by Storey, Rob
“What do you mean?” Kieler asked.
“I mean we’ll see some action. Undoubtedly, Feleanna won’t let you dance in here like a stodgy old house incumbent. You’re going to have to be on your toes to avoid them being stepped on.”
Kieler smiled. The man was arrogant and direct, but he liked him. Only Borgus was as direct, but Borgus was jaded and cynical. Carrenten was looking for adventure, if a bit recklessly. Kieler responded with a prodding directness of his own. “Could my conflict with House Cortatti affect House Bintle in any way?”
Laughing, Carrenten replied, “Well, it might blow the tops off a few more of my buildings. But I don’t think so. You didn’t miss that unplanned firework, did you?”
Kieler had no idea if Carrenten Bintle knew of his connection to the explosion. Actually, Carrenten couldn’t know. But the banking king was certainly amused by the detonation even though it would cost him some dras. But if you’re the guy that prints the money…
Kieler doubted he hid his own reaction very well to Bintle’s words. He replied casually, “I may have caught part of it…”
Suddenly Kieler was aware of Serru Bintle, standing just behind her husband, boring into him with her eyes. Not unfriendly, but certainly aggressive.
“She likes mystery men,” Carrenten said, looking sidelong at his wife, who was still staring at Kieler. “I should know. I used to be one.”
She spoke curtly, “How did you get that cut?”
There was something not right about this woman. Interesting that it was she who was first to ask about the cut he got in the tree. “Knife fight in the elevator.” Kieler tried to look serious.
Carrenten laughed, but Serru Bintle just nodded and licked her lips. “Looks like you fell out of a tree.”
There was another laugh behind him, a laugh that he enjoyed hearing. He and the Executive Chair turned, and there, next to a handsome middle-age man also in blue and silver, was the girl with the tree.
Still amazingly bored, the Executive Chair muttered, “Velator and his daughter Velirith. This is Orlazrus Ortessi.”
Kieler gave a slight bow, keeping eye contact with Velator and then grasping his arm in formal greeting. He knew instinctively that Velirith had not told her father about the incident on the balcony below. He also noted that unlike the other House Primes, Velator was not wearing a house sigil.
“Pleasure to meet you, Verr Ortessi.”
“Sure,” Velirith cut in with a blatant scoff. “Conveniently dropped in, didn’t he?” She didn’t believe he was Orlazrus.
The Executive Chair scowled at Velator’s daughter, perhaps at her impertinence, but his next words were those of revelation. “Ortessi, how did you get here? My men were at the palace tram station to escort you up and bring you to me. Yet you arrived without them.”
“Sir, may I get by with the excuse that my course was unconventional? With several unwelcoming parties, I may have to slip out the same way.”
The Executive Chair consented with a grunt, but was obviously unhappy that someone could actually sneak into his palace past his personal guards and Feleanna’s thugs.
But Velirith muttered, “I’d like to see that departure.”
Kieler clenched his jaw to hide his embarrassment. Velator gave his daughter a curious look but let it go, probably fearing the answer in front of the EC.
“Ortessi,” said the Executive Chair in a dismissive way, “You’ve been introduced. You’re in the dance, by the way, position twenty-one. See me before you leave.” And he walked back to his booth.
Kieler bowed, and when the Executive Chair was out of earshot, Carrenten said, “Sounds like you’re in trouble.”
Grinning, Kieler replied, “Could be worse. I could have fallen out of that tree your wife had me climbing.”
Carrenten Bintle laughed but pointed out, “Look Ortessi, you’ve avoided a straight answer to every question.” Kieler smiled to himself that Borgus had made the opposite comment. “What are you up to?”
“I’ll give you a straight answer to that one, Verr Bintle. Coming out at this party has made me completely vulnerable. Feleanna’s thugs will follow me wherever I go tonight and they will unceremoniously kill me. So I’m looking for a refuge, a benefactor. Can you handle taking me in for a while?”
