by Jack Yeovil
But she couldn't afford to fight like a vampire.
Remembering Master Po, she hooked her arms up and advanced, mantis style.
'She's a loony,' sneered Willy.
Preiss shook his head, knowing better. He assumed the correct defensive stance, right forearm out horizontally in front like a bar, left hand fisted and close to the stomach.
At the last moment, she switched to dragonclaw-style.
That got past his guard. She thumped him just above the ear, then again in the larynx. And her knee got to his side. She felt the impact again, but heard Preiss grunt as he took a blow to the kidney.
Judging at high-speed, she knew where to put her feet as she got her shoulder into Preiss' side where she had just kneed him. Then, with a strain on her own neck and spine, she lifted him off the ground. This was his own trick×wrestling, Hagedorn-style. She tossed him up and slammed him down.
Then she got a knee on his throat and her elbow poised over the bridge of his nose.
He said nothing but patted the ground three times.
She sprang away from him and bowed. There was some applause, but she kept her eyes on the ground. Preiss took his time about getting up, careful of his bruises. Willy and Walther busied themselves dispersing the crowd. Genevieve heard the clinking of coins passed from losers to winners. She regretted not having a slice of her own action.
'Brother Preiss,' she said. 'My humble apologies. I came here not to do any soul harm, but rather to prevent a great man×Temple Father Bland×from coming to harm.'
'She said she wanted to be Temple Father's bodyguard,' said Willy.
Preiss looked her up and down. Genevieve assumed the wrestler would not be disposed to like her. Then he smiled and she was horrified to realise that, contrary to expectation, Preiss liked her quite a lot. She gathered no woman had ever served him as she had. He found the novelty stimulating in all sorts of ways she didn't want to think about.
'Get Mistress Godgift a proper habit for a Temple Sister,' said Preiss. 'And tell mother superior to find her a place to lay her head. Not too far from the centre cloister. I want her always close by, and Temple Father Bland will agree with me. Since last night, we are at war with the undead. This woman will be first among our warriors.'
Genevieve saluted.
IX
With Genevieve and Vukotich in rehearsal, the Vargr Breughel Theatre would have been dark but for Detlef's 'open-stage nights' policy. The programme of an evening was set aside for all those who fancied themselves entertainers×jesters and jugglers mostly×to come up, be introduced to the paying throng×other jesters and jugglers, mostly×and try out their acts. Most hopefuls only lasted a minute or so before a volley of last week's vegetables silenced their venerable jokes or croaked songs. They would slink off into the wings, covered in rotten cabbage, vowing to go back to the counting-house or the tannery and forget any notions they had nurtured about a life of wealth, fame and unlimited beautiful lovers on the stage. The theatre only charged a modest admission fee and let in those who chanced performing free of charge, but the canny business manager Guglielmo Pentangeli had struck an agreement with the farmers' market to take away all the unsaleable fruit and veg at the end of the day. This was then sold to amateur critics who got far more enjoyment from pelting the acts than watching them. After each open-stage night, produce was gathered from the backdrop and sold again, as fodder for the carriage-company stables in Hasselhoff Street.
This evening, Detlef was preoccupied. He performed his usual duties as Master of Ceremonies, setting up each poor and trembling act with a few brief and witty introductory remarks, but his thoughts were with Genevieve in the Temple of Morr. He tried to comfort himself by believing that Bland would assume no vampire would be insane enough voluntarily to walk into the one building in the city where they were most likely to be impaled, beheaded and consigned to the furnace. It wasn't much help.
Tonight's losers were even more pathetic than usual.
First up was a longshanks scholar from the University who did impressions of notable Imperial personages. He barely got into his satirical depiction of Konrad the Hero when an entire vegetable marrow burst against his face, hammering him against the backdrop. As the glowering Renastic dragged the insensible scholar offstage, Detlef supposed he should have mentioned that Konrad's Oath of Devotion Society was in the house tonight. Then came an Estalian guitarist with an enormous wave of oiled hair cockatoo-combed up over his forehead. He actually managed to finish his number without so much as a tomato, perhaps because the sweetness of his plucking was matched by the extreme obscenity of his lyrics. A magic act wasn't so lucky, and Renastic×whom Detlef still thought bore close-watching×had to rush out with a bucket of sand to smother the flames that had leaped from the wizard's brazier to his robes at the climax of his first and only trick.
