The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  "Places, please." Ash positioned herself behind the console, hands moving surely across her controls. Rowan, at her right, barely looked up from her keyboard. Ash pushed a button, and lights sparked momentarily on Rehur's chest and Ivena's left shoulder. The puppetmaster frowned. "Mark, Ivena."

  The actor shifted, and Ash said, "All right. Let's go, the soul-stealing. Take it from your line, Per—'the forces of darkness surround us.'"

  Per, playing the old advisor, obediently gave his cue, and the scene began to move. Even I had seen this short play too many times, but it never seemed to lose its appeal to the Oresteians. Maybe it was because the plot was so uncomplicated in its march of crime, supernatural retribution, and cleansing: a young and foolish prince calls up a demon to rid herself of a rival, only to have the demon demand her own soul as its reward. After much repining, the prince accepts her death, because only through that sacrifice can the demon be destroyed. This was the climax of the play, when the demon appears in its most horrific aspect, and draws the prince's soul out of her body, only to be struck down by the prince's chosen heir. At the proper moment, the puppets appeared, the puppeteers matching the figures' movements to the actors' gestures. The demon beckoned and called, its taped voice a distorted version of Rehur's; the soul-puppet was drawn struggling from Ivena's body, and was consumed. In that instant, another actor—the hero, Ysaje–mimed shooting the silver arrow, and the demon writhed and fell. Falling, it was consumed in flames, to spectacular effect. It was a rather neat performance, wasted on a truly inferior play.

  "Not bad," Ash said. "Not bad at all." She looked down at her board, and flipped another switch. "Hold your places just for a minute. I want to make a quick run with the full demon. No, Rowan, don't bother with the soul, I just want to put the pieces together."

  Someone onstage groaned, but the actors did as they were told. Ash touched controls, bringing the demon out from around Rehur's body. This time, the human torso was attached to a pair of scaled and taloned legs, creating an image out of a conservative religious's nightmare. Ash brought the composite image across the stage at half speed, concentrating on keeping the two halves together, and finally cut the picture.

  "All right," she said. "That's all, thank you for your patience. See you tomorrow evening for the final."

  The group on stage broke apart instantly, voices rising in conversation. Rehur came toward the edge of the stage, pulling off the tight taping shirt. "Trey?"

  I came forward to meet him, seeing again the tattooed snake that coiled around his left bicep. In the harsh light from the stage, I could see what it attempted to hide. Beneath the dyes, his skin was pocked and scarred from yearly vaccinations: actors on Orestes count as prostitutes, and with some reason. Someone called his name, and he turned just long enough to catch the thrown tunic before turning back to me.

  "What's happened?"

  His voice was low, controlled, but I could hear the fear below the polished surface. "You've heard that the Tower's taken, burned?" I said. There was no time to be gentle, but still, I felt a pang of helpless guilt.

  Rehur nodded, slowly crumpling his tunic into a wadded ball.

  "It's bad news," I said. "I'm sorry, but there aren't many survivors. Herself sent out the children who were at the Tower, and they're with the Ansson Holder now, but I'm afraid. . . ." I faltered, seeing the color drain from his face and the rising pain in his huge eyes, and had to force myself to go on. "Those are all the survivors we know about."

  Rehur's eyes flickered shut, but he forced them open again. "Rohin?"

  "He got us out," I said, wondering if the knowledge that his twin had died by the code would be any comfort at all. "He got us to the escape tunnel, and then went back. I'm afraid he's dead—true-dead."

  Rehur managed an oddly bitter smile. "That's Rohin," he said, and shook himself. "Who's the genarch now?"

  "That's why I need your help," I said. "Alkres."

  Rehur frowned. "He's only fifteen."

  "And the Patriarch," I said. "Rehur, I need your help."

  "But I'm dead," Rehur protested, automatically and without bitterness. Around us, the stage lights winked out, the noises of rehearsal fading, and he shook himself again. "We can't talk here," he said, pulling his tunic over bare skin. "Will you come back to my place?"

  "Of course."

