Adrienne Martine-Barnes

by The Dragon Rises (v0. 9) (epub)

  “The least?”

  it is a Festrian custom to die in ecstasy.”

  Her eyes got wide. “Why?”

  “I have no idea. Consult the ship’s library if you are

  curious.”

  “Does anyone come to their kevar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Gilhame shrugged. “For the same reason people gamble, I suppose. Excitement.”

  “Have you ever gone to one?”

  “Yes. 1 was a downy-faced ensign on my first leave. I was much too terrified to be ecstatic—or even aroused. One should not mix one’s pleasures.”

  Alvellaina stared up at him. “No. I don’t think I would like that party. Are the Miguls fun? Their invitation looks very dull, somehow.”

  “They are, indeed, the dullest race 1 know of. But their musical evenings are as uplifting as a Havassit blessing. Anything in that batch from the Antrians?”

  “Yes. It’s very confusing.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “ ‘Will you join the dance? Current Third and Seventh Levels approaching Creation. Patterns above 1900 are cordially invited to partake of the energy exchange. Others may observe.’ That’s all. No date, nothing. What does it

  mean?”

  He was not surprised at her ignorance. Despite the vast variety of worlds within and without the Kardusian Empire, most planet-dwellers were quite provincial. And the Antrians were rather off the beaten track even for a spaceman. “It is the Antrian Creation. They believe the dance mirrors the universe. Level Three is the ‘Animal Kingdom’ ;md Seven is ‘Angels and Demons.’ The reason there is no date is that it is continuous. The card is just to tell one where they are in the pattern. They will probably do Four and Eight next. That’s ‘Plants and Emotions.’ And, if you ever see a card which says they are dancing Nine, you might just say your prayers, because, theoretically, the end of all things is at hand.”

  “It’s religion, then?” She was still puzzled.

  “If religion can be said to be life, then, yes. Would you like to go? Level Seven, of course.”

  “ ‘Angels and Demons. ’ It doesn’t sound very exciting. ” “You might be surprised. I shall go, in any case. I could not pass up an opportunity ... to be myself. Come, stand up with me in the Antrian Creation. I think you’ll like it. Consult the communicator for the pattern. It’s not difficult and Buschard says you are a quick learner.”

  “Alright, yes. It obviously fascinates you, and that makes me curious. What is the appropriate garb?”

  “For you? Something white, of course, Halba Vanity.” They smiled at each other.

  Chapter XI

  “Hurry up, woman!” Gilhame shouted across the apartment that evening as they prepared to go to the ball at the Kalurian Embassy. “You’ve had time enough to dress three times over. Buschard just called to say he and Derissa are on their way up.”

  “Yes, master. In a minute,” came her voice.

  “‘Master,’ indeed,” he muttered, smiling. They were beginning to joke with one another, which he thought a very hopeful sign. He paced back and forth, slipping the little knife in and out of its sleeve sheath. He turned at the faint rustle behind him.

  He barely prevented himself from gasping as he saw her. The gown she wore was green, cut high in the waist. The bodice was a pale silvery green, almost, but not quite, transparent, and sparkling with flecks of gold. The skirt was made of many panels, alternating the material of the bodice with a darker green stuff also flecked with gold. She wore no jewelry except a spray of sparkling flowers in her unnetted hair. The thousands of burnished copper curls framed her face and emphasized her lovely eyes.

  Alvellaina eyed him a trifle apprehensively. “You look very handsome tonight,” she said, fiddling with the enormous green feather fan on one wrist.

  Gilhame bowed slightly. “A ravishing creation, my dear. Lefair has outdone himself. I had no idea he had so much

  talent. He is quite wasted on uniforms.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much. A tantalizing garment. More discreet than your nightdress—but very lovely.”

  “I took that to Lefair and told him what you said—about riots and all.”

  “If you wish to cause a stir, you will certainly succeed. Where did the material come from? It is quite out of the ordinary.”

  “Lefair said he found it on Colocos.”

  “I see I must . . . That must be Buschard and your sister.” He opened the door.

