"Who is it?" It was the para'an's wary voice, and I shaped my answer accordingly.
"Guil, its Trey, Trey Maturin. I'm looking for Leith. May I come in?"
There was a muffled exclamation, and then Leith said, "Of course." A moment later, the door clicked open. We stepped through, and started up the stairs toward Guil's flat.
Leith was waiting in the open doorway, Guil's fair hair just visible behind her. She frowned, seeing Alkres, and I said hastily, "Let me get inside first, Leith, please."
Moraghan's frown deepened, but she stepped aside wordlessly, and let us into the flat. It was a fairly large place, with several rooms; the living room where we stood was larger than Rehur's entire flat. Then Leith had closed the door behind us, saying "What the hell's going on?"
"I know what's going on," Guil said. She fixed me with an icy stare, daring me to contradict her. "That's the Halex kid, the ult'eir they've been wondering about, what happened to him, and your medium's brought him here."
I shook my head, and managed a smile. "You're only partly right, Guil. He's not the ult'eir anymore, he's the Patriarch. And there isn't any other place for us to go."
"He's got kin," the para'an protested, mechanically.
I said, "They can't be trusted. Have you heard the broadcasts coming out of the Rhawn Hold?"
"Yes," Leith said. "And the Brandr's." She glared at the para'an, who looked away, shrugging.
"It's not my place, Leith," she muttered. Then, as Moraghan's stare did not waver, Guil said, "All right, I'm with you. But the whole thing's fucked up."
Leith said, with the quiet competence that had always drawn me to her, "What can we do, Trey?"
I paused, marshalling my thoughts. I hadn't really thought beyond the necessity of getting Alkres out of reach of the Brandr. "Mainly, we need a place to hide until things sort themselves out a little."
Leith nodded. "You got it."
Guil nodded, too, but her expression was unreadable.
"After that," I said, "we'll need to get in touch with the Family, let them know that Alkres is alive and claims the genarchy. I don't know what, then."
Leith circled her gloved wrist with the fingers of her right hand, turning the maimed arm thoughtfully in their circle. She was wearing an oversized Oresteian tunic, probably borrowed from Guil, over her usual clothes, but she stood as straight as if she still wore her Peacekeeper's uniform. "All right," she said abruptly. "You need communications. You can't use Guil's 'net except in emergencies: the link might be traced, and that would spoil the safe house. We'll go to Pipe Major. The stadtholder promised to open the port tomorrow."
Something Leith had said once was echoing in my mind, something about it not mattering whether an order was right or wrong as long as a decision was made. I said, "Don't play the commander with me, Leith."
She looked up, startled and angry, and then, reluctantly, her expression eased into a smile. "I wasn't, Trey, truth. If it's communications you need, Pipe Major's your best bet."
"It could still be traced," Guil said.
Leith shrugged. "So what? Do you think even these Brandr are going to risk harassing a Conglomerate mailship?"
"The way things are going," Alkres said, "I wouldn't put anything past them." It was the first time he'd spoken since we'd entered the flat, and everybody jumped.
Guil was the first to recover. "You've got a point, kid," she said, and gestured to the stacked cushions that served as chairs. "Sit down, be comfortable. You, too, Medium. I'll make coffee."
"Thank you," Alkres said. He settled himself cautiously on the largest of the piles, and after a moment, I seated myself beside him. Guil vanished into the kitchen, letting its curtain-door fall shut behind her. Alkres looked far older than his years, harsh shadows beneath his eyes and hollowing his cheeks. I held out my arm, and Alkres burrowed against me, soundlessly crying. Moraghan turned her back on us, deliberately blind. I wrapped my arms around the boy, wishing there were something I could do or say to comfort him. "I'm sorry," I whispered, rocking him as if he were a much younger child. "I'm so sorry."
We stayed like that for a minute, maybe longer, and then Alkres pushed me away and sat up, scrubbing at his face. "I'm all right," he said, almost angrily.
