Beyond the glass, Eva Savinien was already in costume. She sat before her mirror, hands in her lap, looking emptily at herself. Alone, she was like a stored mannequin, waiting for the puppeteer's fingers to come and bring her life.
And what life she would have.
The Trapdoor Daemon gazed at Eva's perfect face, conscious of his own shadow on the glass. He was glad the mirror was not silvered on this side, throwing his hideousness back at him.
'Eva,' he breathed.
The girl looked around, and smiled at the mirror.
The first time, during the run of A Farce of the Fog, the actress hadn't been sure what she'd heard.
'Eva,' he had repeated.
She was calm then, certain there was a voice.
'Who's there?'
'Just just a spirit, child.'
The actress had been instantly suspicious.
'Reinhardt, is that you? Master Sierck?'
'I'm a spirit of the theatre. You'll be a great star, Eva. If you have the nerve, if you have the application'
Eva had looked down, and pulled her robe around her against a chill.
'Listen,' he'd said. 'I can help you'
He had been coming to her dressing room mirror for months, giving her advice, passing comment on each nuance of her performance, encouraging her to stretch her instrument.
Now he'd helped her as much as he could. Soon her future would be her own responsibility.
'In the fourth act,' he said, 'when you fall, you are falling away from the audience. You should take them with you as you die.'
Eva nodded, paying close attention.
VI
The horse died under him just before dawn. Thereafter, the Animus kept Scheydt running through the twilight, almost matching the pace of the animal it had driven to a foamy death.
If there was a record time for the trip from the Grey Mountains to Altdorf, Scheydt would beat it. No Imperial messenger could best his stamina, his resolve, his purpose.
Scheydt's feet were bleeding in his boots and his joints popped with each step, but the Animus ignored its host's pain. As long as Scheydt's skeleton and musculature were mostly intact, it could keep going. If the cleric of Solkan wore out, the Animus would just find another host.
The road passed under his pounding feet as the sun rose. Scheydt was lagging behind the Animus, ceding control of the body, slumping into occasional dozes during which his consciousness would shrink, giving the creature inside him a clearer hold on the world, a more acute vision of the things around. They were already out of the mountains and into the Reikwald Forest. The road ran straight, bounded by tall evergreens. Scheydt's feet struck holes in the ground-mist. His footbeats and laboured breathing were the only sounds in earshot.
Ahead, the Animus saw a small figure, set side-saddle on a pony, proceeding slowly down the road. It was a plump, middle-aged woman in the robes of a priestess of Shallya. In the countryside, priestesses often passed from village to village, exercising the healing arts, delivering babies, ministering to the sick.
Scheydt caught up with the pony, and pulled the priestess from her perch. She struggled, and he snapped a right-angle into her spine, tossing her into a roadside ditch. The pony bent under his unaccustomed weight, and he dug in his heels like spurs. The animal wouldn't last the morning, but would give him speed.
'My shoes,' the girl said.
'Shoes?'
'It's snowing. I can't go into the streets without my fur shoes.' The girl stood up to him, growing in stature, unbending her body, squaring her shoulders. There was a dab of red paint on her cheek, a graze from earlier.
He made and unmade fists, then slipped one meaty hand into his studded metal glove. It was an impressive prop.
'Hurry away, Nita, my dove,' he sneered, the false teeth bulging and deforming his mouth. 'Your Mr. Chaida has an important appointment. We can't have trash like you lying about while we entertain a lady.'
'My shoes.'
It was the third night. Eva Savinien was even better than in the last two performances. Illona was much improved, but she was still outshone. It was almost eerie. This didn't come from him, Detlef knew. It was something inside the girl, blossoming like a flower.
She moved on the stage, towards the lights. He hadn't directed her in that. In her position, the audience's attention would be focused. He was pushed into the shadows behind if he was to hit his mark and strike his blow.
Clever girl.
'I'll give you shoes,' he said, following her, raising his glove.
He wondered if anyone had been teaching little Eva how to steal a stage. She was becoming an adept thief.
