Key to Chroma

by Piers Anthony

  "I'm better than I ever was,” she said, amazed and proud.

  "I am better than I have been since my retirement."

  "It's not chance, is it?"

  "I think it's not coincidence, dear. It's the rapport. It is said that a team that has true rapport can outperform a team of champions that lacks it."

  She nodded. “I'm not there yet, and you're past it, but together we've got it."

  "We have true rapport,” he agreed. “It's not just my knowledge or your healing. When it comes to performance, we relate very well."

  She looked at him. “What about off-stage?"

  "We relate well there too. Perhaps because I always wanted a granddaughter, and you—"

  "I love you, Grandpa,” she said.

  "Remember, no fault—"

  "I love you this day,” she qualified. “No fault."

  "And I love you, Eke. This day.” But it wasn't the truth. He loved her permanently, but it would have been a violation of no fault to say it. He would suffer when they parted. She was the ideal granddaughter.

  All too soon, it seemed, they arrived at Music Village. They bid parting to the foreman. “We'll miss you,” the foreman said. “You have enhanced our leisure."

  "Appreciation,” Beat and Eke said together, then laughed. They had indeed developed considerable rapport beyond the stage.

  Beat took her by the hand and walked her to the village. She knew the way, but they had taken to holding hands, liking the contact. “I don't want to leave you, Grandpa,” she said tearfully.

  "You know it has to be."

  "I know.” She tugged him to a stop just before the last turn of the path before the village. “Hug me, Grandpa, one last time."

  They hugged. “Honey, it's been great."

  "Truth,” she said.

  He had to honor it. “Truth."

  "I love you, Grandpa. Not no fault."

  "I love you too, Granddaughter,” he said. “But we must part."

  Then they hugged again, and cried together. After that they wiped each other's faces and composed themselves for the parting to come.

  There were several troupes camping at the village. They were there for the musical tournament that would decide who was champion for this season, both individuals and troupes. Beat's son was with one troupe, and Eke's mother with another.

  The first troupe they spied was Beat's son's. Soon they found the young man. He was a hale seventeen. “Glad you could make it, dad! Who's your friend?"

  "This is Eke. We traveled together from the city, no fault grandfather/granddaughter."

  "Hi, Eke,” he said. “I'm Beau."

  "Hi,” she echoed, suddenly shy.

  "Are we in time for the tournament?” Beat asked.

  Beau nodded soberly. “You're in time. But we won't be competing."

  "Confusion."

  "We were doing great. We made the semi finals yesterday. But we lost our dancer. We won, but she tried too hard and sprained her foot. We're out of it. We'll have to default."

  "Horror!"

  "Agreement,” Beau said morosely. “I don't know that we could have won the tournament, because there's a dancer out there better than ours ever was, but it's a shame to go down without trying."

  "That's Mom,” Eke said. “That dancer."

  Beau looked at her more carefully. “Must be. You look like her, only less so.” He looked at Beat. “You've been traveling with the competition, Dad."

  "No fault makes no mind,” Beat said, repeating a familiar saying. Enemies could travel no fault and get along perfectly.

  "She'll win it. I never saw a more beautiful woman. At least I'll get to watch.” But Beau's effort to be positive wasn't working. He was despondent.

  "Regret. I have to take Eke to her mother now."

  "I'll show you the way."

  They walked to the troupe where Eke's mother performed. She was easy to spot: an outstandingly pretty woman in the very prime, the image of Eke matured. Eke ran to her, colliding with a violent hug.

  "You made it!” the woman gasped.

  "Grandpa brought me, no fault,” the child exclaimed. “He saved me from a grabbing man, and he saved our wagon too, and he taught me the finale. He's great!"

  The woman met Beat's gaze, and her loveliness smote him anew. She had a rare presence; perhaps it was the healing power. “Thank you, Grandfather. I am Eve."

  "I am Beat. Eke exaggerates somewhat, but we did prove to be compatible. She's a fine girl. This is my son Beau."

  Eve turned her gaze on Beau. “I have seen you perform. The best drummer in the tournament."

