Michael Flynn - The January Dancer

“Old Earth,” said the Fudir, “had a dozen of them. They were like a wall around the world. Twelve-Gated Terra, she was called. People came from around the old Commonwealth just to see them from space. It’s said that Earth’s day was lengthened more than a minute by the conservation of angular momentum. No one knows how many tens of thousands died when the Dao Chettians scythed them down. Now your oldest planets have two or three apiece, and you think it’s a marvel of science.”

“It’s not science, ” said Bridget ban. “It’s engineering . Ancient superstitions have nothing to do with beanstalks.”

“And where do you think those engineering formulas came from? Someone had to think them up in the first place, right?”

“Losh,” said Bridget ban, “I’ll ha’ nae religious arguments here.”

The posse contrived to meet as if by chance in the Great Green Square, where Congress Hall and the PM’s Residence were must-see attractions. Both had been built over the course of several generations in the early years of Chu State, although they served now for the planetary government. They featured the tall, ornamented towers of that age. Giant mosaics of colored tiles, cleverly laid to use the angle of view from street level, turned the sharp-slanted roofs into murals. One showed an eagle fighting a snake; another showed a horseman charging across a snow-draped plain. There were spots on the Great Green, marked by low, railed platforms, from which each mural appeared as three-dimensional. Admission was monitored by a sullen young woman from Megranome, since no Forsaken would accept such a menial job.

Hugh took his turn and was delighted to see how the artist’s use of forced perspective caused the horseman to appear as if riding out of the very roof itself. He asked the guide how it was done and the Megranomer replied in a dull monotone that “tile-artists of the Cullen Era were masters of the geometry of optics” and that the horseman was “Christopher Chu Himself bringing word of the Brythonic attack to Boss Pyotr.” Hugh gathered that he was not the first ever to ask the question. Hugh wondered briefly who Christopher Chu Himself was before the girl called time on him and he stepped down from the platform to encounter “Kalim,” the manservant to “Lady Melisond.”

O happy chance!

Of course, it has all been carefully choreographed ahead of time; but Hugh had already encountered two other people he had met on Die Bold, so the usefulness of the charade was beyond question. “Reggie, meechee!” he cried for the benefit of onlookers. “I thought Lady Melisonde was going to Friesing’s World. I must tell my straw Benlever and we will have lunch together. Have you seen the tiled rooftops? An effect of the most amazing!”

The Fudir glanced at the galloping horseman on the roof of the PM’s Residence. “I wonder if he had his treachery already in mind.”

“Who?”

“Chu. You know this peninsula was called Chu State in the early days. There were four or five refugee camps here, south of the marshes.”

“Unified by Chu?”

“No, by someone called Bossman Sergei. There was a whole dynasty of ‘Bossmen,’ and the Chus were their majordomos.”

“You mean, like a tainiste ?”

“More like glorified butlers. The story there”—he nodded to the rooftop—“is that Bossman Pyotr wouldn’t believe Chu’s warning about a winter attack; so Chu improvised a hasty defense along the Challing River and repulsed the Brythons. Afterward, the people demanded he become the new Bossman.”

“And it wasn’t like that?”

The Fudir shrugged. “It’s the official history, so it’s probably wrong. I don’t know that Chu planned to seize power from the beginning; but…Ah! Here’s Lady Melisonde.” He bowed from the waist. “Lady, see who I’ve found.”

Bridget ban wore an ankle-length gown of emerald-green edged in gilt geometries, and a matching pillbox cap with a half veil hanging across her face. She offered her hand, saying, “Ringbao! Top of the morning to ye!”

Hugh bowed and pressed the hand to his lips in the High Taran fashion. “And the rest of the day to yourself,” he replied, repressing his instinct to reply in the more vulgar Eireannaughta fashion.

Shortly, Tol Benlever had joined them and Kalim led them to the Green, where they claimed a table. Lady Melisonde ordered drinks from the dumbwaiter—four Ruby Roses—and shortly a machine of some sort rolled up to their table with flute glasses inserted in matching sockets.

They each took one and Melisonde said, “’Saken mechs are quite clever, don’t you think? They employ these automated servants for all sorts of menial tasks.”

“Whatever will the Terrans do for jobs,” murmured Kalim.

“Well, they don’t speak out of turn,” said Tol Benlever, with a significant glance at Kalim. When Lady Melisonde said, “Go,” and the autoservant left, he chuckled. “And they listen better than Terrans, too.”

“Ah, but a human waiter can anticipate your needs,” Ringbao pointed out. “I suspect that autoservant can only do what it’s told. And before you jape on that, my straw, ” he added to Benlever, “may I remind you that cunning is to be prized wherever it is found.”

“Granted,” said the Krinthic trader. “Say, have any of you seen that nice Alabastrine woman we met on Die Bold? I think she was coming here, too.”

Three shakes of the head. “’Tis a grand, big planet, Tol, darling,” said Melisonde. “I much suppose we’ll run into her by and by.” She raised her glass. “Our mutual successes.”

They all drank. Hugh found the liqueur thick, almost syrupy, and with a distinct cherry aftertaste. “Not bad,” he said. “Though I’d not drink it in quantity.”

“You couldn’t afford it in quantity,” said Benlever. “It’s one of the ‘padded wines’ they make in the Dalhousie Valley here,” he added for the others’ benefit. “I’m to meet with their master vintner tomorrow to discuss a trade deal. We may sample enough there to satisfy even Ringbao’s refined taste. Haha!” The others chuckled and pressed him for details, but he smiled and touched the side of his nose to indicate that those details were a trade secret.

“What of your brother,” Kalim said to his mistress. He meant Grimpen. “You thought he might be here.”

“I’ve seen no sign of him, I fear. I wish that omadhaun had left word where he’d be staying. At least he didn’t do anything boorish to get his name in the news feeds.” She meant that Grimpen had not openly named himself a Hound to the authorities. Yet if he was “flying low,” he might be very difficult to find, nor desirous of being found.

“I can ask around,” said Kalim. “I have friends here. They may’ve seen him.” He meant the Terran Corner of Chel’veckistad.

Lady Melisonde nodded. “So long as you are back in time for my country drive. I do so want to see the Northbound Hills.”

They ordered a lunch of quagmire soup—a chowder of corn and seafood similar to the chow pinggo that Hugh had grown up with—and thick “glutton” sandwiches of fried black bread filled with fish, sausage, cheese, and tomatoes. To accompany the meal, they ordered a local beer called Snowflake. Then, having established for anyone listening their companionship, they broke up. Hugh went to arrange fallback lodgings under different names. Greystroke vanished into the crowd on the Green to look for signs of a populace already ensnared by the Dancer. And the Fudir slipped off to change clothes and plumb the Corner while Bridget ban set out to look for her “brother.”

The Forsaken Archives on Udjenya Street, two blocks off the Great Green, was an impressively large building and bore a motto across its facade in a script and language that Hugh did not recognize—most likely one of those tongues, now forgotten, spoken by some of the original deportees. He supposed the motto was imposing and inspirational to anyone who could read it.