  Derissa twirled through the door, laughing at some remark of Buschard’s. Gilhame studied her, noting the high-waisted deep-blue gown with short, full sleeves. The skirt was made in many layers, each one a different shade of blue and sewn round the edge with tiny white beads. She had electro-netted her hair, braided it with long blue ribbons and coiled the braids over her ears. Buschard came in, his eyes intent on Derissa, looking very elegant in his dress golds.

  “So, that’s why you wanted that fan,” Derissa exclaimed as she looked at Alvellaina. “You utter wretch.” But she smiled as she said it.

  “Yes,” Alvellaina answered calmly.

  Buschard stared at the two sisters for a moment, then turned to Gilhame. “They make quite a picture, don’t they? Shall we go?”

  “Do you have a wrap, m’alba?”

  Alvellaina went back into her room and came out with a flimsy thing of silvery lace, and they left.

  The Kalurian Embassy was a rather modest structure set on piles in the middle of an artificial lake. The little air taxi which had brought them from the shuttle to City Two circled over the lake and landed on a tiny platform. They could hear strains of music as they entered.

  Alvellaina looked around her. Derissa and Buschard were a few steps ahead of them. “Admiral, how do I behave?” she whispered.

  “We will be announced as we enter. You will stand up with me in the first pattern dance, presuming it is one you have learned. After that, you may dance with whomever you wish. When your feet are tired, we will leave. In all likelihood, a number of underbred persons will try to discomfort you. Try to deal with them without coming to blows. Do not drink too much Kalurian punch; you will regret it in the morning. Do not share drugs with strangers. If you can’t find me, find Buschard or one of my officers.” “I just got . . . frightened for a moment.”

  “I understand. Just remember who you are, and you will survive handily: the Halba Alvellaina Curly-Krispin, nothing else.”

  “Will people tell me who they are?”

  “Usually. Ask, if they don’t. Now, if you would do me the kindness to put your hand on my arm as we descend the stairs. Very good. Now, look up at me and smile. Think of me covered with Corlian jelly and with a malus in my mouth. There, you see how easy it is.”

  She laughed her deep laugh. “You are a monster,” she whispered.

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “Admiral Gilhame ur Fagon! Halba Alvellaina Curly-Krispin,” boomed the loudspeaker.

  “How did they know me?”

  “It is the herald’s job to know such things. Ah, the set is almost over. You may remove your hand if it pleases you.” “I must say, I never expected such scrupulous observance of my demands, Admiral,” she answered, and left her hand where it was.

  “A man who would break his word a little, would break it completely. I look forward to the day when you will feel safe enough to release me from my promise. Great Yardell’s Balls! It’s Marpessa Devero. Smile and put up your guard.”

  As he said these words a handsome, black-haired woman in a red gown walked towards them. As she approached, Gilhame could tell she was in a mischief-making mood. Her lustrous black eyes darted between them, and her heavy brows rose in query.

  “Well, Gil, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she purred, ignoring Alvellaina.

  “Hello, Marpessa. Has it been a long time? It seems like only yesterday. May I present Halba Krispin? Alvellaina, Captain Marpessa Devero of the Sixth Fleet. Tell me
, are you still bucketing around in the old Caldos, or have they given you a ship worthy of you yet?”

  “The Caldos gave up the ghost six months ago. No, I am commanding Gyre’s flag these days, the Buskin.”

  “Really? I see I am behind the times in my information. The Buskin? I had no idea she was still in service. You don’t seem to have much luck with your equipment, do you, ’Pessa?”

  The woman colored, making her make-up stand out in uneven patches. “It’s alright,” she said a little sulkily.

  Gilhame could feel the tension in the hand Alvellaina had on his arm. She did not appreciate being snubbed. “The Buskin?” she said suddenly. “That must be an old ship, even older than you, Admiral, for I seem to recall that my father trained in her.” She sounded like an innocent child, but Gilhame was not taken in. As he and Marpessa were of an age, the insult was carefully studied.

  “It is, child, it is. It was commissioned before you were born,” he answered solemnly. “No wonder you are in dry dock,” he added to Marpessa.

  “So, Alvellaina, if I may call you that, how do you find life now that you have the great ur Fagon?” Marpessa asked.

