"Come now."
Laniq danced slowly, spinning and dipping and feeling terribly sorry for herself. But the firelight was warm and the champagne, and the whole room seemed to go out of focus except for Chenkov's hungry eyes, which became enormous—and in Laniq's own time the dance was something to be done because you loved doing it, and except for Chenkov's eyes she might dance with abandon and enjoy herself.
Tedor, she thought. Tedor....
If she closed her own eyes she thought, almost, she was dancing for him and not for Chenkov. The slit skirt swirled around her flashing thighs; the bodice, slashed from throat to waist, clung and fell away, clung and fell away.
She danced not for Chenkov but for Tedor—and then not for Tedor but for all the people in the world who might live in freedom if Chenkov's tongue loosened. But the hands which reached up for her legs and pulled her down were Chenkov's.
"Tell me," she said breathlessly while Chenkov tried to paw her and she scampered away to fill a large glass with vodka for him and a small one with champagne for herself. "Tell me, are you as important a man as I hear?"
"My dear Anna! You're jesting."
"No I mean it. I'm only a country girl, really I am, and I'd—"
"You? A country bumpkin. That's good, that's splendid. Well, then I will tell you. I am number two man in all the realm, and...."