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Whoever had taught van Calox to dance, Calcazar thought, had done a fine job. He glided across the floor with the Rogue Trader nestled in his arms, the presence of a powerful woman rendered entirely ornamental by the prowess of his acolyte. And she made a fine ornament indeed, a waifish, doll-like thing, with the ghostly pallor of something only passingly acquainted with life. What color did cling to her cheeks appeared unnatural, and though it was no shock to him that a biomancer should attempt such a fraud upon the senses, borrowing the signs of vitality and vigor on the day of her ascension, to the discerning eye, her imitation rang quite hollow.
Her hair was long, and a forgettable shade of blonde which, on this occasion, was plaited, drawn up, and adorned with silvery stars that caught the light with each turn of her head. One could easily imagine it unbound, cascading over her narrow shoulders, down the gentle slope of her back, until it reached her hips, and though the shape of them was obscured by her gown, he had to imagine them narrow as well. Surely van Calox had seen it thus, or perhaps not - perhaps it was this unknowing that accounted for the errant descent of his gaze, as though the sight of a woman’s tits thrust upwards in an evening gown was now some startling novelty. They were nearly bare, yes, she’d made sure of that. One could hardly pretend it was accidental.
It was not enough that they had all come to bear witness to her ascension - no, she had to ensure the spectacle remained fixed upon her alone. Such was the nature of Rogue Traders, ostentatious, theatrical, ever hungry for adoration. The Inquisitor had once thought their egos to be fashioned by conquest alone, but perhaps it was also a matter of breeding. Such fine tuned delusions of grandeur could not have been nurtured in a manufactorium ward, and if, by some miracle, they had been permitted to take root, there were many steps along the way where it ought to have been beaten out of her - on the black ship, by the Scholastica, or in the ranks of the Guard.
But where others had been negligent, Calcazar would not make the same mistake. He’d come tonight to remind her of her place, since van Calox could not manage her alone. He would not be cruel about it, there was no need. That she’d made it this far was a testament to her psychic abilities, and had he been made aware of another biomancer in the Expanse who would not have been a waste of his time, he might have molded her into something useful. Perhaps he still could.
Had she already spread her legs for his acolyte, he wondered? The young man's appetites had never been complex - he liked them pretty, sharp tempered, and dark haired, though he was hardly above welcoming any woman who presented herself with sufficient eagerness into his bed. So she, despite her fair coloring, would not offend his tastes. Let him enjoy her, he was more than welcome to her body, but he would, of course, be expected to do something of substance with it. Such a match would be a tremendous boon for the Ordos.
Calcazar watched as they circled the floor. For all her finery, she danced poorly. Each step was sloppier than the last, and her turns, when attempted, were clumsy affairs, forced into correction by van Calox’s discreet adjustments. He moved with none of the stiffness that one might expect from a man of their vocation, and so when she’d lost her footing and fallen in earnest, his hand arrived swiftly to steady her back, and the other rested on her arm as he’d swept her up before dipping her low, saving her some modicum of humiliation.
The gallant knight and his imperiled lady. How charming.
And where at first her large, round eyes had peeled open even wider, a coquettish smile soon crept across her rosebud lips, not that of a woman embarrassed by her own ineptitude, but of one who had secured precisely the outcome she desired.