It yawned, curling a pink tongue in his face, and resettled itself into some obscurely more comfortable position. It looked at Gilhame again, then closed its eyes and took its secrets away into feline sleep.
Chapter VI
Gilhame stepped out of his shuttlecraft into the shadowy docking bay of the Coalchee flagship. A rather bored-looking subaltern scrambled to his feet and made a curious hash of a salute. Gilhame was amused rather than offended, for the young man could hardly be blamed for confusion. One day he was serving the Coalchee Protector, and the next the Kardusian Emperor, no one asking him whom he wished to serve, or even if he desired to do so. “Good evening, sir,” he said in slow, formal Kardusian. “Good evening. Am I very tardy?” Gilhame smiled quietly at the young man, noting that the Coalchee insignia had been removed from his uniform and not yet replaced by Kardusian ones.
The Coalchee blushed under his pale skin. “I was not informed that you were coming, sir, and I believe the dance has already begun.”
“Perfectly understandable. Now, where is this dance?” “In the mess hall, sir. Level 3, Corridor G.”
“Very good. As you were,” Gilhame said with another grin. He was aware of the young man’s eyes following him as he left the bay and wondered just what the subaltern’s tale of his meeting would be like.
Ur Fagon’s fleet, with its newly added Coalchee contingent, was still in the Vardura system, awaiting orders from the Admiralty. Three “days” had passed since the trial, and Gilhame was now restless from forced inactivity. Alvellaina was keeping to her quarters, emerging only at the dinner hour to continue their exchange of insults. He had spent his days working through the stack of reports that was the natural aftermath of a military encounter, until the sight of one of those thick, yellow-bound things began to make him queasy. Unlike many of his peers, he did not shove off the task of perusing reports on a subordinate, as was certainly permitted, but forced himself to study each one. As a result, he knew the capabilities of his ships and their commanders as well as anyone could.
He suspected that E-varit also was chafing under the lack of activity. The Coalchee commander had begged permission to hold a dance. Gilhame had said yes, for while a dance was not a major activity, it was something to do, and Gilhame loved dancing. Still, he had been of two minds about putting in a personal appearance. The sight of the hefty document from Captain Unaga of the destroyer Sureswift had decided him. He had dropped it with hasty dismay, removed his working grays, bathed, put on his dress blacks and commanded a shuttle. Unaga was a worthy and able captain, but he was also the dullest reporter of ur Fagon’s acquaintance.
Gilhame took the lift to Level 3 and began looking for Corridor G. He heard the faint strains of drum, flute and kibla, a sort of guitar, well before he found his way. In the pale light of the Coalchee ship, the music had an eleven-hill quality to it, and Gilhame chuckled to himself at his conceit. However small in stature the Coalchee might be, they were not fairies dancing in the night to lure unwary mortals to their doom.
Finally he found the correct passage and followed the sound of the music. He entered the open portal and stopped for a moment, watching the dancers. They were doing a round dance of nine persons, five-and-four of each sex, though some of the seven circles in the room had five men and some five women. Nine was the most sacred number of the Coalchee faith, and the dance had both a social and a religious significance.
The mess hall was a great dim barrack. Unlike the
Kardusians, the Coalchee always ate communally, even the Commander taking meals with his men. Gilhame, who hated the clatter of large numbers of people eating, shuddered a bit and was grateful for his own race’s choice of dining in small groups. He could imagine how the hall sounded at mealtimes.
The musicians saw him, and the music began to falter. Again, he had the sense of frightening fairies at their dancing. He peered into the dimly lit room, trying to spot E-varit, and wished that the Coalchee were not so light-sensitive. He saw a movement in the shadows across the room, and the music ceased. The dancers, both his own people and the Coalchee, stopped and stared at him silently.
“Please, continue the dance,” he said clearly. Now he could see E-varit standing next to Armanda Mordell on the far side of the room. He moved between the circling dancers as the music began again, and crossed the room. Gilhame made his bow before E-varit and the woman and felt a cold hand slip into his. He looked down and saw a child, a sturdily built girl with red hair and great dark eyes. She smiled up at him.
