Steadfast

by Mercedes Lackey

  Well, being in the circus, and now the music hall as she was, Katie could hardly afford to be shocked. The girls didn’t exactly change their costumes under sheets, after all. In fact, it was more of a surprise when they managed to make it to the stage with everything properly fastened up. Katie peered up at the sylph, who peered down at her with equal curiosity. Her little rainbow-wings fluttered and her hair drifted all about her as if it were made of smoke, or spider-web, and not like hair at all. Katie smiled up at the sylph tentatively, who reacted with a giggle, clapping both her hands over her mouth, before zooming up into the rafters.

  Lionel waggled his fingers at her, getting her attention again. “Now then. Let’s get down to business, shall we? As my assistant, you are something of a partner in my undertakings, and since you are also a magician, I should very much like you to be a more active partner than Suzie was. So to begin with, we need a theme. Something that will allow us to use your salamanders to effect.”

  “Wait,” she said, confused now. “I thought only you and I and Jack could see them.”

  “That’s true,” he replied. “But as you saw, they can both make fire, and protect you from fire. So . . . I should like to do something that makes use of that.”

  She thought about that. “You already have the Turk costume. Could you be a Djinni?” she hazarded. “I thought Djinnis were always appearing and disappearing in a flash of fire. I know you said your flashpots are unreliable which is why you don’t use them much, but would they be more reliable if my salamanders were to ignite them?”

  “I had considered a demon or devil, but many magicians use that theme. I like this.” He picked up a pencil and a notebook and began writing. “You could be my assistant Djinni, then . . . we could use the floating illusion, make it a flying carpet, and your salamanders could set fire to the hoop I circle you with. That might make a very effective ending.”

  “You could start by just setting things spontaneously on fire,” she observed. “Candles to start with, then those flashpot things.” She sighed. “It’ll be awfully hot on stage, though.”

  “But it won’t be summer then, it will be fall. At least our costumes will be light.” He was making more notes, furiously. “We can use a great many fire effects, since the salamanders will be triggering them, and I won’t have to rely on mechanicals. People love fire effects.”

  “But . . . can we actually count on the salamanders to do all this?” she asked, now worried, because Jack had made it very clear that the Elementals came and went when they chose and could not be coerced.

  But Lionel laughed. “Bless you! They’re natural showmen. They love being on the stage, and they adore setting off bursts of paraffin oil, flash paper and flash powder. Well look, there’s one of them on the back of your chair, just ask him.”

  Katie swiveled her head so fast she nearly did herself a mischief, and sure enough, there the little lizard was, flicking a flame-tongue at her. “Well?” she said to it, not sure if she should be feeling foolish about addressing a lizard as if it was a human. “Would you like to be in the show? More than one of you? Would you like to set a lot of things on fire for me?”

  The lizard bobbed its head comically at her, and with obvious enthusiasm.

  “You see?” Lionel said, and went on with his notes. She held out her hand to the lizard, who scuttled onto it and curled up in her palm, eyes blinking sleepily. “The trick for us who are mere magicians is to make things interesting for our Elementals, so they enjoy being partners. Yours are easy to reward, actually, the mere fact of being able to trigger real fire is in itself the reward for them. Be good to them, and they will be good to you.”

  She ran a finger along the salamander’s back. It was quite warm, though not painfully so, and it seemed to enjoy the caress.

  “I believe,” he continued, still scribbling, “that my rusty juggling skills—”

  “Oh, I can juggle three balls,” she offered, still absorbed in examining the salamander in her palm. As she peered closely at it, it seemed to her as if every scale on its body was rimmed in a thin thread of fire. “Not more, but if three will do—”

  “Then you will juggle three balls of fire,” he replied with glee. “I’ll pull fire out of hats and other containers instead of rabbits or doves. Possibly we can do something with an escape from a box surrounded by fire. I’ll look into that. Floating first, then a fire-based escapist trick, should put quite the cap on the show.”

