“Which I was not,” the fem said, in franca. %e sounded more annoyed than anything, but Tatian could see %er hands trembling. %e seemed to realize it %erself, and shoved them into %er pockets.
Tatian took a deep breath. One way or another, this was likely to be expensive—and could be very expensive, if the Old Dame found out and didn’t believe his explanation—but he’d taken a dislike to the mosstaas the minute they called %er “wyfie.” “What’s the problem, miri?” he said, in franca.
The militiamen exchanged glances, and then the taller of the two, a bulky man with a ragged mustache and beard, said, “Mir, this—woman—was seen throwing rocks at a rana band last night. There have been a number of complaints filed against the wrangwys lately, and they have to be investigated.”
“Last night?” Tatian said, and kept his tone remote. “Our people were working late last night, getting ready for the harvest.” He slipped his hand into his pocket as he spoke, a familiar, ostentatious movement. The taller man’s eyes followed the gesture, but his partner was looking at the fem.
“We’ve got witnesses, and a complaint from someone who matters—”
“Witnesses who could be mistaken,” the first mosstaas said firmly. “With people like her—hells, they look alike.”
“I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” Tatian said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He kept a wad of White Watch bills folded there, for emergencies, and let the corner of the folded packet show as he extended his hand. “Let me recoup your losses.”
“She works for you,” the shorter man said flatly, not bothering to hide his disbelief.
People were watching them, Tatian realized suddenly, watching from a distance, kept at bay by the mosstaas’ truncheons and the certainty of a holstered pistol, but watching nonetheless. He allowed his eyes to slide sideways, scanning the faces, but couldn’t read the expressions. Some would be disgusted, certainly, seeing this as trade, one more sexual transaction; maybe a few would be radicals, glad to see the mosstaas humiliated, but most of them were silent, wary, and he didn’t know what they thought. And it didn’t matter, not at the moment, so long as no one else interfered: Reiss had started this, it was up to him to get them both, all, out of it. “That’s right,” he said. “Works for our botanist, Derebought Stane.” And I must remember to tell Derry that, when we get home. “Is there a problem?” He gave the words bite, let his hand, still holding the money, sink a little, and the taller militiaman reached hastily for it.
“Not at all, mir, I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m sure there’s been some mistake—but she’d better be more careful next time.”
“I’ll see to it,” Tatian said, grim-voiced, and the mosstaas turned away. He looked at the fem, then at Reiss. Reiss gave him his best smile.
“Thanks, baas—”
Tatian shook his head. “Later. I have an appointment at the port. Bring your friend—charmed to meet you, serram—and you can take her home on your way back to the office. We’ll discuss it when you get back.”
~
Straight: (Hara) one of the nine sexual preferences generally recognized by Concord culture; denotes a person who prefers to be intimate with persons of one of the two “opposite” genders.
5
Mhyre Tatian
The fem was very quiet on the ride to the starport, perched uncomfortably in the space meant for cargo, but Tatian was very aware of %er presence, %e meant trouble, %er very presence meant trouble, both with the Old Dame, if—when— %e heard about it, and quite possibly with the local authorities. If Reiss had just looked the other way…. It was hard to think that with the fem %erself sitting behind him—the mosstaas were notorious for the efficiency of their confessional techniques—and he sighed and looked sideways out the jigg’s scratched windscreen.
They had passed the city limits—unofficial, marked only by the way the buildings stopped—and the land had gone from the low scrub of the coastline to the long hills of the high plains. He had seen the transition a hundred times before, but he caught his breath yet again as the jigg topped the first big rise, and he could look out across the green-and-gold land. It was mostly flaxen and flowergrass, the flaxen distinguishable by the larger seedheads that bowed the heavy stalks into graceful arcs, but here and there he could see the bright blue patches that were daybeans in flower, or the low, dark green clumps of blue pomme bushes. This close to Bonemarche, the land was flagged for the local gatherers, the bright pennants, each one marked with the name and symbol of a Stiller mesnie, flickering in the steady breeze. Hara’s crops could not, generally speaking, be cultivated successfully—they seemed interdependent in ways the indigenes had never had the population nor the need to determine—but the mesnies were careful of their land and jealous of their privileges. There were well-worn paths through the best acreage, and as the jigg topped the next rise, Tatian could see a gathering party clustered around a wood-bodied draisine, sorting blue pomme for the markets. Redbirds, Hara’s largest land animal, circled overhead, and he was not surprised to see that netting had been spread over some of the best-looking bushes. The Traditionalists argued against the practice, saying that netted bushes had a poorer crop the following year, but most mesnies did it anyway, rotating from stand to stand. Bluepomme was too much of a staple crop, salable to other indigenesas well as off-world, not to take the chance.
“Did you get what you needed?” Reiss asked at last, raising his voice to carry over the whine of the jigg’s motor and the rush of the transports in the fast lane.
“Partly.”
“Starli’s good people.”
“I still need parts,” Tatian said. “Anyone you’d recommend at the port?”
Reiss shrugged, not taking his hands from the steering bar. “You’re better connected there than I am. I usually end up buying from Guinard’s.”
Guinard’s boasted of being the only tech supply house on Hara with multiple licenses; it was correspondingly expensive. Tatian sighed again. That meant he had the choice of paying Guinard’s prices or talking to Prane Am, and neither was particularly appealing. For a moment, he wondered if there was any point in talking to Eshe Isabon or Shraga Arsidy, but dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had formed. All off-worlders guarded their sources of supply jealously; even his closest friends would be reluctant to reveal their company’s secrets to an outsider. Am, at least, was her own agent.
The starport itself lay on the flat land of the first great plateau: barren land, by Haran standard, good for nothing but the ubiquitous drift-grass. The indigenes mixed its fibers into their bricks, strengthening the coarse clay. Stiller was rich in drift-grass, if nothing else. They had easily been able to spare the land for the port, and in any case, Tatian thought, they had been well paid. He could see the towers of the docking cradles over the roofs of the support buildings, top lights blazing red and white even in the daytime. He counted the reds as the jigg turned onto the approach lane: seven shuttles loading, which meant at least seven bulk carriers in orbit overhead. It was definitely getting close to Midsummer, and the first big deliveries from the mesnies; he only hoped he hadn’t left his repair too long.