Fortune's Dance (The Fixers, book #4: A KarmaCorp Novel)

by Faye, Audrey

  I’d accessorized with dance slippers and a picnic basket full of flowers and invitations. I didn’t want to be too predictable. Curiosity was my best way to herd people today, and so far my outfit was doing an excellent job of rendering most people speechless.

  Three ladies who were having tea flagged me down, clearly having caught wind of what I was up to. They should have—they’d been watching my antics for over an hour. I curtsied politely when I reached their table and handed them each an invitation and a flower. “I’m holding a meeting tonight at the dance studio. I hope you can come.”

  They blinked, two of them at me and one at the invitation. Finally, one of them spoke up. “It doesn’t say what the meeting is for, dear.”

  I only smiled. “That will mostly be up to you.” I twirled away before they could ask me anything more and before my mouth forgot my newest and most important resolution.

  No talking.

  I had opinions, and lots of them, but I’d finally figured out that it wasn’t me who needed to say any of them. Thess was like a dancer with tight muscles—doing just fine until one wrong move pulled something, maybe in a way that couldn’t ever be fixed. And nobody else can fix a tight dancer.

  Thess needed to stretch itself.

  I left the ladies at their table and kept walking down the street. People were coming to me now, but I knew the most important invitations would be the ones going to the people who wouldn’t make themselves that easy to find. I took a left into a store selling beautiful custom-made instruments that did double duty as rehearsal space for Gerhart’s woodwinds-and-strings ensemble. They were playing something lovely and classical, and I tried to appreciate it for what it was instead of wishing for the aching sounds of saxophone.

  Gerhart looked up as I entered, and I heard the minor blip in the music that was his bassoon missing half a beat. That was apparently enough to stop everyone else dead in their tracks, and I very quickly had six sets of eyes looking at me.

  I smiled sweetly and ignored all the questions and judgments in their eyes. “I’m inviting everyone to a meeting tonight—I hope you can all come.” I handed out my cards and draped flowers over a couple of music stands and the sexy curve of Gerhart’s bassoon. It wasn’t the bassoon’s fault that his player had lost his heart to a brassy strumpet.

  “What is this about?” The man asking held his violin bow like a weapon, and he was clearly annoyed with me.

  I was barely getting started. I bowed solemnly and handed him a flower. “That piece you were playing was quite lovely. I’d love to hear how it ends.”

  He glared at me.

  A woman behind him cleared her throat nervously. “Let’s pick up at bar fourteen of the second movement. We don’t have the timing quite right yet. The woodwinds are rushing things.”

  “The strings need to catch up,” replied someone dryly.

  That pulled the attention of my displeased violinist back to his group. “This isn’t a race, and Mozart surely didn’t intend for us to play these bars as fast as our fingers can move. This movement is stately, gracious.”

  I snorted, very quietly. I’d heard versions of that argument on more dance floors than I could count—and it usually came from people with sub-par footwork. That, however, was definitely something I didn’t plan to say out loud. I tiptoed backward and let myself out as soundlessly as I’d come in, blessing dance slippers for their quick-getaway properties.

  And nearly ran smack into Harold and Magda as I scooted into the street.

  “Oh, dear.” Magda manage to steady my basket and her hat at the same time. “I do apologize, sweetheart—I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  I laughed and offered her a flower. “That was totally my fault and you know it.”

  She patted my hand and peered curiously into my basket. “It looks like it’s for a very good cause.”

  If she hadn’t pieced together the story already, I’d eat her invitation. I glanced at Harold, smiling. “She must provide you with really excellent diplomatic cover.”

  “Of course I do.” Magda slid her hand into his elbow and beamed up at him. “Someone has to. He’s not supposed to ask nosy questions.”

  Diplomats probably had pretty thick operations manuals too. I reached into my basket and pulled out two invitations and two of my prettiest flowers.

  Magda tucked her flower into a button hole on Harold’s shirt. “We’ll be there, darling. I can’t wait to see what you’re up to.”

