The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "I'm fine as I am," Rohin answered. He smiled as I set aside the tsaak, but continued stroking the magnificent fur.

  "This is very kind of you," I said. "I'll return it after the promenade."

  Rohin gave an odd little shrug, and looked away, embarrassed. "It's a gift, Medium. For your trouble."

  I was struck speechless. Even on Orestes, such a garment was expensive, and off-world. . . . I couldn't begin to estimate what connoisseurs might pay. "Rohin, I'm the Halex Medium. It's my job—my pleasure, too, in this case. It's too much."

  Rohin shrugged again. 'Please," he said. "I'd—like you to have it."

  There was no refusing that—and, I realized, quite suddenly, I didn't want to refuse it. I ran my hand over the butter-soft leather, buried my fingers in the gleaming grey fur. "It's beautiful, Rohin," I said. "Thank you."

  Rohin's smile widened, but he said only, "I'll pour the tsaak, then we'll go out?"

  I nodded, swinging the cloak around my shoulders. It was heavy, but perfectly balanced and incredibly warm. I hugged it to myself for a moment, then slipped my hands through the red bound slits and fumbled for the clasp. It was a piece of blackamber, carved in the shape of a terrestrial rose. More magnificence, I thought, and turned to look at myself in the mirror that hung beside the stove-bed. The body of the cloak was a soft, pale brown, a few shades lighter than my skin; the fur and my hair alike were grey, though the fur was much finer. The blackamber glowed darkly even in the room's dim light. I was magnificent now, clothed in an archaic beauty. The actor in me rejoiced.

  "Put up the hood," Rohin said.

  I did so, watching his reaction in the mirror. The hood framed my face in pale fur, throwing my features into shadow: I looked less magnificent, more mysterious—dangerous, I thought. Rohin smiled.

  "Now you look like one of us," he said, and held out my gloves. I pulled them on obediently, knowing that I would want them, and noticed with a small shock that the red leather exactly matched the thread that had been used to bind the arm slits. Rohin saw the direction of my gaze, and sighed.

  "I'm glad. I wasn't sure it would be a match." He fastened his own coat, a knee-length jacket of quilted windsilk, over his layered tunics, and reached for the cups of tsaak. "It's almost time."

  I accepted my cup, feeling its heat through the thick china, and followed Rohin out onto the balcony. The light had dimmed—or rather, I realized, its color had changed. All the reds and yellows seemed to have been leached out of it, leaving only the light reflected from Agamemnon. It was a strange light, almost blue, luminous without warmth. I could not see my own skin, wrapped as I was in layers of leather and fur, but Rohin's face seemed even paler, all the blood gone from it. Ghostlight, the Oresteian poets called it, this not-quite-Dark.

  In the square below us, lights began to come on. They were mostly blue-toned, like the natural light, and seemed only to intensify the eerie twilight. There seemed to be more people in the square, too. Then I heard Rohin draw a hissing breath, and realized the promenade had begun.

  At first, there wasn't that much to see: a few women, in long coats that seemed demure until they turned quickly, opening the long slit that ran from the hem to just above the shoulder blades; a man in a short fur jacket over skintight trousers that showed almost indecently muscular legs. Then, at last, the first troupe of actors appeared, men and women in the heavy, stylized costumes of the puppet theater. One of them carried a banner, moving sluggishly in the still air, but I did not recognize its emblem. The group made a circuit of the square, nodding grandly to others in the crowd. As they passed along the wall on our side of the square, there was a shrill whistle. I looked up, startled, and saw that every window in the buildings that defined two sides of the square was open and crammed with spectators. One of the actors—a woman in a blue-grey tunic and a fiat dark cap—looked up at the sound, and waved.

  "Cashil's group," Rohin said, with audible disappointment. He had pulled a fist-sized distance glass from his pocket, and was using it to scan the crowd.

  I nodded—I had heard of that puppet theater, though I hadn't seen their work—and looked back at the square. More and more people were filing in, moving slowly along our wall, then past the greengate and back along the far side of the square to the streets that led out again. Most groups carried their own lights, though there were lights on the corners of each of the buildings, adding to the fantastic tracery of light and shadow filling the square.