Moraghan said, without turning, "Did I tell you, Trey, I spoke to Stephan Mojag at the Trade Board? He said there wasn't a damn thing he could do. I bet he's sorry now." She turned then, not waiting for my answer, and looked at Alkres. "Stephan used to be in my squadron—I used to be with the Peacekeepers. When I was your age, I was piloting a drome fighter. Four years later, I was commanding the whole squadron. Don't worry, you can handle it."
Before Alkres could decide how to answer that, Guil said, "Leith." There was a note in the para'an's voice that made us all turn to her, and Leith said, "Trouble?"
"Maybe. I was listening to the newscast, in there. The Brandr are looking—actively looking—for you two now." Guil set the coffee service on the low table, and gave a lopsided grin. "The stadtholder's threatening to file a complaint with the Ship's Council, and there's all sorts of speculation about what the Brandr may do to retaliate."
"How can the Brandr do anything in Destiny?" Alkres said. "It's our city."
"Reidun Brandr says," Guil began, her voice rich with irony, "that with your Tower destroyed, there's no real government here and they have to step in to keep the peace."
"Who's Reidun Brandr?" Leith asked.
Guil shrugged.
Alkres frowned. "He's their Demi-heir, I think."
"Oh." Leith twisted her gloved wrist in her encircling fingers. "I think, Trey, we'd better find you another bolt hole, just in case."
I leaned forward and poured myself a cup of coffee that I didn't want. I sipped the scalding liquid, trying to think. I didn't really know anyone else in Destiny, at least no one that I felt sure I could trust. Emerant Ansson, the Family's local medium, was a possibility—but she was an Ansson, and we still didn't know where they stood. Most of the Destiny people were Ingvarrs, like the stadtholder. The only mainline Halex I knew was Rehur, and he was a ghost.
Did that matter? I wondered suddenly. I took another swallow of coffee, feeling the caffeine take hold. Rehur might be dead, under the code, but I was a medium. As long as I was present, Alkres was acting within the code—and if the situation were bad enough to drive us into the Necropolis, it would be bad enough for us to risk bending the code a little. There were other advantages to contacting Rehur, I realized: who better than an actor, with all his contacts in the Necropolis, to spread the news that Alkres was alive and well, and claimed his birthright? It wouldn't matter that he was a ghost—there were para'anin enough to hear his message and pass it along to the living.
"You're right," I said aloud. "Do you remember the puppet actor, the night of the khy sonon-na?"
"How could I forget him?" Leith grinned, then sobered quickly. "He was the twin to your Demi-heir, wasn't he?"
"Rehur?" Alkres looked up quickly.
I nodded. "I think—I know he'll shelter us, if we have to take refuge in the Necropolis." I paused, wondering if I should explain the other things I had in mind, then decided not to do it just yet. Alkres had enough to worry about; let him get as much rest as he could now, before I gave him something new to trouble him. "Alkres, you stay with Leith and Guil. They'll look after you while I make the arrangements."
Alkres looked as if he'd protest, but then he nodded.
Guil said, "You're going into the Necroplis now?"
"That's right," I said, and after a second, she nodded.
"They're looking for two of you, and you don't look like an off-worlder. You're right."
Leith said, "If anything goes wrong, we'll make for the ship. There're ways to get into the port."
"All right," I said, and hauled myself to my feet. The coffee had helped drive away some of the weariness, but not all. Guil said something in a low voice and vanished into one of the inner rooms. A moment later she was back, an o
pened bottle in her hand.
"Stinnit," she said, and held out a blue-banded capsule. "You'll need it."
I took the pill gratefully, swallowing it dry. It was too soon for the chemicals to take effect, but I could already feel the psychological lift. "Thanks," I said, and looked at Leith.
"We'll be here or at the ship," she said. Drawing my cloak around me, I let myself out into the sunlight.
Despite the fact that it was getting into the clock-evening, there were a fair number of people out on the streets, made restless by the raid and the continuing Brandr presence in the city. It was not hard to lose myself among the crowds, and I made my way to the Necropolis wall without attracting undue notice. At the greengates, I adjusted my badge so that it lay outside the hood of my cloak, and attached myself to a sober group of para'anin. As I'd hoped, the city policeman assumed I was with them, and waved us through together. There were no Brandr in sight, for which I was grateful.
