A Rumor of Angels

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  “Go to sleep,” he said flatly, ending the discussion.

  Chapter 16

  In a cobbled square near the Native Quarter, a play was in progress. Banks of floodlights held back the night. A crude stage had been lashed and pegged together out of rough-sawn planks, and hung with painted cloths and obscure symbols woven in rope and straw. Thin banners tied to saplings revealed their colors darkly in folds of purple, ocher, crimson. At the four corners of the platform, torches burned, dulled to an angry orange by the white glare of the lights.

  To the soft syncopation of a drum, the players danced and chanted.

  Tourists crowded around the scaffolding, gawking at the dancers, fingering the draperies, laughing and talking and waving programs at acquaintances spied across the square. The program supplied a title, “The Tale of Danical,” and a plot, but the audience found greater amusement in their own interpretations, engaging in loud disputes between self-appointed experts defending their pronouncements on the significance of this gesture or that prop.

  The players were masked. The tallest wore an authoritative wooden scowl, carved and polished like an ancient icon. The mask was topped with a tin helmet studded with spikes. As he danced, the Scowl wielded a staff much taller than he, counterbalancing its weight with deft movements of his body. At the tip of the staff was a red globe, with other tiny globes set around on circling rings, like a model of the atom or of a solar system. Another player danced with bowed legs and drooping back. His mask was a grotesque of weary subjection. The drummer’s mask was featureless, a wooden disc with a round hole through which his teeth and tongue glistened as he sang.

  The play was half over when Verde arrived. The square seethed with frantic comings and goings, some tourists still lingering to watch, most merely glancing at the performers and moving on. With Meron bobbing at his sleeve in her persona of a Terran ten-year-old, Verde wove his way across through the crowd, keeping a firm grip on her hand. He found a free space against the wall of a cafe that commanded a clear view of the whole square, and settled in to watch.

  The Scowl in the spiked helmet brandished his staff with a roar, and the drooping man fell to his knees, quaking. From his cloak, which was painted with red leaves, wheat sheaves, and bright-green wave symbols, he pulled a basket of little straw dolls. The few who watched closely could see that each doll was dressed exactly like the dancer, who was now gingerly laying the dolls at the Scowl’s armored feet. The Scowl grabbed up the dolls and, as he danced, began to construct an elaborate doll pyramid that rose into a tower made of doll bodies. More and more dolls came out of the cloak, which appeared to be made entirely of pockets. One by one, they enlarged the tower. The Scowl’s chanting fell into a kind of litany, menacing and low, building toward a crescendo, only to be drowned out by a sudden blare of jazz and singing from a sidestreet, and doors slamming amid the calls of revelers.

  Verde’s attention was split between the players and the armed uniforms milling through the crowd. He eyed the Scowl with some apprehension. “Hrin’s performance gets more barbed every year,” he commented to Meron. “If the censors had any idea…”

  “And the trappings get more elaborate.” She pointed to woven rope totems. “Those are new this year. He’s worked on them for months. Hrin puts a lot of his energy into this charade.”

  “Art’s a handy outlet for dissent on Terra,” Verde commented. “At least it used to be. You’ve got to really veil it now to get it by the censors.” He grunted, distracted. “The police are out in force tonight. This is no crowd the kid could lose himself in.”

  “Lacey knows you would look for him here,” Meron answered. “He’s probably hiding in the Quarter.”

  “Where in the Quarter could he hide that you wouldn’t know about?”

  Across the square, a repair robot tinkered with a communications service box, unconcerned as the mob jostled around it.

  “That’s the last of them.” Verde nodded toward the robot as it retracted its tool arms and chugged away. He glanced at his watch. “Even better than I predicted. All fixed in twenty-five minutes, and nobody’s the wiser.” He sucked a knuckle speculatively. “Tourists do seem a little extra-hysterical tonight, though, don’t you think?”

  “A few of the hotels were without power until the emergency systems cut in. And there’s always a lot of hysteria on Discovery Day.”

  “I’m sure Lacey is doing his best to spread rumors of sabotage by the Dark Powers.” Verde’s worried eyes met Meron’s calm ones, and they turned to leave. As they passed the cafe door, a hand touched Verde’s sleeve.

