Mirabel felt a twinge of sympathy. This was no spoiled court lady, but a hard-working woman. “I’m sure we can help,” she said. “But I don’t know about the age part…”
“I don’t expect miracles,” Dorcas said. “I just want something to work with, so I don’t lose money while I’m hunting for the trollop who did this to me.”
“You have no idea?”
“No… I thought of that redheaded slut down at the Brass Bottom Cafe… you know, the one who thinks she can dance…” Mirabel nodded; she didn’t feel it was the time to mention that the lissome redhead was reputed to perform the famous Gypsy dance “In Your Hat” even better than Dorcas. “But,” Dorcas went on, with an air of someone being fairer than necessary, “she’s in better shape than this.” She patted the offending belly. “If anything, she’s too thin. No, I’ll be looking for someone whose skirts are too loose.” She sighed. “So—when’s class? And is there any possibility of getting private lessons. I hate to advertise my problem…”
“Private lessons?—” Mirabel was about to explain that since their classes had disappeared, all lessons were private, when Blanche interrupted.
“There’s a ten percent surcharge for private lessons, Dorcas…”
“That’s all right,” Dorcas said.
“But I was going to say, since you’re a working woman, like us, we’ll waive that fee. It’s mostly for the rich ladies who are looking for a way out of the work. And we could schedule you—” She made a pretense of going through the scrolls. “Well, as a matter of fact, I could just fit you in now, if that’s convenient. Or two hours after first bell tomorrow, if not.”
“Thanks, ladies,” Dorcas said. “Soon begun, soon done.”
At the end of the table, Krystal stirred. “Mirabel, you don’t suppose—?”
“Those court ladies!” Mirabel said, slamming her fist on the table. “That would be just like them!” Lazy, hated sweating and grunting for it, but wanted svelte bodies anyway. They would think of stealing, and if they had found a black plastic wizard….
“I wonder if it’s happened to anyone else,” Krystal said. “There aren’t enough exotic dancers to supply flat tummies and perky breasts and slender thighs and smooth haunches and…”
“All right, Krystal. I get the point.” Mirabel closed her eyes, trying to think how many court ladies she’d seen at the dance with markedly better figures. Had any of the other dancers been robbed? “I’m going to check on some things,” she said. “You stay here and let Blanche know what we came up with.”
Out on the street, she headed for the Brass Bottom Cafe, and stopped short outside. For the past half-year, a poster advertising the red-haired Eulalia’s charms had been displayed… but it wasn’t here anymore.
“Painting a new poster?” she asked, as she came through the door.
“She’s not here,” said the landlady. “But we’ve got Gerynis and Mythlia and…”
“When did she leave?” Mirabel asked.
“Are you on official business?” asked the landlady. “Or just snooping?”
“Official as in King’s Guard, no. Official as in Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society, yes.”
The landlady sniffed. “So what does the Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society have to do with exotic dancers? Going to learn to be graceful in armor? Or sleep your way to promotions?”
Mirabel remembered why she never came here. The landlady cooed over male soldiers, and had a rough tongue for the women. “Ma’am,” she said, trying to sound both pleasant and businesslike, “information from another exotic dancer suggests that all of them may be at risk. If so, the LA&AS wants to offer protection—”
“And make a tidy profit, no doubt.” The landlady glared. “Well, you’re too late for Eulalia, I can tell you that. What’s been done to her is nothing short of blasphemy, and now you come along with your story about protection. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you didn’t have something to do with her troubles, just trying to scare all the girls into buying into your protections—” She advanced from behind the counter, and Mirabel saw that she held an iron skillet almost as broad as her hips. Mirabel beat a hasty retreat. So much for that… but if she could find Eulalia, the redhead might have more sense.
Back at the Hall, Eulalia was slumped at the table with a bright-eyed Krystal. Eulalia’s midsection had gone the way of Dorcas’s, although the replacement wasn’t quite as big. Krystal had already signed her up for classes.
Eulalia knew of two other dancers so afflicted. “And my cousin, who just came to the city last week, told me about a plague among shepherd girls out in the Stormy Hills. Only with them it’s not bellies—it’s legs. Those girls do have gorgeous legs, from all that running and climbing.”
Mirabel looked at the map on the wall. “Umm.” She remembered that the court ladies had made a Progress into the Stormy Hills a few weeks before. Or so they’d said. She had thought at the time it was an odd place to go for a Progress in late winter—or at any time, really. There was nothing up in the Stormy Hills but bad weather and sheep… and of course the herding families that tended them.
They had insisted on being escorted by male soldiers, too. At the time, Mirabel had thought that was just another of their ladyish attitudes, of which they had many. Most likely, they were still in a snit about the exercise classes, and thought that the women soldiers would make them walk too fast. They had refused to go on hill walks as part of their fitness program.
“Something is definitely going on here,” Mirabel said. “We’d better have a word with our favorite plastic wizard.” He was still on retainer for the Society. And much as she sympathized with the dancers, if even half of them suddenly needed fitness classes, it would help make up the deficit from the court ladies’ defection. They might come up with enough for the Iron Jill retreat sacrifice after all.
The first break in the case came from one of the girls who was in the pre-recruit class. She arrived full of giggles, and Blanche had to speak quite sharply to her.
“Sorry, ma’am,” she said, her shoulders still shaking. “It’s the older ladies—my Aunt Sapphire and her bunch. You know they didn’t like coming down here to your fitness classes—”
“I know,” Blanche said.
“Well, they’ve got a dancing master now, calls himself Gilfort the Great, who claims that the female body is especially suited to fitness by dancing. They wear these little silk tunics—some of them even wear just a bandeau on top—and carry long scarves and ribbons and things, and while the court string quartet plays in the corner, they hop about—but never enough to sweat.”
“But surely they’re… er… losing condition?” Blanche asked.
“Terribly, at first,” the girl said. “Then—overnight, almost—the dance began to work, and they were gorgeous. If I didn’t want to learn swordplay, I’d go there myself.” She caught the look on Blanche’s face and stepped back. “Not really, of course, ma’am, but—it is kind of pretty. In its own way.”
“But what were you laughing at, then?”
“Well… on my way here, I passed behind the potted palms, and the dancing master was telling them all they had the bellies of belly dancers, and the legs of shepherdesses, and the arms of apple-pickers. And I just couldn’t help thinking, ‘and the brains of boiled cabbages’…” Her voice trailed off, with the quick mood change of adolescence. “I don’t know why I thought it was so funny, really, just—most of the time they’d be horrified if anyone called them dancers or shepherdesses, and they were lapping it up, giving him these soppy grins.”
“Apple-pickers,” Blanche said. “I never thought of apple-pickers.”