  We crossed Broad Street in silence. Overhead, the sky was darkening toward Sunset, Agamemnon's half-disk brighter against the deepening blue. Objects cast a double shadow, shifting toward twilight.

  The main door of Rehur's building was still unlocked. The actor made a face as he pushed it open, muttering something about inviting trouble. I followed him up the stairs and into the flat.

  Chapter 9

  Rehur

  After Maturin had left, Rehur curled himself into the corner of the stove-bed, trying to think constructively. The Tower was burned—Rohin was dead—but the Family had survived, sort of, and he was still bound to do whatever he could to help. Especially for Alkres. . . . He remembered the ult'eir as a solemn boy of nine, not shy, but very conscious of the ten years between them. That was the last time he had spoken to Alkres; a year later he had been declared dead, and was happily established in the Necropolis.

  He caught up his pillow and laid it across his drawn-up knees, resting his face against the cool fabric. Maturin had asked for two things, a place to hide if they were driven out of their present hiding place, and for Rehur to help spread the word among the Halex of Destiny that Alkres lived. The actor sighed, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. The second was easy enough. Lulan, owner-manager of the May-apple, was a para'an of Halex in Halex, and prided herself on her connections with—and her years of service to—the various Branches of the Family. Every Halex in the capital passed through at least the gaming rooms on the May-apple's lower levels, if not the rooms on the upper floors. If he passed the news to her, it would be all over Destiny within a calendar-day.

  She might also be the answer to Maturin's first request, Rehur thought suddenly. After all, he himself was known to be twin brother of the Halex Demi-heir—-he had never made any secret of it—so his flat would hardly be a safe refuge. But the May-apple. . . . He sat up straight, trying to find holes in the idea. Lulan catered to ghosts and para'anin as well as to the living, was used to handling a mixed crowd, so there would be little risk of Alkres's breaking the code. And besides, Rehur thought, he'd have a medium with him to protect him. Yes, if Maturin and the rest were driven out of their present hiding place, the May-apple would be the perfect refuge.

  Fired by his idea, Rehur pushed himself out of the stove-bed, and reached for the chronograph he had discarded on the single table. It was well after clock-midnight, the hour of Sunset and the official opening of the Dark; he put the chronograph aside, sighing. There was no point in visiting the May-apple now, he thought. Lulan would be entirely too busy with her first rush of clients to see him; better to wait until clock-morning, when the rush had slacked off a bit, and she could spare him time to listen.

  He shivered suddenly, and reached back into the bed to adjust its heater. The worn mechanism sighed and crackled, but a moment later he felt a new surge of warmth against his back. He knew there was nothing to do but wait, that there was nothing he could do until clock-morning. Still, he found it very hard to undress and climb into the welcoming warmth of the bed. He pulled the thermal curtains closed across the bed's open side and drew the blankets close around him, knowing he wouldn't sleep. The rehearsal, and Maturin's news on top of that, had drained him more than he had realized. He fell into an exhausted sleep almost at once.

  When he finally woke, the chronograph read seven minutes after noon of the twentieth day of the tenth standard month. Rehur swore at the glowing display, then fumbled for the room controls until he found the right switch and flooded the windowless room with hard, untinted light. He had never intended to sleep so late, had hardly thought he could sleep at all. . . . He shook himself angrily, and touched anot
her button on the room's control plaque, switching on Destiny's primary newscast as he went into the flat's tiny bathroom.

  By the time he'd finished, it was clear that the newscast wasn't saying anything useful, and he switched it off, scowling. He pulled clothes from the boxes stacked along the wall, one corner of his mind mechanically matching colors, and pulled on trousers, shirt, and knitted tunic, thinking furiously. From the things the newscasters had not said, it was clear that Brandr were still in Destiny, and while they had so far stayed out of the Necropolis, there was no guarantee they'd continue to do so. And my face, Rehur thought, with a wry smile, is Halex enough to betray me, even if no one has bothered to point out my background. Someone will, too; it's been common gossip in the Necropolis for years. The idea of a disguise seemed almost too melodramatic to be taken seriously, too much like one of the popular holoplays, and his smile widened into a grin. Then he sobered. Melodramatic or not, some sort of disguise would keep the Brandr from realizing just what he was, and if he were to help Maturin, he would have to avoid that at all costs. Still, he felt distinctly foolish as he went back into his bathroom, to return a moment later with his battered makeup box.

