Michael Flynn - The January Dancer

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,” Greystroke 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.”