The Three Little Clots, dwarfs in loud check jerkins and baggy trousers, came on and abused each other with eye-pokes, beard-tugs and mallet-blows to the skull for five minutes. They did each other more harm than any flung fruit and had the wit to work the audience attack into their routine×the bald-pated one with the knock-knees kept snatching thrown edibles out of the air and stuffing them into his mouth while the bespectacled one with an explosion of lightning-struck hair quipped that this was the best meal they could expect all month.
After that, Detlef sacrificed a string of stuttering jokesters, an old woman who tied inflated pig-bladders into strange shapes she claimed were animals, a temperance lecturer who mistakenly thought this was a fine opportunity to take his message to the masses, an elf who dressed as a human woman and propositioned sailors, another conjurer who made himself disappear and never came back and a dock-labourer who took off his shirt and did peculiar things with his stomach tattoos.
It was always a good idea to wind up with a sure winner, so he brought on Antonia Marsillach, who danced athletically, and sans much in the way of costuming, behind strategically-placed roc-feather fans. The Three Little Clots came back, to popular acclaim, and snatched away Antonia's fans, which they used to batter each other as the unblushing dancer outdid the stomach-writher in assuming unlikely positions and the audience expressed their appreciation with a hail of flowers.
'Good show tonight,' said Guglielmo as Detlef rushed past him backstage.
'Sign the Clots to a long-term contract, extend Antonia for another two weeks and ask the greasy guitarist to come in next week for a proper audition. I never want to see any of the others in here again.'
'It shall be done, maestro!
Genius was all very well, but Detlef knew he'd be back in debtors' prison if it weren't for Guglielmo's knack of arranging matters to keep a flow of money coming in and a trickle of money going out.
He found Lady Melissa in his dressing room, sat in his favourite chair, feet dangling over the edge, sharpening her teeth against a bit of old bone.
'I hope you're proud of that, Herr Genius. Very edifying and educational, I'm sure.'
'We don't admit children on open-stage nights, Missy.'
'I don't see why not. There's precious little to engage the grown-up intellect or the finer sensitivities. Captain Tattoo was tasty, though.'
Detlef noticed a red smear on the old girl's lips. He was momentarily horror-struck.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'He was knocked unconscious by a turnip. I just tapped him a little. He'll wake up with such a throbbing head that he won't notice the healed-over wound. And don't call me 'Missy'.'
'What if the Illustrated Churl runs into one of Bland's Boyos? They check up on suspect neck-bites, Missy.'
'I doubt they bother with big toes, though.'
'There's a vein in the big toe?'
She held her thumb and forefinger almost together. 'Just a titchy one. Useful for supping on the sleeping. You just have to lift the far edge of the quilt and take a nuzzle.'
'I could cheerfully have lived the rest of my life without knowing that.'
'What about your own neck
, Herr Genius? It bears the unmistakable seal of Mademoiselle Dieudonne.'
Detlef was changing into street-clothes. He picked a shirt with a dandyish ruff, and arranged it over his bites. Then, he buttoned a waistcoat up over his stomach and looked to the vampire for approval.
'It'll pass for humans. But another vampire will spot you for cattle from across the room.'
Detlef was alarmed.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'It's an advantage where we're going. You're marked as the property of a vampire lady. Young bloods will steer well clear of your veins.'
'Property?'
'Don't get huffy. It's no worse than the way you shortlivers talk about your mistresses or pets. And I'm sure Gene is as fond of you as you are of any stray dog or passing trollop.'