  He put the notebook away. “Now what we need to think about at this point is how we are going to change the current act. Air magic is known for illusions. I’ve been using some all along—mostly at the end, where I make you vanish from the top of the rope. But now that you know what I do, we can—well, we can do what I did with the last assistant I had who was a mage. We can cut you in half, and separate the boxes—that usually needs a second lady, or some rather unconvincing clockwork feet—but I can make an illusion of moving feet. It would be madness to try and teach you new tricks in the middle of the season, but what we’re doing is going to be my illusion, and all you will need to learn are your new cues.”

  She nodded. After all, she already knew how to fit herself into his apparatus, this wouldn’t take that long to learn.

  “We’ll add an escapist trick in couple of weeks. It’s a version of the ‘liberated dove’ illusion—and in our case, it really will be an illusion. The ‘you’ that will be in the cabinet that collapses will be an illusion, you’ll actually be in the other one . . .” At her puzzled look, he laughed. “I’ll show you with the doves on dark day, and we’ll start work on it the day after.”

  “Is it your sylphs that make the little silk-creature fly?” she asked.

  He nodded. “They can’t lift much, about as much as a breeze can. They’ve been assisting with your levitations, and no one the wiser, although that stagehand does keep asking me where I get such thin assistants.” They both laughed at that.

  “Feeling more comfortable with all of this?” he asked.

  She considered that for a moment; considered the salamander in her hand. It blinked up at her, contentedly. “I—am!” she said, a little surprised at herself.

  “Well, that is the best thing I have heard next to your turning up in the first place,” he chuckled. “Now, let’s get back upstairs. We still have time to get a run-through in.”

  • • •

  Now that she knew what Lionel was doing, she was a little amazed that she had been so blind to it. The gasp when she disappeared at the top of the rope—it always came before the stagehands grabbed her wrists and hauled her up into the flys. How could she have missed that?

  Well there it was; now she knew, he was concealing her with a flash of illusion where another magician would have used some sort of mirror-trickery. That actually made her far less anxious than she had been before; it didn’t all depend on her to pull off the trick.

  It was payday, so once she had changed after the evening performance, she made her way to Lionel’s dressing room. He would get his pay packet from the owner, who also served as his own accountant, and he would pay her out of his pay. It was an equitable arrangement, and convenient for the owner. At this point, Katie had been doing this for weeks, and she wasn’t expecting anything more than to get her packet, perhaps exchange a few pleasant words with Lionel, and be off to the boarding house.

  She certainly wasn’t expecting to find the music hall owner half-collapsed into one of Lionel’s chairs, and lamenting at the top of his lungs, shaking what looked to be a letter in one hand and beating his fist on his knee.

  “I’m ruined, I tell you!” Charles Mayhew cried. “All the advertising expense! All those playbills! And what will I have to show for it? Nothing! A cancellation notice and an empty top-spot on the bill! I’m ruined!”

  “Get him a beer, will you?” Lionel begged her as soon as he spotted her he
ad poking cautiously in the door. “And run right back. Oh! Bring Peggy. The more old heads we have on this, the better.”

  She did as she was asked, fetching a beer from the bar before it closed out, and getting Peggy from her dressing room still in her dressing gown. At this point Mayhew’s lamentations were approaching epic proportions, as he could be heard down the hall. Peggy took charge of the beer and shoved her way inside, as the rest hovered at the door.

  The noise had attracted others—mostly old hands—and from one of the stagehands, Katie finally got the whole story.

  It seemed that this spring the arrival in London of a lot of Russian dancers had made everyone go mad for that sort of thing—and if you wanted any sort of popular show, well, you had to at least have someone with an “ov” or an “aya” or an “ova” at the end of his or her name, and a claim to be from that part of the world. Mayhew had secured for himself a “Russian ballerina” for the rest of the summer season, and had expected to pull packed houses even though the heat would otherwise lead folks to seek their entertainment somewhere cooler.

