***
Ran-Del’s only worry in preparing for his first city party was to keep Francesca from fretting over him.
She oozed anxiety as she watched him slide his dirk into its sheath. “Are you sure you know what to do?” she asked.
If only she didn’t sound so much like his mother had when he was small. “You told me how to greet people, what to do when we sit down to eat, what to do when a toast is made. What else is there?”
Her concern didn’t abate. “Not that much, but I don’t see why you insist on wearing that knife. It’s a party, not a hunt.”
He refused to be swayed by her logic. “I’m a Sansoussy. A Sansoussy always wears a dirk.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Yes, but you will remember not to draw it, won’t you? All the guests will have been through an intensive weapons scan, and they’ll get rather upset if you draw a weapon.”
It struck Ran-Del as a ridiculous situation. “How can you call this a party if you have to scan all the guests for weapons? When a Sansoussy gives a party, he invites his friends, not his enemies.”
“In Shangri-La, sometimes it hard to tell the difference.” Francesca turned to her mirror and touched her hair with satisfaction. She had left the braid in, of course, but she had pulled it across the top of her head and pinned it in place with a diamond clip.
Ran-Del watched her and frowned as she started for the door. “Francesca! Where are you going?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why, to the party, of course. Pop wants us to be there with him when the guests arrive.”
Ran-Del was shocked. “But you’re not dressed!”
Francesca glanced down at herself and then back at him. “Yes, I am.”
Ran-Del studied her in dismay. The spangled fabric of her single-piece skin-tight body suit glittered when she walked. The garment had no sleeves and only thin straps supported the bodice; both the neckline and the back swooped quite low, revealing cleavage from either side. A few wispy tendrils of fabric trailing from her shoulders and a pair of silver slippers completed her costume. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” Francesca said. “What’s wrong, Ran-Del? This outfit isn’t unusual, not for a party; you’ll see lots like it tonight. Your people don’t wear all that much at this season. You said so yourself.”
Ran-Del did his best to control his consternation. “There’s a difference between leaving skin uncovered and wrapping it provocatively. What you’re wearing is an invitation to take it off.”
Francesca sighed regretfully. “We don’t have time.”
Ran-Del gritted his teeth. “I don’t mean an invitation to me. If you wear that outfit, it’s like asking other men to go to bed with you. You said you wouldn’t do that anymore.”
The corners of Francesca’s mouth curved upward in a faint smile. “Are you jealous, Ran-Del?”
“Are you doing anything that I should be jealous about?”
Francesca tapped her foot. She seemed pleased with herself all at once. Ran-Del could sense it.
“All right, Ran-Del,” she said finally, “I’ll change into something else—something considerably more modest—if you do something for me.”
“What?” Ran-Del asked, suspicious.
“Leave the knife here. You do that, and I’ll promise not to wear anything you don’t like.”
Ran-Del studied Francesca, standing there looking as if she had planned to paint herself with sparkling paint and then run out of paint, and then he made up his mind. He unbuckled his belt and pulled it off, then slid the sheath of his dirk off of the belt.
Francesca smiled with triumph as she moved to her closet.
The Sixth Discipline Page 52