by Steve Miller
“Do you find the party agreeable?” he asked Priscilla.
“Perfectly agreeable,” she said, with a seriousness that was belied by the glimmer of a smile in her eyes. “Ms. Audrey said that she meant to host the dance of the winter.”
“Which we thought would be no great challenge.” Shan continued. “There being so few dances held in the winter. Or the summer. Or the spring, come to belabor it.”
Pat Rin considered him. “If you find a lack, cousin, you might host a ball or two yourself.”
“Well, I might,” Shan allowed. “If it weren’t for the fact that the Delm has some foolish notion in his head about bringing Surebleak up to a mid-tier spaceport, with a timetable of roughly right now. Perhaps he’s spoken to you on the subject?”
“He has,” Pat Rin said, “and I must say that the Delm and I are as one on the matter.”
“Well, then, what choice have I—a mere master trader!—commanded as I am by both the Delm of Korval and the Boss of Surebleak? Duty, as always, must bow before pleasure, and so it is that tomorrow I regretfully shake the snow of Surebleak from my boots and betake myself to Terran Trade Commission headquarters, there to enlist their aid in the Delm’s necessity. There will be no dances held at yos‘Galan’s house—had we a house, which of course, we don’t—until my task is done. Unless, Priscilla, you would care to host a ball or six while I’m gone?”
“I thought I’d go with you, instead,” his lifemate replied in her calm deep voice. “To keep you and Padi out of trouble.”
This was news. Pat Rin looked up. “Your heir accompanies you on this mission?”
Shan grinned, silver eyes glinting. “Now, pity me, truly. Bearding the Terran Guild is as nothing when measured against the prospect of introducing one’s daughter to the intricacies—not to say the politics—of trade.”
They had reached the refreshment table. Pat Rin poured wine for the two of them, and a glass of cider for himself, then inclined his head as Shan moved off to answer a hail from Portmaster Liu—and again a moment later as Priscilla was called over to join Thera Calhoon, Penn’s lady wife.
Momentarily alone, Pat Rin sighed, had another sip of cider, and closed his eyes. Now that he had extricated himself from dancing, the band was—of course!—playing smooth and undemanding strolling music, the voice of the omnichora somewhat stronger than it had been previously.
Opening his eyes, Pat Rin looked out over the crowded dance floor. Uncle Daav was dancing with Natesa, Nova with Clonak ter’Meulen, and Villy with Etienne Borden. He sipped more cider and reminded himself that it was a boon to be warm in the depths of Surebleak’s winter.
“Hey, there, Boss.” Miri’s cheerful voice interrupted his reverie. “Feeling OK?”
He considered her gravely, one eyebrow up, which only widened her grin.
“You look like Daav when you do that,” she said, reaching around him for the cider bottle.
“There’s punch, if you’d rather,” Pat Rin murmured, and Miri laughed as she poured cider into a cup.
“Think I don’t know better’n Audrey’s punch?” she asked.
“The wine, then,” Pat Rin countered. “It’s quite pleasant.”
She sent a sparkling glance up into his face. “Oughta be, considering it came out of our cellar.” She sipped. “That’s good,” she sighed, and gestured vaguely with the cup. “Only way we could get Shan to come was to promise there’d be something drinkable on the table.”
“Doubtless,” Pat Rin said dryly, and she laughed again.
“Cut a fine figure out on the floor,” she commented, her eyes on the languid dancers. “Bet you could dance all night, if there was need.”
It was his turn to laugh, softly. “I hope that I do not shame my host or my lady,” he murmured. “But I have long since given over dancing until dawn.”
“Not quite ‘til dawn, I’m guessing,” Miri said, as the music swept into a crescendo, the ‘chora’s voice suddenly and achingly clear. She knocked back the last of her cider and put the cup on the table.
Pat Rin glanced at his cup, finished the last swallow and thought about pouring another before he went in search of Andy Mack, and—
“Over here!” Miri called, and put her hand on his arm.
Pat Rin went still. “What?” he snapped.
“Easy. It ain’t nothin’ more than this special dance Audrey has it in her head we all gotta do together. Family thing.”