  Now, however, the “Russian ballerina” had canceled. . . .

  She had pled injury, but Katie had a notion that she was just going to change her name, book through another agency, and collect a larger pay packet than she could command from Charlie Mayhew.

  This left Mayhew with what really was a disaster. His top act—one he was counting on being there in two weeks—was gone. This late in the game, he was never going to get a really good act to take the ballerina’s place. He couldn’t ask the current top act to stay on—well, he could ask, but of course, the Italian acrobats were already booked elsewhere.

  Her heart went out to him . . . and sank. This was going to affect all of them. The box office was going to suffer. They were all going to suffer . . . even the acts that were moving on in two weeks could wind up suffering, for a bad box-office in the summer would have a knock-on effect for quite some time. Mayhew might not be able to afford them next summer. They’d likely have to take jobs somewhere less pleasant, or less lucrative.

  No wonder so many of the performers and staff were crowding around the dressing room, looking worried.

  “Katie!” she heard Peggy bellow from inside the dressing room. “Ducks, if you’re out there, squeeze yourself in!”

  She blinked, but obeyed, as the others made space for her. She couldn’t imagine what on earth they wanted with her, but—

  “Here she is. Ah good, still got them toe shoes on,” Peggy proclaimed. “Lionel, hoist her up on that table.”

  Before she had any idea of what was going on, Katie found Lionel lifting her up at the waist onto a small round table, putting her above the floor. She was surrounded by Peggy, Mayhew, and Lionel, all seated, and several other old hands who had crammed into the dressing room.

  “All right, then, ducks,” Peggy said, her hands folded across her midsection. “You know that twiddly business you do in the morning to limber up before anyone gets here? Do that for us, will you?”

  That business was something Katie had never thought anyone paid any attention to—a combination of dance and contortion she did while the piano player warmed up. She generally did it off in a corner, to keep out of the way. When had Peggy seen her at it? And why on earth would she want Katie to do it now?

  Well . . . maybe because I’m good at it . . . It was something she had practiced at the behest of her parents, who wanted her to make a solo act of it eventually. It was far more elaborate than anything she had ever done with her husband; she had kept him from ever seeing it, because . . . because she had wanted something for herself alone. She had wanted something that she absolutely knew she was good at.

  Well . . . if Peggy liked it, it might be good enough for a solo act. Maybe good enough to put at the bottom of the bill and shove everyone else up a slot, so there would at least not be the dreaded gap.

  She took a deep breath, caught her balance, and began.

  Unlike the circus contortions, which were flashy and lively, this was slow, graceful, deliberate . . . and very, very difficult. She began by slowly bending over backward, sliding her hands down along the backs of her legs, until she placed them flat on the top of the table. Then, just as slowly, she raised her legs into the air, balancing on her hands, scissored her legs slowly, did it again, knifed them, bent her knees and arched her back, balanced her toes on the top of her head. She held that for a good couple of breaths, then put her feet flat down on the table again, one on either side of her hands, and slowly stood up. Then she brought her left leg up behind her, reached back and caught her ankle in her hands, and pulled her leg right up over the top of her head, balancing on one foot. Then she inched her way in a slow circle, still with her leg held up over her head.

  She never stopped moving, never paused for a moment, as she went through contortion after contortion. She never gave anyone the “pause” that would signal a moment of applause. The whole routine took about ten minutes, and when it was over, she was dripping with sweat, and the room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

  She ended as she had begun, standing with arms outstretched, looking down at Peggy and Mayhew, and very aware of Lionel behind her. Finally, she lowered her arms.

  The people packed into the dressing room uttered a collective sigh.

  “Give that child a towel, one of you!” Peggy ordered, breaking the silence. “And come down off the table now, ducks.” As Katie took the offered towel, and obeyed, Peggy turned to the theater owner. “Well?” she demanded.

