The January Dancer

by Michael Flynn

  When the dance was ended and the pipes had stilled and the panting dancers had departed, the Fendy, with a gracious wave of his hand, turned over to the Fudir a flimsy bearing the notes his man had collected from the whispers of the Corner. “This one,” he said, gesturing with a nail, “may be he whom thou seeketh. But there be further news, O Seeker, to interest thee.” A smile emerged from the forest of his beard. “Know that thou art also sought. One hears the Fudir of Jehovah asked for in low places about the city, in brothels and in bars.”

  The Fudir grunted. “They know where to look for me, then.” He thought Hugh or Greystroke might be trying to get in touch.

  “Ah, thou art the soul of wit,” said his host. “She soundeth quite anxious to find you.” Again, he allowed the smile to show.

  Bridget ban? Images of flesh and petal skirts whirled in his mind.

  “Ah surely, the madness has you.” The Fendy laughed. “May fortune fly with you on your quest. On each of your quests, haha! You could have had a dancer here tonight; but perhaps you will find another Dancer later. You and this Alabastrine woman.”

  The Fudir had already joined his host in the laughter; but the last comment brought him up short. An Alabastrine woman?

  Hugh took the Tigrine Avenue tube to Alkorry Street, where he departed the capsule to find himself in a neighborhood of narrow buildings and narrower byways. Most of the windows were dark or dimly lit through yellowed shades, and Alkorry Street itself lurked in permanent shadows. The Tigrine Line was elevated in this part of the City and so the rows of apartments had that look of dimness that evenfall only accented and daylight could not dispel.

  On Venishànghai, people lived on the outside—the evening pramblo around the streets, greeting friends and neighbors, the dining ’frescos, the liveliness of the pyatsas—and went home only to sleep. Here, everyone seemed to huddle inside, like they were hiding, like the whole planet was a planet of vermin-boys. They must emerge sometimes, he thought, but only to work, not to live.

  He shouldn’t judge everyone by the standards of his homeworld. Die Bolders might live as lively as anyone—but indoors; though “lively, but solitary” seemed a contradiction to him. Yet, if he had not spent so much of his childhood in hiding, would Die Bold strike him as grimly as it did?

  He consulted his wristband. The Mild Beast was around the corner on Raggenow Way. According to the Terrans, their quarry could be found there almost every night. A Gat, they had said, and was that not a stroke of luck, for Hugh had heard the unmistakable Gatmander accent in the Hatchley Commonwealth years before.

  He wondered what else the Terrans told the Fudir. He had seemed troubled on his return.

  Raggenow Way was a gloomy side street lined on both sides by red-stone apartment buildings whose sameness was only heightened by the small tokens of differentiation. Each was precisely five stories tall; each possessed a broad stone staircase leading a half flight up from street level to the main entrance. Each had a passage under the staircase to a garden-level apartment half a flight below street level. But the moldings and cornices were slightly varied in pattern: geometric here, floral there; and the stairs were flanked by different cast-stone beasts perched on their concrete newel posts: lions, eagles, bears, and so on. Hugh wondered why they’d bothered.

  The buildings were separated by narrow airyways. Reflexively, Hugh glanced down each as they passed, and noted iron grates blocking them. Back gardens, he thought, or car parks in the rear.

  Stolid. That was the word to describe Die Bolders. They were not going anywhere, at least not anymore; but neither would they be moved from where they were.

  He stopped before a wooden sign bearing the likeness of a Nolan’s Beast. The “blackface” bull wore a wreath of flowers girdling its horns and a look of unlikely benevolence on its features. The public house—they called it a “local” here—occupied the garden level and the entrance was underneath the main stairs. On New Eireann, the pubs had flaunted themselves. But then, if this were a local, the locals undoubtedly knew how to find it.

  Inside, the taproom was low-ceilinged and raftered with black oak; but whitewashed between the beams, so the overall impression was not as oppressive as it might have been. The musty smell of beer mixed with the sharp metallic tang of whiskies. The haze of various leaves and smoldering lemongrass dubars hovered cloudlike just below the ceiling. On the farther side of the room, four men around a manual piano were singing something about “The Brazen Boatman.” They had not agreed upon a key beforehand, but such an agreement was of obviously little concern.

