The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "My God, it's happened." Rehur hadn't meant to speak aloud, and his words echoed in the sudden silence. The man in the doorway turned as though he would speak, saw the ghostmark, and looked away again.

  "This is a private club, sor," the bartender said. At a discreet signal, the bar's bouncer slipped from the cubbyhole where he kept his pile of newssheets, and stood ready for action. "I'm sorry."

  "It's all right, Ezar, I'll vouch for him." A woman wrapped in a swirling, bright-red cape ducked under the stranger's outstretched arm and into the bar. Rehur recognized her as one of the mannen who worked for the Cockaigne. "In fact," she went on, posing for her audience, face alive with mischief, "you can put it on my tab, if you like."

  "Have you gone crazy, Aliste?" Ume-Kai demanded, not raising his voice.

  "Have you gone soft, Ume-Kai?" the woman retorted. She smiled at the bartender. "Hurry, please, Ezar, we don't want to be late."

  Rehur held his breath, willing the bartender to refuse her again. Ezar hesitated a moment longer, then, shaking his head, reached into his cabinets for the heated flasks. He filled them, slowly, and Aliste swaggered across the bar to collect them, still smiling.

  "What the hell's going on?" That was one of the other actors who had been sitting in the bar, her voice a little blurred from the drinks she had had.

  Aliste handed the bottles to the man with the Brandr ribbons and turned to face the questioner, clearly savoring her moment. "Fen Erling's fighting to clear his name, after the Halex woman called him a murderer."

  "Ask where," Rehur said, to the minne. Aliste had to be para'an—she couldn't be an actor unless she were—but he didn't want to give her the chance to refuse him. Ume-Kai shook his head, but then someone else shouted, "Where?"

  Aliste shook her head with a richly artificial laugh. Rehur's hand closed around the mug of wine, but Ume-Kai caught his wrist, pinned it to the table.

  "Not while Ezar's listening, ready to call the cops on us. But come along, if you want." The stranger put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her gently out of the bar before she could say anything more. Aliste looked back over his arm, laughing again, as the door swung closed behind them.

  "Damn it, Ume," Rehur began, but the minne shook his head.

  "I know where it has to be, there's no other place they can fight. Do we call the cops?"

  Rehur hesitated. The police force in Destiny was a minor force at best, trained to guard the greengates and to prevent burglary if they could. They had already proved their inability to handle the new street violence the year before, when a feud-related riot killed six people. More than that, most of them were Ingvarrs, of the Halex Kinship, and to call them in would only contribute to the problem. "I don't know," he began, almost in a wail, and then said, decisively, "No. No, Ume, it'd only make things worse." He pushed himself to his feet, reaching for the light overtunic slung across the back of his chair. "Just tell me where, all right?"

  Ume-Kai started to protest, then shook his head. "I'll take you there."

  The sunlight had faded to the unnatural twilight of first hour of Eclipse, and there was a breath of frost in the air. Rehur shivered, hugging the knitted overtunic around himself, and wondered if it was only the wind that chilled him. He was dressed only for the relative warmth of the Day, but the temperature could not have dropped that quickly. He shuddered again, and pulled thin gloves from his pockets.

  "This way," Ume-Kai said. In the dead light, his grey clothes, cap, long scarf, tunic, trousers, were blurred and indistinct, rendering him almost invisible against the grey-brown walls of the surrounding buildings. Only his hands in their scarlet gloves were clearly visible, like the disembodied projections of the puppet stage. "This way," he said again, impatiently, and Rehur followed.

  This was not a part of the Necropolis he knew well, a section given over to cross-talk theaters like the Cockaigne, and to small, cheap bars and blocks of cheaper flats. Belit would know it better, he thought, would have played in some of the halls, and then was annoyed at the irrelevant memory. The bars and cabaret theaters were closed, of course, their windows tightly shuttered, doors blocked by durable steel grates. The light was fading all around them; here and there, a streetlight struggled to come on.

  A few minutes later, Ume-Kai turned off the main street into a maze of alleys lit only by old-fashioned ball lights set above the buildings' doors. They gave little coverage, and Rehur was careful to stay close behind the minne as they threaded their way through the unmetalled roads. The alleys were very quiet—people tended to spend the Eclipse indoors in this part of the Necropolis—but then Rehur heard a sudden rush of voices. He stopped short, listening, and the sound was cut off as abruptly as it had appeared.

