by Dave Duncan
She set off up the staircase that clung to the high, raw-stone wall. From long habit, she stepped on the ends of the treads. Ambria was always accusing her of sneaking, but she hated the sound of her uneven gait and had learned to move quietly in consequence. Our Lady Mouse, Golfren called her sometimes.
In some cities the troupe slept in one big room, while in Jurg they stayed in the king’s house. The Narsh hostel lay somewhere between those two extremes. It was so large and so empty at this time of year that Eleal had a room all to herself, not having to share with Olimmiar. She walked down the long corridor, turned the corner, and saw her pack lying abandoned by Klip Trumpeter’s door. Muscle building only went so far, obviously.
As she stooped to lift it, she detected a faint rasping coming from the room itself. The door was ajar, but whatever was making that odd noise was not visible through the crack.
One of the really nice things about the Narsh hostel was the size of its keyholes. Trumpeter was standing with his back to her, stripped to his breechclout as Dolm Actor had been. But Klip was not engaged in any arcane holy ritual. The cloth was white, anyway, although not as white as it should have been. He had a brick in each hand, and he was swinging them up and down, up and down. His bony back and shoulders gleamed with sweat, and the noise was his panting. He sounded almost ready to collapse.
He was really serious about those muscles! Perhaps he had believed her little lie after all? She sensed interesting opportunities for teasing—she might mention bricks at supper and smile at him innocently. That would make Trumpeter’s face glow like one big all-over pimple.
Amused, Eleal took up her pack and tiptoed off along the corridor. Then she came to another open door, and her heart jumped into her mouth and stayed there.
This was Yama and Dolm’s room. Like the others, it contained no furniture except a straw pallet, but their packs were lying there. Someone must have brought all the baggage back. Shivering with a sort of sick excitement, Eleal stared at this deadly opportunity.
When she had been little, she had found people’s packs absolutely irresistible. There was always something interesting in them! Once she had found a hand-tinted print of a naked woman in K’linpor Actor’s, and had produced it at lunch for everyone to admire. That had been a painful experience all round.
She had grown more discreet after that, but about two years ago Ambria had caught her going through Trong’s pack and had taken a belt to her. That had really hurt. And then Ambria had said that Eleal Singer was nothing but a stray fledgling and the troupe had no duty to care for her and feed her and if she was ever caught prying like that again, she would be thrown out on the street where she belonged. That had hurt even more.
Since then, she had mostly managed to resist personal packs. They were a bad habit.
This, however, was different! This was important.
This was crazy—the man served Zath.
He was almost certainly dead, victim of his own clumsiness in botching a ritual. If he wasn’t, there might be evidence in that baggage that would convince the others.
There was no one else in the building except muscleman Klip, and he was busy.
All packs looked much alike. Whoever had brought the baggage back could easily have made a mistake. About three heartbeats after that last thought, Eleal Singer was limping along the corridor carrying Dolm Actor’s pack instead of her own. It was very little heavier.
Panting like a cat, she laid it on her pallet, then spared a moment to lock and bolt her door.
Her hands trembled so much that she could hardly manage the buckles. Gasping for breath, she began hauling out clothes, spare boots, a printed book containing extracts from the Green and the Blue Scriptures, a couple of manuscript copies of plays—this year’s repertoire. A makeup kit. A wig that ought to be in the prop box and had probably been left over after last night’s performance. And a little bag of dream pods—well! Ambria Impresario would be very interested to know about them.
When Eleal had taken out everything, she looked for secret pockets like those in Golfren and Klip’s packs. This one was a little trickier to figure out, but she managed it. It contained exactly what she had feared, a black garment. She did not even dare pull it out to inspect it. She had no need to. It was bulky enough.
A door banged, and voices came drifting up from downstairs. Almost retching with terror, Eleal began stuffing everything back in what she hoped was the right order, making a frantic muddle.
Curiosity is a sin!
Curiosity is a great talent, but this time that talent had worked too well.
