License Invoked ts-5

by Robert Robert

  Fionna, having thrown off Fitz and his paroxysms of fashion, appeared in her second costume, a white dress that consisted almost entirely of long fringe over a flesh-colored sheath. It was fabulously effective, even sexy, but at the same time Liz thought it made Fee look like a white Afghan hound. She wasn't quick enough to suppress a snort of laughter. Unfortunately, the outburst came during one of the rare moments of silence. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Liz felt her cheeks redden.

  "And what the fokkin' hell do you think is funny?" Fee demanded.

  "Sorry," Liz said.

  "Pack up and move it the hell out of here!" Fionna shouted. "Go on with you!"

  Boo pulled Liz further away from the stage and bent his head close to hers. "Don't stir her up. There's something wrong here."

  "Can you feel it, too?"

  "Yes, I can. Like sittin' on a powder keg, and everyone throwin' lit matches. It's makin' everybody touchy, but I can't find a source for it. Keep an eye peeled. I just feel somethin's goin' to happen. Don't know what, yet."

  Fionna burst vehemently into song. The musicians caught up with her a line or so later, weaving their threads with the instrument of her voice. It was an angry song about injustice and killing the innocent. Unlike the quiet hurt the folk song had engendered the first night in O'Flaherty's, this one grabbed the listener by the ears and made him despise the abusers. Liz felt fury crackle in the air. The magic Green Fire were making was a dangerous kind. Fionna stalked from side to side of the stage, exhorting the invisible audience to join with her in hating the oppressors. She flung an arm around the microphone stand at the east side of the stage and screeched a verse into that one. The fringes whipped around the metal pole, but didn't drop back when she let go. As she took one whirling step away, the microphone followed her. It leaned dangerously for a split second, then crashed at her feet. Swearing a blue streak that could be heard from every speaker in the room, Fee stood and quivered with rage while the grips and Fitz jumped forward to help her free.

  "Cut the damned fringe off the damned sleeves," Fionna's order echoed throughout the arena. Ears stunned by the level of the rock music, Liz couldn't hear Fitz's side of the discussion, but his pleading expression was eloquent. "I do not bloody care. I'm not a fokkin' snake charmer like St. Patrick!"

  The costumer's face stiffened. Nigel Peters fairly leaped up the steps to make peace.

  "Oh, no!" Fionna exclaimed, in answer to an unheard plea from her manager. "Do you think I want to have me own clothes making a fool of me?"

  Nigel looked up toward the northwest and made a throat-cutting gesture at the booth. Fionna's microphone was turned off, rendering her inaudible to the rest of the people in the arena. She, Nigel and Fitz engaged in a three-sided pantomime row, only a few syllables loud enough to be understood. Nigel tapped his watch. As an argument, it was absolutely unassailable. There wasn't time to fuss. The show must go on. Sadly, Fitzgibbon produced his scissors and barbered the trim on the sleeves to three inches in length. A stagehand appeared with a broom. Fitz watched him sweep up the cuttings with the same dismayed expression a mother might watch her child's first haircut. Without looking back at him, Fionna returned to her spot at the east edge of the stage. The musicians struck up. Fionna grabbed the microphone and opened her mouth.

  A mechanical shriek blasted out. Everyone jumped as steam started pouring upward from the pipes lined up in a long frame at the edge of the stage. Fantastic green figures swam upward along the insubstantial curtain. Snakes and birds twisted into Celtic knotwork, created with laser lights; Liz let out an admiring gasp, but it stopped everyone else dead.

  "What in all the saints' names was that?" Fionna asked, recovering her wits.

  "That effect isn't supposed to go until the sixth song!" came the despairing cry of the stage manager. "What's going on up there?" He seized the mouthpiece of his headset in one hand and started gesticulating with the other hand.

  "Sorry," came Robbie's tremulous voice over the intercom. The steam ceased rising. "My hand slipped and pushed the cursor too far ahead on my instructions. It won't happen again."

  "It had bloody not better," everyone on the stage muttered, almost in unison.