  "Ume?" he began, and the minne nodded.

  "I heard. That's where we're going."

  Ume-Kai turned a final corner and stopped short, putting out a hand to stop the younger actor. "Do you have any money?"

  "Some," Rehur answered, glancing warily around. They were in a dead-end alley, unlit except for the ball light above the grated door of the building at the far end of the street. To either side, the buildings —warehouses, perhaps, or the cheapest tenements—showed windowless walls for the first two stories, and mean, grated slits for the story above that.

  "Give it to me."

  "Why?" Rehur asked, but reached obediently into his trousers pocket.

  "We'll have to pay to get in, and probably a lot," Ume-Kai answered. "I don't have enough."

  Rehur passed him the folded sheaf of banknotes, wishing it were larger. He would figure out how to pay the rent, how to eat later, he thought. Right now it was more important to find out what was happening to Ixora.

  Tucking the money into the palm of his glove, Ume-Kai advanced on the end building, Rehur following close behind. As they approached the barred door, Rehur could see steps leading down to one side, to a second, sunken door. The lower door had no grate, and a modern bar light burned above it, filling the landing well with harsh brilliance. Ume-Kai stepped down into it without hesitation, and Rehur followed, blinking.

  There was a knocker set above the lock-plate, and Ume-Kai pressed it. It made no sound in the stairwell, but they could hear, faintly, its chimes echoing somewhere inside the building. The door opened almost before the knocker stopped sounding, and a hairless head appeared in the opening.

  "Sorry, sors, we're closed. If you're the delivery, its upstairs."

  He started to close the door, but Ume-Kai slipped the folded notes out of the palm of his glove. "We're here for the fun," he said, in an expressionless voice.

  "Ah." The bald man reversed the door's swing instantly. "You're late." Ume-Kai shrugged, and held out the money. The bald man took it, and waved them both inside. He closed the door behind them just as a wave of shouting rolled along the white-painted corridor. "You know the way?"

  "Yes," Ume-Kai said, in the same toneless voice.

  "Right," the bald man said, and settled himself again in the battered chair that stood just inside the door.

  "Come on," Ume-Kai said, and put his hand on the younger actor's shoulder.

  Rehur shivered at the touch, but did as he was told. The corridors were brightly lit, freshly painted, but the air smelled damply of sweat and dirty clothes. Beneath that, he caught the sharp scent of urine. "What is this place?" he said at last, when he was sure they were out of earshot of the man guarding the door.

  "Legally, it's a gym," Ume-Kai answered. The corners of his mouth drew downward in distaste. "But they hire out for a lot of things—duels, blood sport, whatever."

  "How come you know so much about it?" Rehur asked, and wished he hadn't.

  The minne's face contorted. Then he mastered his expression, and said coldly, "You did nureba. I was minne' from the time I turned fourteen." He gave the word the inflection that changed the meaning from a kind of actor to transvestite prostitute, and Rehur winced. With an effort, Ume-Kai managed a lopsided smile. "I was born dead, Rehur. My moth
er was a ghost, and a poor one. I had to do something."

  Rehur groped for something to say to that, but there wasn't anything. They walked on in silence. A few meters farther on, the corridor ended in an abrupt right turn. Rehur saw the other actor square his shoulders, and braced himself to meet whatever lay around the corner.

  The shouting, which had been building as they came down the corridor, rose to a sudden climax as they turned the corner. Rehur flinched, and almost stumbled into the table set to block half the corridor. A nondescript man, heavily muscled for an Oresteian, sat behind it. "Let's see your tickets, friends," he said.

  Ume-Kai shook his head. "We paid at the door, friend." He gave that word a twist, too, and the muscle-man frowned.

  "Too bad, friend, you pay here."

  "If I pay again," Ume-Kai said deliberately, "you'll see yourself on the Cockaigne stage. Do I make myself clear?"

  The muscle-man shrugged. "Can't blame me for trying," he said. "Go on in."

  Ume-Kai smiled thinly, and stepped past the table. Rehur followed before the muscle-man could change his mind. They ducked through a final, low doorway into darkness. Rehur hesitated, half-blind in the sudden dark, and Ume-Kai caught his hand, drawing him away from the door. After a moment, the younger man's sight cleared.