Only a reaper would ever dress all in black. Sister Ahn had said, murder was both a sacrament and a duty for reapers. She had not mentioned whether their powers included the ability to know when someone had been ransacking their packs.
With her hair combed, wearing her shawl over her warmer dress, Eleal approached the stairs. She was an actor, wasn’t she, sort of? Very well, she must act as if she still believed that Dolm was just an innocent, none too talented, actor. Holding her head high, she began to pick her way carefully down the stairs, holding the banister.
Then she saw that she had no need to act. Only Piol Poet and Golfren Piper had returned, and they were in no state to be an audience. Dull evening light struggled through high barred windows to show plank tables and the black iron range. The big kitchen was as bleak and cold as the streets outside. If there was no snow on the flagstone floor, Eleal could imagine it just by looking at Golfren Piper’s face.
Wizened little Piol Poet knelt at the grate, trying to start a fire and producing nothing but smoke. He was the oldest of them all, but practical and helpful, a quiet soul who never said an unkind word. His wife had died years ago, so he was less intensely involved than the others in today’s disaster.
Golfren Piper had perched on a stool and was gazing sickly at some empty, cobwebby shelves as if the end of the world had come and gone and left him behind. His pale blue eyes flicked round to look at Eleal, though. He raised eyebrows inquiringly. She nodded reassuringly. He forced a faint smile of approval and looked away again. She liked Golfren. He was slim and fair and would have been well suited to playing gods had he not been so wooden on stage that he resembled a tree with rheumatism. Piol wrote walkon parts for him, but his main value to the troupe was as a musician and as Uthiam’s husband.
Klip Trumpeter was probably still upstairs, giving himself a rubdown. Gartol Costumer had gone on ahead to Suss and would soon be wondering what had happened to everyone. That left three men unaccounted for, including Dolm Actor.
Eleal tried to muffle an immense sigh of relief. She dallied for a moment with the idea of racing back upstairs to rearrange Dolm’s pack better. Then she decided someone might come to investigate, and Dolm himself might still return any minute anyway—she could not be certain he had died.
She sat down on a chair and looked around, being calm as the Mother on the Rainbow Throne in The Judgment of Apharos.
“You feeling all right?” Golfren asked, frowning.
“Yes. Yes, quite all right. Er, where’s everybody?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Trong and K’linpor went to consult their brothers. Dolm and Trumpeter—”
“I’m here,” Klip said, clattering down the stairs, rubbing his hair with a grubby towel. “What brothers?”
Golfren pulled a face. “Local lodge of the Tion Fellowship. Forget I mentioned it.”
Klip glanced thoughtfully at Eleal and then asked, “Any news from the temple?”
Golfren shook his head mournfully.
Piol rose stiffly from the range, where faint flickers of light showed success. He scowled at his hands and took the towel from Klip to wipe them. The murderous silence was broken by thumping of boots on the stoop. The door creaked open, swirling snowflakes, sucking smoke from the range. Trong Impresario slunk in. His son followed, closing the
door with an angry bang.
As always, Trong bore the haggard, tragic expression to be expected of a man who died two hundred times a year. Usually he walked tall, a rawboned giant with a mane of long silver locks and beard, striding through the world without deigning to notice it, his mind far away among divine wonders of poetry and fate. Tonight he shuffled across the room in silence and crumpled onto a chair like a wrecked wagon, gangling limbs awry. That was not the way he depicted sorrow on stage, but it was more evocative.
K’linpor Actor looked nothing like his father. He was round-faced and pudgy—a fair actor, except that his voice lacked power. K’linpor was also a surprisingly agile acrobat in the masques. He sat down by the table and laid his head on his arms in utter dejection. He would be thinking of Halma, of course. Their marriage was even more recent than Golfren and Uthiam’s.
“What news, sir?” Golfren inquired.
Trong shook his head without looking up. “None.” His voice had lost its usual resonance. “It’s just us, apparently. They have heard no word of the Lady banning others.”
“Nothing they can do?”