  I grinned—she hadn’t so much as glanced at the invitation. Her husband might be the official diplomat, but I was betting his wife ran an informal spy network that rivaled Bean’s and Tee’s. “I’m just creating an opportunity. What happens there will be up to the people of Thess.”

  She smiled at me, and her eyes were far sharper than she likely ever let most people see. “We’ll be there. I haven’t worn my very best hat yet, and this might be just the occasion.”

  Harold hadn’t said a word, but as he looked up from his careful reading of the invitation, he inclined his head slightly—and in his eyes, I thought I saw respect.

  I let a little of the tenseness riding in my shoulders go. If he saw potential in what I was doing, maybe it wasn’t entirely crazy after all.

  Magda looked past me and waved merrily. “I think you have another taker, my dear.” She reached into my basket for a flower and handed it to Gloria, who was trying to herd a bouncing Nate in a direction he clearly didn’t want to go.

  I crouched down and winked at him. “Hey, cutie. I have flowers for everyone else, but I have something special for you.” I reached into my basket and handed him an invitation and a tiny bubblepod toy I’d found in the bowels of one of the tourist shops. It was painted in pretty flowers and probably wouldn’t last a week in Nate’s hands, but I’d wanted him to feel important.

  His eyes gleamed as he cuddled the toy—and stared at the piece of paper curiously.

  “I’m inviting you and your mom to a really important meeting tonight.” I paused just long enough for Gloria’s breath to catch and looked up at her. “It’s my meeting, and I’m telling you that you’re both entirely welcome.” That much was non-negotiable, and within my power to make happen. I might not be able to make a town have the conversation they needed to have, but I could darn well make an energetic small boy and his mom feel comfortable.

  Harold crouched down beside me. “I get bored at meetings sometimes, so I could use a playmate tonight, especially if you might happen to have some toys we could share.”

  “We have grandsons,” said Magda quietly to Gloria. “He misses them—you’d be doing him a favor.”

  I smothered a grin. Gloria could obviously be safely left in the hands of two of the Federation’s most devious diplomats. I held my hand out to Nate. “Want to help me deliver the rest of my invitations? We could pretend it’s an emergency and we’re fire trucks.”

  He let out a very tentative, very quiet siren sound.

  I laughed and repeated it a whole lot louder.

  His eyes got really big, but he clutched his flower-bedecked toy b-pod in one hand and reached for me with the other.

  I took his hand and grinned as we walked down the street, figuring out our fire-truck harmonies. Yesenia wouldn’t be able to accuse me of hiding in the shadows on this assignment.

  This time, I was manipulating everyone right out in the bright sunlight.

  19

  This should have been the easy part of my day, but somehow it wasn’t turning out that way. I glared at the clothes on the bed. It was a pretty impressive pile, given that I’d traveled with one small duffle bag.

  I needed something to wear to the meeting, and I was having a schoolgirl fashion panic attack. The gold skinsuit had done its job, and it would mangle the parameters of my mission to wear it again tonight. I couldn’t show up to this meeting as a Fixer. It was time to dress as Imogene Glass, human being.

  Except that left me with sundresses and flip-flops—and much as I loved t
hem, that was entirely not the impression I needed to make tonight. I was about to ask a lot of people to think hard, without my Talent to back me up, and flip-flops weren’t the street cred I needed.

  I sighed and flopped down in a huff. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to wear. It was that I had the perfect outfit and I was having a crisis of nerves and denial about wearing it.

  I fingered the rich purple fabric sticking out of my duffle and wondered if Tristan and Serena and company had been psychic, or just monumentally, coincidentally right, because the clothes hiding in the bottom of my bag were exactly the kind of ensemble you wanted to wear when the only power you wielded was the conviction of your own soul.

