The January Dancer

by Michael Flynn

  When the train pulled up he entered an empty capsule and keyed in the address of the hotel where “Benlever” and “Melisond” were staying. The system would shunt the capsule to the proper lines and bring it to the nearest station. The doors hissed closed and the train slid forward gathering speed. Through the window he saw the hired women welcoming two men who had stepped off another capsule. Then the train was sliding high over the rooftops with nothing but the night beyond them.

  An Craic

  Evening has come to the plaza in the Corner and the stones of the fountain have grown chilled, for the blank-faced buildings have tossed their shadows across the square and pinched the sunlight into streams pouring from the narrow passageways. Down those arcades and alleys, plaster and stucco walls glow a golden red, as if they led to fabulous palaces just out of sight. The scarred man grunts and, leveraging himself on his knees, pushes to his feet and offers his arm. “Come,” he says. “The Corner is not a good place to be at night.” As if to underline his point, the harper hears the sounds of shutters closing, of locks tumbling, of bars sliding into place.

  “I will buy you a dinner,” she says. “At the Hostel.”

  But the old man shakes his head. “Such fare’s too rich for the likes of me. I’ll dine one day at the frozen center of Hel, and I’m saving up my appetite.”

  She slings her harp case over her shoulder and takes his arm. “No,” she insists. “There is a meal I’ve always wanted to buy, and I’ll not be denied.”

  The scarred man says nothing and the two walk slowly down Merry Weather Alley, toward Greaseline. After a moment, he pats her hand gently. “Thank you,” he says. “We’ve always wondered what came of it in the end. Whether it was all worth it.”

  The harper fears to respond. Matters are too delicate; the most hesitant of touches could shatter them. Instead, she returns to the story. “Your Other Olafsson was too fortuitous. I thought her appearance bad art.”

  “Oh, her appearance was bad enough without bringing art into it. There was nothing sudden to her. She’s been there all along, lurking in my prepositional phrases and subordinate clauses. It’s not that you haven’t been warned. She’d been to see the Committee of Seven; she followed Greystroke into and out of the Corner. She directed Micmac Anne to the Fudir’s table. She has loitered now and then in the background of my tale.”

  “I don’t understand why she saved Hugh from the ICC assassins.”

  The scarred man chuckles. “Oh, listen to the sound of your assumptions rattling! Your head is like a castanet. You’ve forgotten that she and Qing were sent with a mission. She wanted to remind her colleague about that mission, and the sniper threatened to damage the medium she planned to use for the message.”

  “She didn’t know Greystroke was Greystroke?”

  A slow shake of the head. “We think not. But she is the one player in that dance that we’ve never spoken with, so who knows what she knew?”

  “But why so roundabout? Why not approach Greystroke—Qing, as she thought—directly?”

  “Because her task was to kill Qing if he failed in his duty. That is an intimate relationship, and like the bride and the groom, it isn’t seemly for the one to see the other before the day of consummation.”

  “But…Donovan’s task was routine. An investigation of cross-Rift traffic. Next to the Dancer…Ah. Ravn didn’t know about the Dancer.”

  “Or she didn’t care. Couriers are remarkably focused. She must have known from her own visit to the Seven that the Fudir was the key, and the Fudir had gone to New Eireann for his own reasons. So she didn’t worry when ‘Qing’ also went to New Eireann. She waited on Jehovah, knowing he’d be coming back with his quarry. But then, instead of forcing the Fudir to take him to Donovan, ‘Qing’ hared off to Peacock Junction with him. That didn’t add up—unless Donovan had also gone to Peacock—so she followed them on what you might call ‘yellow alert.’ Then when he continued on to Die Bold, it began to look like he was shirking his duty. Hence, the reminder. A courier doesn’t jump to conclusions. It might be that the best place to learn about cross-Rift traffic was near the Rift, and Donovan might have gone there ahead of them.”

  “Wouldn’t Ravn be suspicious that ‘Qing’ was associating with a Hound?”

  “Again, it’s hard to say. She followed ‘Qing’ but may have reached Peacock Junction after the two had conferred. So all she saw was a Hound’s ship following Qing onto an uncharted ramp.”