Completely taken aback, Carrenten thought soberly. Although he did not look at her, Kieler could tell he was thinking about his wife. Perhaps he feared her attraction to “mystery men”. But Kieler thought it something else, as if it was Carrenten’s nature to do something just this risky, but at a cost to Serru’s stability.
“We’ll take you in, Verr Ortessi,” Velator spoke up unexpectedly, taking the heat off Carrenten.
“No, father! He’s a fraud!” Velirith blurted with complete conviction.
“Shush, Velirith,” Velator said in a steady voice, obviously accustomed to her bluntness. “I have intuition too and I think we should give him a place to stay.”
Velirith looked back and forth between Kieler and her father, evaluating. Then she sullenly agreed, but not without a steady, accusing look at Kieler.
Kieler made a mental note to be on guard with her. She seemed to see right through him.
“True to the house of Vel!” exclaimed Carrenten. “Gathering together the wanderers of the world.”
Fechua, the social coordinator, interrupted from the front of the dance floor. “The Family Harmony Dance begins in just a few moments! Ladies and gentlemen, take your assigned spots. My daughter and I will assist in placing you in your starting positions. Get ready!”
Chapter Twelve
Velirith spoke to Kieler as they walked out to the center, “You have been coached on how to do the New Year’s Family Harmony Dance, true? I’d hate for you to mess this up like your arrival. You might end up dancing with someone ugly.”
Kieler assured her that he had been well coached, and they split up, Velirith taking a position across the circle from him next to Gamielle Mizgot. The Executive Chair and his wife marked the top of the circle nearest the EC’s booth.
Eighty dancers were marshaled into two concentric circles around the center of the hexagonal dance floor; men in the outer circle, ladies in the inner one. The numbers matched precisely, each man with one lady.
When everyone had assembled, Fechua called out, “Please face and address your partners…” The men and ladies bowed to each other.
Kieler was paired with Balfani Telander, but knew that the pairing would be short lived. It was the final partner with whom one spent most of the dance. Kieler bowed, “My pleasure, Lhea Telander.” She bowed back, still looking miffed about something. Kieler considered the strong possibility that her scowl was a permanent feature. He also wondered whether Velirith had cursed him with her “ugly” comment.
Fechua continued, “And prepare to dance with someone new!” Some near Kieler smirked at the “someone new” part, knowing the dance was rigged, and that everyone would end up with someone inoffensive. Occasionally a single young lady would end up paired with a hopeful young man, and they would get to enjoy an anticipatory thrill. But mostly the old couples knew they would be paired with some old ally and not a hated rival.
With that, Fechua gave a quick triple clap and the orchestra began playing the traditional, upbeat waltz that had been played for centuries. After the intro, the men immediately skipped counterclockwise one position, and the ladies did likewise in the other direction. Since both circles moved opposite each other, the dancers always passed one person to end up with the next. Thus the two groups, odds and evens, would never mix. If Kieler was an odd, he noted mentally, then Feleanna was an even. They would pass, but never dance. The social coordinator had done her research well.
After each one-position rotation the new partners did a four measure pas-de-deux, bowed, and then rotated again.
Kieler knew he would be watched carefully. After all, everyone one of the dancers except him had seen the dance if not participated in it. They had likely att
ended this event since they were twelve years of age. He had never seen it. They’d be watching to see if he messed up.
But he wouldn’t. Movus had been his coach. Knowing that all eyes would be on him, he had practiced in the dim chambers of the under-Plate until he was bored silly with the simple dance. By his third partner, Kieler was sure enough of himself that he glanced around during the rotation.
The Executive Chair, he saw, was not “skipping” one bit. He was sauntering, doing just enough to stay in position so as not to disturb the status quo of the dance. Everyone played their part, practiced, and rather dull. And this was supposed to be the highlight of the evening?
About a quarter of the way around the circle, Kieler converged with Velirith. Wary and intrigued with the young woman, he desperately tried to think of something to say in the four measures they would spend together. So much about her was unusual: She wore an attractive variant of the Vel uniform and not an evening gown like the other young debutantes. Her every behavior indicated she wasn’t going to play like the other Omeron. And, looking into her face, her eyes were unlike anyone’s he had ever seen. Where her father had the silver-grey common to house Vel, hers were so silver they reflected colored light like crystal.
