Michael Flynn - The January Dancer

A few heads glanced his way when he entered, but only for momentary scrutiny. Yes, thought Hugh, a very private people, even in public. He found an empty table and sat there until a barmaid came by, cleaned it, and took his order. The men’s choir shifted to a different song, this one involving Dusty Shiv Sharma, “the best Beastie boy o’er all the High Plains.”

Hugh settled in, watching for anyone with the bearing of a ship’s officer and the peculiar rhythm of Gatmander speech. He saw a plaid-turbaned Chettinad sharing a booth with a local businessman and two capable-looking hired women. Shortly afterward, a tall, thin Alabastrine woman entered from the street and took a position foot a-rail at the bar. Everyone else had that dough-faced, rather wistful look of the Die Bolder born. Hugh drank his stout with some satisfaction. A Gat would stand out in this crowd.

Two mugs later, a short, burly man entered the Mild Beast and received a few nods of recognition from others. His skin had the appearance of leather, both in color and in texture and his clothing had the nondescript look of castoffs, but Hugh could see the darker spots on the fabric where insignia had once been sewn. Hugh’s suspicions were confirmed when the newcomer faced the barman and said, “With regard to the rum unto me, there is an occasion of thirst.”

Without turning, the Gat lifted a glass of rum high and said to the room at large, “Die bold!”

The locals lifted their own drinks in turn and “Live bolder!” rumbled in a dozen throats, above which the Alabastrine could be heard piping “Leaf boolder!”

Hugh emptied his mug in a single long swallow and carried it to the bar. Hugh could see that the Gat watched his approach in the mirror, and his hand crept near the open flap of his jacket. Hugh placed the mug on the bar. “Draw black,” he said. When the barman had filled it, Hugh lifted the mug to the stranger. “Far Gatmander.”

The Gat looked him over and the skin of his face tightened. “Not far enough.” He shot back the rum and thrust the empty glass straight-arm to the barman, who filled it without taking it from the spacer’s fingers.

“Not many outlanders here,” Hugh said. “Would you like to join me?”

Leather-face grunted. He shifted the glass to his left hand and held the right out as before, beckoning with his fingers until the barman put the rum bottle in their grip. “The invitation as it regards myself is acceptable,” the Gat said.

Hugh led him back to the table. “My name’s Ringbao,” he said, not entirely lying.

The Gat gathered glass and bottle into his left hand and held out his right, which Hugh took briefly. “The name as it pertains to me is Todor,” he admitted, taking his seat. He poured another glass and lifted it to eye level. “It shows a pretty color. And”—he sipped—“a prettier taste.”

“What brings a Gat all the way to Die Bold?” Hugh asked.

Todor gave him another look and let the silence lengthen before he said, “A ship,” in front of another sip of rum. This time, he set the glass down on the table half empty. “With regard to the years upon me, there have been many,” he said.

Meaning he wasn’t born yesterday, so get on with it. Hugh nodded. “We heard you were with the fleet that passed through Die Bold a month ago.”

The other grunted again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the table. “We,” he said.

“Myself and a few friends.”

Another sip. “And regarding the information, what will be paid by you?”

“What is your price?”

The Gat drew in his breath. “A ticket. Passage to Gatmander.”

Hugh knew that the Kennel had deep pockets, and passage on a Hadley liner would not be the greatest expense the team would incur. “Done,” he said.

Todor sighed and looked down at his large, gnarled hands, which played with the glass of rum. “On Gatmander, far Gatmander,” he sung, more off-key than even the quartet drinking around the piano, “on the very edge of skies…” He blinked and looked away for a moment. Then he added, “And maybe it lies far enough. Aye, far enough. Beyond the reach of Radha Lady Cargo.”

Hugh nodded. Suspicions confirmed. “Company cops after you?”

Todor glanced briefly at the door. “Soon enough. There was a bauble she wanted and the thought was in me that she oughtn’t have it. There was talk, there was black mutiny, and ship fired upon ship. But as regards the commodore, there was an occasion of success; and obedience and remorse overcame the unruly, save only those ships that severed all communication and fled. The commodore’s ship was wounded, but the prize was his, and perhaps by now, Lady Cargo’s. Here’s to hope,” he added, raising his glass, “that the ship of the commodore foundered on the ’Saken road.”

Hugh reached out a hand. “Come with me. My friends need to hear this, too.”

Todor drew back suddenly and stared at him narrow-eyed. One could almost hear the creak of leather in that squint. “And for why with respect to you should there be unto me an occasion of trust?”

“Because we mean to take that ‘bauble’ back.”

“Do you?” Todor drank a swallow directly from his rum bottle. “Against Cargo House itself?”

“We were ready to take the Hadramoo,” Hugh said mildly.

The Gat shook his head. “As it pertains to you, there is an occasion of madness. By now it’s too late, and a man ought to increase, not decrease, the distance to Old ’Saken. Not that it will matter in the end.”

“Oh?” said Hugh. “And why not?”

Todor laughed. “The best-kept secret in the Spiral Arm…All right. As regards myself, what matter whether you command or Lady Cargo—when Gatmander ears lie far from your voice and hers alike? For the price of the transit, the story will be told. And well damned be all of you.” He stood again and Hugh stood with him and they left the Mild Beast together, climbing the short flight to the dark, deserted street.

Hugh paused to consult his wrist strap for directions and Todor seized the moment to lift the rum bottle to his lips.

The bottle exploded, and for a mad instant Hugh thought, That is powerful rum! But his instincts preserved him and he dove for cover behind a dustbin, pulling Todor to the ground with him, just as a second shot struck the bricks. “It wasn’t a trap,” he said to the Gat. “I swear I didn’t lead you into a trap.” But he saw that, as regarding Todor, there was no occasion for assurance. The bullet that had shattered the bottle had continued into the mouth and out the back of the head, and amid the blood, brain, and bone that spattered the wall where he had stood was whatever else he had been prepared to tell.

A third shot struck the dustbin, penetrated, and rattled about inside. Hugh wanted to shout that he was not one of the ICC renegades. But he knew the assassin would take no chances. Whatever secret Todor had been killed to preserve might easily have been revealed already to his companions. Hugh shivered. It had taken weeks for the assassin to track his man down. Those companions could include everyone inside the Mild Beast.

Hugh pulled from his jacket the knife he had purchased on Jehovah. The sica did not seem much. It was an assassin’s weapon, not very useful for defending a position; but it was all he had. He frisked Todor’s body and found a small caliber handgun. He weighed it in his hand, thought about it, then he pressed it into the dead man’s hand, curling the finger around the trigger. He found a trash bag that had missed the dustbin and propped the arm on it so that the gun could be seen around the corner.

He peered into the darkness, seeking the sniper’s position. Todor had stood thus, had lifted the bottle so, and the bullet that had killed him had come from…He saw the building across the street, the slight flutter of drapes, the open window on the second floor. …from there. But the killer had most likely shifted. An assassin who stays too long in one place is a fool…usually a dead fool.