Squeezing the bladder of stage blood, he brought his hand down, thumping her from behind, bursting the sac.
She fell, not to the boards but to her knees. Seeing an opportunity, she was seizing it. Blood dribbling down her beautiful face, she looked out into the audience for a long, silent moment, then fell on her face.
Now that was over, he'd have to take back the scene.
From Box Seven, the Trapdoor Daemon saw his pupil perform, and was pleased. Through Eva, he could reach an audience again, could make them feel joy, despair, love, hate
He hadn't been so excited by a discovery for many seasons.
Her new death scene was masterly, an unforgettable moment. Now the scene was Nita's, not Chaida's. The audience would remember the play as the story of a street girl's downfall, not of a cleric's double nature.
He was too rapt to join the applause that exploded from the house when Eva Savinien came to take her curtain call. Flowers were conveyed to the stage. The company joined the applause. Even Detlef Sierck tipped a salute to her. She was modest, bowing only slightly.
Exhausted by the performance, she had no more to give. She'd discharged her obligation to the audience, and knew how to take its praise.
She'd have to be cultivated properly. A play would have to be found for her, a suitable vehicle. She might need a patron as well as a tutor.
When they hailed her, they would be doing the Trapdoor Daemon honour.
The girl brushed past Genevieve on the way to her dressing room, an attendant carrying her flowers behind her. Eva Savinien had never spoken with her beyond the demands of conventional pleasantry. Genevieve assumed she was wary of vampires.
'That's a fine creature,' Detlef said, wiping his paint-smeared face. 'A fine creature indeed.'
She nodded agreement.
'She took that scene from me as you'd take a toy from a toddler. It's a long time since anyone's done that.'
'How do you think Illona feels?'
Detlef was pensive, his knit frown dislodging the slabs of makeup that made Chaida's brows beetle. Eva was back in her dressing room now, alone.
'She spends a lot of time in her room, doesn't she? Do you think Eva has a jealous lover?'
He considered the point, and spat out Chaida's false teeth into his hand.
'No. I think she's a devout worshipper at the shrine of self, Gene. She spends her spare time improving herself.'
'Is she improved?'
'In herself, yes. I don't know if the company will be happy to work with her much longer.'
'I understand she has had other offers. There were flowers tonight from Lutze at the Imperial Tarradasch Players.'
Detlef shrugged.
'Of course. The theatre is a nest of vultures. Eva is a tasty morsel.'
'Very,' she said, a twinge of red thirst in her tongue.
'Gene,' Detlef scolded.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'She'd have thin blood, I think.'
'Lutze won't get her. She'd have to apprentice for years to get anywhere near a lead. I'll find something for her after Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida concludes its run.'
'She'll stay?'
'If she's as clever as I think. A jewel needs a setting, and this is the best company in Altdorf. She won't want to be Lilli Nissen, surrounded by fifth-rate hams to make her look good. She needs the challenge of an exce
llence that forces her to rise.'
'Detlef, do you like her?'
'She's the best young actress in seasons.'
'But do you like her?'
His shoulders shifted. 'She's an actress, Gene. A good one, possibly a great one. That's all. You don't have to like her to see that.'
A stifled sob caught Genevieve's attention. By the stage door, Reinhardt was shaking Illona. They were arguing, and Illona was in distress. It was easy to deduce the subject of their dispute. Poppa Fritz shoved past the couple, bowed under the weight of a vast basket of flowers.
Reinhardt pulled Illona to him, and tried to calm her crying with a hug.
'It's this play,' Detlef said. 'It's making us find out things about ourselves we might prefer not to know.'
The darkness was in his eyes.
VII
After three days on the road, Scheydt was approaching Altdorf on foot. The Animus was quiet now, and he recalled the details of his trip as if trying to piece together a vivid but fast-fading nightmare. Animals had died, and people too. Pain was a constant thing with him, now. But it didn't matter. It was as if the pain were someone else's, not connected to his soul, to his heart. His boots would have to be peeled from his feet, blood congealing in them. His left arm was broken, and flapped awkwardly. His robes were ragged and filthy with the dust of travel. His face was frozen, immobile, the replica of the mask fused with it. Unconscious of the hurt, Scheydt walked on, one foot in front of the other, trudging in the deep wheelruts of the back road.
