan subsidies that supported most indigenes, but the option had not appealed to either of them, and had never been mentioned aloud. Besides, Folhare was a fem, as well as a Black Stane, and any one of those factors would have made a legal marriage difficult. Probably his own mesnie would have stretched the point, Warreven admitted silently—he had already been suspected of being wry-abed, and the mesnie was desperate to remedy that situation—but Folhare would never have agreed. Or would she? he wondered suddenly, looking sideways to see her strong, broad-boned face caught in the light from a street sign, the planes of cheek and jaw made harsh by the deep shadows. Neither of them were getting any younger; if they had married, she wouldn’t be hustling trade to pay her rent.
She saw him looking, and lifted an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“Just thinking,” Warreven answered, and Folhare gave him another smile.
“I’d be careful of that, if I were you.”
“Thanks,” Warreven said sourly, and they reached the top of the hill. The landward slope was gentler, and the street was quiet, empty except for a work team unloading crates outside a small chandler’s. The trapdoor in the street was open, the handlers sweating even in the relative cool of the night air; both the driver, sitting with his arms folded on the steering bar, and the storeowner gave them a curious glance as they went, but the clothes were enough to make sure they passed. Seeing them watching, Folhare made a face, but sensibly said nothing.
The club was a small place and very discreet, the door marked only by a faintly glowing touchpad. Folhare laid her hand against it, waiting for a signal; only as she took her palm away did Warreven see the small brass plate that gave the club’s name.
“Jerona’s?” he said, and Folhare shrugged again.
“She runs the place.”
The peephole opened then, and a moment later the door swung back, letting a gust of sound and sweaty air out into the street. Folhare grinned with unforced delight and stepped up into the narrow entranceway. Warreven followed, grimacing as the door closed behind them, doubling the noise. The doorkeeper leaned out of his alcove.
“I know you, serram, but serray—?”
It had been a long time since anyone had given him the off-world title. Warreven drew breath to answer, and Folhare said quickly, “It’s all right, he—3e’s—with me.”
There was a little pause, and then the doorkeeper nodded. “All right.”
The entrance hall opened into a single long room, mechanical bars in the corners, the dance floor brightly lit in the center, the band platform at the far end, and tables and tabourets in the darkness along the walls. It was almost a parody of a traditional mesnie hall, with the band replacing the Important Men and Women and the Names of the ancestors and the carvings of the spirits, and Warreven wondered if it had been done deliberately. Folhare leaned close, the length of gauze brushing his arm, and said in his ear, “Do you want a drink or are you just going to dance?”
“Let’s get a table anyway,” Warreven said, and she gave a snort of laughter.
“Sure, but which side of the hall?”
Warreven looked again. He was used to Shinbone and the other, newer clubs down by the Harbor, where the wry-abed and trade mingled easily. Here the tables were divided, the wry-abed to the left of the band platform, trade—easily distinguished by the mix of off-worlders and indigenes—to the right. He sighed—the mixed bars were easier; trade tended to want him as a herm, and the wry-abed too often wanted actual men—but there really wasn’t much of a choice. “Trade, I suppose.”
Folhare nodded. “You find a table, I’ll get drinks.”
“Let me get this round,” Warreven said, and reached into his pocket. Folhare hesitated only for a moment, then took the proffered assignats.
“All right. But the next one’s on me.”
“No offense,” Warreven said, “but I hope we’ve both found someone else before the next round.”
Folhare flashed him another quick smile and turned away toward the nearest bar. Warreven made his way through the first row of tables—it wasn’t that crowded, but the empty tables tended to be toward the walls, where the lights were dimmer and the customers could see each other less clearly—aware of eyes scanning and dismissing him. He was old for this, certainly, but hoped it was less that than that he wasn’t dressed for trade tonight. The music was ending, the lines of dancers spinning toward the conclusion of the dance, and he picked a table quickly, seating himself with his back to the wall, so he could watch the dance floor. The dance ended with a rattle of quick, high notes from the contre drum, and the lines broke apart as the individual dancers began to move back toward their tables. The noise of conversation was suddenly louder. Warreven smiled at a broad-built indigene with the speckled hair of a sailor, but got only a polite smile in return. The man moved purposefully past him, seated himself at a table of off-worlders, three women and a man, all in drably expensive clothes.