  “And so she followed. That must have taken nerve.”

  “Nerve has never been short rations among that lot. Here. Let’s go down these steps. There’s a restaurant at the edge of the Corner, on Menstrit. They serve a delicious chicken tikka. If you want to buy us a dinner, it’s cheaper there than at the Hostel.”

  “The cost doesn’t matter.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind spending less. Perhaps there we can bring this squalid tale to an end.”

  The harper laughs. “In what way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said there are three ways in which a thing may reach an end, and so far you’ve mentioned termination and perfection. What is the third way? Surely, the story has not perfected itself! Too many pieces are yet missing!”

  “Ah. The third kind of end is purpose.”

  “You mean the tale must achieve a purpose, a moral.”

  “No, that a teller may have a purpose in telling it.”

  Suantraí: Grass Pyjamas

  Greystroke was a virtuoso in the use of anycloth. By cleverly manipulating its pattern against his backdrop, he could make himself seem from a distance to be fatter or thinner than he was. He could break up the contours and outline of his body. He had spent the day as a fly on a great many walls; not, indeed, in solitary corners or in shadows—for no man is so conspicuous as a man alone—but in convivial company at those taverns and restaurants where ICC personnel gathered after work. He could, when he wanted, look like someone else’s friend. And in the whirl of aimless chatter an anonymous question at just the right moment could, like a seed crystal, condense conversation around a particular topic.

  All in all, a good day’s work. A good day and half the night! (Die Bolders no longer spent long hours at work, but they invested considerable time in its aftermath.) It waited now only to find what Hugh had learned from the officer who had jumped ship. And what Bridget ban had discovered, using her own less savory methods on the ICC factor.

  The Crown Royal Hotel, on the west side of the Place of the Chooser, by Ferry Street, was not the most sumptuous hotel on Die Bold, but was suited to the station of such well-to-do travelers as Julienne Lady Melisond or Tol Benlever. The staff was attentive to their needs, but not so attentive as to inhibit their activities.

  Greystroke stepped out of the lift tube and by habit walked close to the wall. His clothing took on a color and pattern that complemented the wallpaper without becoming too obviously a camouflage. He was halfway down the hall when a door opened, and he sidestepped without thinking into the alcove leading to the darkened concierge’s lounge.

  It was the Fudir’s room that opened, but it was Bridget ban who emerged in a long, sheer robe the color of her hair. The Fudir, also in a robe, stood in the doorway. He looked younger than he usually did and his smile was that of the cat who drank the cream. Bridget ban ran her fingers through the Fudir’s hair and gave him a small, quick kiss before turning toward her own room. Greystroke’s jaw clenched, but only for a moment. Why blame the Fudir for taking the bait when it was offered to one and all?

  The Fudir’s door closed and Greystroke stepped from the alcove as Bridget ban passed him, taking a position in her blind spot. When she opened the door to her own room, he stepped in behind and moved around her when she turned to shut it.

  Most women would have started, perhaps cried out, to find another unexpectedly in the room with them. Bridget ban merely regarded him for a moment before proceeding into the parlor of her suite. Greystroke followed.

&
nbsp; “You should nae use those tricks of yours on our own,” she said.

  “I could say the same of you.”

  Bridget ban did not ask what he meant. She crossed to a stuffed, high-back chair and crossed her legs. This allowed the flap of her dressing gown to fall open, revealing golden brown thigh up to the hip. “Poor gray man. You can nae help wonder how you might compare to our Fudir.”

  “Pfaugh. I know your tricks. Like that one.” He waved a hand at her exposed leg as he took a seat on a sofa opposite. “And knowing them for artifice, I’m not affected.”

  “Aye,” she said. “That’s why I can relax with you, and be only myself.” She pulled the edges of her robe together, concealing her limbs.

  “You were going to interrogate the ICC factor; but instead you wasted your time with Fudir. Were you unable to find go-Hidei? Unable to seduce him?”

