The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "—always cooperate with the civil authority, but frankly, sor, this is a Tong house. I'm only the conciliatrix—"

  "I understand," the officer interrupted. He stepped forward, reaching past the conciliatrix to catch the closing door. "And I am sorry to have interfered with your work." He was standing full in the doorway now, staring frankly at the hooded actor. Rehur hesitated, then, trusting to his makeup and the poor lighting, lifted nerveless hands to his hood, pushing it back to expose the ghostmark on his forehead. The officer lifted an eyebrow, and Rehur made himself meet that inquiring gaze with wide-eyed innocence.

  Shoba said hastily, "An audition, sor, he's looking for. For the ghost-wing."

  "I see." The officer's tone gave nothing away. He turned back to Lulan, still punctiliously polite. "Again, I'm sorry to have troubled you during working hours. I hope you'll think about what I said."

  "Of course," Lulan answered. She walked with him to the office's other door, smiling graciously. "This is a Tong house, which means voting, but I do have some influence. I'll do what I can."

  "You're most kind," the officer said, and bowed himself out. Lulan closed the door behind him, and then, with a decisive gesture, pressed the lockplate.

  Shoba said quickly, "Ama, I'm sorry. I thought I'd closed that door."

  Lulan glared at him. "You're a fool, Shoba, and you always have been. Get out, we'll talk about this later."

  The medium bowed and backed away hurriedly. Lulan took a deep breath, visibly calming herself. Rehur said, "I hope I haven't gotten you into trouble, Lulan."

  The conciliatrix shook her head, still frowning, but beckoned the actor into the room. She waved vaguely at the chairs and tambours scattered around the opulent office, and seated herself behind her executive's desk. Rehur pulled one of the leather-covered chairs a little closer to the desk, but waited until Lulan had finished punching security codes into the desk's built-in systems.

  "Now we can talk," she said, finally. "What brings you here, Rehur?"

  "What did they want?" the actor asked, in the same moment.

  "What do you think?" the conciliatrix said, and snorted. "They know the Family comes here; they want me to be sure there's no trouble. I repeat, what can I do for you, Rehur?"

  The actor took a deep breath, and launched into an explanation of Maturin's requests. Unconsciously, almost, he borrowed the idiom of the holoplays, and when Lulan responded in kind, he borrowed more freely, building on the old themes of kinship and duty. When he had finished, the conciliatrix leaned back in her chair, her broad face set into stern, severe lines.

  "So," she said, after a long moment, "we still have a genarch." There was a deep satisfaction in her voice. She shook herself, and went on, almost briskly, "Of course I'll do what the medium asks—God send this Maturin's more use than Shoba is. If they need shelter, they can come here. I've rooms for them, nobody would suspect it. The Patriarch can depend on me. I'll see that the Family knows he's claimed his place, too—I'll make sure of it." Her spate of talk dried as quickly as it had appeared. After a moment, when it seemed the conciliatrix had nothing more to say, Rehur cleared his throat, ready to take his leave. Lulan didn't seem to hear.

  "Fifteen years old," she said quietly, almost to herself. "And our Patriarch." She looked directly at the actor, shaking her head. "What's the world coming to, Rehur, that all he's got to help him are a ghost and a para'an?"

  "And Maturin," Rehur protested.

  "A medium and a spacer, two off-worlders and a para'an not even of our kin." Lulan gave a twisted smile. "And us. What is the world coming to?"

  Rehur made his way back to his flat in an unaccountable state of depression, despite Lulan's agreeing to help Alkres. The Sunset light was fading from the sky, and lay in a smoldering band along the eastern horizon; overhead, Agamemnon swelled toward full. The twilight made everything ghostly and indistinct, draining even the lighted signs of some of their vitality. The streets were even emptier than they had been, and Rehur quickened his steps, eager to be home.

  A knot of people had gathered on the building's stoop, gesturing with actors' freedom as they talked. Rehur checked, then recognized them as various of his neighbors, and made himself approach. Nodding a greeting, he started up the stairs past them, but Witchwood's red-haired musician called after him.

  "Have you heard the news, Rehur?"