“Are you important?” the girl asked. Halba Mordell began to rise, but ur Fagon motioned her to stop.
“I’m not sure,” he replied.
“Well, who are you?”
“I am Gilhame ur Fagon.”
“Oh.” The girl studied his face without any self-consciousness. “You don’t look very scary. Why did they stop dancing when you came in?”
“Quite a little question box, aren’t you, m’alba? They stopped because I am the highest-ranking officer in the room. It was a matter of precedence, very grown-up and very boring. Now, you must tell me, are you Falga or Mirra?”
Her eyes seemed to widen further. “I am Mirra, but how did you know?”
“It is my job to know many things. I heard your mother mention your name . . . once.” He didn’t feel it tactful to repeat the circumstances under which he had heard her
name. “Do you like Commander E-varit’s ship?”
“Oh, yes. It is ever so much more fun than that dumb old school. I have been in the drive room, and the engineer says I am not a pest but ask very intelligent questions. And I have been in the sick bay, but no one was there but the Healer. I thought I would get to see sick people.”
“I see. Tell me, is that your sister peeping out from behind your mother?”
“Yes, that’s Falga. She’s older than me, but she’s dreadfully shy. Mother says I am not shy at all. ‘Ur Fagon?’ Does that mean you are from Faldar?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We were studying Faldar in our metaphysics class. Tell me all about the Dream.”
“I cannot, Mirra. I have never entered it. That is why I joined the Navy. You might say I am from Faldar, but not of it.”
“But why didn’t you?”
“Mirra,” said her mother, “that is quite enough. The Admiral did not come here to be quizzed by a schoolgirl.” “I want to know.” The child stamped her foot.
“It is alright, Halba Mordell. The search for precise knowledge is vital and should be encouraged.”
“The last thing my daughter needs is encouragement.” Gilhame laughed. “I am sure you find her a rare handful. Now, Mirra, tell me, can you see all the colors in the cosmos?”
“That’s funny. I thought I could until I came here. I couldn’t figure out why it was so dark everywhere until the Healer explained that the Coalchee see different . . . spectra than we do. Does that have anything to do with Faldar? I never heard that it was dark there.”
“In a way. As you cannot see the same colors as the Coalchee, so I could not perceive the Dream of Faldar. I am . . . sort of a cripple, in terms of my people.” He sensed a distant stir of the original Gilhame, deep in his mind, at the pain that admission cost.
Mirra looked up at him thoughtfully, then glanced at her sister. “Are you trying to give me a sneaky lesson?”
“Of course not. You are clearly on holiday from school.”
“Humph,” she said with a facial expression which put him much in mind of her cousin Alvellaina. “I can tell when someone’s . . . preaching at me.” She removed her hand, gave her sister a hard stare and marched away stiff-backed, her long red hair bouncing over her tidy bottom.
Ur Fagon wondered what the import of her look was. The other child, Falga, seemed to shrink back behind her mother. Halba Mordell was stifling a laugh, and E-varit had lifted a hand to cover his mouth. “Ah, the dignity of youth. That is quite a child you have there, halba. She is going to cut up your peace like anything by the time she
is fifteen.”
Falga peered out again, apparently recovering from her shyness a little, and he saw that she was as slender as her sister was stocky. ‘The Krispin genes must be very strong to place their mark against the darkness of their father.’
“Sir, can I drink the punch?” asked a voice near his kneecaps. He looked down to see who was speaking. It was a small boy, slender and dark, dressed in the uniform of a Coalchee student. He was looking at E-varit, not Gilhame, but ur Fagon felt he had seen the child before.
Then he remembered the dream. There had been a child, a boy like this one, but not this very child. It was the dark hair and light eyebrows that deceived him in the half-light. He was glad, for there was something terrible about that dream and that other little boy.
E-varit smiled fondly. “I don’t think so, Kurwen. 1 believe that the chef has some fruit juice for you.”