The Necropolis looked very different in daylight. The theaters, bars, and restaurants were all closed, their windows shuttered over. The streets were quiet, and I felt as though a hundred pairs of eyes were watching me from the buildings' upper floors. It took me longer than I'd expected to find Rehur's building, but when I finally got there, the main door swung open to my touch. That was a bit of luck: I'd assumed it would be locked, and I would have to identify myself for all to hear over the building's guard system. I climbed the stairs two at a time, hoping I wouldn't meet anyone, until at last I stood outside Rehur's door. There was a piece of yellow paper stuck to the panel just above the latchplate. It took me a minute to decipher his scrawl, but at last I figured it out: "'Belit—Late rehearsal tonight, the Matador, nineteen hours/whenever. See you there." It was signed with his initial.
I stood for a moment, staring at the card. There was no telling when the rehearsal would end, so there was no point in my waiting for him here. If nothing else, I would be extremely conspicuous, sitting outside his door until he got home. On the other hand, I didn't want to return to Guil's flat without having seen Rehur. . . . I frowned at the card again, and came to my decision. I knew where the Matador was—I had seen The Man Who Killed in His Sleep there, the last time I came to Destiny—and I doubted small theater companies had changed too much since my own days as an actor. The stinnit was taking hold now. I felt sure I could talk my way into the theater, and wait for Rehur there.
The Matador lay on the far side of Broad Street. I retraced my steps to the main tram line, and followed its tracks up Broad Street toward the northern greengate. The buildings here were shuttered, too, shorn of banners and lights. Though I knew people had to be working inside, getting ready for the coming Dark, I felt as though I were walking through an abandoned city. I was glad to make the turn into the Matador's alley.
The front of the house was shuttered and dark, of course, but I found the stage door easily enough, and pulled the door chain. After a moment, the door opened a crack, and a woman's voice said, "Yes?"
"Is Witchwood rehearsing here?" The woman frowned, and I hurried on without giving her a chance to answer. "Rehur left me a note. He said he'd be late, and that I should meet him here."
The woman's face cleared. "Yeah, they're here. They'll be a while yet—they're taping—but if you'd like, you can come in and watch."
I had hoped she would say that. "That'd be great, thank you."
She pushed the door open further, and I stepped inside. The Matador's backstage area smelled like every other holotheater I'd ever been in, a faintly dusty smell offset by the burned smell of the puppet consoles. I smiled, savoring it in spite of everything.
"This way—I didn't get your name?"
"Trey Maturin."
The woman nodded. "Have you been to a taping before?"
"Yes, quite a few," I answered, and bit back a laugh.
"Then you know the rules," the woman said, satisfied, and pushed through a heavy curtain. We were in the backstage proper now, and I was careful to stay close behind her. We passed the musicians' stand, and the doorkeeper paused to speak to the red-haired woman at the keyboard. It was the woman, Belit, whom I'd met the night of the khy sono. I smiled at her automatically, and she gave me a puzzled look, not quite remembering.
"How's it going?" the doorkeeper said, quietly, and Belit transferred her attention to the other woman.
"Okay. I'd say they've got another hour, at least. What's up?"
"A friend of Rehur's is here to see him," the doorkeeper answered.
Belit's eyes widened in recognition, and she raised a hand in greeting. "He's on right now," she said, "but I'll pass the word when he's through."
"Thanks," the doorkeeper said, and beckoned for me to follow. We skirted the elaborate lighting console, the doorkeeper murmuring a greeting to the young man monitoring its dials, and pushed through another heavy curtain. It gave onto the stage itself, at extreme stage right, and I caught a quick glimpse of the group onstage before the doorkeeper led me down the short flight of steps to the seats. She pointed to a seat toward the middle of the third row, and I sat quickly. Onstage, the blond puppetmaster—Nariko-Ash—turned toward our movement, frowning, but the doorkeeper gave some sort of hand signal. The puppetmaster nodded, and turned back to her work. The doorkeeper slipped away again.