  But it did. Little things continued to go awry. Effects happened late, or went off on the wrong part of the stage. Liz watched with the feeling that she was seeing a building being demolished a few tiles at a time with the debris falling on innocent passersby. The wonderful feeling that had pervaded the arena early that afternoon was gone without a trace, leaving behind it deep gloom. Much of it could be laid at Robbie Unterburger's feet.

  "The girl is just plain off," Boo commented, not without sympathy, watching Fionna dodge tiny explosions that had been laid on the floor of the stage like an unlucky cowboy ordered to "dance" by a rival gunslinger. If Robbie wasn't clearly so apologetic, it would look like she was deliberately trying to make Fionna look bad.

  "Do you think she senses the foreboding that's growing in here?" Liz asked. "She might be affected by it." The thought interested her greatly for a moment. "Is Robbie a sensitive? Could she be a possible recruit for either of our departments?"

  Beauray's fair eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Never thought of that, ma'am. She might be just what you say, but I'd doubt whether she'd be interested. You have to admit our wage structure don't sound as appealin' when you know what these people are paid."

  Liz nodded. If it weren't for the call of patriotism she'd have been sorely tempted by the pay scales she saw listed on the FYI document in her briefing packet. She prided herself on her competence; she would probably do very well at one of these jobs—if it hadn't meant dealing with egos like her old school chum's.

  The drummer struck a downbeat, and the rehearsal resumed. The band managed to get through a couple of numbers unhindered, for which everyone looked grateful. Protective spells at the ready, Liz maintained her vigilance, but she would have had to be lying to say she didn't enjoy having a rock concert virtually to herself. A small part of her missed the camaraderie of the crowds. In spite of the pushing and the occasionally impaired view, the people who attended an event like this one shared in a special kind of symbiotic energy. It came from the performers, but it was amplified a millionfold by the audience and given back again. At a really good concert, the transfer back and forth lifted the performance from enjoyable to stellar. Fionna and her players were certainly capable of lighting that kind of fire in their fans. They exalted, they comforted, they challenged, all at the same time. Liz stood rocking to the beat, watching Fee and Michael dance toward one another in the center of the stage, then whirl outward again, like a pair of electrons in a very active molecule. Michael, all in black, dignified, powerful, stepped backwards toward the north end of the stage, watching his fingers stirring the strings of his guitar. Fee, feminine, excitable, vibrant, reached the south end and turned in a wide circle. The flying fringes on her dress caught the lights in slashing sprays of white. She halted, standing straight as a candle. With the air of a priestess of a long-ago culture, she pointed down at a crystal formation the size of a pumpkin. And waited. She stopped singing.

  "Hold it!" she shouted. "Right now!" As the music died, Liz felt a sense of loss equal to that of someone snatching her teddy bear away. Fionna clapped her hands to her hips and glared up at the control room booth.

  "When I am standing here and singing the cue line," Fionna shouted in a rising tone that threatened to end in a banshee shriek, "I expect to have the green lasers meet at me feet and light up that bloody crystal that is sitting right here. It is not a tiny little rock. It is a monstrous, great chunk of rock. I should think," her voice reaching to every corner of the Superdome, "that even up there you might be able to see it! Excu-use me!"

  The technical director's soothing voice came over the loudspeaker. "Sorry, Fee, darling. Robbie was just a little behind on her cues. Other than that it was perfect. Wasn't it, loves? Can we try it again? From the last mark."

&n
bsp; Moodily, Michael Scott took up his station at the north end of the round stage, nodded his head at the other musicians. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head. One, two, three, and the band began to play. Fionna, who had withdrawn with her arms crossed over her chest, listened, waiting. There was a feeling of anticipation, not happy. Liz would like to have enjoyed herself, reminded herself that this was a job, a still-unsolved mystery. The two dancers made their way toward one another, body language seducing, drawing inward toward one another and out again. Michael withdrew toward his dark fastness. Fionna stepped, whirled, and glided toward the gleaming crystal.

  The laser beat her there. Green fire shot down from the overhead grid and sent knives of rainbow glory streaking outward to strike the farthest walls of the arena. Fionna stood bathed in the green light, rigid, with her hands by her sides.

  "I have had more than enough," she screamed. "Is me whole performance to be made a mockery because one incompetent little bint can't keep her fokkin' mind on her bleedin' job?"