“That’s not fair. Mirra drank some of the punch.” “Goodness. Did she? The wicked little thing,” said her mother. “I don’t need to wait until she’s fifteen, Admiral.” “I see that.”
“Gil?”
“Buschard. Nice to see you.”
“I should have known a dance was the only thing that would drag you off your old reports. I’ve asked the musicians to play ‘The Elves’ Parade.’ ”
“I can always depend on you, Pers, to remind me what dances I enjoy. Now, a partner.” He scanned the room, then turned his eyes back to the family beside him. “Halba Falga, would you do me the kindness to stand up with me in the ‘Parade’? You might almost be an elf yourself, you know.” He bowed gravely as the child shrank back again.
“Do I have to?” she whispered to her mother.
An expression of concern crossed Armanda’s beautiful face. She looked from the girl to ur Fagon and back again. “It is very rude to refuse such a gracious request, my dear. ”
Falga pressed her lips together, pulled her shoulders back and stepped out from beside her mother. “Thank you very much,” she said in a tiny voice.
“You are very brave, m’alba. Come, we shall show everyone here how it should be done.” He reached down and took her hand gently. “Think how jealous your sister will be to see you dancing with an Admiral.”
He was rewarded by a grave smile, very like Alvellaina’s. He led her out to form the long line of the dance. The musicians played the opening refrain, a soft, wistful melody in a minor key, offered by the flute alone. When the dance began, the flute was accompanied by a tiny drum to keep the beat for the dancers. The drum had a minute crystal bell attached to it, so that there was a brilliant tinkle of sound with each beat.
Gilhame bowed to his partner and she curtsied, spreading her lavender skirts gracefully but without coquetry. They joined hands and walked three short steps, ur Fagon carefully measuring his long stride to his short companion. Then they joined both hands and walked slowly in a circle. Three more steps, and Gilhame pivoted, leading Falga around him. Step, step, step. He took her in his arms and swung her around waltz-style.
Falga concentrated on her movements, but soon relaxed somewhat. As the dance progressed, Gilhame gracefully led her into the more complicated figures, going down on one knee to lead her around him. There, eye-to-eye with him, she gave him a sweet smile, and he returned the gesture. The next time he swung her around, he asked, “Easy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must call me Gil. All my dancing partners do.”
“I couldn’t!” Step, step, step.
“Be brave and try it.” Turn, turn.
“Yes . . . Gil.”
“You see. It didn’t hurt at all.”
“Does ... my father—the Commander—call you that?”
“No. But then, he has not danced with me yet.” Step, step, step.
He was rewarded by a tiny giggle. “Do you often dance with men?”
“Only when there are no partners as lovely as you in the room.”
“Do you really think I am pretty?”
“Don’t you have a mirror?”
“Yes. But ... I only see white skin and red hair.” “Halba Falga, you are a lovely girl. You will grow into a beautiful woman, a very beautiful woman. Believe me. I am something of an expert in these matters. In fact, if my heart were not already promised, I would be tempted to wait for you to grow up.”
“Is she very beautiful?”
“Yes, very. You look very like her.”
“I do? Who is it?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“I think so.”
“Ah, wise as well as beautiful. Never promise something until you find out what it is. Just between you and me . . . it is your cousin, Alvellaina.”
“Really? I thought. . .”
“What?”
“That it was just political. I heard ... I was listening when I should have been asleep.”
“Let me give you a piece of advice, m’alba. Politics is a game for . . . underbred persons. Once you begin to play that game, you become corrupt. Every decision you make is based on how it will further your interests. Your heart rots in your chest, and you become a creature of expediency.”
“Like my real father?”
“Another word of advice. Never take a general statement personally.”
“Oh.” She fell silent as they ended the dance. He took her hand and began to lead her back to her mother. “I’ll keep your secret . . . Gil. Does she know?”
“Yes. But she doesn’t like it much.”
“Why not?”
“Your cousin is not of a romantic mind, perhaps.” “Mother says she’s Grandfather Krispin all over again.” “Is that good?”