  The actor paused reluctantly, but turned back so as not to arouse suspicion. "I've heard," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "Rohin's true-dead." It was the first time he'd said those words, and a wave of grief washed over him. Saying it aloud, he believed it, completely and fully, and the loss was even more painful than he'd feared.

  "I am sorry," Belit said, and the others—all from Witchwood, except for Ume-Kai—murmured their condolences as well. The worn formulae steadied Rehur, and he managed a wry smile.

  "It's just as well for you, then, that the theaters are closed." That was Solvar, who generally played second villain. The touch of malice in his voice cleared Rehur's thoughts completely.

  "Closed? What do you mean?"

  "Exactly that," Solvar said, easily riding over the others' confused answers. He had been a Berngard, of the Axtell Kinship, and had no particular stake in Main Continent quarrels. "The Destiny council has decided to close everything—theaters, cabarets, bars and all—for at least three calendar-days."

  "As a token of mourning," the third-lead Disa interjected. Belit snorted. "More like trying to figure out what to do. The whole council's Ingvarrs, Halex Kindred."

  Solvar smiled. "Mourning, nothing. They closed because the Brandr captain told them to."

  Ume-Kai turned a doll's face toward the smaller man. He was in deshabille—woman's face and man's clothes: word of the closings had caught him dressing for the promenade. "Where did you get that story, Solvar?"

  "From Gilder, then, and she heard it from Halsom Ingvarr in the gatekeepers' office," Solvar retorted.

  Ume-Kai made a face, silenced, and there were thoughtful nods all around the circle. That channel, from civil servant to his para'an cousin who ran the Old Garret Theater, was usually reliable.

  Belit said, "Whatever the reason, it means we lose our contract." She glanced up at Rehur, standing on the step above her, and gave an apologetic shrug. "I know that's nothing to your loss, Rehur, but who needs more trouble on top of it? I already spoke to Rowan, though. The Matador's cancelled the contract, so there's no pay for any of us."

  "And no rehearsal, of course," Disa said, with a self-mocking grin. The Witchwood Company had always lived hand to mouth. Rehur shrugged. "We'll manage. But thanks, Belit."

  "Rehur." Ume-Kai laid a hand on the younger actor's sleeve, blue eyes registering and assessing the other's unusual makeup. "I don't know if it's true, but I heard—" He hesitated briefly, to calculated effect, and Rehur saw the quick, malicious glance toward Solvar.

  "I heard," Ume-Kai continued, "that the Brandr haven't accounted for all your Kindred, not everybody that should have been at the Tower. Perhaps. . . ." He let his voice trail off, and Solvar made a disbelieving noise.

  Rehur stood for a second, caught between laughter and tears. This was almost certainly Lulan's work, spreading the rumor as she'd promised—the conciliatrix never wasted time—but even so. . . . He shook the thought away. Rohin was dead, he had Maturin's word on it, but the minne's suggestion had been—mostly—well meant. "Thanks, Ume," he said, and to his horror his voice broke on a sob. He turned away, blinded by sudden tears, and fumbled his way into the building.

  Inside his own flat, he slammed the door behind him, then stood for a long moment before switching on the lights, fighting for control. Rohin is dead, he told himself almost angrily, but Alkres is alive, and needs you. And the Brandr know he's alive—why else would they have been at the May-apple?—and that will eventually mean a search. Emotions at bay again, Rehur turned on the lights, and then the heating coil at the foot of the stove-bed. He went into the bathroom and washed aw
ay the heavy makeup, then unwound the crimson throw and put it carefully away. He settled himself against the stove-bed's pillows, feet stretched toward the slowly warming coil, and tried to think clearly. He had to get in touch with Maturin, tell the medium that Lulan was willing to help, and that the Brandr were patrolling the Necropolis—but the comnet was too easily monitored, and the Brandr were bound to be watching all traffic in and out of the Necropolis.

  Rehur buried his head against his knees, wishing, not for the first time, that he were as clever at intrigue as the lead-villains he played. In another hour or three, the last of the Sunset sky would have faded—but without the crowds moving in and out of the greengates to mask him, would he dare try to reach the flat where Maturin was hiding? There was too much chance he'd be spotted, even with the makeup; he wasn't even sure if the Brandr at the May-apple had been taken in by it. There were people he would trust with the message, but he had no way of proving to Maturin that they were to be trusted. By the same token, the comnet was quick, but it was easily monitored and traced, and the Brandr would have to be stupid not to have put a watch on it. No, he thought, he would have to risk carrying the message himself.