  He set the box on the table and opened it, drawing out the heavy mirror, then kicked the wheeled storage box that served as his only chair out of its place by the door and pulled it up to the table. He seated himself in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection, turning his head from side to side to study the familiar planes and angles. Then his decisions made, he reached into the box.

  Like most actors, he wore little makeup offstage; it felt strange to wear it now. He smoothed on a creamy base, deliberately obscuring the sharp lines of cheek and jaw, then added false shadows and a touch of color, subtly rounding his long face. He paused, shifting again to study the effect, and decided that any more would be too much. Then, frowning slightly, he began to reshape his eyes. They were his most conspicuous feature, as he knew well, and the most memorable. Carefully, he rubbed a lighter base across the lids, covering the natural shadows, then fumbled among the lining pencils until he found the lightest shade of brown. With it, he drew a narrow line along the base of each eyelid, and smudged it almost to invisibility. When he looked again into the mirror, his eyes seemed noticeably smaller. A darker lip color drew attention away from the eyes. At last, he leaned back from the mirror to study his handiwork. Slowly, he began to laugh. Without consciously meaning to, he'd copied most of the makeup for Niklas Castel, the troublemaking pilot who was the pivotal character in The Wreck of Tenshi Nen. Niklas had been his first good role with Witchwood; he hoped it was a good omen.

  He sobered quickly, studying his reflection for a final time, and quickly added the ghostmark in the center of his forehead. That would protect him from unwanted advances. The fading light of Sunset would soften the theatrical lines; it would still be obvious that he was wearing makeup, but that was nothing out of the ordinary in the Necropolis. More important, he was no longer recognizable as a Halex at least not at first sight. He stood, stretching, and crossed to the wall of boxes, searching through the ones on the bottom row until he found what he was looking for. He spread the dark crimson fabric thoughtfully across his hands, checking for muncher holes, then wound it around his head and shoulders, creating a sort of hooded cape. Throws like that had been very popular two years before, until the Streetwalkers' Tong had made them the badge of their profession. Rehur had not worn this one in some time, but hadn't been able to bring himself to discard the rich fabric. Now, looking out from its concealing folds, he was very glad he'd kept it. He found the gloves he'd bought to match it, and straightened, looking at his image in the long mirror that hung beside the door. A stranger, one of the hundreds of prostitutes that worked the Necropolis, stared back at him. Rehur nodded, already creating the character to match his new shape, and pushed open the door of the flat.

  No one was moving in the hall. Rehur hurried down the stairs, not wanting to have to explain himself, and reached the street without meeting anyone. The May-apple lay on the eastern edge of the Necropolis, not far from one of the smaller greengates. It was a long walk, and the Broad Street trams, running along the Necropolis's north-south axis, wouldn't shorten it. The actor sighed, still angry with himself for oversleeping, and set off for the Nezumi Square.

  The streets were unusually empty for the Necropolis after Sunset. Rehur frowned, and quickened his steps a little. Broad Street was a little busier, knots of people moving along its bright length, but here and there there were gaps in the line of lights, where a building was still shuttered. That was unheard of—the Necropolis's businesses had to open every hour of every Dark, to make up for the business lost during the long Day—and Rehur found himself looking back, half expecting to see the owners appear to remove the shutters and switch on the working lights. A tram stopped outside Rita's Rest, long the most popular of the Broad Street bars, but only a few people got off.

