The January Dancer

Suantraí: Grass Pyjamas

Greystroke was a virtuoso in the use of anycloth. By cleverly manipulating its pattern against his backdrop, he could make himself seem from a distance to be fatter or thinner than he was. He could break up the contours and outline of his body. He had spent the day as a fly on a great many walls; not, indeed, in solitary corners or in shadows—for no man is so conspicuous as a man alone—but in convivial company at those taverns and restaurants where ICC personnel gathered after work. He could, when he wanted, look like someone else’s friend. And in the whirl of aimless chatter an anonymous question at just the right moment could, like a seed crystal, condense conversation around a particular topic.

All in all, a good day’s work. A good day and half the night! (Die Bolders no longer spent long hours at work, but they invested considerable time in its aftermath.) It waited now only to find what Hugh had learned from the officer who had jumped ship. And what Bridget ban had discovered, using her own less savory methods on the ICC factor.

The Crown Royal Hotel, on the west side of the Place of the Chooser, by Ferry Street, was not the most sumptuous hotel on Die Bold, but was suited to the station of such well-to-do travelers as Julienne Lady Melisond or Tol Benlever. The staff was attentive to their needs, but not so attentive as to inhibit their activities.

Greystroke stepped out of the lift tube and by habit walked close to the wall. His clothing took on a color and pattern that complemented the wallpaper without becoming too obviously a camouflage. He was halfway down the hall when a door opened, and he sidestepped without thinking into the alcove leading to the darkened concierge’s lounge.

It was the Fudir’s room that opened, but it was Bridget ban who emerged in a long, sheer robe the color of her hair. The Fudir, also in a robe, stood in the doorway. He looked younger than he usually did and his smile was that of the cat who drank the cream. Bridget ban ran her fingers through the Fudir’s hair and gave him a small, quick kiss before turning toward her own room. Greystroke’s jaw clenched, but only for a moment. Why blame the Fudir for taking the bait when it was offered to one and all?

The Fudir’s door closed and Greystroke stepped from the alcove as Bridget ban passed him, taking a position in her blind spot. When she opened the door to her own room, he stepped in behind and moved around her when she turned to shut it.

Most women would have started, perhaps cried out, to find another unexpectedly in the room with them. Bridget ban merely regarded him for a moment before proceeding into the parlor of her suite. Greystroke followed.

“You should nae use those tricks of yours on our own,” she said.

“I could say the same of you.”

Bridget ban did not ask what he meant. She crossed to a stuffed, high-back chair and crossed her legs. This allowed the flap of her dressing gown to fall open, revealing golden brown thigh up to the hip. “Poor gray man. You can nae help wonder how you might compare to our Fudir.”

“Pfaugh. I know your tricks. Like that one.” He waved a hand at her exposed leg as he took a seat on a sofa opposite. “And knowing them for artifice, I’m not affected.”

“Aye,” she said. “That’s why I can relax with you, and be only myself.” She pulled the edges of her robe together, concealing her limbs.

“You were going to interrogate the ICC factor; but instead you wasted your time with Fudir. Were you unable to find go-Hidei? Unable to seduce him?”

Her smile was a little puffy, her hair somewhat tousled. She tossed her head and the tangled red tresses waved. Her robe, neglected, parted once more as she shifted position. “Or was he nae so time-consuming a man. Men o’ his ilk dream o’ beautiful strangers seducing them for nae reason at all, and seldom question their good fortune. ’Twas child’s play. An’ mickle return for mickle effort. He knows nothing and, worse, knows he knows nothing. He was nae told o’ the fleet or its mission, and resents being, as he put it, ‘out of the loop.’ He so wanted me to pity him. He wanted, I think, his mother.”

“And he got you. Cu, I think it coarsens you.”

She turned her head away. “Can the berating nae wait on the morrow? The night is gae late, and I’m for bed.”

She moved as if to rise and Greystroke said tightly, “I would think that you’d been in enough beds for one night.”