  Beau was struck dumb. He was evidently smitten with her. That was understandable.

  "Too bad we won't get to compete,” Eve continued regretfully. “It would have been interesting."

  Beau managed to squeeze out two words. “You'll win."

  "No, you will. We're out of it."

  "Question,” Eke said, surprised.

  "We lost our drummer. His wife had an accident, and he had to go this morning. He'll miss the rest of the tournament, and so will we."

  "But they lost their dancer,” Eke said. “They're out too."

  Eve's chagrin seemed genuine. “You too? This is dreadful. The tournament will be taken by a mediocrity."

  Eke turned to Beat. “Grandpa—can't you fix it?"

  Both Eve and Beau laughed ruefully. This was not normally the kind of thing that could be fixed. But Beat had a notion. “Some troupes have been eliminated. Surely they have spare drummers and dancers."

  Eve and Beau shook their heads in unison. “Not good ones, Dad. And there'd be no rapport."

  "Could you drum for Eve?"

  Beau was surprised. “I guess I could. She's got the step. But she's the competition."

  Eve was intrigued. “I think I could follow his cadence; he's not just any drummer. But would our troupes go for it?"

  Beat addressed his son. “Let your two troupes make a deal: yours will lend hers a good drummer, if hers will in turn lend yours a good dancer. It's better than forfeiting."

  "Perfect!” Eke cried, clapping her hands.

  Eve nodded. “You do the talking, Grandpa."

  Beat smiled. “That much I can do, even in my dotage."

  "You're no doat, Grandpa."

  They all laughed. They went to Eve's troupe leader, a grizzled man. “Introduction,” Beat said. “I am Beat."

  "I am Goad. Weren't you a champion drummer in your day?"

  "In my day. It seems that two troupes have a problem. One needs a drummer, the other a dancer. My son Beau will drum for you no fault if—"

  "Done!” Goad exclaimed, catching on.

  They went to Beau's troupe, and won a similar agreement form its leader, a man of middle age called Step.

  "Let's get private and practice,” Eve said to Beau. She led him willingly away.

  "What if they both win?” Eke asked.

  "I am a dolt!” Beat said, striking his forehead. “They probably will both win, if the competition is as weak as they have indicated. Then they'll have to compete against each other, or both forfeit."

  "Doat, not dolt. Anyway, you're not either."

  "Thank you, Eke. But we may just have postponed the problem."

  "Could we do it?"

  "Enter the tournament? Honey, neither of us is up to that. I'm well beyond my prime, and you're not yet in yours. Even if we were, your troupe already has a dancer, and my son's troupe has a drummer."

  "I mean, could you drum for mine? Or I dance for yours?"

  "Eke, my rapport is with you, not your mother, lovely as she is. And your rapport is with me, not my son. So even if we were each good enough, neither of us would be sufficient in such contexts, even if they allowed it. And we'd be on opposite teams, each helping the wrong one."

  "Expletive! I didn't think of that. I'm the dolt."

  "Never that, honey,” he said, hugging her.

  "Are we still in no fault?"

  "I don't t
hink so. That ended with the journey."

  "I don't care. I love you anyway.” She kissed him emphatically on the cheek.

  "We're still going to have to part, after the tournament."

  "Then we've got another day."

  "Another day,” he concluded, glad of it. “Though I never heard of unofficial no fault."

  "We just invented it, Grandpa."

  "We must have,” he agreed.

  "Let's go see how they're doing."

  They tracked them down by the sound of the drum in a nearby glade. Beau was drumming well, as he always did, and Eve was heaven in motion. They were not perfect together, but were ironing out the inevitable miscues. They would surely be good enough on the morrow. Beat and Eke sat and watched, entranced.

  "We can do it,” Beau said as they finished the session. “She's so good."

  "Speak for yourself,” Eve told him. She was breathing hard after the effort, and that made her prettier yet.

  "What if you win for both troupes?” Eke asked.

  The two looked at each other, chagrined. “We can't split now,” Eve said. “We're just getting it together."