  As restricted as her life had been, Alvellaina was sufficiently versed in matters of etiquette to know that Captain Devero was presuming that, though her father was in exile and she herself was a chattel of ur Fagon, she was still the social superior, as Gilhame had reminded her only moments before. “I do think undue familiarity is the worst of bad manners, don’t you, Admiral?” Alvellaina asked, offering Marpessa the same snub she had been given.

  Gilhame stifled a guffaw. “It is one of the symptoms of the decay of our civilization,” he intoned as solemnly as he could. “First manners, then morals. Sad, truly sad.”

  “In reply to your query, Captain Devero, I do not ‘have’ the Admiral. He is privileged to have himself. I do find his company rather amusing, however. He keeps me in hysterics with tales . . . of his experiences. ’’She threw Gilhame a glowing look, and he swallowed to hold back his laughter.

  Marpessa glared at her. “You mustn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “It quite depends on who is speaking, doesn’t it?” Alvellaina answered sweetly.

  “I believe they are forming up the set for the next dance, my dear,” Gilhame said before Marpessa could speak.

  “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Alvellaina answered, fanning herself gently. “I do hope it is less stuffy on the dance floor.” They left the outraged Captain Devero with her mouth open.

  “Stuffy! You little fiend,” he hissed.

  “You said not to come to blows, Admiral.”

  “You did very well, but be careful. She is a bad enemy.” “Who is she?”

  “In the tale of my ‘experiences,’ you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were. . . lovers back when I got my first command. She was very annoyed when I didn’t keep her with me.” “Why didn’t you?”

  “Too erratic. Oh, she’s occasionally brilliant, tactically speaking, but she takes unnecessary chances. That’s why she keeps getting space junk. She’s had four ships shot out from under her.”

  The music began, and the long line of couples began an intricate pattern dance called Wanderer’s Return. Alvellaina acquitted herself well enough, although she was distracted by the transparent dance floor beneath her. Colored lanterns were hung beneath the floor, and they reflected on the water of the lake, making curiously colored patterns. Gilhame and Alvellaina had danced up and down the set before the music ended.

  Gilhame led his companion off the floor and smiled at her. “Buschard was right. You are very good.”

  “Thank you. I would never have believed it, but you make an elegant figure on the dance floor, Admiral.” “Praise, indeed. My, what a gathering of vultures we

  have tonight. This handsome fellow tearing through the throng to us is none other than the unadmirable Admiral Gyre. Ah, you have your polite smile upon you already. What a very quick student you are, indeed. Now, why do I mistrust that look? Good evening, Gyre.”

  “Ur Fagon! Still in one piece, I see. May I have the pleasure of an introduction to your charming companion?” “Certainly. Admiral Gyre, Halba Curly-Krispin.” The omission of first names was not lost on Gyre. A slight frown crossed his undeniably handsome face.

  Admiral Guthry Gyre was a broad man, yellow-haired and ruddy-skinned, with oddly black eyes. He gave a halfbow and grinned, displaying neat, even teeth beneath his large mustache. “Might I have the pleasure of the next dance, Halba-vera?” he asked, adding the honorific for “highborn” to the title “lady.”

  Alvellaina cast a quick, sidelong glance at Gilhame’s face, but found no clue for her answer in it. She fanned herself lightly, bestowed a ravishing smile on Gyre and said, “That would be delightful.”

  Captain Frikard walked up and bowed. “Halba, would it be presumptuous of me to ask for your next available dance?”

  With a decided gleam of mischief in her eyes, Alvellaina laughed softly. “Dearest ‘Captain’—so stiff and formal, and we were such good friends on the ship. I would love to stand up with you, Ven, as soon as I dance with Admiral Gyre here. You did tell me that it is all equal at a dance, did you not, ur Fagon?”

  “I did, indeed,” he lied.

  “There, you see, Ven. And we are such old friends now. Still, you have lovely manners. Oh, yes,” she said, gazing at Gyre’s extended hand, “the dance.” She left with him, turning her head to wink broadly at the still-stunned captain and ur Fagon, who was having a time controlling his face.

  “What the hell was all that, sir?” Frikard asked.