“Pray. They will sacrifice a yak this evening on our behalf.”
Silence fell. Eleal wondered who “they” were. Important, rich citizens, apparently, if they could afford to donate a yak. And was it to be sacrificed to the Lady, or to Tion?
Dolm Actor had offered a lot more than that to his chosen deity.
Trong roused himself with a sudden surge. The big man straightened and glared around in his god aspect.
“We have a free night before us. It is a fortuitous opportunity to rehearse the Varilian. The child can stand in for Uthiam—”
K’linpor raised his face slightly. “Father, you are talking dung.” He laid his head back on his arms.
Trong looked shocked, then slowly melted back to his former desolated posture and stared at the floor.
Men without women…The range was crackling cheerfully, gushing smoke. Eleal pulled herself away from awful thoughts of reapers. She stood up, marched across, and flicked a lever.
“It helps to open the flue first!”
Old Piol scratched at the silver stubble on his jowl. He smiled and started to say something; it became an attack of coughing.
Eyes stinging, Eleal moved away from the range. “We must eat,” she said in her best goddess voice, because that was what Ambria would say. “I don’t feel like it either,” she told the disgusted expression all around, “but we should. The markets will close soon.”
“She’s right,” Golfren said, rising. “You will be our keeper tonight, Eleal. I’ll come with you.”
“I’ll get my coat…”
Boots thumped on the step outside. Heads turned.
The door flew open, swirling snow and smoke and cold air. Dolm Actor swept in with a basket on his arm. He slammed the door and glanced around with an inquiring grin.
Eleal looked down quickly at the greasy flagstones, unable to meet his eyes. Invoking Zath! Self-mutilation! Black gown in pack! Reaper! She scurried back to her seat by the table and hunched herself very small, trying to hide her shaking.
Dolm’s resonant voice rang out, reverberating in the big room. “Well, you’re a glum lot! Nobody thought about food, I suppose?”
K’linpor straightened up, soft face flushing. “Where have you been?”
There was a momentary silence. Eleal did not glance up, frightened that Dolm might be watching her.
“Me? I went back to the temple.”
Golfren roared, “What?” and stepped backward, knocking over his stool with a crash.
“I didn’t see any of our ladies there, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Dolm said soothingly. He stepped to the table beside Eleal and laid his basket on it. He was so close that she could smell the wet leather of his coat.
“I did what we should have all done…except Klip Trumpeter maybe. Yet, why not him, too? He’s a staunch young man now. I dropped some of my own hard-earned silver in the bowl, and I made sacrifice to the Lady.”
Liar! Eleal thought. Liar! Liar!
Trong bellowed, “No!” in a voice that seemed to shake the house. His craggy features flamed red.
“Yes,” Dolm said calmly. “I saw it as my duty. I chose the oldest, ugliest woman I could find. She was immensely grateful.”
“That is utterly foul!” Golfren Piper yelled.
“It was a holy ritual! Do you criticize the goddess?”
Silence. Eleal stole a glance at Golfren. He was as red as Trong—redder even, because his face was fair-skinned and clean-shaven. His knuckles were white. She wondered if there was about to be a fight.
Yes, she thought, it was foul. She thought of Dolm’s long, hairy limbs and body, and she shivered. Goddess or not, it was foul to make a woman submit to that against her will.
“Well?” Dolm Actor inquired.
Piper growled, “No.”
“Wise! The woman in question had been assigned a penance. I did not ask for what, naturally.” Dolm was always a cheerful, almost boisterous person, but now he sounded exuberant, excited. Eleal wondered if he had been drinking, but she could not smell wine on him, only the wet leather.
Dolm laughed. “She had been waiting there every day for two fortnights, she told me. Of course she was grateful! I trust the Lady approved. It wasn’t my most enjoyable experience, I admit, but I did my duty in a spirit of proper humility, with prayer.”
Golfren muttered an obscenity and turned his back.
“I find I cannot disapprove under the circumstances,” Trong Impresario declaimed with obvious reluctance.