“I have already danced—”
“One more!” Villy cried, arriving in a swirl of exuberance. “You have to, sir! You’re the Boss!”
“Ah.” He considered the boy’s flushed face. “How if I appoint Boss Calhoon to stand up in my place?”
“Won’t work,” Mid said. “Penn gets the least bit warm and his glasses fog up on him.”
“Besides not being family?” he asked, but she only grinned, and nodded toward the floor, where stood surely all the members of Clan Koval present at the party, saving herself, Val Con, and Lady Kareen, who was at the edge of the rug, between Clonak ter’Meulen and Andy Mack, her face so perfectly bland that Pat Rin shivered.
“Miri…” he began, but she was gone, walking toward the group assembled in a loose circle at the center of the floor.
“Come on, sir!” Villy tugged his hand. “They’re waiting for you!”
It was on the edge of his tongue to snap that they might wait for him until the snow melted. However, good manners overcame bad grace, and he allowed himself to be led out onto the floor. Hoots and whistles came from some of the spectators on the rug, and Lady Kareen’s face grew blander still.
At the edge of the circle, Villy relinquished his hand, bowed his liquid, meaningless bow, and skipped back toward the refreshment table.
Pat Rin gave a sigh—and another as Natesa came forward to put her hand on his arm.
“A round dance, my love,” she murmured, as she eased him into the circle. “Audrey has asked us most especially to honor her.”
If one’s host desired it, there was nothing more to be said. And certainly he was able for one more dance. Still… He looked into Natesa’s eyes.
“Do I know this dance, I wonder?” he murmured.
She smiled. “I believe you will find that you do,” she answered, and guided him to a gap in the circle between Nova and Priscilla. Having seen him situated, she moved away, slipping into place between Luken and Daav, and smiling at him across the circle.
The drummer beat out a rapid tattoo, sticks flashing, and struck the cymbal a ringing blow, the sound quickly muffled by a cunning hand on the rim.
The room stilled admirably as Ms. Audrey walked out onto the floor, head high, back straight, as proud and as easy as any delm might be within the jewel of her own entertainment.
She raised her hands and spun slowly, showing herself to all gathered.
“You might be wondering,” she said conversationally to the room at large, “why it is that I decided to throw a party in the middle of the winter. One reason is that Miri Robertson over here was getting the silly-stirs, her being a woman who had to go off-world to find enough going on to keep her busy—” She paused to let the general laughter die back, then tipped her head and smiled.
“There’s two other reasons for this gathering, though. And I’m thinking they’re both important enough to want some explaining.
“So, the next reason for the party is that we’re in the middle of a special kinda winter. The first winter in my memory and in all of yours where there ain’t a turf war going on, when the road to the spaceport stands open for its whole length, and where there are not less than five Bosses in this room right now.”
Much shouting, stamping, and whistling erupted. At the edge of the rug, Andy Mack reached out, grabbed Penn Calhoon’s arm and yanked it high into the air. Here and there around the room, the other Bosses were being given similar treatment. The applause ebbed, then swelled again, going on until the drummer rapped out a short, sharp rebuke.
Ms. Audre
y waited while the room quieted, then held up her hands.
Silence fell, more or less immediately, and she grinned broadly.
“’That’s right. Now, you’ll remember I said three reasons and here’s the third—” She turned, bringing the room’s attention to the circle of Korval, standing ready at the center of the dance floor.
“Boss Conrad and his organization are the reason we can have this party, now, in the middle of winter, without worrying we’ll attract the attention of a rival fatcat.” She looked around the room, spinning slowly on her heel.
“Remember this. Remember this night, this party. And remember who made it all happen.”
The room was utterly quiet for the beat of three, then Andy Mack called out from Lady Kareen’s side, “First of many nights just like it!”
“First of many!” The room took up the cry, hurled it against the ceiling, sustained it—
Once again, the drummer intervened. The shouting subsided slowly, and by the time quiet was more or less achieved, Ms. Audrey was making one of the little group about lady Kareen, her arm tucked companionably through Clonak’s, and Cheever McFarland had waded out of the rug-bound observers and onto the dance floor.