Her eyes widened. “Why, ye’re jealous, Pup, aren’t ye?”

Greystroke examined his conscience. “I’m afraid so. A small bit. One cannot help one’s enzymes. It’s not me you should worry about.”

“The Fudir, then? The Fudir is a man of parts.”

“And I’m not?”

“Tae each man, his gift. Yours is simplicity. Ye ha’ nae parts, but are a seamless whole. Ye’d nae could do wha’ ye do without that true simplicity. As for the Fudir, I find him…engaging.”

“And what am I?”

“So. You do want to know how ye compare tae him.”

“It’s always a means with you, and never an end. ‘Business before pleasure,’ as I think the Terrans say.”

Sudden tears started in the eyes of Bridget ban. “An’ d’ye despise me so!” She stood and turned away from him, hiding her face. “But that dart can nae hurt,” she added in a low, sad voice, “’less it finds its mark. Ye’re right, Pup. Aye, ye’re right. It does coarsen.”

Greystroke stood, too, and took a step toward her. “That needn’t be true, Francine.”

She turned a tear-tracked face to him.

“Cu…” he said.

“Come to me.”

Later, he said, “This can’t possibly mean anything to you.”

And she answered, “Anything is possible.”

Little Hugh returned within the hour, banging on hotel doors and calling the others out in a variety of dishevelment to tell them what had happened. This could not wait until morning! Bridget ban concurred and soon everyone was gathered in her parlor.

The assassination of the Gat was ominous enough, they agreed. How much did the ICC know? But the appearance of the Other Olafsson was as alarming as a scorpion in a picnic basket.

“And she gave me a message to deliver to the two of you,” Hugh told Greystroke and the Fudir.

“I don’t want to hear it,” said the Fudir.

“Bad luck for you, then,” said Greystroke. “I’ll be harder for her to track than you.”

“The Fudir no work CCW,” insisted the Terran. “I no their bhisti.”

Greystroke’s smile was not kind. “You know that, and perhaps I know that; but if she apologizes to your corpse afterward, what difference to you? You thought to play at the margins of the Great Game and not get taken? The more fool, you.”

“I don’t think she knew about the Dancer,” Hugh said before the argument could more than blink. “She wanted you to focus on your original assignment.”

Greystroke laughed. “My original assignment was from Fir Li—to find Donovan.”

“So was Olafsson Qing’s,” Bridget ban reminded him. “But that mission must wait for the non. ’Tis the Dancer that matters, not the Dark-hound’s statistical anomalies. I’m more concerned about the assassins. The ICC does nae do such things. That men are greedy does nae make them murderous.”

The Fudir waved his hand. “Es mock nix,” he said. “Most ICC oakiedoke, yes. But how many bad to make big dikh? You say, factor, he no know nothing.”

Bridget ban nodded slowly. “Nothing about the fleet, which I suppose means ‘nothing about the Dancer.’”

“At least some in the fleet learned what the Dancer is,” said Hugh, “and mutinied to keep it from Lady Cargo. There may be a civil war within the ICC itself. But if the commodore had the scepter, how could anyone have gone against him?”

“I could guess,” said Bridget ban.

“Guesses!” said the Fudir.

“Hear her,” said Greystroke. “Her guesses are more solid than most people’s evidence.”

“No one in the phantom fleet knew what it was they were supposed to seize. ‘A prehuman artifact,’ they were told. They were but recovering property stolen from the ICC on New Eireann. Can ye imagine Radha Lady Cargo entrusting anyone else wi’ the possession of Stonewall’s Scepter? Hardly! But a muckle o’ ICC’s household troops come from the Old Planets, and the behavior o’ the artifact—its slow stone dancing—would ha’ reminded some of the ancient legend. Perhaps there was a struggle for its possession; perhaps some, like Todor, fought to keep anyone from possessing it. But once the commodore realized and gained hold of it, resistance evaporated, save those ships that severed communication with the flagship. You can nae obey a voice you can’t hear.”

