And Leverett slid his fingertips over the drum, in time with each step. Everyone was silent, watching me in the dark as I took step after step, each footfall emphasized with a smattering from the drum.

  Zaire, this was awful.

  “Oh, I know what you are all thinking!” Kahlia shouted. “You have all seen bench dancers. Every sole-hole village has someone who can claim to dance. But as we all know, the fumbling of our poor dancers lacks the grace, the beauty, the pure Northern magic, of the dancers of the frosted lands.”

  The frosted lands. A rather poetic way to describe cities drowning in snow for half of every year.

  “Our Leavy has been dancing since before she could walk.”

  Not quite that long.

  “She has been touring the Northern continent, defeating all who come against her with her beauty and her power.”

  Actually, I lost more often than I won.

  “And now, after years of pleading, we have lured her down among our people, to share her gift with us. You are the few privileged to see her first performance among us. Welcome her!”

  They most obligingly applauded. I was finally free of the audience and stepped between the bars. I noticed Panol and Setter were looking particularly naked, wearing nothing more than scraps of red cloth about the waist that barely—barely—hid the genitals and buttocks. A light dusting of glitter had their dark muscles gleaming in the torchlight. I looked at Leverett, who was identically undressed. Sacey and Kahlia wore a few more straps, which seemed to almost cover their breasts, though I wouldn’t have wanted to make any guarantees for modesty once they started moving.

  Leverett rapped a roll off his drum, smart and sharp. A second roll echoed off the night sky, disappearing into the silence. At the third roll, Panol and Setter began moving the bars, low off the ground.

  The idea was for me to begin with a short demonstration of almost real bench dancing. Or as real as it could get, with only two bars, no bench and no competitor. I was to show them all that I was a proper bench dancer, with all the skills required by the sport. And then, after, I was to get weird.

  It wasn’t at all the same as the real thing, of course. But it felt nice, something of a warm-up. Nice and easy swinging of the legs, working out the aches of the day. It was soothing, and it calmed my nerves a little.

  The spectators, though, weren’t terribly impressed. They applauded after Leverett and I came to a halt, but it was polite applause. I could tell. And that didn’t feel wonderful. A few coins were tossed. Even I knew they were of the smallest currency. Pity money.

  But before I could feel more than the first flare of disappointment and apprehension, Leverett started drumming again, a livelier beat. A few bars in and Sacey joined him with the pipes. Sprightly, exciting music, really more suited to ballroom dancing than bench, but I could move to it. The bars went up just a little higher and I leapt over them, letting the music guide me into throwing in those hip swings and arm gestures Kahlia seemed to find so important.

  Thank the gods for the music. I could concentrate on it, follow it, let it move me. It shielded me from feeling too stupid about what I was doing. And when it sped up, thinking became even harder.

  It stopped too abruptly, and for a moment I thought I was going to trip over the suddenly halted bars. But the applause was much louder, much more enthusiastic, so I supposed no one noticed. Many more coins were thrown, and I watched this, dazed. Apparently they liked what they saw, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t proper dancing of any kind, really.

  Karish and I would be able to eat. I wondered if it would be possible to buy food immediately after my performance.

  Then Sacey handed the pipes over to Kahlia and picked up the sand singer. My stomach, which had settled, roiled up again. This was the one I was most afraid of. I sought Karish out in the crowd, suddenly afraid that he might have left. But he was there, and easy to spot in the crowd with his pale skin and clothing that covered him from throat to ankle. His eyes looked so black.

  Which was a stupid thing to think. His eyes were always black.

  The first sinuous note of the sand singer slithered through the air. It wrapped right around my heart and squeezed. Everyone in the audience stilled once more. The next note found me moving my arms in a long winding sweep with no prodding from my brain, my spine bending of its own accord, my body twisted by the long, reaching note.

  The pipes and drums joined in together and then I

  just

  stopped

  thinking.

  It wasn’t as though I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, because, oh, I was. I could see the black night and even the multitude of stars. I could smell the torches. The hard ground stung and scraped my feet. But I didn’t think about anything. I couldn’t. The music invaded every curve of my body and every corner of my mind. Muscles working and stretching, limbs curving and leaping, all of it driven by the music with my brain having nothing to do with any of it. It was hot and fast and hard and so so glorious.

  But it wasn’t enough. The music called me, I moved, but it awakened a drive in me, and I was all alone up there. I craved something more. Hair around my hands, skin beneath my tongue, a form to wrap my legs around, to arch against. I moved, searching for it, but there was nothing but earth and air, and the lack was almost painful.

  And then, again, it all stopped. My muscles trembling, breath burning through my throat, the sound of shouting penetrated the fog in my brain. Something other than the music seemed to have gotten control of my body and I was dimly aware of being dragged somewhere, tripping over the uneven ground. Noise was crowding into my head and I couldn’t make sense of anything. I couldn’t see.

  And then I felt the right touch. Hands sliding over my skin, exciting and claiming and possessive. I reached for them, for that touch. It felt so good. I wanted to melt into it.

  But instead I was tripping again, and walking, and the shouting seemed to have fallen behind, though music still seemed to be reverberating through my skull. I could still feel that particular touch, grasped too hard around my wrist, and I wanted more of it elsewhere. “Karish?”

