Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories

by Martha Wells

  “I was meeting someone for an assignation, but he didn’t show,” Reynard made his tone mildly regretful. “And you?”

  “I forgot it was Life of the Good Duke tonight,” Dissonet said sadly. He wavered and Reynard took his arm to steady him.

  “Yes, it’s unfortunate,” Reynard said, “Come along, let’s find your seat.”

  * * *

  Before the first interval, Reynard left Dissonet snoring in his box and made his way around to the Shankir-Clare box. He listened through the door long enough to hear Nicholas and Belina having a spirited conversation about the merits of Voyagers of the Fire Islands which was playing at the High Follies. Belina had of course not been allowed to go to the scandalous production but had read her maid’s copy of the playbook. Reynard slipped inside.

  He crouched just inside the doorway, having an expert knowledge of just where one could stand or sit in an opera box and still not be visible from the floor or the other boxes. Though Nicholas and Belina had evidently done such a good job of being boring and conventional that he doubted anyone was watching. He had been waiting quite a while to air his principal grievance and now whispered, “I can’t believe this bastard forced us to sit through the first two hours of Life of the Good Duke.”

  “It’s insupportable,” Nicholas agreed.

  “Why does everyone think it’s a comic opera?” Belina said. “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s apparently hilarious for individuals who have no sense of humor--” Nicholas began.

  Reynard had kept one hand on the floor, and felt the telltale vibration of someone approaching the box. “Someone’s coming.” He stood and slipped behind the curtain.

  Nicholas twisted to face the doorway. Belina knotted her hands together, then deliberately forced them apart.

  The polite knock was unexpected. Nicholas told Belina, low-voiced, “It’ll be a steward.” Louder, he said, “Come in.”

  It was a steward, a young boy in the opera’s black and white livery. He said, “A note for Miss Shankir-Clare,” and held out a folded piece of stationery on a silver tray.

  Nicholas stood, took the note, and tipped the boy. The boy bowed his way out of the box, and Reynard toed the door shut behind him. Reynard said, “There’s no spell on that?” Some sorcerers could attach spells to objects, which would then attach to the person who received them. Though it was supposedly difficult to attach anything but a mild charm to paper.

  Nicholas shook his head. “The note trays are solid silver, and warded. The opera takes precautions. They don’t want idiots trying to send love charms.” He handed the note to Belina and checked his pocket watch. “We’re to meet him twenty minutes after the beginning of the fourth act, in the west underpassage.”

  Reynard checked his own watch. They had a good two hours to go. “I haven’t been down there. It doesn’t sound salubrious.”

  “It leads to the archives, where all the old sheet music and so forth is stored. Probably years’ worth of attendance tallies and accounts as well. There’s no reason for anyone to visit it during a performance, so the corridor will be empty.” Nicholas looked down at Belina. “Will you go?”

  Belina folded the note and handed it back to Nicholas. “I said I’d do whatever it takes to make him leave me alone.” She lifted her chin. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Good.” Nicholas exchanged a look with Reynard. “Now we know where his trap is.”

  Reynard smiled. “So it’s time to set ours.”

  * * *

  Reynard used the confusion of the next interval to slip out and make his way down to the west wing.

  As Nicholas had explained, “It’s called the west underpassage because it runs under the west side wing of the stage. There are a number of trap doors in that section for dramatic appearances and disappearances. They aren’t used now except during the more elaborate midwinter shows. The trap doors lead to the mechanical areas under the stage, the way the ones on the main stage do, but there is also provision made to allow chorus members to exit below that level, so they can use the underpassage to go back toward the audience end of the building and up to the dressing areas on the level above--”

  Reynard had cut to the point. “So there are trap doors from the space below the stage down into that corridor.”

  “How do you know that?” Belina asked. “More importantly, why do you know that?”

  “Because one day I might have to catch a blackmailer in the opera,” Nicholas had told her.

  Reynard took the precaution of buying a small posy of violets from the flower-seller in the grand foyer and then made his way down and into the dressing areas on the main stage level. There was a guard at the door, but Reynard tipped him and was allowed in without comment; he was a familiar figure here and knew he was considered a “safe” regular: one of the many people who might come backstage during the performance to meet a lover or just to visit with friends in the cast.

  Reynard wandered down the dim hall of whitewashed plaster, Life of the Good Duke thundering away overhead, to the rooms where the chorus waited to go on. He chatted for a while with the bored young men cooling their heels until it was time to go up and sing through the fourth act. Finally he moved on, handed his bouquet to the older woman who helped with the costume changes, and then turned left and took a narrow set of stairs down, deeper into the space under the stage.

  Here it was nearly dark and smelled strongly of sawdust and the paints used on the scenery and backdrops. Life of the Good Duke had no trapdoor entrances or exits, and all the stagehands were up in the flyover. He located the set of trapdoors in the unused west wing, finding his way from the light that came down through the gaps between the floorboards. He quickly located a trapdoor in the understage floor by its outline and the folding steps that could be dropped down to allow chorus members to climb down into the west underpassage. He lifted the door just enough to be able to see down without letting the stairs drop. Below was a corridor, lit by a few wall sconces. Carpets lined the marble floor and the walls were covered with anaglypta paper, but it was clearly not meant for as much public use as the foyers and stairwells.