  A few heads glanced his way when he entered, but only for momentary scrutiny. Yes, thought Hugh, a very private people, even in public. He found an empty table and sat there until a barmaid came by, cleaned it, and took his order. The men’s choir shifted to a different song, this one involving Dusty Shiv Sharma, “the best Beastie boy o’er all the High Plains.”

  Hugh settled in, watching for anyone with the bearing of a ship’s officer and the peculiar rhythm of Gatmander speech. He saw a plaid-turbaned Chettinad sharing a booth with a local businessman and two capable-looking hired women. Shortly afterward, a tall, thin Alabastrine woman entered from the street and took a position foot a-rail at the bar. Everyone else had that dough-faced, rather wistful look of the Die Bolder born. Hugh drank his stout with some satisfaction. A Gat would stand out in this crowd.

  Two mugs later, a short, burly man entered the Mild Beast and received a few nods of recognition from others. His skin had the appearance of leather, both in color and in texture and his clothing had the nondescript look of castoffs, but Hugh could see the darker spots on the fabric where insignia had once been sewn. Hugh’s suspicions were confirmed when the newcomer faced the barman and said, “With regard to the rum unto me, there is an occasion of thirst.”

  Without turning, the Gat lifted a glass of rum high and said to the room at large, “Die bold!”

  The locals lifted their own drinks in turn and “Live bolder!” rumbled in a dozen throats, above which the Alabastrine could be heard piping “Leaf boolder!”

  Hugh emptied his mug in a single long swallow and carried it to the bar. Hugh could see that the Gat watched his approach in the mirror, and his hand crept near the open flap of his jacket. Hugh placed the mug on the bar. “Draw black,” he said. When the barman had filled it, Hugh lifted the mug to the stranger. “Far Gatmander.”

  The Gat looked him over and the skin of his face tightened. “Not far enough.” He shot back the rum and thrust the empty glass straight-arm to the barman, who filled it without taking it from the spacer’s fingers.

  “Not many outlanders here,” Hugh said. “Would you like to join me?”

  Leather-face grunted. He shifted the glass to his left hand and held the right out as before, beckoning with his fingers until the barman put the rum bottle in their grip. “The invitation as it regards myself is acceptable,” the Gat said.

  Hugh led him back to the table. “My name’s Ringbao,” he said, not entirely lying.

  The Gat gathered glass and bottle into his left hand and held out his right, which Hugh took briefly. “The name as it pertains to me is Todor,” he admitted, taking his seat. He poured another glass and lifted it to eye level. “It shows a pretty color. And”—he sipped—“a prettier taste.”

  “What brings a Gat all the way to Die Bold?” Hugh asked.

  Todor gave him another look and let the silence lengthen before he said, “A ship,” in front of another sip of rum. This time, he set the glass down on the table half empty. “With regard to the years upon me, there have been many,” he said.

  Meaning he wasn’t born yesterday, so get on with it. Hugh nodded. “We heard you were with the fleet that passed through Die Bold a month ago.”

  The other grunted again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the table. “We,” he said.

  “Myself and a few friends.”

  Another sip. “And regarding the information, wh
at will be paid by you?”

  “What is your price?”

  The Gat drew in his breath. “A ticket. Passage to Gatmander.”

  Hugh knew that the Kennel had deep pockets, and passage on a Hadley liner would not be the greatest expense the team would incur. “Done,” he said.

  Todor sighed and looked down at his large, gnarled hands, which played with the glass of rum. “On Gatmander, far Gatmander,” he sung, more off-key than even the quartet drinking around the piano, “on the very edge of skies…” He blinked and looked away for a moment. Then he added, “And maybe it lies far enough. Aye, far enough. Beyond the reach of Radha Lady Cargo.”

  Hugh nodded. Suspicions confirmed. “Company cops after you?”