  “ ’Scuse me, friend.” A man faced them, handsome, smiling. “Mitchell Verde, right?”

  Verde frowned, as if jogging his memory. Meron eased around into his shadow.

  “No, you don’t know me,” the man continued jovially. He was dressed in tourist white, pressed and spotless. “Guy in the cafe pointed you out. My name’s Bill Clennan. I’m here on business for a while. Pete Tappas told me to look you up.”

  Verde forced a smile, drawing an arm around Meron’s narrow shoulders. A weak gambit, Clennan, he thought. What an idiot. “Tappas, the old devil! How is he?” Did he also tell you that we haven’t spoken since I called him an unprincipled son of a bitch and a lot worse besides?

  Clennan showed his perfect teeth again. “He’s fine, fine. His old irascible self.”

  Verde reconsidered. Good for you, Clennan. Picked up the hedge in my voice right away. He attempted a more suitable casualness. “You here on Pete’s business?”

  “Nah. I’m just a bureaucrat these days, taking care of a few dry details.” Once again the charming grin, below opaque brown eyes. “You’re with Conservation, I hear. How ’bout a drink someplace quiet?” He waved a helpless hand at the deafening crowd.

  Curiosity won over caution. Keeping his arm around the little Koi, Verde followed Clennan into the cafe, toward a back table where they wouldn’t have to shout to be heard.

  “Actually,” corrected Verde, “I run the local office of the Veterans of Exploration. These days, Conservation and I don’t see eye to eye on the application of policy, I’m afraid. Consider me the loyal opposition.” Verde watched Clennan carefully, wondering what Intelligence was after him for this time.

  But Clennan nodded, the very picture of sympathy. “That’s always the problem when a bureau is run from Earthside,” he agreed. He chose a table away from the others, and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Verde to sit. “Didn’t know you had a son, Verde,” he continued cheerfully as Meron squeezed between them. “You old enough to drink, pal?”

  “This is Merry, and she’s a girl. Daughter of a friend. Wanted to see the play, even if it is past her bedtime.” Verde’s eyes smiled at Meron.

  “Yah.” Clennan sat back, stretching luxuriously. “Quite a do going on out there.”

  “Discovery Day always draws a big crowd, and this is the thirtieth anniversary. The hotels are bedding people down in the dining rooms. Business is booming. Been watching the play?”

  “Well, I caught a few minutes of it. Looked very intriguing.”

  The corners of Verde’s mouth twitched. “Oh, it is. But don’t worry if you’ve missed the beginning. It goes on for hours. Spans the entire history of a mythical empire. Something best absorbed in small doses, wouldn’t you say?”

  If Clennan caught the hint of sarcasm, he opted to remain unruffled. “Mythical empire, eh? Whose?”

  “It’s not clear. It’s part of the Koi oral tradition, but like most myths, Danical’s origins are obscure. Legend says he built the towers, that he was a great ruler who grew corrupt with power. The play chronicles his rise, the long list of his misdeeds, and his eventual downfall. As I said, it goes on for hours, and every year it seems to have been added to somewhat.”

  “What happens to Danical?” asked Meron innocently as she nudged Verde under the table.

  “He bleeds his subjects dry and bankrupts his empire building an army to conquer the universe. He’
s destroyed in the end. It’s a simple, moral tale.”

  Clennan was signaling a waiter. “Sounds pretty violent coming from these quiet little Natives.”

  Verde gave Clennan’s back a sharklike grin. “The Koi have a surprisingly violent history if you go back far enough. They are an ancient people.”

  “Maybe that’s why there are so few of them—killed each other off, eh?” Clennan’s smile was affable, his eyes probing.

  Verde’s shoulders professed ignorance. “Maybe so. Now they get their violence off their chests once a year performing ‘Danical.’ ” He knew he shouldn’t be drawn into discussing the Koi with Clennan. He could say his reason was to gauge the extent of Clennan’s knowledge, but in truth he simply could not resist making subtle fun of the Intelligence man, even if only Meron was aware of it.

  “Ah,” said Clennan as their drinks arrived through the crowd. “That reminds me, Verde. You might be able to help me out with a little advice. I gather you know the Natives as well as anyone, right?”