  Rohin nudged me then, and pointed toward a couple just entering the square. "That's Javas," he said. "And his mysterious keeper."

  I nodded. Even I had heard of the most famous scandal on the Oresteian stage—how the actor Javas, a ghost of Fira in Brandr, was carrying on an affair with a living woman. She had succeeded in keeping her identity strictly secret, and the affair had only increased Javas's popularity in the theaters. I leaned forward, but I couldn't make out any details.

  "Let me see your glass a minute," I said, and Rohin handed it to me, grinning. I put the glass to my eye and twisted the lens experimentally. The scene wavered, the focusing fields momentarily splitting the light into a rainbow of enhanced colors, and then steadied. Javas's face seemed to leap out at me. He was not precisely a young man, as I had half expected him to be—he was perhaps even a few years older than myself, but he was still very handsome in a cynical, rakish way. It was the sort of face that made one think the lines had been gained through decadent experience rather than mere age, attractive to men and women alike. As for his companion. . . . I swung the glass to my right until I had it focused on her face. Whoever she was, she wore a full face mask, the sort hoobey drivers wore to protect their skin from flying ice, effectively concealing her identity. All I could see was a pair of brown eyes, half hidden beneath the disheveled strands of a scarlet wig that mocked the traditional topknot.

  I adjusted the glass again, decreasing the magnification until I had the two of them framed in its lens. They were a handsome couple, all right, both dressed in the height of city fashion, he in short, belted jacket over felty trousers; she in an ankle-length tapestry vest thrown over tunic and trousers. A lion's-head broach clasped her vest across the breast; his wide belt was fastened with a buckle of the same design. I watched their slow progress toward the main greengate, wondering what they were thinking. How could she, especially, bring herself to show herself so publicly, when recognition would bring social death? Was it at Javas's command? To prove her love to him? I adjusted the glass again, watching the way she walked, the way she held the actor's arm, possessive and very much the master of the situation. She was flaunting him, I realized suddenly, throwing her affair into everyone's face. I was certain this appearance at the promenade was her choice, not his, but I could not understand why.

  Rohin elbowed me then, and, reluctantly, I gave the glass back to him. He scanned the crowd again, but with less enthusiasm than before. I set my empty cup aside, and leaned forward against the railing. "Who's that in the scarlet coat?" I asked, after a moment.

  Rohin frowned, adjusting his glass. "That's Jahala."

  "May I?" I held out my hand, and Rohin handed me the glass again, smiling tolerantly. I turned it on the tall woman. Rohin might be blasé about Orestes' most famous lead actor, but I wasn't. I had not yet seen her on stage—she performed less and less frequently these days, and rumor said she would soon go off-world to the Dionysian theaters—but her fame was considerable. In repose, her face was unremarkable, the regular features marred by makeup more suited to the stage than to the street, but then she smiled in answer to some question or comment, and her entire being seemed to take on new life. I lowered the glass, startled. I had rarely seen a human being so—compelling? virile? simply alive? More than ever, I wanted to see her act.

  Rohin sighed, and I offered him the glass again. He shook his head. "I don't think Rehur's coming," he said.

  I glanced at the streets leading into the square. It did seem as though the stream of new arrivals had slowed. "I am sor
ry," I said aloud. "When is the khy sono?"

  Rohin brightened visibly. "The day after tomorrow, by the calendar. It's at the Blackbird, beginning at 2130. Can I buy you dinner at Hills' beforehand?"

  I only hesitated for an instant. The cabaret theaters expect their patrons to drink while they watch the show, and offer very little to absorb the alcohol. "Thank you, that's an excellent idea."

  Rohin nodded. "At the nineteenth hour?"

  "That suits me," I said.