  "Now, Fionna," Nigel said, hurrying toward her, in full placatory mode. Fionna was in no mood to listen. She shouldered past him and kept going, right off the stage, down the steps and out of the arena. Nigel trotted along behind, almost wringing his hands as he tried to reason with her. He might as well have tried dealing with a hurricane in full blow.

  "I am goin' to tear her stupid head off her stupid shoulders and put it on me mantelpiece!" Fee raged, flinging her arms in grand gestures. "I am goin' to bake her in a pie and serve her to Shakespeare repertory audiences!" Even though she was wearing six-inch stiletto heels, anger helped her outpace everyone except Lloyd Preston. His long legs had no trouble closing the distance to bring him to her side, and he kept the rest of them at bay.

  Liz and Boo hurried at their heels like a pair of terriers. In all their years of school, Liz had seen Fee Kendale go off like this only once. It had also been on the occasion of a matter of incompetence, but it showed how stretched the other woman's nerves were that she was reacting like a spoiled schoolgirl. The cacophony they made clattering through the hallway surprised a tour group on its way around the Superdome. A couple of the tourists recognized Fionna. One of them reached for a camera, but one glare from the ever-vigilant Lloyd distracted her from taking a picture until it was too late.

  Not having had time to scope out the passage before Fionna set foot in it, Liz employed a little Earth power to sense around them, making certain there were no booby traps planted in their path. Luckily, the unseen enemy would have no reason to expect Fionna to come tearing out of the arena in that direction. Or would he?

  * * *

  Emotions were already high in the control room when Fionna burst in. The object of her fury cowered in the station behind the complex special effects board, eyeglasses gleaming owlishly in the fluorescent lights. Liz guessed from her red cheeks that Robbie had already been dressed down by Gary Lowe. Fionna marched up and glared down at her.

  "Did you get up this mornin' and say, `Today I think I'll screw up everythin' I touch'?" Fionna asked, in a tone so saccharine that it made Liz's teeth hurt. "Here we are, with only hours before the biggest crowd we've seen in a year comes marchin' in here, and you're behavin' as if you've only seen the equipment for the very first time!"

  "I'm sorry," Robbie began, but she didn't stand a chance against the might of Hurricane Fee.

  "There's a lot of people you're inconveniencing here, most of whom are pretendin' they're not as annoyed as they are. I've given you a lot of chances. You've broken the rhythm of the rehearsal. Do you know what that does to the band? To me? No, you haven't a clue, have you? How did you ever hold down a responsible job before this?"

  Someone snickered.

  "And the rest of you needn't think I'm forgettin' about you," Fionna said, spinning on her heel. She was right, Liz observed. Sheila Parker, at the sound desk, had a half smile curling up one side of her mouth that vanished when Fee glared at her. It was only human nature to be thankful at the discomfiture of others, as opposed to suffering it oneself. It was only a small step from there to enjoying the process. Fee was determined that no one was going to enjoy the lecture. "I know you're tryin', but it isn't enough. You're all professionals. We've got no time for screwin' up. There's a show in less than four hours! I'm countin' on you all. This is a grand opportunity for the lot of us. A whole new audience, seein' us live for the first time. Maybe for some this is the first concert that they've ever seen. Doesn't that mean a thing to you? We want this to be right. We want to dazzle them; make it an event they'll never forget."

  Liz was as caught by surprise as the rest of them. It was such a reasonable argument, appealing to their pride, their better nature, not the flat-out dressing down that she would have assumed Phoebe Kendale would have handed out. She'd grown up. Fionna Kenmare sounded like the CEO of a multinational corporation. Liz realized, with surprise at herself, that that was exactly what her old school friend had become. Green Fire's music was sold in every country that had radio. Their revenue had to run to millions of pounds a year. Lord Kendale wasn't too pleased with his daughter's choice of causes to espouse, but he ought to be proud of the way she occupied the position she'd made for herself.

  Fee was sweet and reasonable but stretched to the breaking point with everyone except the special effects coordinator, for whom Fee wouldn't soften under any circumstances. The star swiveled back again to glare at Robbie. "That is, if you can manage to do your job when it really matters."