  I just didn’t know if I was ready to be that naked. That defiant. If I wore this into my meeting, I didn’t get to keep hiding under a rock pretending my behavior was still within the parameters of what I’d been sent to do. Nothing about this outfit was remotely observation-only, and if I wore it, I needed to have the guts to follow through. In my report, in Yesenia’s office, inside my own self.

  Because my toes knew all too well what this outfit meant, and they weren’t letting the rest of me off the hook.

  I lifted the purple tunic slowly, tracing my fingers over the skinny orange stripes, and let it fold into a puddle on the bed over top of the leggings that had somehow already escaped duffle captivity. Then I draped the orange headscarf over it as artfully as I could without admitting that I was procrastinating. Amber’s beautiful purple glass jewelry was next, and I petted the earrings a little before I laid them down on top of the headscarf.

  I closed my eyes and let all of what I was feeling tumble around inside me one more time. I thought about Yesenia’s words, and Raven’s eyes, and what my own feet had worked out in a clearing in the morning forest. And then I pulled out the boots and let the energy of the clothing underneath my fingers push me to my feet.

  It was time.

  Time to channel Madame Tsarnova and Camellia Reyes and Yesenia and a little bit of Kish and Tee and Raven too.

  A little of each of them—and every iota of Imogene Glass.

  20

  I waited until the last of the chair shuffling and staring at my outfit had stopped and people were mostly chatting with their neighbors. I ignored the curious looks and the grumpy ones and walked through the circle to a small table at its top edge. It was time to call everyone to the warm-up barre.

  I held up my hands, channeled strength from my boots, and waited for relative quiet. Then I uncovered both of Greta’s platters and held them up. “Thank you for coming. I brought cookies.”

  People laughed and relaxed, and several near me reached to help pass them out.

  I handed them off, snagging a cookie before they escaped my reach. “The cookies are courtesy of my hostess, the lovely Greta Frisch.” I waited for the nods and applause to die off. “Tonight, at my request, she made one batch her usual way. The other one is made with synth-eggs.”

  Both platters stopped dead, hands frozen above the plates.

  I took a casual nibble of my cookie.

  It was Gerhart who finally broke the silence. “Why would you do that to Greta’s cookies?”

  My indubitable hostess folded her arms and lifted an eyebrow. “I asked that very same thing.”

  I couldn’t have scripted the two of them any better. “Don’t worry, they’re nearly as good as her usual ones. Still far better than what you’ll find almost anywhere in the galaxy.” I waved at the platters. “Go ahead—help yourselves.”

  The plates started moving again, and several heads bent over, peering and sniffing and trying to decide if they could tell the difference. Fortunately for my little stunt, it wasn’t all that hard to spot the ones made with the good stuff. After some shuffling and awkwardness and more than a few disgruntled glances my direction, someone got up, set the plate of inferior cookies aside, and broke a cookie from the remaining platter in half. “I’ll share.”

  I sat quietly as half cookies got passed around the circle.

  Greta cast an odd look at the abandoned platter, still piled high with synth-egg cookies, but didn’t say anything.

  Once people were wiping crumbs off their faces and fingers, I got down to business. “As most of you know, I’m a KarmaCorp Fixer. I’m not here on vacation, but I’m not here with a specific objective, either.”

  That had a few eyebrows going up. “I’m here on what’s called an observational mission, which means that I’m supposed to keep my eyes open and my Talent off and see what I can learn.”

  Elena sniffed. “And I suppose you brought us all here to tell us what you see, so that we can learn from your wisdom and change our town to please someone who’s only been here for five days.”

  I let the energy build, let people find their resonance with her words. I wanted them passionate, and even a little bit tangled. “No. I came here tonight to listen. I have a couple of questions I want to ask you, but that’s all.” I pulled the draped sheet off the easel on the table, uncovering the simple lettered canvas I’d worked on for hours. It was as artistic and beautiful and inviting as I could make it.

  “I’d like you to answer two questions here tonight. The first one asks you to name something you really love about Thess.” I could tell by the dead silence that most of the people in the room had already read question number two. “And then I’d like you to name a wish, something you’d really like to see change here.”