  Reynard closed the trapdoor again and explored this part of the understage further, finding two more trapdoors with drop stairs, spaced out along the length of the west wing. The one in the middle seemed the best point to watch from. He dropped the stairs and they creaked and swayed and bent under his weight as he went down for a brief exploration. He made certain that there were no cross passages past this point, and that the far end of the corridor ended in the securely locked door of the archives. Then he took the fold of paper out of his pocket and began to sprinkle the contents on the carpet. It was a combination of salt, various powders, and silver dust, given to Nicholas by his sorcerer friend, and meant to reveal illusions and temporarily dispel wards.

  When Reynard finished, he returned to the folding stairs and creaked his way up. As he reached the top and started to climb up into the understage, a figure loomed before him suddenly. He jerked back and swore, then realized he was looking at a support post framed by the dim light leaking through the boards overhead. Idiot, he told himself, and climbed the rest of the way up. He propped the trapdoor open a careful inch and settled in to wait.

  * * *

  It seemed an interminable time later when the fourth act finally rumbled into its opening salvos. Not long after that, Reynard saw Nicholas and Belina make their way down the corridor, Nicholas a pace or so in front. Then Nicholas stopped abruptly.

  What? Reynard twisted to see the far end of the corridor. A figure stood there.

  It was a tall, gaunt man, dark-haired and pale, dressed in dark evening clothes a few years out of date. It was hard to tell his age. The skeletal leanness of his body suggested age, but Reynard couldn’t see any lines on his face.

  This could be a problem. Reynard was certain no one had walked past, and he thought he would have heard the heavy door to the archives open if someone had come out that way.


  “Is that him?” Nicholas’ voice was quiet.

  “No,” Belina whispered. “I don’t know who that is.”

  The man moved forward, and circled around one of the spots Reynard had sprinkled with silver dust.

  Reynard felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They had thought Idilane an unsophisticated amateur blackmailer. He had certainly behaved like one. This seemed neither unsophisticated nor amateur.

  Nicholas raised his voice a little. “What do you want?”

  The man said, “I am sent by Master Idilane.”

  “Then we’re in the right place. I was afraid we had stumbled into the wrong assignation.” Nicholas made a slight gesture behind his back, telling Belina to stay where she was. Then he stepped forward. “What are you?”

  “He wants the payment.”

  Nicholas stepped forward again. Belina didn’t move, watching with frowning anxiety. Nicholas said, “Are you capable of answering questions? Or has he enslaved you with magic? If you’re here against your will, we can help you.”

  Reynard thought he detected a minute hesitation before the response, “He wants the payment.”

  Nicholas was silent a moment, studying the man -- creature -- whatever it was. “We will need some guarantees, of course. Did he trap you?”

  Something brushed past Reynard’s legs and he jerked away, barely suppressing a curse. He twisted around and found himself staring at a young woman. His first thought was that she was a member of the chorus, and he started to whisper, “Ah, you must be wondering what we’re--” And then realized he could see light through her.

  Below, the creature repeated, “Guarantees,” as if it had no notion what the word meant. As if Idilane had given it no instructions beyond obtaining the money.

  Reynard stared. It was an apparition, obviously. The faded red gown he had taken for a costume was wispy and insubstantial, but he could see tears and stains. The girl was young, Belina’s age, and her hair had once been carefully arranged but now hung disheveled and ragged. Not a prostitute, Reynard thought, noticing the cameo broach and the lack of décolletage. Not a chorus member or an actress but not a young noble lady, either. A girl of some respectable circumstances, if not wealth, dressed up for the opera. He whispered, “What happened?”

  Below, Nicholas was stalling, explaining the etymology of the word “guarantees.” The girl moved around the trapdoor, silently, stirring no dust. From this angle there was better light and Reynard saw her hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and darkly bruised throat. Her expression was anxious, her gaze fixed on him as if willing him to understand. Apparitions didn’t appear at random, for no reason. If she was appearing now, it was because some event had triggered it. Reynard was betting it wasn’t the millionth pat performance of Life of the Good Duke.

  The creature below said, “The girl will deliver the payment.” Reynard turned back to the trap door and said, “Nic, it’s not blackmail, it’s murder!”

  The apparition’s expression transformed into fierce joy, and then she winked out of existence. Reynard threw himself down through the trap door.

  The creature surged forward and Nicholas slapped its face. It jerked back, staggering, and red fire blossomed from its cheek. “It’s a fay,” Nicholas reported, clinically. He must have had an iron needle in his hand. Yes, Reynard had known he hadn’t been joking about the poison darts.

  Reynard swung off the drop stairs and landed on the floor. He drew his dress sword. The fay fell back a few steps. It grew taller, its skin turning a scaly gray, white clumps of hair sprouting from a head that was suddenly bulbous and distorted. This thing couldn’t be here; fay of this size had been dying out in Ile-Rien for generations, driven away by the railroads. They were seen in rural areas occasionally, but never in the city. Idilane must be far stronger than he seemed to have control over this thing. Reynard said, “I think Idilane’s done this before, but took the money and killed the victim.”