The gates of the city were ahead. People clustered around, queuing with their wares to be passed by the Imperial customs. There were watchmen about, doubtless looking for felons and murderers. And soldiers were taking their tithes from the merchants who came to Altdorf with perishable goods, silks, jewels or weapons.
Two young whores joked with the watchmen. A donkey was defecating spectacularly in the road, causing a commotion of people away from its rear end and a heated argument between the beast's owner and various bystanders. Scheydt joined a group of foot travellers, and waited to be passed. At the gate, an officer of the watch was checking purses. Anyone with less than five crowns was refused entry to the city. Altdorf had enough beggars.
A sweetmeat vendor with a tray of pastries was passed through. Then, it came to be Scheydt's turn. The officer laughed.
'You've no hope, ragamuffin.'
The Animus came awake in Scheydt's head and fixed its gaze on the officer. The laughter died.
'I am a cleric of Solkan. The university of Altdorf will vouch for me,' Scheydt explained.
The officer looked at him in disbelief.
'A tramp from a midden, more like.'
'Let me pass.'
'Let's have your purse then.'
Scheydt had none. It must have fallen away during his journey, gone with his hat and cloak. The officer turned to the next man in the queue, a mariner on his way back to his ship at the Altdorf docks, and started examining his papers.
'Let me pass,' Scheydt said again.
The officer ignored him, and he was rudely shoved out of the way.
Scheydt stumbled away some twenty paces, feet not quite working properly. Then he took a run at the gate, head down. His skull punched between the mariner and the officer, and his shoulders slammed both men back against the iron grille of the gate. A crossbow twanged and a bolt struck his back.
His hands went between the bars, and he swept them aside as if they were curtains. He heard oaths from the soldiers and the rest of the crowd. Iron buckled and broke. On the other side of the gate, the sweetmeat vendor looked on in panic, spilling cakes from his tray.
The mariner was in his way. Scheydt made a fist and put it through the sailor boy's head, punching his nose out through the back of his skull. Pulling his bloody hand loose, he heard a squelch as if he were extracting his fist from a bowl of thick, half-set gruel.
A soldier slashed at him with a short sword, and Scheydt held up his broken arm to parry. The blade bit into his forearm, lodging in the cracked bone. Scheydt pressed forwards with his arm, driving the sword's edge into the face of its owner. The split-headed soldier fell out of the way. There was a hole in the gate. Scheydt walked through it, a sword still stuck in his arm.
'Stop in the name of the Emperor!' shouted the officer.
He felt a blast at his back and was pushed forwards. Without losing his footing, he turned to see the officer through a cloud of smoke. The man was holding a flintlock pistol. Scheydt felt clean air on his exposed shoulderblades. The ball had burst and spread, ripping away his robe and his skin. The officer emptied powder from his horn into the gun, and reached for his sack of lead balls.
Scheydt strode to the officer and, with his good hand, took away his works. He emptied white gunpowder from the horn over the man's face, and held the pistol by its barrel, his finger through the trigger guard. The lock was fixed back.
The officer's eyes widened with panic as he choked.
With his elbow, Scheydt smashed the officer's throat apple, driving him back against the stones. He held the pistol near the officer's clown-powdered face, and worked the trigger with his knuckle. A flint-spark danced from the breech into the officer's eyes. The man's head caught fire in a puff, and Scheydt walked away. As he hurried from the gates, his forearm came off and fell into the gutter.
He needed to practise the transformation. Not the make-up tricks×the palmed teeth, the extensible wig, the greasepaint lines that only appeared under a certain light×but the rest of it. Anyone could make himself into a monster on the outside. To be convincing, Detlef's Chaida had to come from inside.
He sat alone in the theatre's bar, staring at the pitted wooden top of a table, trying to find the darkness in his heart. In the hearts of his audience.