  "We'll have to draw lots,” Beau said. “For who defaults."

  She nodded. “At least one of our troupes will win—and both of us."

  "Both of us,” he agreed. Still, it seemed like half a loaf.

  "I wish we could have competed honestly,” Eve said. “I mean, its great working with you, Beau, but I'd have liked to settle the championship flat out."

  "Me too. Maybe next year."

  "Next year,” she agreed.

  They had to separate for the evening meal, though it was evident that none of them wanted to. They had to make a show of joining their own troupes.

  "Where will I ever find a wife half the woman Eve is?” Beau asked dreamily. He would have to marry within a year.

  "Where will I ever find a granddaughter like Eke?"

  "Realization: we're both in love."

  "And both in no fault."

  "If I could even drum for her, beyond this. Just to be near her."

  "Just to be near her,” Beat agreed.

  "At last we have a night and a day."

  "Night?"

  "The tournament dance, Dad. Mixing's encouraged."

  Beat had forgotten the social aspect. “That will be nice."

  Indeed it was nice. All the troupe members gathered, and by convention the men danced only with the women of other troupes, not their own. There was a line for Eve, of course, but she insisted on doing every third dance with Beau. This was not to tease him, but to better familiarize herself with his nature. It made a difference in the performance, especially at competitive level. Drummers and dancers had to understand each other's nuances, in order to raise a good performance to a superlative one.

  Beat danced with Eke. He was really too old for such activity, but she hugged him close and extended her healing power, and that gave him energy. “I wish I could keep you, Grandpa."

  "I wish I could keep you, Eke."

  "Now I know how it was with Mom and Dad. They couldn't let no fault go."

  "Fortunately they didn't have to."

  "But we do,” she said sadly.

  The dance ended, and they went to their separate troupe camps. There would be one more day—then it would be over.

  In the morning they held the semifinals. Each troupe had a number of acts, ranging from singing to comedy, and these were entertaining. But the high point was the drum dancing, and that was what decided the issue. Beau drummed for Eve's troupe, and it won readily; the other drummer and dancer were plainly outclassed, despite having worked together for years. Then Eve danced for Beau's troupe, and again they won handily. At each stage they improved another notch. Beat had never seen a better dancer, and knew that his son had never played better. Not only had they ironed out the miscues, they had integrated surprisingly well considering their brief association. It seemed that they had been destined to be together in this respect, and finally had found each other.

  But now came the crisis. Two troupes, one team. Which troupe would get it all? Which one would have to default?

  The two troupe leaders came together, consulting before setting up the lots. Neither looked satisfied.

  "Grandpa,” Eke wailed.

  She wanted him to fix it, again. Spurred by that need, he had an inspiration. “Idea,” he said.

  "You can draw a bunny from a cap?” Goad inquired sourly.

  "Perhaps. Which would you prefer: to win by lot, or lose by being outperformed?"

  "Rhetorical. I want to compete."

  "Agreement,” Step said.

  "I may be able to provide a credible drummer and dancer, not of the caliber of Beau and Eve, but with aspects of interest. Perhaps sufficient to allow an honorable loss, with an outside chance for victory."

  "No team can beat those two,” Goad said, and Step nodded agreement.

  "But they are newly formed and have performed twice today. Their edge could fade; they could make an error. That would give a fresh team a chance."

  "Outside chance,” Goad agreed sourly.

  "Decide who gets Beau and Eve together. The other gets the new team. There will be a contest, and it may be a remarkable one in some respects, whoever wins."

  The two shrugged. “Odd for the choice,” Goad said.

  They threw fingers. Goad threw one, and Step threw two. Goad got the choice. “Mine,” he said, beckoning Beau and Eve.

  Step turned to Beat. “Now produce your team,” he said with resignation.

  "A former champion, and a future champion,” Beat said. “I will drum for Eke."

  "Humor? You were the best, but you are long out of it, and she's a child."

  "We can do it,” Eke said gladly. “We have rapport."