“I don’t think so. Are you a good dancer?”
“I am accounted to be.”
“Then that must be why I didn’t stumble over my feet once.”
“Nonsense. You should have a greater appreciation of your own abilities.”
He watched her blush. “Thank you very much for the dance . . . and all the advice.”
“It was my pleasure, m’alba. You’ll be fine, once you get your ship’s legs. And don’t let your sister bully you. It’s not good for her—or you.”
“I’ll try, I promise.” She gave him a deep curtsy, one worthy of royalty, and slipped behind her mother again.
Armanda Mordell looked at him and smiled. “Falga, don’t you want some juice?” Her daughter exchanged a look with Gilhame which clearly said she understood that her mother wished to talk behind her back.
“I am a little thirsty.”
“No punch, now.” Armanda waited until her daughter was gone. “That was very good of you, Admiral. I never suspected you of being good with children.”
“I’m not.”
“I am a better judge of that than you. Do you have children of your own?”
“I have a son, Hamecor, by my sister back on Faldar, but I have never seen him. My principal exposure to the young happened years ago when I helped escort the inhabitants of the LeMonteen Royal Creche into exile. It was, as I remember, a horrendous experience. We were on an old slug of a cargo vessel, the Navy having nothing more suitable for transporting seven thousand children and young adults. Our drive units went haywire in sub-space. One of the refrigeration units malfunctioned, and we had a rash of food poisoning. It hit most of the Healers as well as the children. I, being so much super-cargo, got pressed into nursing duty. My worst nightmares were nothing compared with trying to deal with six hundred very sick little Monteenarins. I am happy to report that most of them lived, but I doubt they can look keefa bread in the face to this day. I know I can’t.”
“Keefa bread? But it smells terrible when it goes. Didn’t anyone notice?”
“As near as I can tell, the creche nurses are bred for stupidity.”
She laughed. “You might be right. It was very kind of you to be nice to Falga. You seem to have coaxed her into having a good time. This has all been very hard on her. She was devoted to her father, and she is terribly s
hy.”
“Shy? I found her to be a very thoughtful young woman. Don’t worry. She’ll blossom at her own pace. She only needs a little self-confidence. I take it there is some problem?”
“I... I assumed you knew. When you spoke of your inability to see the Dream . . . how stupid of me. She’s . . .a hidden Flame. She can’t read minds, nor can she be read. And in my family, that makes her handicapped.” “Strange. I never would have taken you for a fool, halba. So, she’s thought deaf? I wonder, is she really? Or has she just chosen to remove herself from the field? I must remind you that Blessed Amalina was unable to hear even her own thoughts for a great portion of her life. Not that I predict sainthood for your daughter.”
“I don’t think the Krispins could produce a saint.”
“No. They are much too intelligent for that. How do you find it, living among strangers?”
“It is not as difficult as I might have imagined. The Commander is everything that is kind, and he and Kurwen are getting to be friends.”
“You don’t regret your decision?”
“I am not given to vain regrets, Admiral. I count myself fortunate to have had a choice.”
“Good. It sounds like they are about to end this set. Will you stand up with me in the next?”
“I should be honored.” She stood up slowly. “Mean as it might be judged, I was a bit jealous of Falga. She seemed to be really enjoying herself. And you are very graceful.” “I know. No one thinks of a spider-shanks like me as anything but awkward. It should teach one not to judge by appearances.”
He led her out, noting the dark blue gown embroidered around the hem with white flowers. The music began, and they danced a brisk contra-dance, much too quick for polite conversation. They were both a little breathless at the end, so he led her towards the refreshments.
He had just handed Halba Mordell a glass of punch when an anxious-looking yeomen came up to him. The young man carried a still-sealed message pack. He saluted and offered the object to ur Fagon.
Gilhame looked at it and saw the seal. “I see the mills of the Admiralty have finally ground out something. I was beginning to feel neglected. If you will pardon me, halba.” “Certainly,” she answered.
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 7