It was rare, Pat Rin thought, that one saw Cheever McFarland dressed in other than utilitarian clothing—tough sensible trousers and shirt in neutral colors, sturdy boots, and the inevitable jump pilot’s jacket. Tonight, however—tonight, the big Terran positively turned heads as he moved toward their small circle.
The theme was black—a silk shirt so deep that it shone like onyx, with no ruffles or ballooning sleeves which might entangle a pilot, while the trousers were not so tight as to bind, should a pilot need to move quickly, nor the shiny black boots too snug, should a pilot need to run.
Over the shirt was not the usual battered spaceleather jacket but a vest in opal-blue brocade, embroidered with silver rosebuds.
Someone from the group on the rug whistled; Pat Rin suspected Andy Mack. Cheever only grinned his easy grin and raised a big, unringed hand.
“Now, what we’re going to be doing here is something like what’s called a round dance in Boss Conrad’s hometown, and what they called a cue dance back when I learned how, at pilot school. Either name makes sense—a round dance on account it moves ‘round in a circle and a cue dance on account there’s somebody stands outside the circle, who’s got what you might call the big picture, and they’re the one responsible for shouting out signals about what steps to dance.” He put his hand on his chest, and the drummer executed a long, showy roll, which got a laugh from those watching, and a grin from Cheever himself.
“Boss Conrad and his kin, they learned round dancin’ because where they come from it’s what polite people learn to dance. Me, I learned in a piloting seminar because we was bored and needed some legal way to work it off. That being the case, the cues are a little different.
“So, what we’re gonna do is show you a round dance like Boss Conrad learned it, and then a cue dance like I did.”
“Where’d Miri learn how?” somebody—Pat Rin didn’t recognize the voice—called from the back.
“From the Boss’ brother,” Miri sang back. “You?”
The drummer hit the block twice and struck the cymbal hard, to general laughter.
“Any more questions?” Cheever called, and continued without taking a breath. “Fine. We’re ready whenever the band gets around to it.”
Immediately, the omnichora launched six bright notes, like skyrockets, toward the hidden winter sky, the fiddle player spun clear around and enthusiastically put her bow across the strings, the guitarist plucked out a quick pattern of sound and the drummer beat the rim, counting out three, six, twelve.
The music shifted, twisted, slowed…
“Bow to your partner,” Cheever directed, against the mannerly rising of “Tiordia’s Stroll.”
Pat Rin received Nova’s bow, bowing to her in turn. At Cheever’s instruction, they joined hands, crossed, turned, and slid two steps forward, two steps right, three steps backward, three left, crossed, turned, and changed partners. Pat Rin’s left hand slipped out of Nova’s as his right hand met Priscilla’s. He and his new partner stepped together, then apart, changed sides and danced four steps left and five steps back, six steps forward, four steps right…
Relaxed and smiling, Pat Rin performed his part in the dance with ease, warmed and oddly comforted by the familiar movements. He did, in that portion of his mind neither attentive to nor lulled by the dance, own himself astonished to find Cheever McFarland so able a dance master. Truly, he thought, as he and Priscilla crossed and turned; there is no end to the good pilot‘s talents…
The dance continued its pleasant course, until each dancer had partnered with every other dancer in the set. Perfectly on-cue, he left Luken’s side, his hand finding Nova’s precisely on the beat. They turned, crossed, and dropped hands to the caller’s commands, and bowed, holding it for twelve beats, and straightening just as the last note from the ‘chora trembled into silence.
The room was entirely quiet as they straightened, and in that moment, Pat Rin saw his mother, attended now by no one less than Portmaster Liu. Her face was calm, perhaps even relaxed, as if the dance had soothed her as well. She inclined her head slightly in his direction, then turned to address the Portmaster.