  "All I promised was a creditable showing,” Beat said. “And historians will take note of my final competitive performance, and her first competitive performance. That may not be as sweet as a victory, but it's something."

  "I wish I had won the lot,” Step muttered as he turned away.

  Eke fetched her good dancing shoes, and Beat got his superior drum, Thunder. It was like an old friend, long neglected but faithfully waiting for him. He felt guilty for neglecting it, just because he could no longer take it to its ultimate. Their equipment would not let them down.

  The troupes lined up for the playoff. The opposing players met and hailed each other, per the tradition. When Beat met Beau, he said “If your team loses, let it never be said it was for lack of a drummer."

  "It will never be said,” his son agreed grimly. They both knew that however it had been in the past, Beat could not come close to Beau now. Not if Beau tried—and he was honor bound to do his best, though he was playing against his own troupe.

  "Oh honey, I love you,” Eve said to Eke. “I would do anything for you. But I can't give you this."

  "You won't have to, Mom,” the girl said. But she looked uncertain. She had performed before the folk of the caravan, but this was different. This was competitive, before an audience that knew the difference between potential and mastery.

  The troupes retreated to their sides. While the other acts proceeded, Beat talked to Eke. “You are better than you think,” he said. “You can make your mother sweat for her win. Do it. An honorable loss is no shame. Make them applaud you."

  "Give me the cadence, and I'll do it,” she said bravely.

  "A fair showing,” Beat said. “That's all. You can do it. I will be there for you."

  "I can do it,” she echoed faintly.

  Their turn came. Beau and Eve took the stage on their side, and Beat and Eke on theirs. The two drummers were near the sides, their backs to their troupe lines, facing the center. The two dancers stood before them, facing each other. This was not to be free form; the dances were fixed, so that direct comparison could be made. They would resemble mirror images, at first. Until one faltered or misstepped.

  The audience was seated
around the stage, entirely surrounding it. They would indicate the victor by their applause, if there was no error or other failure on the part of one of the teams. But it was unlikely to come to that; the finale was not merely a contest of skill, but of endurance, as the cadence accelerated until one or the other lost it.

  The referee lifted his hand, then brought it sharply down. Both drums started together, and both dancers did simple steps. The contest was on.

  The initial cadence was slow and straightforward. The opposing drums sounded almost as one, and the two dancers stepped in unison, matching each other exactly. The woman and the girl—but most eyes were on the woman. Her legs were perfectly formed, and showed to advantage beneath her skirt when she flicked her feet back and forth and kicked high in the air. The eyes of all the men in the audience were locked on her. But the girl was doing the same motions.

  After the initial dance, the referee signaled Eve. Beat's drum went silent, and Eke's motion ceased. It was time for turns, so that the full focus of the audience could be on one and then the other. Beau sounded the cadence, and Eve danced briefly. Then they stopped, perfectly together.

  The referee glanced at Eke. Immediately Beat resumed drumming, matching the prior cadence exactly, and the girl danced the same number, precisely. Members of the audience nodded; the old man and the child did know the routine. They completed it and stopped together.

  The referee signaled both. Each repeated the same beat and dance. Father and son drummed together, and mother and daughter danced simultaneously, so that they could be compared, their techniques judged. They were identical.

  Then it was Eke's turn to initiate a sequence. She and Beat did the second prescribed form alone, followed by Eve and Beau, and then they did it together. It was more advanced than the first, and prettier to watch. Not the least of it was the symmetry of the two dancers, so similar except for age and size. Their feet touched the floor together; they turned together, and kicked identically. Beat was focusing on his drumming, but he was aware how esthetically positive this was for all who watched. The beautiful woman and the pretty child, together.

  They moved on through the required forms, the cadence accelerating. The woman performed them perfectly, of course. But so did the girl, and as they progressed, more eyes turned to Eke. She was doing it! She was matching the woman step for step, with perfect timing, and though no one would care to say so, she was not without a certain nascent sex appeal herself. It was not just appearance; her shoes were tapping the floorboards, the sound verifying the rapid contacts. The dance was as much sound as sight, an experience for two senses.