  Todor glanced briefly at the door. “Soon enough. There was a bauble she wanted and the thought was in me that she oughtn’t have it. There was talk, there was black mutiny, and ship fired upon ship. But as regards the commodore, there was an occasion of success; and obedience and remorse overcame the unruly, save only those ships that severed all communication and fled. The commodore’s ship was wounded, but the prize was his, and perhaps by now, Lady Cargo’s. Here’s to hope,” he added, raising his glass, “that the ship of the commodore foundered on the ’Saken road.”

  Hugh reached out a hand. “Come with me. My friends need to hear this, too.”

  Todor drew back suddenly and stared at him narrow-eyed. One could almost hear the creak of leather in that squint. “And for why with respect to you should there be unto me an occasion of trust?”

  “Because we mean to take that ‘bauble’ back.”

  “Do you?” Todor drank a swallow directly from his rum bottle. “Against Cargo House itself?”

  “We were ready to take the Hadramoo,” Hugh said mildly.

  The Gat shook his head. “As it pertains to you, there is an occasion of madness. By now it’s too late, and a man ought to increase, not decrease, the distance to Old ’Saken. Not that it will matter in the end.”

  “Oh?” said Hugh. “And why not?”

  Todor laughed. “The best-kept secret in the Spiral Arm…All right. As regards myself, what matter whether you command or Lady Cargo—when Gatmander ears lie far from your voice and hers alike? For the price of the transit, the story will be told. And well damned be all of you.” He stood again and Hugh stood with him and they left the Mild Beast together, climbing the short flight to the dark, deserted street.

  Hugh paused to consult his wrist strap for directions and Todor seized the moment to lift the rum bottle to his lips.

  The bottle exploded, and for a mad instant Hugh thought, That is powerful rum! But his instincts preserved him and he dove for cover behind a dustbin, pulling Todor to the ground with him, just as a second shot struck the bricks. “It wasn’t a trap,” he said to the Gat. “I swear I didn’t lead you into a trap.” But he saw that, as regarding Todor, there was no occasion for assurance. The bullet that had shattered the bottle had continued into the mouth and out the back of the head, and amid the blood, brain, and bone that spattered the wall where he had stood was whatever else he had been prepared to tell.

  A third shot struck the dustbin, penetrated, and rattled about inside. Hugh wanted to shout that he was not one of the ICC renegades. But he knew the assassin would take no chances. Whatever secret Todor had been killed to preserve might easily have been revealed already to his companions. Hugh shivered. It had taken weeks for the assassin to track his man down. Those companions could include everyone inside the Mild Beast.

  Hugh pulled from his jacket the knife he had purchased on Jehovah. The sica did not seem much. It was an assassin’s weapon, not very useful for defending a position; but it was all he had. He frisked Todor’s body and found a small caliber handgun. He weighed it in his hand, thought about it, then he pressed it into the dead man’s hand, curling the finger around the trigger. He found a trash bag that had missed the dustbin and propped the arm on it so that the gun could be seen around the corner.

  He peered into the darkness, seeking the sniper’s position. Todor had stood thus, had lifted the bottle so, and the bullet that had killed him had come from…He saw the building across the street, the slight flutter of drapes, the open window on the second floor. …from there. But the killer had most likely shifted. An assassin who stays too long in one place is a fool…usually a dead fool.

  Hugh put himself in the assassin’s mind. He must make sure of Todor and his companion, but he wouldn’t come out the building’s front entrance. Hugh had no gun, but the assassin wouldn’t know that. So, he’d go out the back to the alley behind. The airyways were blocked, so he’d have to go to one corner or the other. Not to Alkorry Street, which was farther and brightly lit, but to the left. And coming around that corner would give him a clear shot into the space behind the dustbin.

  Now the only question was whether the sniper would expect astuteness of his quarry and so outguess the guesser. But one could reason oneself into paralysis in that manner, and paralysis, he knew, was the one fatal strategy.