A wholly unexceptional procedure, Pat Rin thought, and not at all too much effort to expend for the pleasure of one’s host. He was slightly warm, but nothing that another glass of cider couldn’t put—
“All right,” Cheever McFarland was saying, his big voice shattering the quiet. “That’s what a round dance looks in Boss Conrad’s old turf. Now we’re gonna show you how I learned it. First thing you’ll notice is different, is the cues. Pilots, they can’t leave anything alone if there’s a way to maybe tweak it. Next thing you’ll notice is there’s some extra bits added in, ‘cause pilots tend toward boredom and makin’ trouble if they don’t have six things to do at the same time.”
Pat Rin frowned and turned to cock an eyebrow at Nova, who replied with a bland glance that would have done justice to his mother.
“Last thing,” Cheever was saying, “is that pilots? They’re competitive. So this dance, it’s a kind of a contest, too.”
Contest? thought Pat Rin, feeling his stomach tighten. He looked across the circle for Natesa, but she was turned away, watching something in the room beyond.
“Just as soon as the band’s ready,” Cheever said.
The drummer snapped out a twelve-count, then the guitar came in, followed by the fiddle, the omnichora singing softly in support. The tune was somewhat brisker than “Tiordia’s Stroll”—and completely unfamiliar.
“Acknowledge your co-pilot,” Cheever instructed, and Pat Rin turned to exchange bows with Nova, who smiled at him.
“Comp—” he began, but—
“Check your board,” Cheever called, which Pat Rin’s feet somehow knew to be a glide and change sides. “Bring up the screens!”
Warned by the set of Nova’s hip, Pat Rin managed to spin as instructed, though raggedly.
“Strap in,” Cheever instructed. Nova’s hand moved, Pat Rin caught it in his; they turned, separated—
“Lift!”—each danced six steps to their right—”Establish orbit!”—a half turn, so Pat Rin was looking over Nova’s shoulder at the starry rug that had covered the floor in Luken’s small private parlor in their quarters above the warehouse—
“Outer ring adjust,” Cheever said. Pat Rin kept his place while Nova slid three steps to left. His view of the rug was now unimpeded.
“Lay in coords!” Cheever called.
Lay in —
But Cheever was giving the coordinates. Rapidly. Pat Rin focused on the rug—on the map—found the first coord, slid forward two steps, located the second, slipped to the left three steps, the third—the third? There!—and forward again, four steps.
“Roll starboard!” came the instruction, and Pat Rin spun to t
he right with the rest, noting in a sort of mental gasp that the music was moving quicker now, that the ‘chora’s voice was louder, and the fiddle’s entirely gone.
“Lay in coords!”
This time, it wasn’t a complete shock; Pat Rin had time to face the map—the less familiar rug that had graced the schoolroom floor at Trealla Fantrol—and focus before Cheever intoned the first coord, then another, and another—a set of six full coordinates this time, and Pat Rin slipped, spun, circled, and lunged as directed, finishing the sequence damp and limp, but oddly triumphant. He hadn’t missed a step!
Luken , however, had not had the same good fortune. Pat Rin spied him walking away from the circle, Andy Mack leaving the crowd at the edge of the rug to meet him—then Cheever called them to roll once more and he was facing the map from Jelaza Kazone.
The music was much too quick now, Pat Rin thought, tucking up his lace, and shaking his hair out of his eyes. More a jig than a round dance, which the ‘chora gave shape in a continuing twisty flow of brilliantine notes.
Val Con must be ready to drop, he thought—and there was another thought, linked to that—but it was lost in the need to accept the coordinates, and he plotted his course with his feet and his hips, barely registering when Miri dropped out at the eighth coord—and Priscilla, at the twelfth.
The next round came and as he glimpsed the nearest celestial rug, he all but felt the controls beneath his hands; in truth he missed the cabin of Fortune’s Reward, as he missed the thrust against his back, and the comfort of sitting First Board. The rug was before him, and another as he danced, and the calculations went thus and so and turn and step, and by rights now there should be Jump glare and stars on the screens ahead, and stars behind, with stars underfoot, and a planet to find.
But the dance—
“Orient!” Cheever called, and the four remaining dancers came together in the center, joined hands, ran—too fast! Pat Rin thought, with a sudden spike of panic—’round, three times, six—