  Rehur shook his head, and looked away, glancing toward the southern end of the street. There were even fewer people moving there, but nearly all the buildings were lit. As he watched, a group emerged from one of the unlit buildings, first four people together, and then two more who lagged behind. The four watched from the center of the street while the two lowered the shutters, making no move to help. Only when the building's lights came on did they turn away. They were wearing lumpy battledress, Rehur realized belatedly: Brandr troops, making sure life went on as usual. He shivered, and hurried on across the street. At the head of the side street, he couldn't stop himself from looking back. The four were watching him, but they were too far away, in the dim light, for him to see their expressions. He turned his head away, the movement excruciatingly casual, and made himself walk three blocks before looking back again. The Brandr were nowhere to be seen.

  He took the long way to the May-apple anyway, doubling back through the Fountain Square. The water was beginning to freeze around the edges of the basin, reflecting the flaming Sunset sky. He paused, pretending to stare at the famous sight, and knew miserably that he was overacting. No one was following him.

  It was only two more blocks to the May-apple, down a quiet, well-lit side street. A tall woman, masked and wrapped in a slit-backed coat, was leaving the building as Rehur approached. He looked away politely as she passed, and turned into the alley that led to the ghost-entrance on the building's side. The door opened instantly to his signal, and an adolescent looked out at him. She couldn't have been older than seventeen, and Rehur's eyes went immediately to her collar. She wore a medium's badge, and he sighed, relieved.

  "Can I help you?" the girl asked. Her voice was perfectly polite, but there was a hint of wariness beneath the refinement.

  "I'd like to see Lulan," Rehur answered.

  The girl licked her lips uneasily, and did not answer. It was no wonder the girl was nervous, Rehur thought, with everything that's happened, but I don't understand why she's on duty at all. Shoba, May-apple's regular medium, occasionally let his daughter take over when business was light, but this hardly seemed the time.

  "She's engaged," the girl said at last, drawing out the words. "Can't it wait?"

  Rehur shook his head, beginning to be infected by the girl's nervousness. "I'm afraid not."

  The girl didn't move from where she stood, blocking the door. "Who's calling, then?"

  The actor hesitated, wondering if he should lie. But Lulan wouldn't recognize a false name, and his own name would at least get him a hearing. "Tell her Rehur. I'm with Witchwood."

  "Rehur," the girl repeated, and stepped back into the entranceway, pulling the heavy door with her. Rehur followed her into an empty waiting room, and stopped at her gesture.

  "If you'll wait here," she said, as though repeating a lesson, "I'll tell the conciliatrix you're here."

  Rehur murmured agreement, and seated himself on one of the cushioned benches. The girl slipped away, closing the painted door tightly behind her. Rehur leaned back against the silk-cover
ed wall, resigning himself to a long wait. Very faintly, he could hear the murmur of conversation in the gaming rooms, and the clatter and ping of the various machines. The May-apple seemed to be doing a normal business, despite everything. The actor sighed, wishing there were a chronograph in the otherwise opulently furnished room. He was due back at the Matador by the eighteenth hour for the final rehearsal—not that it mattered all that much, he thought bitterly. Rowan and Ash had already made the puppet that was the real lead villain; he was only on stage to fill up the court scene.

  The painted door opened then, cutting off his train of thought. A rather harassed-looking man beckoned from the doorway. So Shoba's finally condescended to show himself, Rehur thought, but stood obediently.

  "Lulan'll see you now," the medium said, with a faint, unhappy frown. "She asked me to apologize for keeping you waiting, but she had unexpected visitors."

  "I'm grateful she can see me at all," Rehur said. He followed the medium up the narrow ghost-stairs, his feet sinking soundlessly in the black carpet. He could hear voices, growing louder as they neared the top, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Then they had reached the landing, and Shoba gestured politely for the ghost to precede him into the little antechamber. The door into Lulan's office was halfway open, and Rehur could see, beyond Lulan's expensively robed shoulders, the dull grey of Brandr battledress.

  The actor froze for an instant, then made himself continue on into the dimly lit antechamber, trying to move with unforced ease. He seated himself on a tambour just out of the Brandr officer's line of sight, hoping the man had not noticed the sudden hesitation. Behind him, Shoba whispered a curse and moved to close the door. Lulan's shoulders twitched, but she kept talking smoothly.