Detlef couldn't decide whether Melissa was a nasty old lady or a horrid little girl. She was either too old or too young to care for anyone's feelings but her own. She was very unlike her granddaughter-in-darkness. He realised that he had only ever known one vampire, and he had made the mistake of thinking the nightbreed were all like Genevieve. It was much the same as Tio Bland thinking vampires were all like the Counts von Carstein.
'And don't look so hurt,' Melissa sniped. 'You had me skivvying and scurrying without a thought for putting me in school or seeking out my family. It's all about masters and servants, bleeders and bled.'
'How long is it since you received a good spanking?'
Melissa swallowed shock and put on her orphan face.
'You wouldn't'
'If we can't be civil to each other, then we won't find out, will we, my lady? Now, have we had word from Genevieve?'
Melissa took a tied scroll from her sleeve.
'A messenger came while you were on stage. She has risen rapidly within the Cult of Morr and gained employment as a bodyguard to that Bland fellow. Very enterprising.'
This was better than they had hoped. But Detlef still had an image of Genevieve surrounded by flaming torches, stakes, mirror and silver scythes.
'So, one of us is close to the target,' said Detlef. 'It's up to us to go out and scare up the assassin.'
Melissa slid off the chair. She was dressed up in another stage costume, from Tarradasch's tear-jerker The Little Princess Sonja in Exile. It was the fur-trimmed hooded cloak from the cast-into-the-cold-cold-snows scene. She had the little red foxfur boots as well.
She stuck out her grey-gloved hand, as if wanting to be escorted across a busy street. He took her paw and led her up through the thronging backstage corridors and out of the theatre. A crowd at the stage door were petitioning the Three Little Clots for autographs on scraps of paper, not caring that none of them could write. Detlef recognised the two disguised aristocrats who were competing for the affections of la Marsillach, eyeing each other from behind domino masks and enormous bouquets of Gris Mere blossoms.
'Old Detlef's taking them younger and younger,' jeered someone.
Detlef reddened. That was not an item he looked forward to appearing in the Boulevardpresse.
Melissa kicked the jeerer in the shin.
'How dare you be rude about my dear old uncle!'
'Sorry,' yelped the hopping man.
She kicked him in the other shin.
'So you should be.'
The jeerer fell over and the Three Little Clots laughed at him.
Detlef felt more much kindly towards his 'niece'.
X
So long as she kept quiet, Genevieve found it easy to seem like part of the traditional funereal statuary of the Temple of Morr. All around were reminders of the grave she had never found time to lie in: wreaths of black flowers, refectory tables shaped like tombs, marble urn soup tureens, chairs with gravestone backs and seats, mausoleum dormitories with cots like coffins, skullfaced-doorknobs, ossuary skirting boards. She had never seen a place so desperately in need of the cheery touch of an elf interior designer with a passion for bright orange and turquoise cushions and sweet little paintings of happy kittens and fat babies.
Brother Preiss had ordered her to stay always a few arms' lengths from the Temple Father and watch him like the proverbial Warhawk.
Within the Temple of Morr, acolytes were expected to show due deference and not speak unless a superior addressed them directly. She was relieved not to have to keep up the Jenny Godgift voice.
Antiochus Bland, all eyes and smile, had put out his warm, wet hand to be kissed when Preiss presented her to him. Ever since, he had paid her no attention.
Now, after the evening rituals, Bland was in conference. Genevieve had to stand still in an itchy black robe, stacked against the wall of the temple inner sanctum like a mummified grandparent. She was one of several sisters in attendance on Bland and his cadre of cronies. Preiss had told her to act like an ordinary attendant, unless provoked. She was getting lost inside her impostures: she was a Bretonnian vampire pretending to be a live country lass dressed in the robes of Morr to seem like a serving wench while acting as a bodyguard. She would have liked to see Eva Savinien pull that little lot off.
With Bland was Sister Liesel, the visionary behind the holding-up-a-severed-vampire-head poster and the skewered-bat-toy arrangement. She was working her way down a long list of petty matters, mostly to do with news items placed with the venerable Spieler or the scandalous Boulevardpresse.