“But Todor wanted to go home,” said Hugh, “not wherever his ship was headed, so they dropped him on Die Bold. Why did he wonder if Gatmander was far enough from ’Saken to escape?”

Greystroke spoke up. “Does anyone know if a recorded voice would have the same effect? No? If it does, Lady Cargo could record commands to submit and send them out to every world in the Spiral Arm, even far Gatmander.”

“And why bother,” asked the Fudir, “to send a kill team to track this Todor down? If Lady Cargo does have the Dancer, everyone will know it soon enough. And those within reach of her voice won’t even care.”

“‘The best-kept secret in the Spiral Arm,’” Hugh remembered.

“Does Lady Cargo knows there’s a Hound on her trail?” Greystroke said. “If she had eyes and ears on Peacock, they would’ve sent word the moment you came asking about the phantom fleet.”

But Bridget ban shook her head. “I don’t think the ’Cockers knew anything. They were protecting their secret ramps, not the fleet. I think the fleet worried them, too.”

“Though not worried enough to cooperate with you,” Hugh pointed out. He rose and went to the kitchen to brew tea for everyone.

“No, they’re nae good at thinking ahead,” the Hound answered. “The fleet triggered their paranoia—and I was the immediate threat.”

When he had filled the hotel’s flash-boiler and set the tea ball in the samovar, Hugh returned and stood behind his chair. “How long before the Other Olafsson figures things out?”

The others fell silent and looked one to the other.

“She was in the Bar when January told the story about the Dancer,” the Fudir ventured. “She’d heard something about a ‘Dancing Stoon,’ but no details. She’s not stupid and the ’Feds have their own stories about the prehumans. If she hasn’t figured it out by now, it shouldn’t take her too much longer.”

“She knew who you were,” Greystroke remembered. “She pointed you out to Anne.”

“Ja, and she knew I’d gone with January to New Eireann, and what name I’d used.”

Greystroke nodded. “And she’d met with the Seven before I got there. She knew Qing’s assignment and learned you were the link to Donovan. But she stood by protocol. She waited until I showed up, and stayed on Jehovah until I returned with you in tow. Heighing off to Peacock must have puzzled her; so she followed. But was she at Peacock long enough to learn about our interest in the phantom fleet? Or that the fleet had taken the Dancer from the Cynthians? No, I don’t see how she can piece it together.”

“Not until after she does,” the Fudir commented. “Then you’ll see it.”

Hugh looked at the clock on the wall. “Morning news feed,” he said. “I’d like to know what they’re saying about the killings at the Mild Beast. We may have to duck the Die Bold bobbers if we’re to get to ’Saken.”

Greystroke spoke while Hugh fiddled with the ’face on the wall, bringing up the news feed to the hotel’s screen. “If Lady Cargo has the Dancer, going to ’Saken may not be our best move. One word, and we’d be her adoring slaves. And if I’m to be any woman’s adoring slave, she’d not be my first choice.”

“It wouldn’t be your choice in either case,” said the Fudir, glancing at Bridget ban.

Greystroke bristled and made to rise, but Hugh hushed everyone. “It’s cycling into the city news now.”

The others turned to the screen on the wall. Bridget ban said, “Do you think anyone saw you?”

Hugh raised his brows. “A deserted street, late at night? Of course, someone saw us. There were a lot of window—Hush. That’s Alkorry Street.”

Another Killing in Crossford District, the newsreader told them. Three dead, all outlanders. Rifle duel in Alkorry Street leaves both dead. Bystander killed while leaving local. Bad timing, eh what? Your comments on our site. Does allowing outlanders to come and go freely put our citizens at risk? We Want to Know. Robert seeking two witnesses. Sketches from residents. Call Robert with information.

“Ravn was a lot thinner,” Hugh said of one of the police sketches, “and her hair was bright yellow. They might identify us from those reconstructions, but…”

“Wisht!” said Bridget ban, and she pointed to the screen.

