Authors: Ru Emerson,A. C. Crispin
"The gold hoops that go here," Khyriz touched her earlobe. "Will you wear them? My mother was fascinated by them."
"If you say so." Alexis kept a hand ready, in case the headpiece fell off, and went out.
Khyriz turned to Magdalena; he looked suddenly shy. "For
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you, my mother chose this." He freed the second
tyra.
Magdalena gazed blankly: gold twined with spindrift threads, like those worked in her sleeve-fringes. The stones were smoothly rounded--blood red.
"But--Khyriz, red stones are for a betrothed! I can't wear this!"
"You can," he replied softly as she hesitated. "You and I are ... are friends, Magdalena. Red stones are not always simply for betrothed. My mother--she sees that in
your
company, I am happy. That you are my ... my truest friend,"
he finished after a slight hesitation. "She sees this--she has seen the fabric Fahara chose for you and for me ... and she picked this. It is her right to give you the honor." He touched the largest of the stones--smoothly rounded, like all Arekkhi gems. "Wear them, Magdalena, when we dance. Please," he added in soft English. Magdalena gazed at him wide-eyed for some
moments, then bent her head so Khyriz could attach the combs. His fingers strayed over the thick mass of hair. "More rare and wonderful than true-fringe," he whispered.
"Khyriz? Fahara just said that word--
ahmakhneh,
true-fringe--and then she looked so odd! What does it mean?"
He smiled faintly and touched her hair again. "A myth. One that came as so many others, from the eastern continent Dagona. But then, so many things came from Dagona, once." But before she could ask what he meant by any of that, he leaned forward to press his cheek against hers and took his leave.
When he returned with the official escort, he was resplendent in silver and spindrift shot with red, the fabric an exact opposite of the translator's glimmering red. No fringes, but the royal
ducat
was stamped in platinum on both sleeves. His ears were nearly invisible, lost in the folds of his padded cap. Fahara came in with him, and her high-waisted silver robe, trimmed in standing black lace, oddly reminded the translator of cavalier garb from her own world eight hundred years earlier. The designer-she hissed Khyriz to a standstill just inside the main room of the second floor and tugged the cap low over one dark eye. Khyriz tweaked his whiskers momentarily flat 184
in protest but let the cap stay where the designer set it.
Fahara's bright glance took in Zhik next, but the Iron Duke's son apparently wore his new fashion to please her: Khyriz blinked at the broad pleats and the glittering bronze sash that snugged them to his middle.
"So, Fahara and you choose to set a new fashion tonight," Khyriz murmured as he drew his cousin aside. "I admire your nerve, Zhik. Your father--''
But Zhik gestured a negative, then enforced it with a human shake of his head. "My father always desires that I wear the newest fashion. Well, he shall have it."
"Zhik, you know full well he does not mean it!"
"I know. In public, tonight, he will accept it."
Khyriz glanced swiftly toward the women, but they were across the main room, introducing themselves to the rest of their escort. "You must be mad!
He will--!"
"He can use nothing but words against me," Zhik said flatly. 'I am his only offspring. What will he do? Murder me? But I can bear his words. And if he threatens me, I will vanish."
"But..."
Zhik's ears flicked; he wasn't as calm as he sounded. "I will vanish, and he knows it. I have told him."
"Zhik, you frighten me."
The noble laid both hands, palm down, on his cousin's shoulders and smiled, his whiskers barely curled."No, Khyriz. For once, you need not worry at all." The curl became pronounced. "The women gaze in our direction, and Alexis makes the ... the
wrinkle ...
between her brows."
Even though the sun had just gone down, the island was already lit with thousands of small lights that crowned buildings or lined the paths and moving walkways. The broad entry to the ballroom was crowded, but the low ramp that led down to the dance floor was unoccupied--tradition, Magdalena knew, and common sense. It allowed those arriving to see where friends and enemies were, to choose their own area for seating from the assortment of open benches, tables, and closed boxes--the latter for private meetings of all kinds.
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Already, hundreds of Arekkhi made bright-colored groups on the vast dance floor. The Emperor and his family occupied the central platform, which was raised now, but could be lowered for the dance-figures led by one or another of the royal pair.
