Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) by Melissa Scott Page B
Authors: Melissa Scott
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him, or stood open-mouthed
and undecided, looking at him and then back to the singers. Then at
last a stocky man jumped up on the wall beside him, clapping his
hands and calling to the others. The coupelet slid past before
Warreven could see what happened.
They were almost
abreast the platform now, and a woman's clear voice--the voice of
a sea chanter, someone trained to make herself heard over a full gale
and the chaos of a sinking ship--soared over the insistent drums.
" Shineo
was the Captain's daughter ," she began, and most of
the people answered automatically, conditioned by years of sailing.
" Way-hey,
Shineo ."
" I
love her a little bit more than I oughter ," the chanter
sang, and the response faltered, some voices dropping out, others
coming in full and triumphant.
" Way-hey,
Shineo !"
" Oh,
Captain, Captain, I love your daughter ." The chanter's
voice was full of mocking challenge, not just of the Traditionalist
with his painted face, but of everything he and the Captain stood
for. The same note was in the crowd's answer--as if, Warreven
thought, they were all twelve again, and just learning there were
real words, strong words, names for all the things they weren't
supposed to do, or be.
" I'll
carry her across the deep blue water-- "
The driver gunned the
engine, and the coupelet lurched for-ward into a gap in the traffic,
but the sudden rumble couldn't drown either the crowd's gleeful
response or the driver's curse.
" Garce bitch."
Warreven lifted his
head, and the driver met his eyes in the mirror, the half of his
expression that Warreven could see caught between embarrassment and
mulish conviction. Everyone knew Warreven was a halving ,
wry-abed, and a Modernist to boot, but this, the face seemed to say,
was too much. Warreven lifted an eyebrow, and the driver's stare
faltered.
"Sorry, mir," he
muttered.
Warreven nodded, and
looked away. A couple of Temelathe's militia--the mosstaas ,
mustaches, technically members of the city patrol association, were
standing on the edge of the crowd, heads turned toward the chanter.
One rested his hand on his ironwood truncheon, but they stood
otherwise passive, without noticeable expression, watching the crowd
and the singer. There would be trouble later, Warreven thought, and
wondered if Chauntclere was safe at sea.
Traffic eased as they
swung away from the harbor, moving into one of the new mixed-use
districts, where old warehouses and crumbling factories had been
reclaimed for the workers in the newer plants south of the Goods
Yard. Few people were visible in the streets, but here and there the
wide doors were open to the evening, and Warreven caught a quick
glimpse of a group of women, traditionally skirted, breasts pushed up
and out by the tight traditional bodices, gathered around an open
stove. A few children, most in ragged hand-me-downs, played on the
cracked paving, under what had been a loading dock. They stopped
their game to stare at the coupelet, and as it passed, the tallest
threw a stone. It fell short, but Warreven saw the driver's eyes in
the mirror, watching them, and heard him mutter something indecent
under his breath before he looked away.
The sun was well down
by the time the coupelet drew up in front of the compound that
surrounded Temelathe's house, the cool twilight thickening toward
dark. Lamps were lit on either side of the gate, and the taller of
the mosstaas on
duty there waved them through without hesitation. The driver
maneuvered the coupelet between the pillars and slid it neatly to a
stop outside the main entrance. The house itself was bigger than the
clan house over by the Terminus, was easily as large as the White
Watch House, and was rumored to have cost several years' of
Template's disposable income. Even if that weren't true, Warreven
thought--and knowing Temelathe, he doubted it--it was still an
impressive sight, a mute statement of all the ways that Stane
out-stripped its neighbors. Lights blazed through the open doors
and undecided, looking at him and then back to the singers. Then at
last a stocky man jumped up on the wall beside him, clapping his
hands and calling to the others. The coupelet slid past before
Warreven could see what happened.
They were almost
abreast the platform now, and a woman's clear voice--the voice of
a sea chanter, someone trained to make herself heard over a full gale
and the chaos of a sinking ship--soared over the insistent drums.
" Shineo
was the Captain's daughter ," she began, and most of
the people answered automatically, conditioned by years of sailing.
" Way-hey,
Shineo ."
" I
love her a little bit more than I oughter ," the chanter
sang, and the response faltered, some voices dropping out, others
coming in full and triumphant.
" Way-hey,
Shineo !"
" Oh,
Captain, Captain, I love your daughter ." The chanter's
voice was full of mocking challenge, not just of the Traditionalist
with his painted face, but of everything he and the Captain stood
for. The same note was in the crowd's answer--as if, Warreven
thought, they were all twelve again, and just learning there were
real words, strong words, names for all the things they weren't
supposed to do, or be.
" I'll
carry her across the deep blue water-- "
The driver gunned the
engine, and the coupelet lurched for-ward into a gap in the traffic,
but the sudden rumble couldn't drown either the crowd's gleeful
response or the driver's curse.
" Garce bitch."
Warreven lifted his
head, and the driver met his eyes in the mirror, the half of his
expression that Warreven could see caught between embarrassment and
mulish conviction. Everyone knew Warreven was a halving ,
wry-abed, and a Modernist to boot, but this, the face seemed to say,
was too much. Warreven lifted an eyebrow, and the driver's stare
faltered.
"Sorry, mir," he
muttered.
Warreven nodded, and
looked away. A couple of Temelathe's militia--the mosstaas ,
mustaches, technically members of the city patrol association, were
standing on the edge of the crowd, heads turned toward the chanter.
One rested his hand on his ironwood truncheon, but they stood
otherwise passive, without noticeable expression, watching the crowd
and the singer. There would be trouble later, Warreven thought, and
wondered if Chauntclere was safe at sea.
Traffic eased as they
swung away from the harbor, moving into one of the new mixed-use
districts, where old warehouses and crumbling factories had been
reclaimed for the workers in the newer plants south of the Goods
Yard. Few people were visible in the streets, but here and there the
wide doors were open to the evening, and Warreven caught a quick
glimpse of a group of women, traditionally skirted, breasts pushed up
and out by the tight traditional bodices, gathered around an open
stove. A few children, most in ragged hand-me-downs, played on the
cracked paving, under what had been a loading dock. They stopped
their game to stare at the coupelet, and as it passed, the tallest
threw a stone. It fell short, but Warreven saw the driver's eyes in
the mirror, watching them, and heard him mutter something indecent
under his breath before he looked away.
The sun was well down
by the time the coupelet drew up in front of the compound that
surrounded Temelathe's house, the cool twilight thickening toward
dark. Lamps were lit on either side of the gate, and the taller of
the mosstaas on
duty there waved them through without hesitation. The driver
maneuvered the coupelet between the pillars and slid it neatly to a
stop outside the main entrance. The house itself was bigger than the
clan house over by the Terminus, was easily as large as the White
Watch House, and was rumored to have cost several years' of
Template's disposable income. Even if that weren't true, Warreven
thought--and knowing Temelathe, he doubted it--it was still an
impressive sight, a mute statement of all the ways that Stane
out-stripped its neighbors. Lights blazed through the open doors
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