  Rohin stayed until the promenade was clearly over, and the last of the performers had vanished from the square. He was going into the Necropolis with some of his agemates from Hills'. He very politely invited me to join them, but I refused with thanks. I'd be seeing enough of him over the next few days, though I didn't say that. When he had gone, I closed the window and settled myself at the room's information terminal. It was still quite cold in the room, though, and after a moment I got up again and adjusted the heating system until the bar heater beneath the window was glowing yellow-orange. I made contact with the master scheduling computer, ordered tickets for two plays I wanted to see, then contacted the Port Authority. As I'd hoped, Pipe Major had just landed, but when I called the hotels where the mailships' crews usually stayed, Leith wasn't listed anywhere. I asked for Minuke Ten, who had been chief pilot the last time Pipe Major had come through, but no one had heard of her either, and I assumed she had left the ship. Well, I told myself, if Leith really wants to see me, she'll call the Tower, and they'll tell her that I'm in Destiny and where I'm staying. For now, it's time to relax and enjoy the city.

  Over the next two days, I wandered through the Necropolis, savoring the anonymity and the chance to be alone. I renewed my acquaintance with the younger of Colonel Grete's mediums, and went with her to a mediums' bar. I spent the better part of a day playing Chance with her older partner. I ate and drank, relishing the chance to taste off-world dishes again, and went to the theater. The first, The Substitute, one of the few comedies in the Oresteian canon, was competent, but unexciting; the second one haunted my dreams the night I saw it. It was The Man Who Killed in His Sleep, based on an old local story that might have been true, about a man who wants to leave his mistress to marry another woman. Under the code, she must give her permission—there is an implied contract between them—and she refuses. His honor and his duty to his Family require him to marry the second woman and, in desperation, he strangles his mistress with her own sash. He marries the second woman, but soon after the wedding, is visited by the ghost of his mistress, who urges him to strangle his wife. He fights the compulsion, but in the end, surrenders to it, and kills himself as well.

  In some versions, the ghost is a true ghost, the projection of his own guilt, and I have always thought the play more powerful that way. This time, though, the puppetmasters chose to make the ghost real—the protagonist fails to kill her, and it is implied she chooses social death to achieve her revenge—and the final act became a duel between the two characters. The plot itself isn't much, has been bettered half a hundred times. The acting was good, the puppeteering excellent . . . but what frightened me was the crowd. They were mostly para'anin and ghosts, and it was clear that, for them, the hero was the vengeful mistress. The wife's death was done on stage, a graceful, vicious dance of murder. At its end there was a sigh, not of horror but of pleasure, and then applause. There was an anger there that frightened me, and that night I had dark dreams of riot in the streets of Destiny.

  But in the morning there was a message from Leith—just a note to say that she was on-planet and wanted to see me, and giving a callcode—and I forgot my dreams in trying to reach her. The callcode she had given belonged to a private flat somewhere in Destiny. I tried calling it several times, but no one was home to answer. By the time I joined Rohin at Hills', I had almost given up on seeing her.

  The Demi-heir and I ate a leisurely dinner, and then made our way through the streets to the nearest greengate. Rohin pulled up the hood of his jacket as we approached, and after a moment's thought, I did the same. I was wearing the fur cloak he had given me, and I had never felt more Oresteian as the city police on duty by the gate waved us inside.

  This greengate gave onto a much smaller square, with a central fountain where the water had frozen into an exotic, abstract sculpture. The ice gleamed in Agamemnon's reflected light, casting shadows of its own. The buildings that ringed the square were dimly lit, quiet, handsome places, and I did not ask what they were for fear of finding out for certain they were brothels.

  "We can walk from here," Rohin said, "or we could take the tram."

  "Let's walk," I said.

  Rohin led the way through the quiet streets, moving toward the center of the Necropolis where the theaters lay. As we came closer, the buildings became more brightly lit and the streets grew more crowded, until at last we came out into the garish lights of the Broad Street itself. Though I had seen it before, the place still dazzled. I slowed, pretending to fumble with the clasp of my cloak. Rohin paused with me, grinning, but I ignored the knowing smile.