A pale, fleshy dough face was displayed there, one with an ingratiating smile, shown among a festive crowd.

Rough Love Tryst Gone Awry. Go-Hidei Kutezov, ICC factor on Die Bold dies in S-M bondage ritual. Kinky secret life. Neighbor says, “We had no idea he was like that.” A lesson for all. Robert finds secret cache of pain-love instruments. See here, go-Hidei at Klabarra Day party, Regent’s Palace. Actress Jo-wan Venable on arm. Is she rough-sex partner? She says no. Robert seeking information. Your comments on our site. Is Jo-wan telling truth? We Want to Know!

The news then shifted to sports and Bridget ban said, “Off,” to the screen. In the short silence that followed, Hugh said, “Who’s Robert?”

“It’s their name for the metropolitan police department,” said Bridget ban. “The found er, I suppose. It’s why the agents are called bobbers.”

Greystroke turned to Bridget ban. “You never mentioned you killed him, Cu. But I can’t say I blame you, if he was like that. Duty, and all that; but there are limits.”

“Fash it! I did nae sich thing! Believe me, Pup, I’d hae known were he that sort o’ man! An’ he was nae.”

“Ravn was a busy little girl last night,” said Hugh.

Greystroke looked at him. “You think it was her?”

The Ghost of Ardow shrugged. “Call it a hunch. If she was curious what Qing was up to, she had to be even more curious what the Hound following Qing was up to. She may realize by now that you’re working with her.”

The Fudir cackled. “‘In cahoots,’ we say.”

Hugh made a long face. “Treason, she’d say. Excuse me. The tea is ready. I’m thinking to do a systemic risk analysis on our next move.”

“We know what the bleeding risks are,” the Fudir called after him.

Hugh stuck his head back into the room. “It isn’t the risk categories,” he said. “It’s how they impact one another. There’s a portfolio of risks to consider, and their causal chains. It may be more important to manage the causality of the relationships than to manage the risks themselves.”

When he had disappeared again into the kitchen, Greystroke said, “Is he serious? We’re about to stick our heads into the mouth of a Sable Tiger, and he thinks we need to enumerate the teeth in its jaws?”

The Fudir pursed his lips. “Well,” he said. “Something could go wrong.”

Later that morning, as the posse checked out of the hotel, the Fudir contrived to be in the same ground car as Little Hugh. When they stepped from the colonnade to the line of spaceport shuttles, the Fudir carefully scanned the windows of the hotels bordering the other three sides of the Place of the Chooser. As these were also for the most part hotels of many stories, that meant a lot of windows to study.

“Don’t worry,” Hugh told him. “She’s gone on ahead to Old ’Saken. The best way to follow someone is to learn where he’s going, and then get there first. She’s not ready to kill you or Greystroke yet. Not until she’s certain that ‘Qing’ is derelict in his duty or has joined forces with the enemy. Besides, it’s Donovan she wants—to give him his assignment. You she’ll only torture until you tell her what she needs to know.”

“That’s a relief. How do you know she’s gone to ’Saken?”

“It’s what I’d do.”

“Uh-hunh.”

“Well, we both think like assassins.”

“Usually, when I get ‘two,’ I have a couple ones around somewhere.”

“So. She must know by now that we’re tracking the phantom fleet. If she didn’t learn it from the ’Cockers, she learned it from our attempt to contact Todor. So, that’s one. And then because your buddy Greystroke was palling with a known Hound, she tracked Bridget ban to the factor’s home and then…One beautiful woman seduces him, and right after she leaves, a second one comes to his door. He must have thought he had died and gone to heaven.”

The Fudir grunted. “Well, he was half right. Okay. ‘Qing is following the phantom fleet’ plus ‘the fleet is from the ICC’ equals ‘next stop Old ’Saken.’ Where’d you pick up Terran words like ‘buddy’ and ‘pal’?”

“Where do you think? Give me a couple months more, and I could pass for Terran.”