And right now, as they touched hands in the dance, those eyes seemed to convey a very readable, barely-contained excitement. What it meant, Kieler had no idea.
“So you don’t trust me,” he stated, wishing he could have thought of something more positive.
But her casual answer was an odd denial. “No, truly, I do trust you. I just don’t believe you. Whereas you should always believe me—just don’t trust me.” The smile on her enchanting face conveyed her meaning almost better than her words.
Having nothing to say to such a cryptic comment, Kieler watched Velirith spin away from him, still wearing that charming, roguish smile matching the one in her eyes.
Though there were many more rotations before the anticipated change in music from regal waltz to light and playful lilt, Kieler knew he wouldn’t be dancing with Velirith again, and he felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment.
It was shortly after dancing with Velirith that something happened.
Kieler heard a short, startled scream and looked over to see Gamielle Mizgot suddenly grab her current partner and press the shorter man to her bosom. Her partner was easily half-a-head shorter than she and instantly turned redder than Feleanna’s hair. While the rest of the dancers kept on out of sheer momentum, Kieler wondered at Gamielle’s break from the age-old propriety of the dance. Then he saw that one of her slender shoulder straps hung limply down to her waist.
Gamielle wasn’t the only one who couldn’t contain herself. Kieler bit his lower lip to keep from laughing.
Gamielle half danced, half dragged her runtish partner off the floor and toward the nearest corridor leading to the powder room. Kieler glanced across the circle at Gippo. Gamielle’s husband was obviously concerned but not enough to risk looking bad by abandoning his position to help his wife. The dance goes on, Kieler thought with disgust.
The next rotation occurred almost smoothly as the couples closed the gap and tightened the circle. Kieler couldn’t decide if that was talented dancing or callousness toward the missing couple.
During the rotation, he happened a glance at Fechua just off the dance floor. Her face was a frozen mask of utter horror, her hands stopped in mid-air between claps. In a moment he understood, more instinctively than logically.
This altered the pairings. Would they now be truly random? That could be interesting. More alert, he wondered, what could be so bad?
With each rotation, spreading both ways from the missing couple, odds were now dancing with evens, and evens were dancing at odds.
Still, things were not horrible. After four rotations, eight couples were mis-paired and none seemed to be particularly bitter rivals.
But it was like a wheel of fate. Where would it stop?
Kieler saw Ferdando Ashperis looking down the circle. The handsome young man caught the eye of Callia and they were unabashedly thrilled that they were converging with a distinct chance they could end up together. Callia actually raised her hands to her face to cover a surprised but excited flush.
The onlookers from the sidelines were rising to their feet in a growing buzz of excited murmuring. Other dancers were trying to figure it out, looking ahead to see who they might get paired with. Kieler spied Forcheso Parchiki, the look of concern on his face twisting into outrage.
As Kieler moved with each rotation, the crowd noise around them grew. Everyone was on their feet.
He suddenly realized, as the music began to transition, that this couldn’t be random; it was somehow cleverly deliberate. And that begged the monumental question, had the secret planner destined someone for him?
The intensity of the music grew as if the musicians sensed impending disaster. He tried to peer between the women but now didn’t have the angle. There was a long fermata to allow the dancers to adjust their steps to their final partner, the circle made its final rotation, and from behind another large matron came his ultimate partner.
Feleanna.
Kieler lost composure, stumbling into position. This whole thing must have been rigged just to embarrass him. But Feleanna was just as outraged, if not more! And the other couples… Kieler didn’t know all their histories.
The crowd around them was in uproar. Shouts. “What nerve!” “How indecent!”
Face to face with Feleanna Cortatti, he and she were supposed to bow in the extended notes before the next movement. Neither did.