  To either side, Broad Street stretched toward the two main greengates, a street three times as wide as any other in the city. Four-story buildings, each one hung with bright banners and banded with lights, rose up on either side; even the tram that edged its way along the central rail was hung with strands of lights. But most of all, the street was filled with people. Some were ghosts, the white ghostmark clearly visible on their foreheads; more were para'anin, distinguishable as such by the fact that they did not make any pretense of hiding their faces; but the vast majority were ordinary Family members, their features shadowed beneath hoods or hidden completely behind scarves or painted masks. Visually, they added a strangely sinister quality to the passing crowd, all those masked or hidden faces, and enough of them had thrown off all the prohibitions of the code to make them dangerous. Even as I watched, half a dozen adolescents dressed all in red formed a ring around another young man. He turned, surveying them warily, and I saw the ghostmark on his forehead. I reached for my badge, ready to display it if I needed to intervene, and then the ghost shrugged and held out a hand. The pack leader gave a yelp of triumph, and pressed a handful of notes into the ghost's hand. The ghost let himself be dragged toward the nearest bar.

  "Come on," Rohin said. "We'll be late."

  I shook myself and followed him across Broad Street and into a heated arcade. It was almost painfully warm, after the cold outside. I threw back the hood and loosened my cloak, just keeping my arms through the slits.

  "The Blackbird's at the end of here," Rohin said.

  I nodded. The arcade was crowded—it seemed to hold mostly bars and shops that sold off-world goods—and there was a line stretching from the Blackbird's door nearly halfway up the arcade. I hesitated, but Rohin shoved his way through, and I followed. Even after eight months in Orestes' gravity, I was newly made aware of my off-world strength, and I had to be very careful not to knock people off balance as I passed them. We were almost at the Blackbird's door when someone called my name.

  I turned quickly, almost knocking Rohin over. "Leith?"

  "Trey!" Pipe Major's captain edged her way through the crowd, a tall, fair-haired Oresteian following her. "Did you get my message?"

  I said, "Only that you were on-planet. I called the number you left, but I couldn't get through."

  "We've been busy," Leith said, laughing. She looked very small among the Oresteians, a diminutive, alien presence in her spacer's leather. We touched hands, and she went on, "I don't know if you'll have much luck getting in. They're sold out."

  "We have reservations," Rohin said.

  Leith gave him a measuring look, the humor fading from her eyes, and I said, hastily, "You know the rules, Leith. He's—one of my employers, and nameless for the evening." To Rohin, I added, "This is Leith Moraghan, captain of the six-week mailship."

  Leith nodded, and gestured to the blond woman at her left. As always, she used her right hand, the gloved
left arm motionless at her side. "Guil, this is Trey Maturin, Mediator—Medium for the Halex Kinship here." She included Rohin in her glance as she added, "And this is my friend Guil, who's the best tug pilot in this system."

  "Look, why don't you join us?" I asked. "I'm sure they can provide a couple of extra chairs." I had quite deliberately put Rohin on the spot—seeing Leith was one of the reasons I had wanted to come into Destiny in the first place—but, to give him credit, the Demi-heir seconded me without perceptible pause.

  "You'd be welcome."

  Leith gave him another, more favorable glance, and said, "Thanks. Guil's been telling me about the—competition, and I'd've hated to miss it after all that."

  The blond woman made a noise that might have been laughter or protest, but made no further objection when Rohin resumed his slow passage toward the head of the line. At the door, the clubman made ritual denials until Rohin passed him a two-kip note. Unsmiling, he passed us inside, and another clubman led us to a table near the edge of the huge room. Another note changed hands; the clubman nodded, and took us to a second, larger table that commanded a good view of the drumbox stage.

  "Neatly done," Leith said. She seated herself, resting her gloved arm on the table and steadying it with her right hand, looking up expectantly at us.

  "Thanks," Rohin said, settling himself across from her. I took the place between them, and, more slowly, Guil pulled out the remaining chair.

  "What's your Family?" Rohin asked. It was a commonplace, but the blond woman checked in mid-movement and fixed him with a chill stare.

  "I'm para'an, " she said, shortly. "Do I go?"

  Rohin lifted both hands in surrender, eyes wide. "Not on my account, please."

  There was momentarily a note of fear in the Demi-heir's voice, and I didn't entirely blame him. There was something disquieting about the tug pilot, a feral quality that was contradicted by the cold, calculating intelligence in her blue eyes. Guil held her stare for a moment longer, then, unaccountably, her expression softened. "Ex-Tam'ne," she said, and seated herself. "Of Tam'ne in Electra."