Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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The Glory of Arko.
Cat-step, cat-step, back-stretch, twirl…
Give all the gentlemen a good long look at your rear, there's a good boy, Tikas would tell him. Bigger
tips that way.Ilove you, Tikas , he thought.You are so tall and handsome and wise. You tell me
everything I need to know and teach me so well. I want to be like you some day. Pirouette,
stretch, lead with the elbow, nice taut silhouette, and now the hand-spring …
He wasn't going to be nervous, just because the governor of Korsardiana was going to be here tonight.
That was baby-stuff. He was a big boy. Lead. Leads didn't get nervous. Some day he was going to be
famous, he'd decided: a Famous Performer. Famous Performers didn't get nervous.
Tikas was making the other boys practice passing oysters from their mouths to the guests. "No, no, you
have to throw your head back more, sweetheart. And bat your eyes; that's it. So beautiful you are.
Know it. Then all the world will see it too." Tikas knew everything, because he was so old: sixteen.
The boy leaned to the left and drew his hand in front of his face, fingers spread. Gold and black lace
gloves,so elegant…Ninth measure . He knew the Glory of Arko really well now. "That's very graceful,
Rasas, dear." Tikas had noticed, was smiling, proud. The boy felt as if everything in the whole wide
world were good.One day I'll be that tall and beautiful , he thought,have a voice that deep and
manly .
Tikas turned to Ardas, Rasas's best friend. "Present the wine-cup from the left to be unobtrusive. If the
gentleman wants more, tilt your head sideways, darling, to show off your lovely, smooth neck.
Remember, delicacy! No great, gauche moves—what's that I see on your face? A grimace? Wipe that
off. A lord is a lord, and even his farts are noble. As if what you feel matters—get that out of your head,
or do you want to feel more of the whip?"
It was a big party. TheAitzas all wore sword-belts around their paunches, and their gloved fingers were
full of rings, like crusted filigree, their golden hair streaked with silver. Concubines leaned on the arms of
their chairs, so tall and graceful, their lips so shiny red. Some got to wear satin draped over their smooth
shoulders, being past Third Threshold, twenty-one. Everyone had yellow rose-petals in their hair and
falling off their clothes, from the panels in the ceiling of the Garden Room, painted like clouds, that open
up releasing a rain of flowers.
Tikas made them work hard, even beat them sometimes, but it was worth it. They had it good,
compared to most slaves, getting fed more, wearing nice things.Look at me, I'm strong and limber and
graceful and clean, I smell good . Patchouli went well on him, Tikas said. His body could do amazing
things, things he hadn't thought possible until Tikas had showed him. Good to be small, for a dancer.
The beat-sticks rang in time, the chorus's voices climbed higher and higher. He shook his hair, cut like a
horse's mane, from side to side, felt it wisp and hit his shoulders. Most slaves didn't get to keep any hair.
Through the lace gloves his hands felt the sticky-powdery rosin on the dance-floor in front of the fountain.
Spin, spin … Marble pillars winking, blur of torchlight, people; now the hard part. But he could do it
perfectly.Cat-step, spin, back-leap , feeling the music… Tikas said always feel the music, but never
forget the audience. Feel their eyes, too. Don't let them see the sweat, the rosin, the aches. Make them
see grace, beauty, love…Back-leap, faster … Make love to them through their eyes. Seduce them. No