  I kept my eyes on the pretty, lyrical letters for a little bit longer—my own tribute to something I loved about Thess and something I wanted to change, although I wouldn’t speak to either of those tonight. That was for the people in this room to do. I was just the instigator, the container, the referee, the medic.

  But I sure as heck wasn’t letting them get started from this kind of loaded silence.

  I faced the room, letting what lived inside me rise up to meet the outfit I’d found the courage to wear. I felt the fabric hugging my shoulders, the weight of the glass in my ears. “I’m going to introduce a format you might not be familiar with, and that will guide the shape of the conversation tonight.”

  I reached in behind the easel for what I’d tucked away there. None of what I was about to lay out next was mine. Like all good Fixers, I knew when to steal shamelessly, and I happened to have a roommate who came from a world that had figured out how to have twenty strong women sit in a circle and hear each other and get things done. I figured if it could work for Raven’s grandmothers, it could work here too.

  I held up a stick, one big enough to stand firmly in my palm and rise up to the level of my eyes. I’d worked on it for hours, stumbling through the forest to collect an appropriate hunk of wood from the clearing where I’d danced, and then raiding everything from flower beds to the art supplies at the childcare collective to find things to decorate it with. It wore a little orange paint, some beads and a feather, a couple of bells, some shiny pebbles, a flower, and far too much glue. High art it was not, but nobody was likely to forget they were holding it. “This is the talking stick. The only person who talks is the person holding the stick.”

  I could see reactions ranging from horror to choked-off giggles, most of the latter probably a commentary on the quality of my art. I ignored them all. I made a motion with three fingers against my forehead. “Do this if you agree with the person talking so things don’t need to be repeated.” I shifted to shaking my fingers in front of me. “This for applause.” And a palm on my shoulder. “This if you would like a turn with the talking stick.”

  Then, because I wasn’t sure this group could be as well behaved as the grandmothers, I pulled out a bubble tube I’d borrowed from Nate. “When all the bubbles get to the top of the pretty gel, whoever has the stick needs to be done talking. When you hand the stick off to someone else, I’d like you to pick someone you think might have an opinion that is different from yours, and that you’re interested in hearing from.”

  I could see eyes
crossing at that particular instruction. I trusted the orange boots to do their work and simply stood tall and firm and insistent until the energy in the room capitulated.

  Good. That was the only part of this night that was my fight. Ground rules established, I held out the talking stick for a moment, and then I walked over and handed it to Gerhart.

  His eyes were as big as plates, but he took it.

  I stepped back, hoping I’d just handed it to the man who played a mean jazz saxophone.

  He looked at the stick for a very long time, and then at the lettered instructions as if he’d forgotten what he was supposed to say. And then he looked slowly around the circle at the people of his village who were waiting for him to speak. Finally, he took a deep breath and smiled. “I love that all of you know I play the bassoon. I used to live in a big city, and nobody knew that about me unless I was carrying it.”

  Heads nodded, and more than one person put their fingers against their forehead, agreeing with him.

  Gerhart paused again, and it took everything in me to keep my fingers still. This time, when he spoke, he didn’t look up. “I wish more of you knew that my favorite instrument is my sax.”

  He missed the startled, astonished glances. I didn’t.

  I held my breath, watching the timid thread he’d just put out into the universe, shaking and naked and alone. Wondering if I was going to have to cross lines to help keep it alive.

  Gerhart swallowed and looked up, first at me and then around the room in a rapid scan that was clearly intended to find the fastest possible way to get rid of the stick.

  Gloria’s hand lifted to her shoulder in a motion that was both terrified and determined. I could have kissed her. When the stick landed in her hand, she never took her eyes off the instructions. “I love it when I’m sitting on my balcony at night when Nate’s sleeping and I can hear Gerhart playing his sax in the art studio.” She blushed to the roots of her dark hair.

  She wasn’t the only one. Gerhart looked poleaxed.