  Here it comes, thought Verde. My own fault. Meron was building a tiny house out of toothpicks.

  Clennan continued as if his card had been picked up. “I’m into a bit of busy work for one of the bureaus at the moment, and it seems they had a Native doing some kind of job for them, out beyond the border a ways, and they’ve lost contact with him. Wonder if you’ve heard anything about it?” He unpocketed a slip of paper. “His name’s, ah… Ra’an. Know him?”

  Verde nearly shut his eyes with relief. They’ve lost Ra’an. Whatever he’s up to, he’s run out on them. No defection after all. Beside him, he could sense Meron stilling, as she silently relayed the news to every Koi in the Quarter. And I thought Clennan was after me! Even so, Verde was conscious of eggshells beneath his feet. “Sure,” he replied easily. “Everybody knows Ra’an. He’s the local eccentric. Don’t know much about him except that he keeps to himself. What was he doing up there?”

  “Oh, some kind of survey work, nothing important—” Clennan broke off as the cafe was plunged into darkness.

  “Not again,” Verde hissed.

  There was a moment of dead silence. No one moved. Then frightened wails echoed through the streets, and in the cafe, there were shouts and an avalanche of bodies rising in blindness. A chair was knocked over, then another and a table. Drinks smashed to the floor. Glass and ice crunched under scrambling feet. Verde could not see a thing. He grabbed Meron’s hand as it brushed his knee and pulled her against a wall, working his way to where he knew the back door was.

  Clennan shouted over the din, “Verde! Where are you? What about the kid?”

  “I’m all right,” said Meron steadily as the big man bumped into her and held on to her shoulder.

  Verde’s outstretched fingers found the door latch. He yanked it open, surveyed the blackened street. The floodlights in the square were dead. Spectral shadows raced by, yelling, under the dim red glow of an emergency light. More glass shattered, a window this time, then others. In the distance, sirens began to shriek.

  “I think Lacey just lit the proverbial powder keg,” Verde muttered to the little Koi. He sheltered her, under one arm and ran toward the square. A mob blocked the way. Police strobes flashed images of panic as he pulled up sharply and flattened against the stucco, panting already. He had read the weather signs correctly. The manic celebrating had boiled over into riot. The security police waded in with clubs swinging.

  “Holy shit! What’s got into them?” Clennan drew up beside him. His white shirt glowed pink in the emergency lights. As the police pushed through the square, the mob veered and surged down the sidestreet.

  “Montserrat’s!” Verde shouted to Meron, and plunged in the other direction. He ran along the wall, hand outstretched to guide him through the darkness. The wall dipped into a doorway, and Verde stumbled over a body doubled up on the ground. A woman moaned in terror. He stooped to help her up, but she screeched and flailed her arms at him.

  “No! No! Get away! Not me! Not me!” Her fists pounded at his face. The sirens wailed louder, and more bodies stampeded by as the mob began to close in around them. A fat man tripped, knocking Clennan sideways against an iron railing. He pulled himself up and grabbed Verde’s arm.

  “Leave her, for God’s sake!” he yelled, spitting blood. “Get us out of here!”

  Verde dropped the screaming woman and ran, ahead of the mob, dodging shadows that sprang at them out of blackened alleys, running low and hard, fighting for balance on the wet, glass-littered pavement. His lungs ached. Meron ran behind him, encouraging. They rounded a corner, Clennan in the rear.

  “This way!” Verde’s sleeve tore as Meron grasped at it blindly. With a fistful of cloth, she swerved into a narrow passage. Verde twisted to follow, but stumbled again and felt his legs sag with terrifying finality. Clennan materialized out of the darkness, caught him, and dragged him to his feet.

  “Too old for this,” Verde mumbled.

  “Easy, pal,” said the Intelligence man hoarsely. “Where to?”

  Verde pointed unsteadily to where the shadow of Meron danced up and down midway in the alley. She gestured desperately for them to hurry. Shouts sounded close behind them, over the burping fire of police stunners. Clennan swore, his free hand instinctively brushing his hip. He had come unarmed, not wishing to confront Verde with a weapon showing.

