A Trickster in the Ashes

by Felicity Savage

  I could send for Fumie. A hot dry climate might be just the thing for her. Hell, if I was feeling extravagant, I could even send for Rumika and a Jew of the others. Kirekuni geishas have got to be the hottest commodity in Kherouge…I bet that’s what Sibelye-Enkhoupista was thinking, too, the wily old snake…and then I could set up an exchange with Ashie! Bank on it, there’s no shortage of Cypean girls who’d like to spend a year or two in Kirekune, and if I was getting new girls from Swirling every Jew months, I’d scoop Sibelye-Enkhoupista three ways from Minday! “Wonder how he’d take it?”

  “He certainly is shrewd,” Crispin commented. “Kissing up to a Kirekuni is the smartest thing any collaborator can do, and he seems to have got it down to a fine art.”

  “You’re…you’re speaking Kirekuni.” Mickey scowled. Slowly, he finished taking off his shirt. “Why?”

  “We have been all night, haven’t we?” Crispin ashed his cigarette onto the carpet, and sighed. “It’s easier, too. I’ve stayed up-to-date in Kirekuni, not in Ferupian. Anyway, before too much longer, Ferupian is going to be a refugees’ language.”

  Mickey twirled his shirt thoughtfully, then dropped it. “You think Ferupian is going to go the way of Old Cypean? Surely it’ll take a while for that to happen.”

  “I’m talking about staying ahead of the game. The Cypeans and Ferupians who’re going to make it in the next century are the men who already speak a second language. Kirekuni, preferably. Sibelye-Enkhoupista’s a good example.”

  Mickey spotted a decanter of golden liquid on the dressing table. “Nightcap?”

  Crispin didn’t respond. Mickey poured him one anyway. Crispin drained the snifter in two gulps. “Did you happen to learn,” he said at length, “what Sibelye-Enkhoupista’s real cash cow is?”

  “Imports and exports, I gather. He’s turned old money into new money pretty effectively.” Mickey shrugged. “Textiles, something like that?”

  “Yeah, something like that. The point is, he’s an associate of my old employer, the Kirekuni governor of Lamaroon. Can I have another one of those? It’s Scotch, I think—another New World contribution to the quality of life…Well, in the course of the job, I used to come in contact with Sibelye-Enkhoupista fairly regularly. Seeing him at the funeral was—well, I won’t say it was the shock of my life, but it came pretty close. Obviously I had to brazen it out. He doesn’t know that I’m on, uh, a holiday.” As Mickey brought him the decanter, Crispin clarified. “He thinks I’m still my former employer’s blue-eyed boy.”

  “So that’s why you stayed clear of him all night. I thought it was rather rude of you.” Mickey swung around and ran his fingers along the carved dado rail. How many hours of labor had it taken to craft those intricate fruits and vines?

  “Will you stop wandering around like a—a fucking tax appraiser! Come here!” Crispin’s shout shook the flame in the kerosene lamp.

  In another second Mickey became aware of the unnatural, insulated silence that is a side effect of thick walls and thicker carpets and hallways as long as runways. He hesitated a minute and then pulled up an armchair. He hated giving in, capitulating to Crispin’s ugly mood—but he remembered a similar scene that had taken place night after night in Achino-uchi: himself sitting on his bed, smoking cigarette after hopeless cigarette, unable to take his eyes off Gaise as the boy circled the room restlessly, picking up this, dropping that, working off his energy in acts of random violence against the furniture. Crispin offered him his cigarettes. Leaning forward to light one, he wished he weren’t half-naked. But the mansion’s central oil heating made the room too hot.

  “It’s not an unmitigated disaster. I’ve learned a few things I’d never have known if I hadn’t happened to meet up with him.” Crispin shrugged.

  “Like what?”

  “If he still thinks I’m in the Little Governor’s good books, it means Yamauchi hasn’t put the word out. He hasn’t publicly fired me. And if he’s sicced an assassin on me, he’s keeping it quiet. That makes me think he hasn’t. Cloak-and-dagger business is too touchy for him. It’s just not his style.”

