As previously mentioned, I’d already had three amasecs. I held up both my hands and Urien shouted something. General silence fell save for one crewman who was obviously very drunk who continued to gavel away with his mug. One of his comrades silenced him with a more or less good natured blow to the side of the head that left the fellow slumped on the tablewares. I milked the silence for a minute and then lifted my voice.
 
“Viltu plaze t’sjá mig dansa?” Contrary to the later ship legend that sprung up I didn’t say it perfectly within moments of hearing the patios. What I had meant to say was ‘Would you like to see me dance’ what I actually said would have been closer to ‘Will you be pleased to me dance’ but far be it from me to stand in the way of a good story. I’ll admit it was a pretty good first attempt as the roar of the crew underscored.
 
“You are a linguist?” Hadrian seemed to murmur, though he was all but shouting to be heard over the din. I grinned at him. In truth retro-gothic dialects were fairly common out in the Halo Stars and in other areas where planets had been cut off from Imperial rule by warp storms or misadventure. I had a good ear for language and I’d traveled enough to have some basic building blocks. I was wearing a simple set of coveralls which simply would not do. I stepped behind Hadrian and snatched a piece of red silk bunting from the wall. Quick as a flash I stripped out of the coveralls and kicked off my boots before winding the bunting around my waist. When I stepped out from behind the Inquisitor I wore my shift, the same red lace id been wearing when I had been rescued, and had converted the bunting into a makeshift skirt that fell almost to my bare feet, the knot leaving most of my right leg bare. Predictably, the crew approved, having already been treated to the tease of discarded clothing flying out from behind Hadrian. I seized a mug from the table and tapped out a simple beat on the table. Saga singers from way back first a few and then the entire crew took up the beat with their own mugs. I leaped up onto the table with a clatter of cutlery and then began to dance.
 
If you have never seen a performance of the Pyrinia I suggest you look for vids of it without the presence of jealous spouses or young children. It is a folk dance from Bonaventure, not the staid waltz my adoptive family preferred, It involves a lot of swaying hips and gyration. As someone the Emperor has blessed with a lot of hips and appropriate counterbalance, it is something I do well. I worked my way up the table in time to the beat, sliding down almost to my knees and rising to a tip toe that threatened my modesty as I twirled and curved, at times making the skirt hang still while my body moved within it, and at times making the silk swish like an extension of my limbs. I tossed my long golden hair back and forth, by turns streaming it like a banner, and gathering it to me like a cloak of false modesty. The beat started to break down as the crewmen seemed to forget what they were supposed to be doing, but enough kept mindlessly hammering away despite their open mouths that I didn’t lose the tempo. I knocked over wine goblets and more than once I stepped in fruit or other food, but nobody seemed in a hurry to object. The Pyrinia is a courtship dances, meant to be light and flirty at the beginning before moving into more passionate phases. By the time I came to the culmination, a series of low grinding rotations atop the table with my chest thrown back and pressed forward and upwards, no one was keeping the beat. I struck the final pose almost where I had started, my back to Hadrian and my face towards the head of the table, legs beneath me and leaning back almost to the horizontal. I froze for a few seconds and then grabbed the edge of the table and levered myself back overhand in a slow flip to land on my feet where I had started. The room was completely silent though I seem to remember Hadrian making a strangled sound.