Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [39]
If truth be told, Zoësophia found these events tedious. Nevertheless, the Pearls were all in ardent competition to be the next after Aetheria to kill a man—not by suicide, it was agreed, for that had been done, but this time by provoking a duel—and it would be uncongenial of her not to give it her best effort. So she returned to the table where Baron Lukoil-Gazprom and the artist who, quite frankly, she found so boring she couldn’t bring herself to remember his name, impatiently awaited her return.“Nikodim, my sweet,” she said to the baron, and to the poet: “My little rabbit.”
“At last, dear angel, you return!” The artist was lean as a whippet and twice as high-strung. “A thousand times have I died in your absence.”
“It was worse for me,” the baron said dryly. “He at least wasn’t sharing a table with a twit.” He was a handsome man and rich as well, though in such company that went without saying. Also politically powerful, which for Zoësophia was always a plus. But the best thing about him was that he thought himself clever, and such fellows were invariably the most delightfully easy to manipulate. He leaned closer to the screen and in a low, flirtatious voice said, “Tell me, ma petite minette… what is the shortest path to your bedroom?”
“Through the wedding chapel,” snapped the artist, who was himself unwed.
Zoësophia allowed herself a hastily stifled snort of laughter.
The baron suppressed a wince. “Sweet lady, it is a dreary journey this… stripling urges upon you. I have made it myself and can recommend neither the experience nor the prospect at the end.”
“It is at least an honorable estate,” the artist said.
“You forget that these ladies are all promised to the Duke of Muscovy.”
“So what you are saying is that in order for you to betray your wife, you require that Zoësophia cuckold the duke?”
It happened as fast as that—too fast for Zoësophia to prevent, even if the rules of the Pearls’ little game had allowed that. The baron sucked in his breath. Then he stood, jarring the table as he did, so that the spoons and teacups rattled.
“That is an insult I will not endure,” he exclaimed loudly. “Sir, I give you your choice of weapons.”
Somehow the artist was on his feet as well. He was such a negligible fellow that Zoësophia had not seen him rise. “Then I choose paint and canvas,” he said. “We shall each paint a satirical portrait of the other in oils.” In his anger, he looked like a terrier defying a bull. Of course, that mustache did not help. “The winner to be selected by vote of all those present—”
“Bah! Paint is no weapon. A duel is not a duel unless there is the chance of grievous injury.”
“Please. Allow me to finish. The winning portrait will be placed on public display for a month at the expense of the loser.”
The baron turned white. Then he sat down. “That is no fit challenge for a gentleman,” he grumbled, “and I refuse to accept it.”
During the exchange, all the room had fallen silent. Now a light smattering of applause arose from those present. The artist colored with pleasure.
“That was wittily done, my little carrot,” Zoësophia said, “and so you must have a reward. You there!” She snapped her fingers at the servile waiting on the table across from her. “Observe me carefully. Then assume my stance.”
The servile stared at her with hard, reptilian eyes. Then, with an ease possible only to one who had no true sense of self, she took on Zoësophia’s mien and posture.
“Now do precisely as I do.”
Zoësophia delicately raised a hand, and the servile moved as if her shadow. Her fingers brushed the artist’s cheek. She stepped forward, into his arms. Her chin tilted upward and her lips met his. Zoësophia’s tongue briefly, lightly probed the air.
Separated by several feet of space, she and the artist kissed.
A long moment later, Zoësophia stepped back, gracefully extricating her proxy from the artist’s embrace. A gesture of dismissal, and the servile resumed her former stance.
The baron watched it all with mingled wonder, lust, anger, and humiliation. Then he turned