There would be subtle confrontations this night; spies were everywhere, of course, and reputations could be damaged by a poor performance.
Magdalena glanced at Khyriz on her right, gave Alexis beyond him a discreet thumbs up, and let the Prince escort her down the ramp.
Alexis, as interrelator, should have gone first... but the Ukrainian had been adamant: "He's royal and you're a performer. And I'm nervous. You two show-offs take the heat off me.
Sudden silence fell as their party moved onto the floor and crossed it to the seating reserved for them: Someone had already arranged padded benches and cushions marked with Khyriz's
ducat.
Few actually stared or spoke while she could see them, but once they passed, Magdalena could hear the whispered comments. The translator smiled and gestured greetings with her free hand, but actually saw no one to recognize until after they were seated.
Close by, she picked out Khyriz's eldest brother and his lifemate, both in matching green; beyond them, several members of the Grand Council standing together, their mates seated in a group, avidly studying the robes of those seated across the chamber from them. Oddly, it reminded her of New Am: The elders grumbling together at dinner over something while the women sat apart and cheerfully--and maliciously--gossiped. She smoothed spindrift-shot fabric over her knees and bit back laughter: New Am had never been farther from her.
Laughter faded as her eyes picked up two more familiar beings, near the foot of the ramp: the Prelate, plainly clad as always, the enameled mask held over his face, and at his side, the Iron Duke. They were looking directly at her party, and she could almost feel the disdain in both pairs of pale eyes.
She leaned close to Khyriz. "I thought the Prelate didn't attend such nonreligious events."
The Prince's whiskers quirked in a brief smile. "He
claims
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he does not. Nijho's mouth and his body follow two separate paths." He laid the back of one hand against her shoulder, his eyes moving where she gazed. "Pay them no heed."
"I'll try," Magdalena replied honestly. "But after this morning, I thought Zhenu was beginning to accept..." She paused to choose a word.
Khyriz laughed briefly, but his whiskers weren't amused. "Zhenu has more sides than the mirror-ball in Rob's old disco movie," he said. The English words jarred more than his tone of voice. "Besides,
his
displeasure tonight is for Zhik." The translator glanced back at the bronze-clad youth, who was talking animatedly with Alexis and the rest of their escort. "Specifically, for his robe, with its new fashion of pleats and sash."
Magdalena rolled her eyes heavenward. "I give up," she murmured. "Poor Zhik, wrong no matter what he does!"
"Just so. Forget Zhenu. Look," he gestured with his chin, just beyond the Council. "The master of music places several of the
idrika
players and two hand-drums just there. We begin soon."
It took only a little longer ... the master of music kept most of the musicians on the pedestal near the royal pillar, but set others in small groups around the ballroom. This arranging, Magdalena knew, was different each time, worked out by the master after the crowd arrived and settled in. The dances, sequences, and music never varied, but each ball was given a unique blend of sound. Once the last three horn-bags were settled into a niche beside the ramp, the master took his place on the pedestal and began the piping "Iyida"
to clear the floor. The Emperor's pillar was lowered so he and the Empress could lead the first figure.
Khyriz led their group onto the red wedge of dance floor. Alexis gave Magdalena a resigned look and took her place next to Zhik, then eased a little closer to Magdalena as the males began their arrogant stalk forward to the heavy measure of basso horn-bags. "Two returns and we go, right?" she murmured in English.
"Watch my signal," Magdalena replied in kind. She had goose bumps, suddenly; warmth and a surge of adrenaline drove them away as Khyriz and the other males pivoted
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sharply and strode back up the hall. A beat of three; ten males, faces stern and arrogant, arms folded before them, repeated the pattern.
When I first saw
vid of them, I thought cheetahs who walked upright and dressed like Medici.
Then, I could not tell Arekkhi apart... and it can still be difficult. But Khyriz ... I
would know him anywhere.
The Prince's eyes warmed as he pivoted for the third sequence. Magdalena held up a low warning finger for Alexis and prepared to follow the males.