  There is this paradox of those who live on the edge, and that is that one may keep his life only by putting it at hazard. He must, as an ancient maxim had it, “desire life like water and yet drink death like wine.” Or, in the words of an older maxim, “He that would lose his life, the same shall save it.”

  He was already running on cat feet across the empty street when he heard the shot whine off the paving. It had come from the direction of the main street. Hugh hunched over, dove for a shadowed airyway, and vanished into it. Stupid! he told himself. There had been two of them. The first to cover the Mild Beast; the second to block the way to the transit station. But he was sure there was no third man. Anyone positioned at the other end of the block would already have had a shot behind the dustbin. He listened, but heard no footsteps. The second man was either uncommonly silent or he was maintaining discipline.

  The airyway was blocked like all the others. Hugh studied shadows, saw a deeper darkness in the ambit of the stairs, and melted from the airyway to crouch in its protection. From there he could slip through the garden-level passage under the stairs and up the other side. That put a stone staircase between him and the second sniper and he could move, with care, to the next building. Then, down again through the passage, and up, and that put him just at the corner.

  There, he waited, either for his quarry to come or for the second shooter to move into a better position.

  He listened.

  The breeze was steady, channeled by the rows of buildings on either side of the street, but not strong enough to lift more than dust. A stone rattled from a careless kick. Hugh smiled grimly. The assassin likely thought he faced only a couple of drunks from the Beast, one of them—if he were in communication with the second man—last seen cowering in a blocked airyway two doors up the block.

  He felt a presence approaching: stealthy, but not too much so. He readied himself, exhaled softly, emptied his mind, waited for the moment. A figure stepped around the corner with an air rifle already shouldered, a bead already hunting for the space where Todor lay with gun extended, and Hugh sprouted from the very pavement like a spartos from a dragon’s tooth, inhaling broadly as he did. He seized the gunman’s mouth in his left hand and ran the sica across his throat with the right, then pushed him forward to stumble and fall onto the street.

  Hugh reached for the air rifle, but a bullet sang on the paving and he withdrew once more into the shadows. The second assassin was coming—he could hear the soft, rapid footsteps—and he had no intention of allowing Hugh to get to the fallen weapon. Of little use, now, his sica. He would get one throw, but the curved blade was not a good throwing knife and was unlikely to deal a death blow.

  Then he heard the distinctive pop-pop-pop of a handgun followed by the clatter of a weapon sliding along the cobblestone paving. He risked a look and saw the other shooter sprawled in the center of the road and, in the stairwell to the Mild Beast, the Alabastrine woman checking the load
in her weapon.

  “Coom,” she called in a loud whisper, “my goon is noot so soondless as theirs. Roon.”

  And so, they did.

  Neither of them spoke until they had reached the transit station. The Alkorry Street platform was nearly deserted and here, well above street level, the breeze flowed unimpeded. Three young men dressed with feathers in their hair had congregated at the east end trying alternately to look tough and to keep the feathers from taking flight. Two hired-women stood by a kiosk near the center of the platform discussing in low tones their clients of the night and advertising for additional sales. Both groups eyed the newcomers—possible customers, possible prey—but one look was all they required to keep their distance.

  Hugh regarded the ebony woman warily. He distrusted coincidence. What usually popped out of the machina was seldom a deus, and in his line of work surprises were seldom welcome.

  Yet, the woman had saved his life.

  “I didn’t have time to thank you, back there,” he said.

  “That’s ookay,” she said, smiling like a skull. “I have my dooty, as do you. I have a message that you moost take to the one who calls himself Tool Benlever and to the Foodir. ‘Patience wears theen waiting for your dooty.’”

  Hugh shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “It is noot needful that you do. Joost tell them what I have said.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You may tell the soo-called Tool Benlever that my name is Ravn Olafsdottr, and that name is surety for what I have toold you. Now goo.” She pointed west with a toss of her head. There, a string of lights foretold the arrival of a train of capsules. When Hugh looked back, the Alabastrine was gone. He shivered. The Other Olafsson had appeared at last.