The Caryatids

routine.”

Biserka shot him a grateful look. “It’s all about victory! And what hap­pened in outer space! And my mother’s death! And it’s my interpretative dance performance about the world’s bravest, noblest people—my peo­ple! They are going to overthrow all the systems, and cover the Earth in free blackspots, and break the walls of surveillance and haul the oppres­sors out of there… and pile their heads up in pyramids!”

Hands on her hips, Biserka drew a breath. “I choreographed it all by myself! I call it ‘The Seven-Veiled Dance of Shiva, the Goddess of De­struction.’”

“Shiva is a male god,” said Lionel.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Shiva is a male dancer, like I am.”

“Never mind that, Lionel,” said Montalban calmly. “Let Biserka dance. She has an eager public waiting here.”

Biserka pouted. “You’ve gone and spoiled it all. How could you let her come in here? I was really, really happy today, for the first time in my whole life! I was happy for maybe one hour! I can dance! You know I can dance. I learned some hot new moves in Los Angeles, and you were going to love those! Now my timing’s all messed up and it’s all ruined.”

“No problem,” said Lionel, beaming supportively. “Just get ready to run your theme again. When I throw out my hand like this”—he gestured— “that’s your cue.”

Without warning, music blasted from Lionel’s flesh: brassy, insistent, heart-thudding. Lionel strode confidently into the empty performance space, drew himself up with a winning smile, and did three backflips with a half gainer. Then he threw out his hand.

The stunned audience, who had never seen such behavior from any human being, howled in awed delight.

Biserka came to with a sudden start. She began to dance.

It was not that Biserka danced shamelessly. It was much worse than that. Biserka knew what shame was, and she was using their shame as a weapon to titillate them. Biserka danced corruptively. One wanted to hide the eyes of children from the spectacle. Though the children were quite enjoying it.

Sonja knew that it was her duty to put a swift end to this. She would kill Biserka. Killing Biserka would be the crown of her lifetime.

Sonja was stopped short by a hand on her elbow. It was the Badaulet. Lucky put his lips next to her ear, so that she could hear him over the howls and the sticky, slinky music. “Our hosts have been telling me about the Chinese state,” he said.

“They’re lying to you.”

“Well, you are my wife, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

Sonja wrenched her arm free from his grip. “I always tell the truth to my men.” No matter how much it hurt them.

“Are these young men really the Chinese state? They’re the former leaders of the Chinese state, only living in the wilderness?”

“Yes, That is true.”

“But they are bold men like me, and brave like me, and they ride and fight like me. And they do not hide behind Chinese walls because they aim to conquer the world.”

“They won’t succeed.” She pointed. “He is going to conquer the world. He’s already conquering the world. He’s doing it right now while he’s watching that slut dancing for him.”

The expression on Montalban’s face could have been canned and poured over cereal. He was transfixed by Biserka’s dancing. He was fas­cinated.

Biserka sensed this and was playing to him. Biserka knew that she had him. She had found some aching hole in him, found a stained chink in the white knight’s armor. It wasn’t, after all, that hard to find. That part of him that belonged to her. She was reeling him in.

The Badaulet watched Biserka’s flurried writhing with unfeigned dis­gust. “Your lord and master there is a decadent weakling.”

“I’m sure he would tell you that he is ‘healthily in touch with his darker side.’”

“I could kill him. He’s not so much of a man. His younger brother, the one who dances like a woman, he’s strong, but he has long hair. They are only two men, they’re not two gods. In the eyes of the one God, I’m as good as them. Only, I have pride and cleanliness, and de­cency, and aspirations to please my Creator. If I put my body next to his body, I can put my knife through him.”

“Don’t do that. To kill a guest is dishonorable. Also, he’s so rich that he might not stay dead.”

“You love him,” he told her. “That’s why you urge me not to kill him. I want you to tell me, as my wife, that you love me better than him. That you will leave him and his life, and live my life.”

“I know that you deserve that from me,” she told him, “but I already swore once by everything I held sacred that I’d never see him, or hear him, or touch him again, and, here he is.” Sonja began to cry. “I swear I can’t help it.”

“Any woman among these noble people would be a better wife to me than you are,” he said. “They all admire me very much, they need my warrior skills. If I join them, I will be high in rank, they will give me twenty women like you. Better women than you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Sonja said between her sobs. “The only thing I ever wanted was to be dutiful and good. I’m just so tired and sick of every­thing. I can’t go on.”

“Look at the way that slave dances for him,” he said. He was revolted. “She’s like a worm. She’s an unclean reptile. I can’t take part in this dis­gusting orgy, this is wrong. Our marriage is over, Sonja. I Divorce You. I Divorce You. I Divorce You!”

Sonja howled in pain and grabbed for him. “Oh please don’t divorce me, please don’t!” He tore himself from her grip and stalked away.

Sonja was trembling from head to foot. She was cracking inside. There was an abyss inside her. She had lived for years in that abyss once. It was a red abyss.

Carried by blazing impulse, Sonja stalked into the middle of the dance floor. She raised both her arms overhead, but this incantatory gesture did nothing. Biserka had seized everyone’s attention. Biserka had stripped off three of her veils and was beaming with malicious delight. She capered around Sonja, waving her chiffon headdress, delicately wriggling.

The crowd rose and surged forward. They formed a tight circle. They were dying to see a fight.

A hand in her back shoved her forward.

For the first time, Biserka was afraid. The taunting look left her face. Biserka looked pretty when she was afraid. She had always been the frightened one, always. When the soldiers had come to’ kill all of them, Biserka had thrown herself on the ground to lick their feet.

Sonja spat into her face, then turned and walked away.

A deadly insult and a feigned retreat. It was the oldest and simplest and most effective of stratagems. In the roar of voices, Sonja counted heartbeats and then lashed out backward.

A rear heel kick was the strongest blow that a woman’s body could de­liver. It hit Biserka straight in the chest as she rushed forward in her rage and hate and panic, and it struck her so hard that she flew backward and stumbled into the arms of two spectators and knocked both of the men down.

Biserka did not move again.

Sonja dusted off her hands. She glared at the men in the tent, who had grown silent and respectful and ashamed. She jerked her head at the open door.

The crowd got up in a body and left the tent.

Montalban and his brother were busy on the carpet.

“Poor Biserka,” mourned Lionel.

“She’s alive,” said Montalban.

Sonja was regretful. “That’s because I missed her heart.”

“Well, you broke three of her ribs and you’ve put her into shock. Oh, for God’s sake stop standing there gloating, Sonja. You’re a woman, you’re not a killer robot. You’ve got medical training, come and help me with her.”