Other dances followed. The two women performed only with their handpicked escort, but between figures, they talked nonstop to a wide variety of Arekkhi. Alexis wound up in a deep discussion with the "gossipers"--the councillors' women-- about raising young on the land, dealing with climate, bored young, and the difficulties of meat-herds.... The translator had her own circle of new acquaintances, most of whom wanted to know about her fringe: Would she really perform with the planet's five best "Fringe of Dancer?" How had she learned their dance? Would she show them some of her own
dance?
There was a pause about a third of the way through the dancing, followed by a young figure: Child-Arekkhi of both sexes clad in brilliant costumes affixed with banners performed the creation-myth of Rain and Rainbow. Another pause, to allow the young an opportunity to be praised before they left, and then, "Fringe of Dancer."
Alexis gripped her hands and murmured, "Luck." Khyriz took her place, and to Magdalena's surprise, leaned forward to touch his lips to her cheek, Arekkhi attempt at a human kiss. But before he pulled away, he murmured against her ear, "Heed nothing beyond yourself out there. I just learned it was Zhenu who chose you as sixth to the figure."
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. Five was a lucky number, six not. She glanced down the hall toward the ramp: empty. But among the councillors not far away, Zhenu stood, an arrogant tilt to his chin and a smug set to his whiskers, black eyes fixed on her. I
will murder Khyriz for this,
she decided as she stepped onto the floor, automatically moving with a dancer's glide so the fringes would remain utterly
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still. Four other dancers--a male and three females--already occupied the center of the floor not far from the Emperor's pedestal. Magdalena considered them, thought momentarily about Zhenu's look. It was surely a challenge. He expected her to fail--to fall on her face. Fury filled her.
Zhenu
thinks I will fail, look foolish, and what... leave Arekkhi in disgrace? Taking
Alexis with me? How
dare
he?
For one so supposedly clever among his own, he was certainly blind to anything non-Arekkhi. And she wasn't going to fail. Not now!
She took her place among the other dancers--now five females and one male, his facial spots and stripes heavy with dark cosmetic and his eyes anxious. Magdalena smiled at all of them, lips only, then gestured a greeting of "one who is honored to be among the great." It seemed to startle them, especially the male, whose nose fur was dark with nerve sweat. Probably
he'd
been told this was no place for him.
Like Solomon Smith telling me I
"belonged" in that cult, that I was female and so of no value. Like Zhenu
letting Zhik know how worthless he is....
She was still very angry, but her mind cleared as the solo air-pipe began its slow introduction to the figure, and she focused on the dance to the exclusion of everything else. The second air-pipe joined in--right arm up to make the sliding gesture that set the fringe to moving from shoulder to fingers and back again. Three reedy evil-horns took over then, along with finger-drums from all around the hall. The music lilted over a hushed ballroom; six beings moved as one and then in sequence, letting the fringe ripple one dancer after the other while the feet performed a dazzling sequence of steps.
Astonishingly, even after so many performances, it happened: She seemed to see herself from a distance while her body moved with grace and precision, living the dance and the music. The dance was everything. It was perfection. It was joy.... Suddenly it was over, and the ballroom rang with the soft nail-clicks of Arekkhi applause and the high-pitched hisses that were the equivalent of a human cheer. Magdalena's face felt flushed; the five other dancers crowded around her to lay backs of hands on each other and on her, making no distinction. As she left the floor, the others came with her--all of
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them united, dancers excitedly discussing a particularly fine performance.
Magdalena had questions of her own: How had the lead dancer moved her arm to create
that
exact movement of fringe, every time? Alniye demonstrated; she wanted to know then how an outsider had gained so much skill in this most exacting of dances. Magdalena explained, which drew more questions and comments. Only when the music began for the next figure did the group break up, but the five Arekkhi, including the young male Jheren, had Magdalena's enthusiastic permission to call on her, to arrange a dance exchange.
"Wow," Alexis murmured as the translator sank into her padded chair. "Sure know how to make friends, don't you?"
Magdalena laughed throatily, still flushed with triumph. "Common interests; works every time."
The interrelator switched abruptly to English. "I wonder if our friend the Iron Duke's as thrilled, though. No--don't look now. I'll point out something near the ramp; you can check him out."