  “I do believe m’alba, having practiced the fine art of insult on me for several weeks, is about to play kickball with the inside of Gyre’s head. Serves him right. They are to do an onteem. It should be an education for both of them. Now, let me see. A partner. Don’t fuss your mind, Ven. She was just using you to put Gyre in his place. I believe I see Elioz Mayhew over there. Boring female, but an admirable dancer. Excuse me.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Frikard said to his departing back. He stared at his superior as ur Fagon cut through the crowd, and speculated on his purpose in surrendering Alvellaina for the onteem. It was not a dance to do with strangers. Then he shrugged and went looking for a partner, wishing Cianna Ottera were there. Ganna hated cities and was, as usual, holed up in her quarters, reading and sleeping.

  The lights dimmed until the room was in twilight, though still faintly lit from the lanterns underneath the floor. The music began softly at first, then swelled in volume as the tempo increased. The couples, their arms entwined, their hands on their hips, began the spinning onteem “Tender Caresses.” Gilhame, partnered with the lovely Elioz Mayhew, caught glimpses of Alvellaina as he spun. He saw her lips move and caught the snarled answer which Gyre made before the dance moved him out of view. Because of the propinquity created by the stance assumed by the partners, the onteem was a brief dance, lasting no more than seven minutes; also, because of its nature, it was not danced in all social circles.

  “Tender Caresses” lasted less than four minutes. The lights came up as the music faded. Gilhame saw Alvellaina already standing on the side of the room, her face pale and without expression, fanning herself. He walked the tedious Elioz off the floor and went to Alvellaina.

  She glared at him over the feathers. “That is an obscene dance!” she snapped.

  “It is considered so in many circles, yes. But, you did practice it with Buschard, did you not?”

  “I did, in the recreation room, with all the lights on. And Commander Buschard is a gentleman. He kept his hands on his own body and he did not make lewd suggestions. It is hard enough being that close to a man. I came very near to ‘accidentally’ kicking that bastard right where it counts. And he stinks. His breath is like a dead rat. Do I have to dance that again?”

  “No, of course not. Many refuse it for the very reason you spoke of, the closeness. So, Guthr
y has started using choon has he? What did he say to you?”

  “He asked me how much I charged, as if I were a common whore.”

  Gilhame quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you did sort of lead him on, making bedroom eyes at poor Frikard. How did you reply?”

  She gave him a tense grin. “I told him I was a give-cruiser woman. He nearly choked.”

  Gilhame’s boisterous laugh caused several people to stare at them. “M’alba, you are a wonder and a delight. Absolutely perfect. Now, climb down off your high horse. The insult was aimed at me. I think I have just used you, again, and I apologize. But, you see, I could not prevent him from asking you to dance.”

  “I had no idea it would be so complicated. I just thought it would be fun, like in a book.”

  “And so it should be. We tend to muddy even our social waters with rivalry and politics.”

  “I wish I had taken the veil!”

  “Do you really?” He grinned as she shook her head. “Here is Frikard to claim you for the dance. If you do not wish to dance, ask for some refreshment.”

  “I hop? that carrion-eater tries that approach with Armanda. She’ll freeze his testicles.”

  “Your aunt or your sister?”

  “Either. Hello, Captain. Do you know, I am very thirsty.” She dropped the fan on its cord and extended both hands in a friendly manner.

  Frikard bowed, slipped her hand onto his arm and said, “I think you will find Galagian wine very refreshing, m’alba. Besides, they are doing a milkos next, and that is too vigorous for my taste and your gown. By your leave, sir?”

  “Shoo. I love a good milkos, and I know just the partner.” Gilhame used his superior height to scan the crowd,

  t hen cut through several groups to reach Marpessa Devero. “Come on, Marp. We have not done a milkos in years.” “Still a dancing fool, Gil?”

  “I plan to dance at my own wake.”

  “Alright. Just a minute.” She bent down and lifted the two sideseams of her gown, securing them at her hips with electro-net clips and revealing shapely legs. He took her out onto the floor as the music began.

  Gilhame began the tattoo, his boots banging out the rhythm while she clapped and stood still. Then he stood while she danced around him. They began the springing leaps in perfect time, fingertips touching. When he picked her up for the spinning carry, she was panting. They repeated the whole three times, and she almost stumbled in the last set of leaps.