  “And how did you form this theory?” Nicholas stepped sideways, bracketing the creature. It darted at Reynard, then at Nicholas, testing them.

  Reynard didn’t move, refusing to be tested. “Because her ghost just appeared to me in the understage.”

  “Not conclusive, but one must admit the circumstantial evidence is compelling,” Nicholas admitted.

  Behind them, an admirably calm Belina said, “Should I throw the glass ball?”

  “No,” Nicholas told her. “It will only work on human sorcerers.”

  “Then should I go for help?” The creature had fixed its yellow gaze on her. She was clearly its real target.

  “There won’t be time.” Reynard stepped closer. Fay couldn’t touch iron or steel without great pain. The fact that this creature hadn’t fled from his sword meant it had something up its sleeve. But Reynard doubted those darts were the only weapon Nicholas had on him, and all he needed to do was distract the creature long enough.

  Its head tilted toward Reynard, the pale eyes empty of emotion. Then it flicked a long wooden club out of its coat and lunged for him. Reynard ducked the first blow and smashed his hilt into the creature’s hand. He was reluctant to engage with his blade; he suspected the club had been designed to break human-forged swords. The creature fell back and he slashed it across the chest. It snarled and lurched toward him, just as Nicholas leapt on it from behind and whipped a chain around its throat.

  It clawed at the links burning into its skin, and Reynard stabbed it in the chest. The creature tore away, sending Nicholas staggering, but then collapsed onto the carpet.

  Reynard stepped forward, then cautiously kicked it over onto its back. It lay there, gasping, the gray color leaching out of its skin. Its whole body seemed to be shrinking, turning in on itself.

  Nicholas crouched over it. “We can kill you or free you. Did Idilane send you to kill Belina Shankir-Clare?”

  It choked and managed, “Yes. Do not ask me why, I don’t know. He kills human women who displease him.”

  “He has you under his control? With spells?”

  “I was given to him as a familiar, as payment by a more powerful sorcerer.”

  Belina, who had edged forward to stand by Reynard’s elbow, demanded, “As payment for what? More blackmail? Who was the sorcerer?”

  The fay said, “I only know it was payment.”

  “It was probably blackmail.” Nicholas nodded to himself. “If we could find out who...”

  “How many women?” Reynard said. He had the terrible feeling that Idilane was not new to this game, that the apparition above hadn’t been the first, either.

  The fay said, “Seven.”

  Reynard swore. Belina made a noise of dismay.

  Ever practical, Nicholas asked, “What do you do with the bodies?”

  It bared its teeth. “I eat them.”

  “Shit,” Belina muttered.

  “Always at the opera?” Nicholas asked.

  “No, other places as well as here.”

  “How does--”

  “Nicholas,” Reynard interrupted. For someone as obsessed as he was, Nicholas could be easily sidetracked. “You’re not writing a monograph on it, do we really need to know?”

  “Very well.” Nicholas asked the fay, “How do we free you?”

  It said, “You cannot free me, his spells are woven through the substance of my body. I beg you to kill me.”

  Nicholas frowned, then looked up at Reynard. Reynard said, “I don’t have a problem with that,” and stabbed the creature in the heart.

  Its body collapsed in on itself, and turned to dust, leaving only the clothing and club behind. Nicholas whipped a small bag and a brush out of his pocket, and began to sweep up the dust.

  Belina stared. “Does this happen a lot? To you, I mean?”

  “Off and on,” Reynard admitted.

  Nicholas tucked the bag of dust away, stood, and took Belina’s arm. “Let’s go to the restaurant and talk this over. I think after that we deserve to miss the fifth and sixth acts of L
ife of the Good Duke.”

  “At the very least,” Reynard agreed, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his sword.

  * * *

  The restaurant was in a pavilion built on the east side of the opera, and was more than half empty. Reynard was a friend of the host and so was able to secure a booth that was isolated enough for a private conversation but still in full view of the few other diners and the waiters, for propriety’s sake. There they ordered wine and a cream and berry tart for Belina.

  Once they were served and the waiter withdrawn, Reynard told Belina, “There’s a decision to be made.”

  Her brows drawn down in serious thought, she ate a couple of forkfuls of the tart. “About the photographs. And whether to tell the magistrates.”

  “Obviously--” Nicholas began.

  Reynard cleared his throat and gazed significantly at him. He knew more than he cared to about being pilloried by the opinions of both acquaintances and strangers. If Belina wanted to take that risk, it was a choice she should make herself.

  Nicholas sighed and poured another glass of wine.

  Belina stirred the cream on her tart. “If he has the photographs with him, we can take them.”

  “He may have other copies,” Reynard said. He wanted to make certain she saw every aspect of the situation. “He won’t have the chance to make more, if the magistrates take him, but we found nothing in his flat and can make no guarantees.”

  “But if we don’t turn him in, no one will learn what happened to those other girls. If the magistrates take him and the story is in the penny sheets, the missing girls’ families will realize what happened and come forward and perhaps there’s even more evidence against him.” She looked up, worried. “But how will we prove that he was using a fay to...get rid of the bodies?”