  They stood at the back of a low-ceilinged gallery, looking through a series of low arches into an orange-lit central space. Each of the arches was packed with bodies, making it impossible to see what lay beyond. The smell of urine was stronger here, and Rehur made a face, avoiding the frequent puddles.

  Ume-Kai leaned close, his lips almost against the other's ear. "The fighting's in the pit," he said. "We want your Family's box—this way."

  "Box?" Rehur asked, in half-hysterical disbelief, but Ume-Kai was already puffing him toward the far end of the gallery. Rehur stumbled after him, catching only the briefest glimpses of the crowd around him. Most of them seemed to be para'anin, or at least if they were dead, their ghostmarks were hidden beneath hoods and pulled-down caps. Most were shabbily dressed, but not all of them; he caught sight of at least one young woman wearing a pin in the shape of the Orillon seaflower, recognized another young man's five-hundred-kip coat. Then they were pushing their way through the crowd that clogged the central arch, and Rehur recognized familiar faces, Halex faces, among the crowd. They recognized him, too, but could not be seen to see a ghost.

  Ume-Kai seemed to be searching for something, swearing to himself as he pushed past people. Rehur struggled after him, keeping a tight hold on the loose fabric of the minne's over-tunic. Then, at the very front of the archway, silhouetted against the orange light of the pit, he saw a cloaked figure, saw too the light reflecting from the medium's badge swinging at its collar.

  "Maturin?" In the same instant, Rehur realized it was not the off-worlder, and Ume-Kai swung to face him.

  "Your medium?"

  "Not Trey, but yes, a medium."

  "Where?"

  Rehur pointed to the cloaked shape. "There."

  "Thank God," Ume-Kai said, and began pushing through the crowd again.

  For once, the ghostmarks worked to their advantage. Angry spectators, turning to see who was shoving, fell back at the sight of the white-marked foreheads, and let them pass. Rehur took savage pleasure in elbowing his own kinsmen and watching their faces change from annoyance to mute, wooden outrage at his presence.

  And then they had reached the mouth of the archway, and Ume-Kai reached to touch the medium's shoulder. The figure turned, frowning, and Rehur recognized Emerant Ansson, who handled much of the Kinship's business in Destiny. The medium's frown deepened as she saw Ume-Kai, then eased as she saw Rehur standing behind the minne. She turned so that her back was against the side of the archway, pressing herself against the stones so that the ghosts could squeeze in beside her.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the rumbling of the crowd.

  Rehur barely heard the question. For the first time, he had a clear view down into the pit, and the sight held him mesmerized. The pit was just that, an oval hole perhaps thirteen or fourteen meters long and five or six meters wide. The lip of the archway was a little more than two meters from the sanded floor, dyed bright orange by the glow of the heating lamps suspended from the ceiling. In the pit itself, two knots of people clustered around a figure at each end of the oval. Each group carried a weighted driver's whip, but it was some seconds before Rehur recognized Ixora at the center of the left-hand group.

  "Tell us what happened, Medium," Ume-Kai said.

  "You don't know?" Emerant bit off her own question, glancing from one to the other. Rehur dragged his eyes away from Ixora, now stripping off knitted tunic and loose shirt until she stood bare-armed, undervest defining her tiny breasts.

  "No," he said.

  Emerant drew a deep breath, obviously searching for the most economical way to tell the story. "Fen Erling challenged Ixora, for calling him liar and murderer," she said, after a moment's thought. "That gave her choice of weapons, which is why it's whips. She can't kill him too easily that way. So we're here."

  "Why didn't she just refuse?" Rehur asked. Emerant gave him a wry half smile, and didn't answer. Swearing, Rehur turned back to the pit. Ume-Kai wrapped one long hand around the other actor's arm to steady him, but Rehur barely felt that fierce grip. They all knew why Ixora had responded to the challenge: to have refused would have been to admit a mistake, to say she had not meant her accusation, and, for better or for worse, she believed what she'd said. At least, Rehur thought, she had the sense to choose half-lethal weapons. The seconds would have to step in before someone was killed.

  "Why didn't she just stay out of sight?" Ume-Kai asked. "If this Fen couldn't find her to challenge her. . . ."