  But not just yet. He sighed, and edged closer to the glowing coil, knowing it was fear that chilled him so. The para'an, the tug pilot—Guil ex-Tam'ne, her name was—didn't seem to be a fool; he would have to trust her to stay put until the Dark deepened and he could slip out of the Necropolis in safety.

  A knock at the door interrupted his bleak thoughts. Lifting his head, he called, "Who's there?"

  "Belit." The musician's voice was hesitant. "I brought some tea?"

  Rehur rose quickly to unlock the door. "Come in, and welcome."

  The redhead's smile was almost apologetic as she stepped into the flat. "If you'd rather not have company, say. I won't be hurt." She lifted the insulated pot, and the box of sandwiches she held in her other hand. "But I thought, you wouldn't want to cook, and you ought to eat. . . ."

  "Belit, thank you," Rehur said, with all the warmth he could muster. "This is good of you." He pulled over another of the wheeled storage boxes and rummaged in the standing cabinet for a pair of mugs, then took the sandwiches and put two of them into the cooker to toast. "Please stay. I'd rather be with someone."

  "Of course," Belit said. She poured two mugs of tea while Rehur adjusted the cooker, and then the actor seated himself opposite her, resting both elbows on the scarred table top. They drank in silence, Belit's quiet presence immensely comforting.

  "Thanks, Belit," Rehur said again, after a while, and then, as the cooker chimed the end of its cycle, added, "No, I'll get it." He had just opened the cooker when there was another knock at the door.

  "Who's there?"

  "Solvar."

  Rehur sighed, and Belit rolled her eyes, but there was nothing either could do without being unreasonably rude. And that, Rehur thought, making a face, could be fatal in a small puppet company. He snapped off the lock and pulled back the door, saying, "What is it, Sol—"

  The words died on his lips as he saw who else stood there, almost hiding Solvar behind their bulk. Three big men, no, four, all in the grey Brandr battledress, flanked by a man who wore the black-hand badge of a medium.

  "Rehur, I'm sorry," Solvar began, and the tallest man, who carried an officer's wand in his belt, said to the medium, "Shut him up."

  The medium made a curt gesture, and Solvar slunk away. "You, woman, out," the medium went on, jerking a thumb at Belit.

  "I'm para'an of Fyfe in Fyfe," Belit countered warily, rising to her feet. "What's your business with him?"

  "No business of yours, para'," one of the soldiers rumbled, and the officer said, "Get out."

  Belit hesitated, and Rehur said, dry-mouthed, "Go on, Belit."

  The musician did as she was told, but slowly, looking back as she went. Rehur folded his arms across his chest, trying to hide his fear. "What do you want?" he asked again, looking at the medium.

  "These gentlemen want to know where your cousin is," the medium answered, with a rote courtesy almost as terrifying as threats.

  "My cousins are dead, true-dead," Rehur answered, with a touch of bitterness.

  "The ult'eir Alkres is alive," the medium answered. "Where is he?"

  "I don't know," Rehur began, and the officer cut in.

  "Tell him not to lie."

  "You would be advised to tell the truth," the medium said.

  "I'm a dead man," Rehur protested, with all the innocence he could muster. "How could the ult'eir come to me and live?"

  "Tell him," the officer said grimly, "that he'll be true-dead himself if he doesn't stop wasting my time." He held up his hand when the medium would have repeated his words. "Tell him I know he's been in contact with the ult'eir, that he's been trying to cause trouble with Lulan of the May-apple. Tell him, too, that I'm not a patient man."

  Rehur waited while all that was repeated to him, hugging himself in a vain attempt to stop the shaking. It's no use, a voice was saying in his head, it's no use, they spotted you, they know. . . . When the medium had finished, he took a deep breath, and shook his head. "I don't know where he is," he said again. "There must be some mistake." Even to himself, the words sounded weak and unconvincing.