The puppetmasters had set up a portable tape rig to stage left—a small light platform surrounded by a fragile-looking scaffold studded with cameras and secondary lights. More lights and cameras were suspended from the canopy. Rehur stood in the center of the column of light, hands on his hips in a familiar, challenging pose. The dark-haired puppetmaster, Rowan, stared up at him, hugging her kataboard against her body. She shook her head, and looked at Ash.
The blond puppetmaster put a hand to her forehead. "Rehur," she said. "You are playing a demon, the incarnation of evil. Stop looking for sympathy."
Rehur threw up his hands, and I saw that he was wearing three-inch claws on his fingertips. "All right, fine," he said. I could tell it had been a long rehearsal.
"Thank you," Ash said.
Rowan said, as though there had been no disagreement, "Tenth kata, please, Rehur."
Rehur stood still for an instant longer, then shook himself, and moved fluidly into the proper stance, torso half turned away from Rowan, his left hand extended palm up, fingers bent to display the glittering claws. His right elbow was tucked close to the body, hand out, palm down, fingers spread. In the same moment, his face assumed a sullen arrogance that contrasted nicely with his delicate features.
"Good," Ash said. "Check, please."
Rowan pointed her remote-control wand at the base of the platform and pressed a button. Thin lines of ruby light lanced from the cameras, snaring Rehur in their web. He was wearing the usual taping clothes—a skintight, hooded pullover sewn with reflective points at each joint, and a pair of dun-colored trousers. Each beam centered on a reflector, confirming camera position and outlining Rehur's upper body in little explosions of light. Rowan nodded.
"All set."
"Go," Ash answered.
The other puppetmaster touched a second button on the remote, and the red beams disappeared. In the same instant, the lights intensified, and I winced, remembering the heat and the blinding glare. I had always hated puppet work.
"Rolling," Rowan said, still calmly. "Begin—now."
Rehur's left arm curled in toward his body, a slow, inhuman movement. When the claws almost touched his shoulder, he flung both arms wide, as though he'd sprouted wings, then fell to one knee, arms wrapping protectively about himself. There was nothing sympathetic, or even human, in the gesture.
Rowan said, "And cut." She looked at Ash.
"That's more like it," the blond woman said. "How's the film?"
Rowan crossed to the platform, bent to examine the readouts along its base. Rehur, standing now, watched curiously. "All right," Rowan said at last. "It's a workable tape."
"Good," Ash said briskly. "Rehur, we're done, thank you
. Ivena?"
One of the women sitting in the clump of actors at stage right looked up alertly, and began stripping off her outer clothing. Rehur jumped down from the taping platform, pushing back the hood of his shirt.
"We'll get your tape replaced," Ash continued, "and then well have a quick run-through with the uncut puppets. Then we can all go home."
Some of the actors raised an ironic cheer at that, and I couldn't help grinning. I remembered nights like this only too well. At Ash's nod, Ivena stepped briskly onto the platform, and held up her arms while Rowan adjusted the cameras. The actor was wearing the marked tights as well, indicating that Rowan was making a full-body puppet. I wondered just what would be added to Rehur's half-puppet to make the demon.
Ivena's taping went relatively quickly, needing only five takes to get what Ash wanted. Her movements were less dramatic than Rehur's, and I assumed that the puppetmasters would be doing a lot with that particular image. When they had finished, Rowan bent to pull the heavy tape cartridge from the base of the platform. Ash clapped her hands sharply.
"All right, we've got the puppets. Now, let's run through the second scene—just once, to get the feel of the new tapes—and then we can all go home."
The actors who had been waiting stage right pulled themselves to their feet and moved slowly toward their places, talking among themselves. Rowan fitted the two cartridges—Rehur's and Ivena's tapes—into the master control console, and began fiddling with the dials. As the actors settled into their positions, I finally recognized the play: The Possession, probably the oldest warhorse in the Oresteian canon. It was no wonder Rehur had looked unhappy. The Possession's lead-villain is the demon, traditionally a puppet; from the look of things, Rehur's only live role was doubling as a minor courtier.
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