  Mayhew chewed furiously on his moustache. “Well . . .” he said, doubtfully. “It’s a damn good act. But it ain’t bally—”

  “It is if we say it is, Charlie,” Lionel interrupted. “Seriously? All people know is that Russian Ballet is some sort of dancing, and is something they haven’t seen before. If it looks like dance, and we dress her up right, her act will be taken as whatever we say it is. Plus I have another couple of ideas I know Katie can pull off if you’ll give her the chance.”

  Wait—what? Katie paused in mopping her face to stare at him.

  “Charlie,” called a girl from the door. “Everybody in the chorus knows she’s heaps and heaps better than the rest of us. She’d make us all look like fools if she cared to, but she’s a trooper and fits hersel’ roight in. You oughter give her a chance.”

  “Well. . . .” Mayhew chewed on his moustache some more. Finally he turned to Lionel. “If you two can give me a three-routine act in a week—”

  Caught in shock and amazement, Katie listened dumbly as Lionel promised she would—somehow!—throw together a three-dance act in a week, and fiercely negotiated a rate for her that practically made her head spin.

  Panic flooded her at that. How would she ever be able to put together two brand new dance-routines in two weeks’ time—much less dance routines that would pass for this Russian Ballet business? Her mind went absolutely blank. It was impossible, completely impossible.

  But then—then everyone else began coming up with ideas!

  One of the Italian acrobats suddenly sprang to his feet, smacking himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Bah, imbecile!” he exclaimed. “Guiseppe, we have just the thing! The ribbon!”

  His brother made the same gesture. “Of course! I know just-a where she is!” He jumped to his feet, wormed his way out of the dressing room, and evidently dashed off somewhere. Lionel looked around at the bodies cramming his dressing room. “Let’s move this to the stage,” he suggested. “If we’re going to come up with something for Miss Kate, it might as well be there.”

  By the time all the interested parties had shuffled back to the front of the house, Katie reckoned that the “interested parties” numbered about a quarter of the folks that worked there. She could understand why some of the musicians and stagehands would feel intimately concerned over the
financial well-being of the music hall, but what surprised her was that Peggy and a few others of the better traveling acts were as well, people who had no reason to worry, even if Mayhew came a-cropper over this.

  But Charlie’s a good master, she realized, quickly. He was fair in his pay and his hours, fair in how he ran his hall, and people liked working for him. If Charlie went under, whoever took this venue probably would not be nearly so nice.

  By the time people had arrayed themselves over the stage and in the seats in the orchestra pit, the acrobat had returned with what he had sought.

  “Our sister, she saw this thing, wanted it in the act,” Guiseppe explained, unfurling what looked like yards and yards of silk ribbon from the end of a wand. “It never fit, and then she made Mama happy and got married to a nice clerk from Napoli. It-a works like this—”

  He demonstrated, and Katie fell instantly in love. Guiseppe made the ribbon form into spirals, swirls, circles . . . it was magical! She took it from him, and started her contortion routine again, only this time, framing it with the intricate patterns of the swirling ribbon.

  Mayhew hooted, and began applauding. “Now there’s the ticket!” he exclaimed, as Katie broke the usual pattern by getting up on her toes and pattering backward, trailing a curlicue of ribbon behind her, then executed four turns with the ribbon encircling her. Then she circled the stage in a series of jump-turns, swirling the ribbon around her, stopped in the middle, and spun like a top with the ribbon orbiting her. “Now that looks like bally!”

  “I think we can sell that as Russian,” Lionel said, as she spun to a stop. “Seriously, Mayhew, I have seen these Russians, and there’s a fair amount of their act that’s based on gimmick, and this is just the right sort of gimmick to work for us. That Pavlova girl—one of her little dances, she pulls her skirt up around her like a flower closing petals for the night, another one she’s supposed to be a swan dying . . . I’m not saying she’s not a sensational dancer, because she is, but our audience don’t care about sensational so much as spectacle.”