  "Persuade him," the officer said, indifferently, and nodded at the biggest of the soldiers. The medium laid one hand on the badge at his throat, then touched the soldier's mouth and hands, ritually conveying his own power to the other. Rehur took a step backward, knowing there was nowhere to run, and the soldier moved with unexpected speed, catching the actor in a wrestler's grip. Rehur gave a gasp of pain. The soldier calmly adjusted his hold, and doubled both the actor's wrists almost to his shoulder blades, holding them there with one huge hand. He twisted the other hand in Rehur's hair and drew his head sharply back, saying, "Answer the captain's question."

  "I don't know," Rehur wailed, and the soldier gave him a shake that threatened to snap his neck or pop his arms from their sockets. "Wait," the captain said. "Medium, your sanction?"

  The medium repeated the ritual gesture. When the transfer was complete, the captain stepped forward, pulling something from his pocket. He kept his hand closed around it until he stood within easy reach of Rehur, then brought his hand up in front of his prisoner's face, slowly opening his fingers. "Do you see what this is?"

  Rehur's eyes were fixed on the ugly little box. The soldier hissed, "Answer the captain."

  "Yes," Rehur whispered obediently. The soldier shook him again, and the actor added, "It's a laser knife." In spite of his efforts, his voice trembled.

  The captain studied him dispassionately. "I understand you're an actor, a puppet actor. Listen to me, then, if you want to go on working. I will ask you again where the ult'eir's hidden, and for every lie I will mark you, face and body." He tilted his head to one side. "They can do a lot with puppets, but I don't think even the best operators can hide the marks this leaves."

  Rehur could feel himself shaking in the soldier's grip, and closed his eyes as the captain placed the head of the knife against his cheek. The focus bead was very cold against his skin. It would scar, at its lowest power it would leave scars that would never fade, that could never be hidden—he would never work again. . . . The captain's voice seemed to come from a great distance.

  "Where is the ult'eir?"

  Rehur choked, tried to pull his head away from the gentle touch of the knife, but the soldier held him motionless.

  "1 will count to five," the captain said, "and then I will push the button. One."

  Rehur counted a dozen of his own quick heartbeats before the Brandr captain spoke again.

  "Two."

  Rehur's nerve broke. "Stop," he cried, and caught his breath quickly, for fear the captain hadn't heard. "Stop. I'll take you there, you can't get in without me, but don't." Miraculously, the knife lifted from his face.

  "You see?" the captain said, to no one in particular, and pocketed the knife. "Bring him."


  The soldier shifted his grip, keeping one of Rehur's arms doubled behind him, then shoved the actor ahead of him out of the flat. Rehur stumbled down the stairs, still breathing in painful sobs, almost too terrified to think. He couldn't lead them to Alkres, to Maturin, he couldn't—but if he didn't, the captain would make good his threat, and— He was suddenly aware that they were in the street outside the building. The soldier shook him.

  "Which way?" That was the medium, resuming his proper function.

  Rehur stared at him, unable to make his frozen brain work, either to tell the truth or to invent a plausible lie. Behind him, remotely, he heard scraping, as someone opened a stairwell window to see the fun.

  "Which way?" the medium asked again. In the same instant, something hissed sharply, and the Brandr captain pitched backward onto the metalled street. A crossbow bolt jutted under his ribs. There was another hiss, and a second bolt grazed Rehur's arm, then lodged deep in the side of the soldier who held him. That man gave a choked cry and released his hold, sinking slowly to the ground. Rehur stared at him, unable for a moment to understand what was happening.

  "Rehur, run!" That was Belit, leaning back from the window, jerking at the winch of her double-slide hunting bow. "Run, damn you!"

  The other soldier had unslung his rifle, and fired by instinct at his attacker. Belit ducked back, but the bolt splattered against the window frame. The second survivor, smarter than the first, turned his rifle toward Rehur. Belit cursed him, and fired. The bolt, half-cocked and badly aimed, barely grazed his shoulder, but it spoiled his aim, and his shot crackled into the road at Rehur's feet.

  "Run!" Belit shrieked again.

  The last shot snapped Rehur out of his trance. He turned and fled down the long street, weaving to spoil the soldiers' aim. All along the street, windows and doors flew open, and the air filled with questions and curses. From a window below Belit's came a wordless, ululating cry: Ume-Kai, waking the dead to this infringement of their privileges, rousing them to riot against the Brandr. Rehur put his head down, and ran.