  Emerant sighed, working her hands inside the pockets of her long cloak. "We tried—who are you, anyway?"

  "My name is Ume-Kai," the minne began, and Rehur said, "A friend of mine, Medium, with the Cockaigne Theater."

  Emerant made a shrugging gesture of apology. "We tried," she said again. "Herself sent her down to Destiny, to the townhouse, thinking Fen would come to the Tower, but he came here instead. And now. . . ." Her voice trailed off, was absorbed into the sudden roar of the crowd. Rehur swung to face the pit again, the stones slick underfoot, and was grateful for Ume-Kai's hand on his arm.

  In the pit, the seconds had finished their final business and retreated to the sides of the pit. Friends and kinsmen helped them climb back into the arches, leaving the combatants alone on the sanded floor. They stood apart for a long moment, Ixora watching the weighted tip of her whip write patterns in the sand, Fen slowly drawing the braided cords through his fingers, and there were catcalls from the audience. Ixora looked up then, an odd half-smile on her face, and slowly brought her whip into the fighting position. She was afraid, Rehur knew, recognizing that expression from the days when he'd manned the drag-brake for her, and clenched his own fists to stop from shaking.

  "Oh, Ixora, be careful," he whispered, knowing he couldn't startle her, that his words would be lost in the noise from the crowd.

  Fen had brought his whip up, too, and the two faced each other across the pit, just within reach of each other's weapon. For a long moment, neither moved. Rehur could feel the time stretching through a dozen, two dozen of his heartbeats, heard as if through batting whistles and jeering shouts from the audience. Fen's nerve broke first. With a shout, he swung his whip in a great arc, the tip cracking through the space where Ixora had stood. She moved in the same instant, swaying easily aside, brought her own whip into motion. She missed her first counterstroke, to tangle and trap the other's whip, and her follow-up attack missed by centimeters. Fen recovered, struck again. Ixora staggered, and there was a roar from the crowd as they saw the blood on her vest. That was what they had come to see, Rehur realized, and it added immensely to the sport that it was people of Family who bled. He swallowed hard, tasting bile.

  Ixora regaine
d her balance in an instant, skipping back a few steps to buy time. Fen came after her, whip singing through the thick air. She feinted left, dodged right, and struck. The weighted tip caught Fen on the shoulder of his whip arm, drawing blood. There was more cheering at the sight.

  They were both more cautious after that, moving, using the length of the pit, breaking off the attack if their feints did not bring the desired reaction. A few voices jeered at them, calling for action, for blood, but the more knowledgeable hissed them to silence. Rehur dug his nails into Ume-Kai's wrist, hardly aware of what he was doing. The whips snapped out again and again, drawing blood occasionally, more often missing their target entirely and forcing the attacker to leap back to avoid the counterstroke. Both Fen and Ixora were bleeding freely now, each with half a dozen swollen cuts from the sharp-edged weights, but none was serious enough to stop the fight. They were breathing heavily now, and the pauses between attacks were lengthening. Rehur shivered, knowing what had to happen soon. Very few body blows could do enough damage to stop the fight; only an attack on head or face would do it, though so far neither one seemed to want to take that step.

  Then, quite abruptly, Fen feinted high and struck as Ixora ducked. The crowd yelled its pleasure, but Fen was tiring. The attack fell short, the weight just grazing Ixora's jaw. It drew a thin line of blood from the middle of her cheek down across her chin, and she struck back without plan, a direct blow at the Erling's face. He had not expected something so unsubtle, was tangled in a counterfeint, and the weight struck him high on the right cheek, just below his eye. Fen screamed, dropping his whip, and sank to the sanded floor, holding his face in both hands. Blood welled from between his fingers, blood and something else. The crowd exploded with delight, urging Ixora to finish him. Rehur turned his head, fighting the desire to vomit.

  When he was able to look back, the seconds had reached the pit, and the crowd's cheering had died into a sort of disappointed mumbling, mixed with the shouts of bookmakers paying off their odds. Ixora leaned into a friend's arms, face distorted, her shoulders heaving with exhausted sobs. Fen was hidden by the hovering bodies of his seconds, but Rehur caught a glimpse of one kneeling beside him, capably bandaging the injured man.