  "I know every cue in the concert," Robbie said, who had been pushed all the way through fright to defiance. Her voice shook, but she stood her ground. "I know them forwards and backwards."

  "Yes, and so you've been telling me," Fionna said dismissively, lifting a hand to study the green polish on her nails. Robbie's complexion went from red to purple. It was an ugly contrast. "Too bad you've decided to do them backwards."

  "I'm sorry I've been messing up. I'll make it right."

  "You bloody well better!" Fionna said, dropping her hands onto the back of the other woman's chair and glaring at her. "Your job is to add to the spectacle, not be one. When you foul up you call attention to yourself. If that's what you want to do, join the circus. I hear they're always lookin' for another clown."

  Robbie gasped. She looked around at the others watching her, hoping for a kind face. Her eyes brimming with hope, she met Lloyd's gaze. He locked eyes with her, but kept his face carefully expressionless. Liz could tell he didn't want to be part of this argument. No one sane would have. Robbie appealed silently to him, brows lifted.

  "And you keep off Lloyd," Fee added, not missing a thing. She interposed herself between the special effects engineer and her bodyguard. "He's here for me, not you."

  That shot hit home. Robbie's face flushed even redder. The girl seemed really to have thought no one else had noticed. Liz felt very sorry for her.

  "We get along," she said stoutly. "It's not against the law for him to be nice to me."

  "So you don't deny you've been trying to steal him!"

  Robbie saw the trap, but much too late. It was unwise of her to attempt to justify her feelings. If she'd been smart, she wouldn't have admitted to them at all. It gave Fionna another grievance she could level. Robbie shot out of her seat, standing as tall as she was able, but her voice betrayed how flustered she was.

  "You're wrong! I don't have to steal him. I mean, I'm not trying to... There's nothing you can do if there's feelings involved! He only works for you. It's a financial arrangement. Not like..."

  "You're trying to make out that there's more going on than there is, you silly creature," Fionna said, almost pityingly. "That in a minute I'm going to turn me back, and he's going to sweep you off your feet like Prince Charming and ride away in a Lear jet, leaving me to weep. Well, you're not a princess, missie. Nothing like."

  "No! If anyone's the princess around here, it's you!" Robbie shouted. "You waltz around like the high priestess of something, but you jump
if a shadow crosses your path. I'm trying to do my job!"

  "You are trying?" Fionna exclaimed, her eyes widening as her brogue thickened. "You can't stay on cue! Your job is almost totally mechanized and you still screw it up! This is the dress rehearsal, damn yer sorry arse!" She flung a hand at the girl. "To hell with you. Those thousands of people are coming to hear my voice. Yer window dressin'. We'll do it without effects if we have to!"

  Turning like a model on the runway, Fionna stalked magnificently out of the room, followed by Lloyd. Nigel offered an apologetic glance to the crew, but he couldn't look at Robbie.

  With the agents and her bodyguard on her heels, Fionna strode back down the ramps to the arena door where the rest of the company was waiting for her. Their astonished expressions told her they had heard every word. The PA system had been switched on in the booth.

  "Let's try it again," she said, calmly. She smiled at them, serene again but very, very firm. "Once, all the way through, no stops. All right?"

  Everyone rushed to their places, unwilling to be the next to receive Fee's own brand of personal attention.

  Liz shot a glance at Boo-Boo. His wary expression told her he felt the same magical buildup that she did. The pent-up energy that had been pressing at the edges of her magical conscious was reaching an overload. It could burst out at any moment.

  She had no idea it would strike so soon. Fionna had no sooner stomped back onto the round stage when an explosion overhead made everyone's heart stop. The crew and band ran for cover, but they were in no danger from the debris. The snowstorm of colored dots fell in heaps directly on the cowering figure of Fionna. She shrieked and batted at the rain of trash.

  "Who put confetti up there?" Hugh Banks demanded. "This isn't a parade!"

  It wasn't confetti. The gigantic poster of Green Fire attached to one side of the Jumbotron had shredded itself into tiny bits. The huge faces on the three remaining posters seemed to mock the crew.