He remembered the eyes of Drachenfels. He remembered his months in Mundsen Keep. Some monsters are born, not made. But hunger and cruelty could drive a man to any lengths. What could turn him×Detlef Sierck×into something as prodigiously evil as Constant Drachenfels? The Great Enchanter had been shaped by centuries, millennia. Sorcery and sin, temptation and terror, ambition and agony. Did men become Chaidas a little at a time, like sands dropping in an hourglass, or was the transformation instant, as it appeared on the stage?
He made fists, and imagined them landing blows. He imagined skulls being crushed.
Eva Savinien's skull.
A black hand clutched at his heart, and slowly squeezed. His fists tightened into knots, and his lips drew back from his teeth.
The darkness throbbed in his mind.
Mr. Chaida grew in him, and his shoulders slumped as his body bent into the shape of the monster.
An animal mind expanded inside his own.
There was such pleasure in evil. Such ease and comfort. Such freedom. The space between desire and fulfilment was an instant. There was a fiery simplicity to the savage.
At last, Detlef understood.
'Detlef Sierck,' said a voice, cutting through his thoughts, 'I am Viktor Rasselas, steward and advisor to Mornan Tybalt, Chancellor of the Empire, patron of the Imperial bank of Altdorf.'
Detlef looked up at the man, eyes coming into focus.
He was a reedy character, dressed in smart grey, and he had a scroll in his gloved hands. The seal of the Imperial counting house was his cap-badge.
'I am here to present to you this petition,' droned Rasselas, 'demanding that you cease performance of The Strange History of Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida. It has been signed by over one hundred of the foremost citizens of the Empire. We allege that your drama inflames the violent tendencies of the audiences and, in these bloody times, such an inflammation is'
Rasselas gulped as Detlef's hand closed on his throat.
He looked at the man's fearstruck face and gripped tighter, relishing the squirming feel of the neck muscles trapped under his fingers. Rasselas' face changed colour several times.
Detlef rammed the steward's head against the wall. That fe
lt good. He did it again.
'What are you doing?'
He barely heard the voice. He slipped his thumb under Rasselas' ear, and pressed hard on the pulsing vein there, his nail digging into the skin.
A few seconds more pressure, and the pulse would be stilled.
'Detlef!'
Hands pulled his shoulder. It was Genevieve.
The darkness in his mind fogged, and was whipped apart. He found he was in pain, teeth locked together, an ache in his head, bones grinding in his hand. He dropped the choking steward, and staggered into Genevieve's arms. She supported his weight with ease, and slipped him into a chair.
Rasselas scrambled to his feet and loosened his collar, angry red marks on his skin. He fled, leaving his petition behind.
'What were you thinking of?' Genevieve asked.
He didn't know.
VIII
The pupil was learning faster than the Trapdoor Daemon had expected. She was like a flirtatious vampire, delicately sucking him dry of all his experience, all his skill. She took rapid little sips at him.
Soon, he'd be empty. All gone.
In her room beyond the glass, Eva sobbed uncontrollably, her face a cameo of grief. Then, as one might snuff out a candle, she dropped the emotion completely.
'Good,' he said.
She accepted his approval modestly. The exercises were over.
'You have refused Lutze's offer?' he asked.
'Of course.'
'It was the right thing to do. Later, there will be more offers. You will take one, eventually. The right one.'
Eva was pensive, briefly. He could not read her mood.
'What troubles you, child?'
'When I accept an offer, I shall have to go to another theatre.'
'Naturally.'
'Will you come with me?'
He said nothing.
'Spirit?'
'Child, you will not need me forever.'
'No,' she stamped her feet. 'I shall never leave you. You have done so much for me. These flowers, these notices. They are as much yours as mine.'
Eva wasn't being sincere. It was ironic; off the stage, she was a poor dissembler. Truly, she thought she'd outgrown him already, but she wasn't sure whether she was strong enough to proceed the next few steps without her familiar crutch. And, at the back of her mind, she feared competition, and assumed he would find another pupil.
Warhammer - [Genevieve 02] - Genevieve Undead Page 4