At least Bonand was no better: at the first tempo change, he shook his head, and dropped back out of the line, pulling Warreven with him. Warreven went willingly enough; they stood with the others who had given up on the change, watching as the triple line swept the length of the hall and retreated again. The woman who had been next to him was very good, Warreven saw, and he watched her with remote envy. She was at the center of her line now, thin face a mask of concentration, her skirt flying out in an almost constant circle as she added spin on spin and still kept her place with the others. The tempo changed again, slowed abruptly, and most of the dancers slowed with it, glad of the break, gliding through the basic pattern at half their previous speed. The woman kept spinning, riding the quicker beat implicit in the lead drum’s call. And then the counterpoint came in again, faster still, and she flung back her head and matched it step for step.
“She is good,” Warreven said, to no one in particular, and Bonand looked at him.
“Yes. Do me a favor, Raven, leave Alex alone.”
“I’m not serious,” Warreven answered. “And if he is, that’s not my problem.”
“It’s not that,” Bonand said. “He’s gay, Warreven.”
“So?” Warreven began, and only then did the foreign word, the Creole word, register. “What do you mean, exactly? He’s trade.”
Intense distaste and a deepening anger flickered across Bonand’s face, and then he had himself under control again. “Yeah, he’s trade, but he does work for DTS—he really is a tech, he hasn’t just bought a permit—and he’s still gay. Off-world gay—that means he wants another man, not a halving like you.”
Warreven felt a familiar fury rising in him, at the name, at the exclusion, at the whole incomprehensible system of off-world sexuality, with its finicking distinctions that were no distinctions a tall as far as he himself could see. “He’s still trade,” he began, and the drums stopped, silencing him. He clapped automatically with the rest of the crowd, biting hard on the rest of what he would have said—he’s still trade, and what trade wants, what they come here for, is sex with us outside that system, so I’ve as good a chance with him as you do—and Bonand looked aside, sorrow chasing hope across his mobile features.
“I suppose he’s trade,” he said softly, voice barely audible in the sudden rush of conversation. “I know he’s trade. But he is gay, and he does really work for DTS—he’s different, Raven.”
Warreven looked at him again, the situation rearranging itself into a new pattern in his mind. Alex might not be trade after all, might just be one of the temps who came through the system and decided to try Hara’s well-known delights, but Alex wasn’t what mattered. Bonand was in love with him, or had convinced himself he was in love with him, and Warreven didn’t need the rest of that dream spelled out for him. He’d felt it himself a few times, the heady combination of sex and desire and something like friendship that he’d allowed to grow into the hope that maybe this one off-worlder would fall in love with him and take him with him when he left Hara. It had never happened to him, almost never happened to any Harans; IDCA almost never gave emigration permits to even part-time prostitutes. He remembered the case waiting on his desk: if Destany Casnot couldn’t get a permit without a fight—Destany who had half a dozen friends willing to swear he, 3e, had been out of trade and ’Aukai’s lover for seven years, there was no chance that Bonand would get one. And even less chance that Alex would make the effort for him. “He’s your—” he began, and broke off because franca didn’t have an inoffensive word for what Alex was to Bonand, “—yours. I wasn’t poaching, not seriously. I’ll leave him alone.”
Bonand nodded, visibly regretting the confidence. “Thanks,” he muttered, and turned back to the table. Warreven glanced over his shoulder and saw Folhare leaning back in her chair to talk to an off-worlder who seemed to know both her and Alex. The drums were starting again, and one of the middle drummers abandoned her drum for a reed-whistle, signaling a ring-dance. Those were courting dances in the mesnies, served the same purpose even in the wrangwys bars, and Warreven took his place in the outer circle, nodding to the short, fair-skinned man opposite him. By the time he’d made his way around the circle, he should surely have found someone. … At the very least, Folhare would have had the chance to finalize her arrangements. As he moved through the first figure, the fair man’s hands hot in his own, he caught a glimpse of the table: Folhare still laughing, practiced and easy; Bonand leaning on the back of Alex’s chair, one hand draped, unobtrusively possessive, over the off-worlder’s shoulder. Only Alex himself looked uncertain, as though he didn’t understand the rules. Then he swept on to the next partner, and when he looked again, only Folhare and her jackamie were left at the table.
~
Mairaiche: (Hara) farm; source of cultivated crops rather than harvest.
The spirits: (Hara) celestial beings that occupy an intermediate position between God (defined as ineffable, unknowable, and not terribly interested inhuman beings) and Man. The spirits intercede for and interact with human beings, and grant favors more willingly, and, as a result, their worship, through services and offerings, is far more important to most Harans than the distant God. Harans generally believe that a man or woman can take on some of the characteristics of a spirit, either through dance, concentration, or sheer serendipity, and when in that state, his or her acts are seen as the actions of the spirit.
Mhyre Tatian
Reiss was late, as usual. Tatian peered over the edge of the heavy display glasses—his implants were worse than usual this morning, making it almost impossible to work on line—and out into the bright morning sun-and-shadow that filled the courtyard, wondering irritably if the younger man was ever going to show up for work. Data from Derebought’s preliminary analysis of the hungry-jack he’d bought from the market woman danced just below his line of sight, the green and gold symbols forming a twisted, familiar pattern. There were a few variants, helpfully highlighted in a brighter yellow, but not many: interesting, but it was hard to tell if it would be worth pursuing the analysis. He sighed and slipped the glasses back into place, focusing on the globular shape that swam in the sudden darkness. The outer cords were mostly inert, but they seemed to bind to the same receptors used by the psychoactive harrodine that was the drug’s most active compound. That might help moderate or control hungry-jack’s some-what unpredictable effects—if, of course, Derebought had added, her note flashing tart orange below the visual analysis, the inert whatever-it-was was picked up preferentially over harrodine. Further analysis would be needed to determine any possible utility, and she wasn’t prepared to make a guess either way.
Tatian sighed. This morning in particular he resented having the decision handed to him, when he couldn’t switch easily from system to system, but reached for the shadowscreen to bring up the financial system. Its icon was cold and hard as ice to the touch, a bit of whimsy from a previous user; he flicked it into the center of the screen, activating it, and its cold spread as the numbers spilled across his vision, overriding the chemical shapes. The controls rearranged themselves under his fingers, new spots of warmth and cold and the fugitive suggestions of shape. He adjusted them, searching for the latest budget files, then made his query. The numbers swam dizzily for a moment, then presented him with his answer. There was still money in the budget to buy time on one of the larger systems at the starport, and to buy more of the uncleaned pods, if needed. NAPD could afford to have Derebought run the more detailed analysis, which put the question squarely back on his desk: was it worth the trouble? Probably not, he admitted silently—it was unlikely to come to anything really usable—but NAPD couldn’t afford to pass up the chance at something new.