Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe

“There’s punch, if you’d rather,” Pat Rin murmured, and Miri laughed as she poured cider into a cup.

“Think I don’t know better’n Audrey’s punch?” she asked.

“The wine, then,” Pat Rin countered. “It’s quite pleasant.”

She sent a sparkling glance up into his face. “Oughta be, considering it came out of our cellar.” She sipped. “That’s good,” she sighed, and gestured vaguely with the cup. “Only way we could get Shan to come was to promise there’d be something drinkable on the table.”

“Doubtless,” Pat Rin said dryly, and she laughed again.

“Cut a fine figure out on the floor,” she commented, her eyes on the languid dancers. “Bet you could dance all night, if there was need.”

It was his turn to laugh, softly. “I hope that I do not shame my host or my lady,” he murmured. “But I have long since given over dancing until dawn.”

“Not quite ‘til dawn, I’m guessing,” Miri said, as the music swept into a crescendo, the ‘chora’s voice suddenly and achingly clear. She knocked back the last of her cider and put the cup on the table.

Pat Rin glanced at his cup, finished the last swallow and thought about pouring another before he went in search of Andy Mack, and—

“Over here!” Miri called, and put her hand on his arm.

Pat Rin went still. “What?” he snapped.

“Easy. It ain’t nothin’ more than this special dance Audrey has it in her head we all gotta do together. Family thing.”

“I have already danced—”

“One more!” Villy cried, arriving in a swirl of exuberance. “You have to, sir! You’re the Boss!”

“Ah.” He considered the boy’s flushed face. “How if I appoint Boss Calhoon to stand up in my place?”

“Won’t work,” Mid said. “Penn gets the least bit warm and his glasses fog up on him.”

“Besides not being family?” he asked, but she only grinned, and nodded toward the floor, where stood surely all the members of Clan Koval present at the party, saving herself, Val Con, and Lady Kareen, who was at the edge of the rug, between Clonak ter’Meulen and Andy Mack, her face so perfectly bland that Pat Rin shivered.

“Miri...” he began, but she was gone, walking toward the group assembled in a loose circle at the center of the floor.

“Come on, sir!” Villy tugged his hand. “They’re waiting for you!”

It was on the edge of his tongue to snap that they might wait for him until the snow melted. However, good manners overcame bad grace, and he allowed himself to be led out onto the floor. Hoots and whistles came from some of the spectators on the rug, and Lady Kareen’s face grew blander still.

At the edge of the circle, Villy relinquished his hand, bowed his liquid, meaningless bow, and skipped back toward the refreshment table.

Pat Rin gave a sigh—and another as Natesa came forward to put her hand on his arm.

“A round dance, my love,” she murmured, as she eased him into the circle. “Audrey has asked us most especially to honor her.”

If one’s host desired it, there was nothing more to be said. And certainly he was able for one more dance. Still... He looked into Natesa’s eyes.

“Do I know this dance, I wonder?” he murmured.

She smiled. “I believe you will find that you do,” she answered, and guided him to a gap in the circle between Nova and Priscilla. Having seen him situated, she moved away, slipping into place between Luken and Daav, and smiling at him across the circle.

The drummer beat out a rapid tattoo, sticks flashing, and struck the cymbal a ringing blow, the sound quickly muffled by a cunning hand on the rim.

The room stilled admirably as Ms. Audrey walked out onto the floor, head high, back straight, as proud and as easy as any delm might be within the jewel of her own entertainment.

She raised her hands and spun slowly, showing herself to all gathered.

“You might be wondering,” she said conversationally to the room at large, “why it is that I decided to throw a party in the middle of the winter. One reason is that Miri Robertson over here was getting the silly-stirs, her being a woman who had to go offworld to find enough going on to keep her busy—” She paused to let the general laughter die back, then tipped her head and smiled.

“There’s two other reasons for this gathering, though. And I’m thinking they’re both important enough to want some explaining.

“So, the next reason for the party is that we’re in the middle of a special kinda winter. The first winter in my memory and in all of yours where there ain’t a turf war going on, when the road to the spaceport stands open for its whole length, and where there are not less than five Bosses in this room right now.”

Much shouting, stamping, and whistling erupted. At the edge of the rug, Andy Mack reached out, grabbed Penn Calhoon’s arm and yanked it high into the air. Here and there around the room, the other Bosses were being given similar treatment. The applause ebbed, then swelled again, going on until the drummer rapped out a short, sharp rebuke.

Ms. Audrey waited while the room quieted, then held up her hands.

Silence fell, more or less immediately, and she grinned broadly.

“That’s right. Now, you’ll remember I said three reasons and here’s the third—” She turned, bringing the room’s attention to the circle of Korval, standing ready at the center of the dance floor.

“Boss Conrad and his organization are the reason we can have this party, now, in the middle of winter, without worrying we’ll attract the attention of a rival fatcat.” She looked around the room, spinning slowly on her heel.

“Remember this. Remember this night, this party. And remember who made it all happen.”

The room was utterly quiet for the beat of three, then Andy Mack called out from Lady Kareen’s side, “First of many nights just like it!”

“First of many!” The room took up the cry, hurled it against the ceiling, sustained it—

Once again, the drummer intervened. The shouting subsided slowly, and by the time quiet was more or less achieved, Ms. Audrey was making one of the little group about lady Kareen, her arm tucked companionably through Clonak’s, and Cheever McFarland had waded out of the rugbound observers and onto the dance floor.

It was rare, Pat Rin thought, that one saw Cheever McFarland dressed in other than utilitarian clothing—tough sensible trousers and shirt in neutral colors, sturdy boots, and the inevitable jump pilot’s jacket. Tonight, however—tonight, the big Terran positively turned heads as he moved toward their small circle.

The theme was black—a silk shirt so deep that it shone like onyx, with no ruffles or ballooning sleeves which might entangle a pilot, while the trousers were not so tight as to bind, should a pilot need to move quickly, nor the shiny black boots too snug, should a pilot need to run.

Over the shirt was not the usual battered spaceleather jacket but a vest in opalblue brocade, embroidered with silver rosebuds.

Someone from the group on the rug whistled; Pat Rin suspected Andy Mack. Cheever only grinned his easy grin and raised a big, unringed hand.

“Now, what we’re going to be doing here is something like what’s called a round dance in Boss Conrad’s hometown, and what they called a cue dance back when I learned how, at pilot school. Either name makes sense—a round dance on account it moves ‘round in a circle and a cue dance on account there’s somebody stands outside the circle, who’s got what you might call the big picture, and they’re the one responsible for shouting out signals about what steps to dance.” He put his hand on his chest, and the drummer executed a long, showy roll, which got a laugh from those watching, and a grin from Cheever himself