'As you remember, Temple Father,' said Sister Liesel, 'some concern was expressed that by putting so much weight on the broadsheets we were neglecting the vital illiterate segment of the citizenry. It is still a sad fact that barely three in ten Altdorf households contain someone who can read and write. Our vital message must be delivered to the whole of the city.'
'The masses will follow the elite,' said the freckle-faced but venerable Father Knock, who had a habit of passing his thin fingers through his thinner red hair, constantly trying to rearrange it over his orange-ish expanse of scalp. He had been Temple Father before Bland and seemed to think all this vampire-slaying a distraction from the proper business of the Cult of Morr. 'It has always been that way, and that way it always shall be.'
'Actually, father, it's a misconception that the most influential people are literate,' said Liesel. 'Many aristocratic families actively discourage their sons from learning to read. The finer houses retain a pet scholar to read aloud any letters or papers that might be necessary. In the von Sutin household, my brothers were schooled only in hunting, duelling and wenching. My father graciously permitted my useless female head to be filled with letters so I could perform minor tasks. Reading out the results of wrestling matches upon which he had placed unwise wagers, for instance. As above, so below×only inkies like me can read or care to.'
Genevieve had known straight off that Sister Liesel was the real danger in the temple. She had set Bland down as one of those people who were obsessed with vampires but (literally) wouldn't recognise one if it kissed his hand, but the scribe-proclaimer was cooler and more calculating. Sister Liesel's fingers were permanently ink-stained from all her ledgers and scrolls, but the eyes behind her thick spectacles were clear and clever. It was her job not to miss much, and Genevieve had hung back to avoid coming to her notice.
'How shall we reach these unfortunate×indeed, unenlightened×souls, high and low?' asked Bland.
'I have taken care of that,' said Sister Liesel. 'I have hired criers to proclaim stories of the campaign in the streets, simplified versions of the material we have supplied to the broadsheets. The story of your swift action of last night has been heard in every square and marketplace. This direct manner serves us well, but I have given some thought to subtler methods. I understand, Temple Father, that you found Detlef Sierck unsympathetic to our good works?'
Genevieve bit her lip. Detlef had told her about Bland's visit.
Bland shook his head sadly. 'He will come round, sister, but for the moment he is insensible×indeed, blinded×to the danger. A sad, sad case. A man of such talent, burdened by such old-fashioned notions.'
'If the theatre will
not serve the temple, then we must have our own theatre.'
'Sister Liesel,' blurted Father Knock, 'The expense, the expense! Our coffers are already depleted, what with the night-patrols and the purchase of extra equipment. Why, our debts to the silversmiths alone run into'
The sister waited for Bland to dismiss Knock's protest, then continued: 'I agree that the establishment of a conventional theatre is beyond us for the moment, but our grant to the mummers has yielded excellent results. Vampireslayer is very popular with the young. It is my proposal that we extend this policy and sponsor a number of puppet-theatre booths. It is a long-established tradition among the masses to leave their children in front of the puppets as they busy themselves drinking or buying groceries. Why should we not take advantage of that neglect, to offer instruction as well as entertainment?'
Liesel produced a very inky bundle of manuscript.
'I might not be Jacopo Tarradasch, but I am in my own small way a playwright. This is my rewritten version of the popular history Kattarin and Pavel. Temple Father, you will be pleased to learn that I have given the vampire-slaying Tsarevich several choice speeches extracted from your own recent public pronouncements. Of course, I've told the carver to make the puppet of Pavel an endearing likeness of yourself. You are our public face in this campaign, our sharpest weapon against the night.'
Genevieve remembered the real Pavel as tall, fork-bearded and (thanks to the tsarina's temper) one-armed. She occasionally wondered how he had managed to do the deed, but supposed he got someone to hold the stake against the old monster's heart while he wielded the mallet.
'This is all very encouraging, sister. What do the people think?'
Genevieve understood another of Liesel's innovations was a miniature census, whereby she sent her apprentices into the streets in secular dress and had them ask passersby pointed questions about the Temple of Morr and Antiochus Bland, and vampires and what should be done about them.