Her features sharp and her deep red dress exquisite and sensual, the heated flush would have been beautiful—had not every degree of hatred been blazing to consume him. Her flint-green eyes shot daggers, and her perfect smile was more of a smirk that said, “this night’s not over till you are dead!”
Kieler was not prepared. He felt weak, but rallied his bravado to counter her deadly glare with a look of arrogant amusement, trying to pretend as if it were he who arranged this whole fantastic debacle.
As the music re-started, they, like puppets to its lilt, came together for the first sequence, the men escorting the ladies around the small domain in which they would spend the rest of their term. Thinking as fast as his confusion would allow, he held her arm and looked at her like a secret lover.
Fuming, Feleanna seemed to be gathering for an explosion. But she held off, like a balloon filling beyond its limits. Her first words, however, were not the vitriol he expected. “How did you get that sigil through the magnetic Eks?”
Caught completely off guard, Kieler fought to hide his surprise.
She bared her teeth again in disdainful mirth. “You didn’t know, did you? Which means…” She trailed off, piecing something together. “You ill-witted usurper. That sigil, and Vel’s, are the only ones not crafted out of precious metals. Velik and the first Ortessi hated the sigils, so they mounted the jewels in a base metal, iron, to evoke humility. You’re the first, blatantly arrogant Ortessi to ever wear a sigil to this gala.” She spat a short laugh, letting it sink in that his mission of the night before was, in a way, pointless.
Kieler knew he went red, but a retort came easy to his tongue. “And of course, your contempt of sigils is evident by your coveted collection.”
The reference to his intrusion of her home stoked her rage. “No one violates our keep and lives. No one mocks Cortatti!”
As Kieler processed the information and the threat, Feleanna took advantage of his distraction, and while ostensibly raising her arms to twirl, she speared her fingers into his wounded shoulder.
Since landing in the tree, it hadn’t hurt much.
He clenched his teeth and writhed to stop from screaming.
Thankfully, the next few measures had them twirling away from each other followed by a hesitation. He used the respite to push away the pain in his shoulder and regain his situational awareness.
Not far down the
circle of paired dancers was the ashen-faced Executive Chair and, raging red, Balfani Telander. Evidently, Kieler and Feleanna were not the only victims. Balfani stood stock still, refusing to dance and yet refusing to walk away. Ek Threzhel was lamely moving through the steps, clearly baffled at how to respond to such a calamity. If this had been a rebellion in his magal mines, he’d know what to do. But this was a social crisis.
With a quick double-take to the other side, Kieler saw Forcheso Parchiki and Sindia Corch dancing, if it could be called that, on the floor—horizontally. There was no pretense as they all-out wrestled and punched, the nasty Cortatti giving the older Parchiki an even match. Amazingly, no-one tried to break them up. The guards looked at each other completely stymied.
Feleanna reclaimed his attention as the next moves brought them close again. She added gloating and cursing as her repartee degraded to base abuse. “You ignorant imposter! You coming here is like checking yourself into a butcher shop on a hook. I’ll grind you up like kovar meat!” she hissed. “Maggot infested, fetid, trampled, kovar meat!”
That barrage helped take his mind off the pain. He had, after all, worked with underworld roughs since adolescence. He knew how to insult. “What fetching words. Fetching Feleanna! And what’s that fragrance you’re wearing? Eau d’grevon? Or have you been bathing in wine? It’s quite becoming—”
She, evidently, had not acquired a tolerance for being insulted, and her anger flared into a barely controlled assault. In between what were supposed to be close and conversational waltz steps, she slapped him at the finish of each turn. After the first two, Kieler knew when to duck. He managed to catch and stubbornly hold her high hand, keeping his other hand boldly on her well-muscled hip.
The verbal banter disappeared as they both concentrated on dancing and bashing each other. Even as he did so, he wondered why everyone continued the façade of the dance. Propriety?!
She aimed an in-time, close-in kick to his groin, and he had to let go of her hip and yank her to one side to avoid it. The crowd was screaming. While continuing his defensive dancing, he could hear several couples flat out yelling at each other.