  “Can you make it?” he asked the older man, keeping one arm tight across the frail back. Blood ran down his jaw from a wide gash across his left cheekbone.

  Verde nodded weakly. “I have to.”

  They ducked down the alley, moving as fast as they could through the maze of crates and garbage. At the end they turned, ran two blocks after Meron’s fleeing form, turned again. Halfway down another alley, the little Koi waited panting beside an opening in the wall. The two men reached her at a limping run and tumbled through the door. It closed seamlessly behind them. When Clennan glanced back, there was no hint of a door, just clean whitewashed stone. Ahead were dark empty streets lined with little shops, ghostly in the dim light of the double moons. The sirens and stunnerfire were shut away behind a great steel and stucco wall. Somehow, they were inside the Native Quarter.

  Clennan peered around uneasily, supporting Verde as the exhausted older man fought to catch his breath. He shook his head briskly. He felt stupid, out of his element, suddenly vulnerable. And he cursed what he now saw as his own negligence. He had never been in the Quarter before and did not know his way around, or what to expect.

  Up ahead, Meron was pounding at the door of a cafe. Flickering light leaked through a broken, shuttered window. Above, a sign swung gently in the hot night air. “Cafe Montserrat,” it read, in an unassuming carved script.

  The wooden door was opened and shut behind them. Blundering through smoke and candlelight, Clennan eased Verde into the nearest chair and leaned one bloodstained arm against a rough-hewn column. They were in a long low room flanked with high-backed booths, tables scattered comfortably in the center and a bar at the far end.

  “More lanterns in the back room,” he heard a woman call, a Terran voice. A stocky black man barred the door and turned to Verde in concern.

  “Mitchell, you all right?” He grabbed a pitcher from another table and sloshed dark foaming liquid into a glass.

  “Yeah, Damon,” Verde wheezed, taking the glass gratefully. “Just not in shape anymore. Might see if you’ve got bandages around for Mr. Clennan here.”

  Damon’s eyes narrowed as he took Clennan in. “Oh. Well. Sure.” He grunted and went toward the back of the cafe, where he could be seen talking with several people, one of whom glanced Clennan’s way.

  Meron was talking softly, reassuringly, to someone scrunched up in one of the booths. Clennan saw long scrawny legs in patched gray pants and large hands gesturing wildly. He could not hear a word of the frantic whispered conversation.

  Verde set the glass down with an air of decision. “Meron,” he called, waving her to a seat beside him, his f
ace set and grim. Meron came over.

  “James was worried,” she said.

  “Put me in touch with Lute.”

  Meron looked up at Clennan, who was still clutching his column, confused, wary. Then she looked back at Verde, questioning.

  “I know, I know.” Verde nodded heavily. “I picked a bad time to fall.” He leaned over and muttered under his breath, “We could have lost him; now we’re stuck with him. There’s no time. Get Lute for me.”

  Damon returned with an old first-aid kit, which he handed to Clennan. “Why don’t you have a seat over there, Mr. Clennan,” he insisted, indicating a table on the other side of the room. Clennan eyed him suspiciously but obeyed, feeling his way through unfamiliar waters.

  “Anyone else get caught in this?” Verde asked as Meron settled herself beside him with eyes closed.

  Damon nodded toward the back, where a stout blond woman was bandaging a limp, oddly dressed figure. A spiked helmet lay on the bar, crushed and bloodied. “Hrin says the mob tore the scaffolding right out from underneath them. Doesn’t take much to set them off, does it?”

  “Not these days. Damon, we’ve got to take a hand in this. That mob will come straight to the Quarter if they’re not brought under control. And as long as Lacey is running around free…”

  A telephone shrilled by the bar, and Damon went to answer it.

  Meron spoke quietly at Verde’s elbow. “Lute says Lacey is not in the Quarter.”

  “Tell him I fear for the Quarter, and that if we can’t find Lacey, we must help the… somebody else to find him.”

  “But…” Meron’s childish face registered several levels of shock and apprehension. “Lacey will never withstand questioning!” she whispered.

  Verde put his face in his hands. “I know. But he’s bound to be caught eventually, and the sooner he is, the less chance of this blowing up into a full-scale massacre.”