The Fudir showed what he thought of that possibility. When they reached the cab line, the Fudir told the luggage cart to stop and he loaded the coffers into the lorry’s boot while the driver held the door open for Hugh. The shuttle was large on the inside, with plenty of headroom and legroom. The Fudir climbed in beside him, noticed the driver had gone back to his seat, and reached out to swing the door closed. Hugh stretched his legs out straight. “This is so much better than those auto-rickshaws on Jehovah. You’d think nobody there grew to nineteen hands.”

The Fudir told the driver to take them to the number two beanstalk. The driver blinked and looked to Hugh for confirmation. “You heard him,” he said in his manager’s voice. The Fudir shut the partition with more force than required, but Hugh said nothing about the driver’s snub. That would only further irritate the Terran.

“Now what’s all this about risks?” the Fudir asked. “I know what we can do about Lady Cargo and her irresistible commands. There’s an old Terran story that covers it. But what else were you thinking of?”

“You want the Risk Management Lecture?”

“No.”

“Pity. It’s one of my better ones. All right. We know what failure is. Lady Cargo imposes her iron whims on Old ’Saken. More so than she already has, I suppose. And maybe on Die Bold and Friesing’s World, since they’re only one day’s streaming from one another. That’s not really as bad as the Cynthians, when you stop to think about it. The Molnar would have carried it with himself on every raid and induced surrender from every planet he attacked. I can’t see old Lady Cargo riding a circuit. But now there’s a chance the Confederates will try to get hold of it. If Those of Name…”

“I thought about that when I thought Greystroke was Olafsson Qing. They make the Cynthians look like fluffy bunnies.”

“Agreed. But there’s another problem. What is success?”

The Fudir did not answer for a space. Hugh watched him stare out the cab’s window at the rows of stores along Èlfiuji’s main business street. “Success?” he said finally. “Success is making all that not happen.”

“Aye, but who gets the Dancer afterward, Fudir?” Hugh asked softly.

“You still planning to rule New Eireann with it?”

“No, and I’m not too worried about Bridget ban. She thinks the Ardry should have it, and I suppose that’s harmless enough as long as I stay away from High Tara and Tully King O’Connor doesn’t. But Greystroke…”

“Ha! I’ll tell you what Greystroke would do with it. He’d command Bridget ban to love him.”

“Aye. And you’d rather that she love you, is that it?” He kept his voice easy, but the Fudir must have heard something in it, because he turned and stared at Hugh.

“You, too? Oh, she’s got the three of us wrapped around her finger, hasn’t she? She’s a cold-blooded witch. I think that’s what bothers Greystroke. He thinks she’s forgotten how to love.”

“And he can command it otherwise? He’s a lot to learn of love, then. Does he know he’ll do that with the Dancer?”

The Fudir thought about it, then bobbed his head side to side. “Not yet. But it will occur to him, by and by. Give him credit, though. He’ll do it for her sake, not his own.”

“The excuse of every despot, especially the most sincere. And what about you, Bre’er Fudir?”

“You-fella no call me so. You no pukka fanty, sahb. Only Brotherhood use ’um ‘bre’er.’”

“Fudir, if you and I are not brothers by now, there is no meaning to the word. Do you want Bridget ban’s love, too?”

“No. I can buy that product in ever port in the Spiral Arm. I’d like…I think I’d like to have her respect, and I’m not sure I can have that while she’s manipulating me through my trousers. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “I can’t say I dislike the manipulations.”

Hugh shook his head. “She isn’t really that beautiful, you know. Not in an objective sense.”

“There is no objective sense to beauty. A knockout on Jugurtha is a plug ugly on Megranome. But she knows how to listen and how to speak. There’s a Terran legend about such a woman, named Cleopatra.”

“There’s a Terran legend for just about everything. But now you know why the chance of our success worries me almost as much as the chance of our failure. I wish…”

The Fudir cocked his head. “You wish what?”

“I wish it was still just you and me attacking the whole fookin’ Hadramoo.”

“You do? Why?”

“At least then we had a chance.”