  Her smile was a little puffy, her hair somewhat tousled. She tossed her head and the tangled red tresses waved. Her robe, neglected, parted once more as she shifted position. “Or was he nae so time-consuming a man. Men o’ his ilk dream o’ beautiful strangers seducing them for nae reason at all, and seldom question their good fortune. ’Twas child’s play. An’ mickle return for mickle effort. He knows nothing and, worse, knows he knows nothing. He was nae told o’ the fleet or its mission, and resents being, as he put it, ‘out of the loop.’ He so wanted me to pity him. He wanted, I think, his mother.”

  “And he got you. Cu, I think it coarsens you.”

  She turned her head away. “Can the berating nae wait on the morrow? The night is gae late, and I’m for bed.”

  She moved as if to rise and Greystroke said tightly, “I would think that you’d been in enough beds for one night.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why, ye’re jealous, Pup, aren’t ye?”

  Greystroke examined his conscience. “I’m afraid so. A small bit. One cannot help one’s enzymes. It’s not me you should worry about.”

  “The Fudir, then? The Fudir is a man of parts.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Tae each man, his gift. Yours is simplicity. Ye ha’ nae parts, but are a seamless whole. Ye’d nae could do wha’ ye do without that true simplicity. As for the Fudir, I find him…engaging.”

  “And what am I?”

  “So. You do want to know how ye compare tae him.”

  “It’s always a means with you, and never an end. ‘Business before pleasure,’ as I think the Terrans say.”

  Sudden tears started in the eyes of Bridget ban. “An’ d’ye despise me so!” She stood and turned away from him, hiding her face. “But that dart can nae hurt,” she added in a low, sad voice, “’less it finds its mark. Ye’re right, Pup. Aye, ye’re right. It does coarsen.”

  Greystroke stood, too, and took a step toward her. “That needn’t be true, Francine.”

  She turned a tear-tracked face to him.

  “Cu…” he said.

  “Come to me.”

  Later, he said, “This can’t possibly mean anything to you.”

  And she answered, “Anything is possible.”

  Little Hugh returned within the hour, banging on hotel doors and calling the others out in a variety of dishevelment to tell them what had happened. This could not wait until morning! Bridget ban concurred and soon everyone was gathered in her parlor.

  The assassination of the Gat was ominous enough, they agreed. How much did the ICC know? But the appearance of the Other Olafsson was as alarming as a scorpion in a picnic basket.

  “And she gave me a message to deliver to the two of you,” Hugh told Greystroke and the Fudir.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” said the Fudir.

  “Bad luck for you, then,” said Greystroke. “I’ll be harder for her to track than you.”

  “The Fudir no work CCW,” insisted the Terran. “I no their bhisti.”

  Greystroke’s smile was not kind. “You know that, and perhaps I know that; but if she apologizes to your corpse afterward, what difference to you? You thought to play at the margins of the Great Game and not get taken? The more fool, you.”

  “I don’t think she knew about the Dancer,” Hugh said before the argument could more than blink. “She wanted you to focus on your original assignment.”

  Greystroke laughed. “My original assignment was from Fir Li—to find Donovan.”

  “So was Olafsson Qing’s,” Bridget ban reminded him. “But that mission must wait for the non. ’Tis the Dancer that matters, not the Dark-hound’s statistical anomalies. I’m more concerned about the assassins. The ICC does nae do such things. That men are greedy does nae make them murderous.”

  The Fudir waved his hand. “Es mock nix,” he said. “Most ICC oakiedoke, yes. But how many bad to make big dikh? You say, factor, he no know nothing.”

  Bridget ban nodded slowly. “Nothing about the fleet, which I suppose means ‘nothing about the Dancer.’”

  “At least some in the fleet learned what the Dancer is,” said Hugh, “and mutinied to keep it from Lady Cargo. There may be a civil war within the ICC itself. But if the commodore had the scepter, how could anyone have gone against him?”

  “I could guess,” said Bridget ban.

  “Guesses!” said the Fudir.

  “Hear her,” said Greystroke. “Her guesses are more solid than most people’s evidence.”

