A Liaden Universe® Constellation: Volume Two

by Sharon Lee

  “There’s going to be music and dancing for the youngers in just a bit, now,” she said. “But I’m betting that a woman of good sense would like to have a glass of wine in her hand.”

  There was a slight hesitation as Kareen performed the mental gymnastics necessary to untangle this, then she stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on Audrey’s sleeve.

  “Thank you,” she said austerely. “A glass of wine would be most welcome.”

  The two ladies moved off toward the refreshment table as the rest of the guests shook themselves and returned to interrupted conversations.

  Pat Rin remembered to breathe.

  “See?” Miri gave his hand a companionable squeeze before releasing him, and sending another grin up into his face. “Piece o’ cake.”

  “As an author of the joke, you might well say so,” he replied, with feeling. “But consider how it might seem to those who had no—”

  “Indeed, it was ill-done of us,” Val Con murmured, slipping his arm away. “We had not taken into account that your duty would place you between the two ladies.”

  Pat Rin turned to stare, and Val Con inclined his head, for all the worlds like a proper Liaden, and murmured the phrase in High Liaden—“Forgive us, Cousin. We do not intend to distress you, but to attain clarity.”

  Sighing, Pat Rin also inclined his head. “It is forgotten,” rising reflexively to his lips.

  “Next time, we’ll send you a clue ahead of time,” Miri said.

  He eyed her. “Must there be a next time?”

  “Bound to be,” she answered, not without a certain amount of sympathy. Her eyes moved, tracking something beyond his shoulder.

  “Band’s settin’ up,” she said to Val Con.

  “Ah,” he returned, and lifted an eyebrow. “Cousin, I am wanted at my ’chora.”

  “By all means, go,” Pat Rin told him. “Perhaps Ms. Audrey will induce my mother to stand up with Andy Mack.”

  The band played surprisingly well, and in a rather wider range than Pat Rin had expected, fiddle and guitar at the fore, Val Con’s omnichora weaving a light, almost insubstantial, background.

  At Ms. Audrey’s insistence, he and Natesa had stood up for the first dance—a lively circle dance not dissimilar to the nescolantz, which had been a staple at young people’s balls when he had been considerably younger. He spied Ms. Audrey, with Lady Kareen and Luken bel’Tarda at her side, observing the pattern of the dance from the edge of the rug. Further on, Clonak ter’Meulen was in animated conversation with Uncle Daav and Cheever McFarland.

  At the end of the first dance, he relinquished Natesa to Priscilla with a bow, and started for the refreshment table. He’d scarcely gone three steps before his hand was caught.

  “Come,” said his cousin, Nova. “I claim you for the next dance!”

  “Ah, do you?” He laughed, and allowed himself to be led back onto the floor. “Then let us hope the band pities me and produces a less-spirited number!”

  Alas, his wish had not reached the ears of the band leader, for the next dance was something akin to a jig, requiring intricate footwork which he learned from step to step by the simple expedient of observing Nova and reproducing her movement.

  He’d done the same thing many times in the past, of course—a person of melant’i would naturally take care to acquire the movements of a variety of dances, so that he might do his proper duty as a guest; however, no one but a scholar of the form could hope to know the intricacies of all possible dances. A quick eye and a flair for mimicry were, therefore, skills that a young person who wished to move without offense through Solcintra’s party season would do well to acquire.

  Having survived the jig unbloodied, Pat Rin bowed to his fair partner, handed her off to his Uncle Daav, and turned, setting his sights on a glass of wine and perhaps more discussion of solar arrays with Andy Mack, who he could see speaking with Clonak to the left of the refreshment table.

  This time, he was claimed by a smiling Villy, who led him back out onto the floor with something very like a skip in his step. At least, Pat Rin thought, the gods were at last kind: it was a square dance, with he and Villy facing off as sides one and two, while Shan and Priscilla taking up the third side and the fourth.

  The slower pace was more than balanced by a complex, cumulative pattern of exchanges with one’s partner, thus: step forward, touch right hands, step back/step forward, touch right hands, then left, step back—and so on, until the tune turned on itself and one began to subtract a gesture at the exchange, and each dancer was at last back in their place, having regained all that had been given.

  The music stopped the instant the second partner pair fell back into place. There was a moment of tension, as if the dancers awaited another phrase from the musicians—then laughter, and light applause. Their little square evaporated, Pat Rin moving with determination toward the refreshment table, Shan and Priscilla amiably keeping pace. He was sincerely thirsty now, and thinking in terms of a glass of cool juice.

  “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, 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. He 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 Kalhoon, 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 laugh
ed 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’s had 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 Kalhoon to stand up in my place?”

  “Won’t work,” Miri 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 Korval 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 Kalhoon’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. Audrey 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 rugbound 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.