  There was no response.

  Vaguely, I became aware that it was night, and we were on the road. Alone.

  I yanked hard on his hand and he stumbled to a halt. I wrapped myself around him, tangling my legs with his, pressing against him as hard as I could and pulling his head down by his hair.

  His mouth opened against mine and I ground against him when he pulled me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist. It wasn’t close enough and my blood was racing so hard I thought I would explode and the music was just so loud. I shrieked as the world spun.

  I shrieked again when something wet and icy cold slapped onto the overheated skin of my nearly bare back, a stick or something digging into my flesh. It hurt, it rattled the music in my head, and cleared some of the fog.

  I was lying on the damp ground, arms and legs wrapped around Karish, and we were going to have sex right then and there if I didn’t do something about it.

  Did I want to do something about it?

  His hips were settled into mine, grinding, his hot tongue trailing up my throat.

  Sometimes I really hated—hated—the rules. Sometimes they seemed so stupid.

  I deliberately jabbed myself on the stick, the spark of pain spiking through the lust rushing through me. “I’m sorry, Taro,” I gasped. “We have to stop.” Oh aye, that was convincing.

  He kissed me, and ah gods, he was good at that.

  Another jab of the stick, and the hand so conveniently buried in his hair grabbed a fistful and yanked. “Stop, Karish!” I said, sharpening my tones. “It’s the music! It’s just the music! Please!”

  Karish froze. I pulled my arms from him, taking my feet from the backs of his legs and settling them on the ground. He was shaking, and he had closed his eyes.

  I loved the feel of his weight on me. I could still hear the music in my mind. My blood was still racing, my breath still flowing hard, and it was all I could do not to wrap around Karish again. I pressed into the stick again.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, humiliation slicing through the arousal. “I’m so sorry.” That last performance was obviously a very bad idea. Wasn’t going to be doing that again. Ever.

  After another moment, Karish carefully raised himself off me. He stood and stepped back up onto the road. I sat up, hugging my knees to my chest. I closed my eyes and breathed.

  Why the hell shouldn’t we have sex, if we wanted? It was just a rule. Not even a rule. A custom. A guideline. Advice. General advice applied to everyone with no recognition of the differences in people. The most useless sort of advice there was.

  “Go back to the tent, Taro,” I told him, my voice shaking.

  For several long moments he said nothing. He stood tensely, his face pinched, pushing his hands through his hair again and again. And then, in a strained voice, “I’m not leaving you here.”

  I closed my eyes. Disgusted with myself that he, even in these horrible circumstances, was showing such concern. “I won’t be making such a fool of myself with anyone else.” Though my blood was still singing.

  I was surprised to see how far we’d gotten before deciding to take a tumble in the field. There were people on the way, though. I couldn’t face them. “Please go back to the tent.” Or wherever he wanted to go. I didn’t care. I just wanted to go somewhere by myself, somewhere dark and quiet, and curl up into a ball.

  “I wasn’t taking advantage,” he said in a broken voice.

  “I know.” I wasn’t blaming him. That wasn’t it at all. “I need to get my head straight.”

  I couldn’t look at him anymore. I hugged my knees tighter and stared down at the ground and waited.

  I heard him walk away.

  I took a deep, deep breath.

  Chapter Ten

  The music was still there, of course, singing in my blood, trying to drive me on after Karish.

  I really really wanted him. I had to admit it to myself. And I’d wanted him for a long time.

  And why shouldn’t I have him?

  People were coming. Away from the light of the torches, I didn’t glow so damned much, but once they passed me they couldn’t help but see me sitting in the field. I wasn’t far from the road. And the last thing I felt like doing was talking to anyone. Especially Kahlia. I thought I might just try to strangle her if I had to look at her. So I jumped to my feet and started walking, away from the road, away from both the houses and the tents. I had no idea where I was going. I didn’t care.

  My feet were on fire. It was good that my feet hurt. It helped drive away the music, helped me think.

  What a horrible night. And it was all my fault. I should have expected it. I’d known what the music did to me. I could have foreseen the consequences if I’d just thought about it a little. So why had I done that to myself?

  Why had I listened to Kahlia? She might have been well-meaning, sort of, but she didn’t know anything about Shields. She had no idea what music could do to me. I did. I’d had warning. Rehearsals had been getting uncomfortable for me. True, not nearly as bad as the performance had been, but I’d suspected that losing control was a possibility. Yet I’d insisted on doing it. And on having Karish there to watch, and to take care of me when it was over. How could I have possibly not known what the result would be? I wasn’t that stupid.

  Damn the music. Go away go away go away.

  I hated what it did to me. Made a fool out of me. Made me do stupid things I’d never choose to do on my own.

  Which wasn’t necessarily always a bad thing.

  I pressed my hands to my head. Damn it, make it stop!

  The glint of the glitter on my arms caught my eye. I stretched out my arms, looked down at my legs, and I could feel my lip curling in disgust. Stupid gaudy stuff. What was I thinking to appear in public looking like this? I rubbed at the paint, but it was firmly dried to my skin. The application of fingernails was a little more successful, though they left long red welts in their wake. That was all right. It all helped fight off the music.