“Good!”
Eleal was still shaking, hoping no one would notice, too terrified to move, still staring at the disgustingly dirty floor. Dolm was lying! No matter how brief the remainder of his horrible ritual had been, there had not been time for him to recover and go to the temple and then visit the markets and come back here. He had not been running, or he would be puffing. Running? Lying with a woman? After losing so much blood? He had been soaked in blood while she watched, and more blood still pumping out of him.
“Furthermore,” Dolm said, “we all…”
Alerted by the silence, Eleal glanced up.
He had sensed something wrong. He raised his head as if sniffing. He looked slowly around the big room, studying each face in turn. Finally he dropped his eyes to hers.
Then he smiled, and the recognition in his dark eyes was obvious—fond reproof. He knew! He knew she knew. She was the one.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Dolm reached down with his left hand to scratch his right, which rested on the handle of the basket beside her. His sleeve slid back. She could see his bony, hairy wrist. There was no mark on it, no scar, no bandage…No bloodstains, even!
She looked up again at his face.
No blood on it, no blood in his hair—and the hair combed over his bald pate was lank, showing no sign that it had been recently washed.
He was still smiling, like a snow cat.
“This must have been a difficult day for you, child!” he said softly. “Are you feeling all right?”
She started to turn her head away and his hand shot out to grasp her chin. The touch of a reaper!
Eleal screamed and leaped away from him. She hurtled across the room and threw herself against Golfren Piper, hugging him fiercely. She needed Ambria, but he would have to do. Everyone seemed to shout, “What?” at the same moment.
Golfren put his arms around her and lifted her bodily, as if she were a child. He muttered soothing noises. “Yes, she’s had a very hard day!” he said.
The door flew open with a crash and Ambria Impresario made an Entrance.
15
AMBRIA WAS AN IMPOSING WOMAN ON THE MOST TRIVIAL occasion. She could peel a tuber dramatically or ladle gruel with majesty. These days
the heavy breasts sagged and the hair was dyed, but no more convincing goddess had ever trod the boards, and she blazed with authority in that kitchen doorway. Taller than most men, deep-voiced, big-boned, she had been known to silence a hall of drunken miners with a single gesture. Now one arm was extended shoulder high from hurling open the door; her hood was back, letting her dark hair flow to her waist, framing aquiline features normally pale, ashen in her present distress. The snow-mottled cloak hung to her boots, making her seem taller than ever.
“We are all here.” Her voice rang through the vast room. “We are all unharmed, save a few bruises.” She swung aside in a swirl of leather to let the others enter.
The men cried out in joy. Uthiam Piper ran in, heading for Golfren, who dropped Eleal instantly. She caught a brief glimpse of a livid welt on Uthiam’s cheek before it was hidden in an embrace.
Yama Actor ran to Dolm; Halma to K’linpor. Olimmiar stepped inside last, holding a rag over one eye. She stopped beside Ambria and stood with face lowered. Trong rose, moved one foot forward a pace, and spread his arms in welcome.
Ambria swung the door halfway closed and halted it there. “Hold!” Her deep voice boomed like a thunderclap, silencing everyone. “There is no need for us all to repeat the sordid details. I shall tell the tale.” Her compelling eyes raked the room in challenge. Everyone watched; no one spoke. The door remained half closed.
“We did as we were bidden.” The spectacular voice dropped to a lower register. “We offered ourselves in the service of the Lady. A man came to each of us—”
“Three,” Olimmiar said with a sob.
Ambria enveloped her in a powerful arm and pulled her close without looking down. “Each of us was accepted, then. Not one of the men was able to…” She drew a deep breath. “…complete the holy ritual. The goddess refused our sacrifice.”
“You mean they were all impotent?” Dolm Actor barked.
Ambria slammed the door so the building shook. Everyone jumped. “Yes,” she admitted. “The priests are deeply concerned, naturally. But none of you husbands need worry about, er, consequences.”