  “No one in the phantom fleet knew what it was they were supposed to seize. ‘A prehuman artifact,’ they were told. They were but recovering property stolen from the ICC on New Eireann. Can ye imagine Radha Lady Cargo entrusting anyone else wi’ the possession of Stonewall’s Scepter? Hardly! But a muckle o’ ICC’s household troops come from the Old Planets, and the behavior o’ the artifact—its slow stone dancing—would ha’ reminded some of the ancient legend. Perhaps there was a struggle for its possession; perhaps some, like Todor, fought to keep anyone from possessing it. But once the commodore realized and gained hold of it, resistance evaporated, save those ships that severed communication with the flagship. You can nae obey a voice you can’t hear.”

  “But Todor wanted to go home,” said Hugh, “not wherever his ship was headed, so they dropped him on Die Bold. Why did he wonder if Gatmander was far enough from ’Saken to escape?”

  Greystroke spoke up. “Does anyone know if a recorded voice would have the same effect? No? If it does, Lady Cargo could record commands to submit and send them out to every world in the Spiral Arm, even far Gatmander.”

  “And why bother,” asked the Fudir, “to send a kill team to track this Todor down? If Lady Cargo does have the Dancer, everyone will know it soon enough. And those within reach of her voice won’t even care.”

  “‘The best-kept secret in the Spiral Arm,’” Hugh remembered.

  “Does Lady Cargo knows there’s a Hound on her trail?” Greystroke said. “If she had eyes and ears on Peacock, they would’ve sent word the moment you came asking about the phantom fleet.”

  But Bridget ban shook her head. “I don’t think the ’Cockers knew anything. They were protecting their secret ramps, not the fleet. I think the fleet worried them, too.”

  “Though not worried enough to cooperate with you,” Hugh pointed out. He rose and went to the kitchen to brew tea for everyone.

  “No, they’re nae good at thinking ahead,” the Hound answered. “The fleet triggered their paranoia—and I was the immediate threat.”

  When he had filled the hotel’s flash-boiler and set the tea ball in the samovar, Hugh returned and stood behind his chair. “How long before the Other Olafsson figures things out?”

  The others fell silent and looked one to the other.

  “She was in the Bar when January told the story about the Dancer,” the Fudir ventured. “She’d heard something about a ‘Dancing Stoon,’ but no details. She’s not stupid and the ’Feds have their own stories about the prehumans. If she hasn’t figured it out by now, it shouldn’t take her too much longer.”

  “She knew who you were,” Greystrok
e remembered. “She pointed you out to Anne.”

  “Ja, and she knew I’d gone with January to New Eireann, and what name I’d used.”

  Greystroke nodded. “And she’d met with the Seven before I got there. She knew Qing’s assignment and learned you were the link to Donovan. But she stood by protocol. She waited until I showed up, and stayed on Jehovah until I returned with you in tow. Heighing off to Peacock must have puzzled her; so she followed. But was she at Peacock long enough to learn about our interest in the phantom fleet? Or that the fleet had taken the Dancer from the Cynthians? No, I don’t see how she can piece it together.”

  “Not until after she does,” the Fudir commented. “Then you’ll see it.”

  Hugh looked at the clock on the wall. “Morning news feed,” he said. “I’d like to know what they’re saying about the killings at the Mild Beast. We may have to duck the Die Bold bobbers if we’re to get to ’Saken.”

  Greystroke spoke while Hugh fiddled with the ’face on the wall, bringing up the news feed to the hotel’s screen. “If Lady Cargo has the Dancer, going to ’Saken may not be our best move. One word, and we’d be her adoring slaves. And if I’m to be any woman’s adoring slave, she’d not be my first choice.”

  “It wouldn’t be your choice in either case,” said the Fudir, glancing at Bridget ban.

  Greystroke bristled and made to rise, but Hugh hushed everyone. “It’s cycling into the city news now.”

  The others turned to the screen on the wall. Bridget ban said, “Do you think anyone saw you?”

  Hugh raised his brows. “A deserted street, late at night? Of course, someone saw us. There were a lot of window—Hush. That’s Alkorry Street.”

  Another Killing in Crossford District, the newsreader told them. Three dead, all outlanders. Rifle duel in Alkorry Street leaves both dead. Bystander killed while leaving local. Bad timing, eh what? Your comments on our site. Does allowing outlanders to come and go freely put our citizens at risk? We Want to Know. Robert seeking two witnesses. Sketches from residents.