The Abulon Dance by Caro Soles

eyes from their work. They all wear the same baggy brown pants and tunics. They have no expression at all.”
    “Good. What about the buildings.”
    “They seem to be shops—workshops, I think. They’re dim and narrow and go back a long way from the street. Some of them are open all the way through and you can catch sight of colorful gardens out the back door.” He stopped speaking. Quana was across the street, walking beside a tall, gaunt woman whose black hair looked as if shellacked to her skull. Between them walked a large greenish watch dog. Quana looked right at him, then her eyes slid aside and she turned away, with a scared expression. The smile died on Cham’s lips and he kept on walking.
    “Cut you dead, eh sweetie?”
    “She’s in trouble because of me. Maybe if I explained to her parents…about us, I mean. Do you think that would help?”
    “Explained what? That you’re perfectly capable of laying their precious daughter, who appears to have the hots for you, but you don’t feel like it because you’re living with a notorious letch who exhausts you every night?”
    “Aw don’t. Please.” Cham hung his head and scuffed his red boots on the uneven paving stones. “It’s not like that.”
    “Don’t be so sensitive, you’ll live longer.” In spite of the glib words, Triani was aware of the pain in the beautiful face and hated himself for being the cause of it. He grimaced briefly. “Look, if you want to make up with your stiff-necked girlfriend and her parents, why not send them tickets for opening night? Holy shit! Is this the best you can do for us, kid?” The boy had stopped at a dim doorway of a place that looked like some sort of café. He was gesturing them inside, a wide grin on his face.
    “I don’t think I want to go in there,” said Cham, hanging back. Triani only shrugged, disengaged himself from Cham and went through the open door. After a moment, Cham followed. When he looked back, the boy had disappeared. Inside, three men stood around a rectangular table with a recessed top, playing an intense game. They were using black and white counters and what looked like large, spongy triangles. A fat man with a thick neck was keeping score with the help of some sort of an abacus. They were obviously gambling. Stacks of paper cards with writing on them changed hands at intervals. Discordant music came faintly from a battered speaker at the back of the room. The men were drinking the native, brown ale and wiping the foam from their mouths with the back of a hand. Only one man was smiling but he didn’t look friendly.
    They paused to look up as Triani walked in. A man with a blue earring in his misshapen ear was wearing one of the distinctive figurines carved from blue crystal that Serpian men often wore. The fat man nodded. The one with a scar running the length of his cheek looked him up and down insolently, a faint smile on his lips.
    “You’re one of them dancer Merculians,” he remarked.
    “Well, well. You don’t miss much, do you, sweetie.” Triani put his hands on his hips and grinned up at the man. The others laughed and Triani, encouraged, came closer. He propped one foot on a stool, rested his elbow on one knee and leaned over to study the table. “Playing for pennies, boys?”
    “Hardly. You want in?”
    “What are you playing for?”
    “Whatever you’ve got.” They were looking at the flashy rings he wore. Triani could feel their interest but there was no expression in the dark, impassive faces. “How do you play?” He looked at the fat man who cleared his throat and launched into a complicated explanation of an essentially simple game. “I usually play cards,” said Triani doubtfully. In fact, he stayed away from games of chance because he found it difficult to know when to stop, especially when the stakes were high. “On the other hand, this looks like the only game in town. Deal me in, or whatever you say.”
    Cham examined the room, the stained bar at one