  Deep breath in, long breath out. Another in, so much air it made my lungs feel overfilled and uncomfortable, and out in one controlled flow. Don’t think of it. Don’t remember. Think of a map of High Scape. Home, sort of. The six quads. Each with its own hospital and Runner headquarters and markets. The streets that made no sense, the hideous architecture. The noise.

  Not really home, though. I hadn’t been there long enough for it to be home. Home was the Academy, still, with my small room and the classes from morning to midnight and all the calm serene people. No dangerous music. No royalty. No one expecting me to do things against my training and my nature.

  I sighed.

  No Karish, either. I would not have wanted to spend my life without knowing Karish.

  I was going to start drawing blood soon. I stopped scratching at my arms. The paint wouldn’t really come off without soap and water. The temporary thought of going to the stream was quashed by remembering that one of the Southerners’ quirks concerned the use of water. All water was taken far from the source before being used for laundry, bathing, or cleaning dishes. Which was why Kahlia had brought water for washing to my tent.

  I sighed. My tent. Our tent. I didn’t want to go back to our tent.

  The music and its effects were gone. That was something, at least, though that meant I had to stop procrastinating and think things through.

  Why had I done that dance, knowing how I would react?

  Because Kahlia was a force not to be denied. Not that I’d really tried.

  I had had no idea how to go about this performing thing and had accepted the bad advice and reassurances of someone with no experience with Shields.

  I hadn’t wanted to think about how to go about it myself, because such a large part of me hated the fact that I had to perform at all.

  I had underestimated how badly I would react.

  No, I had underestimated the consequences of my reaction.

  And I had wanted Karish to see me. That was the shameful truth. No one had ever thought me beautiful or alluring. And for the longest time that hadn’t mattered, it really hadn’t. But to hear it. To come to this place and have people tell me there was something about my plain, unmemorable appearance that was beautiful, that had been surprisingly gratifying. And I had wondered if Karish would have been able to see it, too.

  If it hadn’t been for serendipity and a well-placed stick, I would have had sex with Karish right then and there. I had no doubt about it.

  I really hated serendipity and the well-placed stick.

  I could feel something new then. Anger. Genuine bubbling anger. And resentment. For if I hadn’t been brought to myself, we would have had sex, and it would have been incredible, and it wouldn’t have been my fault. Shields weren’t held responsible for anything they did under the influence of music. I would have gotten exactly what I wanted and would have still been able to pride myself for being ever so sensible and disciplined. A slipup, of course, but under such trying circumstances, no one could find me at fault.

  What a hypocritical, sanctimonious wench I was. And childish. And weak. And cowardly. Engineering the desired result while shielding myself from any responsibility. Disgusting.

  And the thing I had to face was that it was the desired result.

  I wanted him. I couldn’t be completely sure whether, at that particular moment, it wasn’t just a lingering effect of the music, but that didn’t matter in the grand scheme, because music had nothing to do with my wanting him every other instant of every other day.

  It had been months now. At least. My plan to keep my distance and regain my senses clearly wasn’t working. And using Doran, that was horrible. I hadn’t thought of him once, not since setting foot on Flatwell. That was appalling. When had I become such a bitch? Or had I always been a bitch, and just hadn’t known it?

  It was still a bad idea. When it all ended we’d be in a horribly awkward situation, trying to cobble together a working relationship out of whatever wreckage the emotional maelstrom left us in. But this may be a case where the only way out was through.

  The camp was as silent as it ever got by the time I reached it. Our tent was dark and quiet, too. My heart seemed to triple its pace as I ducked under the flap. Partially because it was necessary, but mostly as a delay tactic, I poured out some of the water Kahlia had left me, moistening a cloth. The soap of these people was thinner than what I used at home, almost oily, and it didn’t require hot water to be effective. It wasn’t exactly soothing on the scrapes I’d left on my arms, but it seemed to wash off the glitter and the paint. And make my feet just a little less filthy. They were pretty beaten up with all my stomping around.

  And then, once I was done and I had thrown out the water and wiped out the basin and could think of no other way to procrastinate, I cleared my throat. “Taro?”

  Silence.

  “I know you’re still awake, Taro.” I didn’t know how I knew. Just a hunch or something. The bond at work.

  A pause, and then a gruff “What?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Another pause, even longer. “Not a good idea.”

  “When has that ever stopped me?” I wasn’t going to let him say no, anyway. Or he’d have to say it and make me believe it. I pushed aside the divider.

  It was dark. Little light could seep into the tent. But I’d been working without light all this time. I could see Karish easily enough, lying flat on his back on top of his cot with no sheet and his hands laced behind his head. Naked.

  My throat tightened, and I had to force a swallow. He was so beautiful.

  “I warned you,” he muttered.

  “So?” My voice came out harsh and strangled. I swallowed again. “I’ve seen you naked before.” Not much better, thready and weak. I sat down on the mat, squeezing in beside his hip. “I’m sorry about assaulting you earlier,” I said, even as I fought down the urge to assault him again. I wanted to slide my palms over all that bare skin.