  “Oh, no,” Mickey said. “You’re talking about that Mime who came to speak to you at the fairgrounds today, aren’t you?” He glanced at

  Crispin’s pistol, which Crispin wore tonight in a waist holster, in plain view, the way the Enkhoupista men from the provinces wore their rapiers. Usually it was strapped out of sight under his left arm. Mickey had found out about it when Crispin undressed for bed the first night they lodged together; he’d tucked it without apology or explanation beneath his pillow. Mickey had woken to find it cuddled against his face, the metal warm with his breath, the safety catch off. “They’re still after you, then.” He’d hoped, prayed, otherwise.

  “Of course they are! And if they’re who I think they are, they won’t give up until they’ve found out what I know and killed me for good measure!” Crispin pulled his jacket off and slung it across the bed. The fat little butt of his revolver protruded from the holster as he flung himself back on his elbows. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to the fair grounds. What the Mime said—I’ve studied a little of the Mime language, right, in the interests of perfecting my cover. Difficult to find a teacher, but”—he grinned briefly—“I’ve got a private tutor who visits sometimes…Anyway, it was nasty but completely uninformative. And I have no way of knowing if I’ve ever seen that arsehole before. I’ll have no way of knowing if, when, I see him again. He could have been one of the guests tonight for all I know. Except if he was, I’d probably be dead by now.”

  He sat forward again. His hands ground into a fist. Mickey pushed another cigarette at him, to give him something else to do with his hands, so he wouldn’t have to look at them turning fruitlessly on each other. I should have known that if he’s this frightened, it’s serious.

  The expensive carpet had acquired a dozen burn holes and many more little heaps of ash. Crispin hunched over like a human volcano, dribbling smoke. “Care to elaborate?” Mickey said.

  Crispin shook his head.

  Mickey wanted to force him to look at him. He wanted to make Crispin remember he wasn’t just a faceless sounding board. But he knew he was drunk, and he’d probably been making a fool of himself, and come to that, Crispin was wise not to tell him anything definitecome to that, Crispin had probably just been humoring him, fending him off with tidbits—because Crispin must be aware of his state of semiundress, of the tingling heat intensifying in those parts of Mickey’s body that most nearly touched Crispin’s. Nudity in and of itself was nothing outrageous. Tonight, however, it meant more. And he couldn’t fool himself that Crispin didn’t know what he was thinking.

  I want to kiss him. Matters of life and death bulked between them, an indissoluble barrier, and yet—shame, oh shame! He could no longer prevent memory combining with imagination. The tender impact of lips meeting lips. Tongues driving deep. His own hands splayed before his face as he bucked his hips in the air, meeting Crispin’s thrusts—Crispin’s weight on his back—Crispin’s penis entering deep into his body, the act lubricated by saliva and the sweat of craziness—

  He felt himself becoming erect. He took a deep breath, got up, kicked the armchair away, and sat cross-legged on the bed, on Crispin’s left side, where the pistol wasn’t. Crispin looked up at him hopefully. Did he actually expect Mickey to have a solution to his quandary?

  “If you can’t tell me any more about what happened at the fairgrounds, let’s discuss what happened at the Enclave,” he said, crossing his fingers. Perhaps the daemons lay at the root of Crispin’s worries. In the old days, everything had come down to daemons sooner or later. Mightn’t the specters they’d seen today mean that some of the old absolutes could still be relied on? “That was a turn-up, wasn’t it? A lot of people would be horrified.” I was.

  Crispin snorted and threw his hands in the air. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “But you managed to coerce it, didn’t you?”

  “I communed w
ith it. I used to be a trickster, fathead.”

  “I didn’t ask to be called names.”

  “No, you just demonstrated the quintessential ignorance of a handler. Everyone knows daemons are gone! Those things at the Enclave are just the vestiges of cultism and women’s trickery—remnants. The real action happened years ago. We’re three years into the new age already.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And if there was anything anybody could have done, it’s too late now. The only difference it makes is to me. Knowing.”

  He hitched himself around and looked straight at Mickey. “Here’s my proposition.” He reached out and laid a hand deliberately on Mickey’s arm. A smile—warm, conspiratorial—lifted the corners of his lips. A sudden whirlwind of desire enveloped Mickey, stripping his powers of concentration. He understood, in some remote part of his brain, that Crispin was turning his charm on in order to use him in some way he hadn’t yet revealed. But he still yearned for him. Crispin squeezed his arm, branding the flesh forever. “How would you feel about—”

  Someone knocked on the door. Crispin shouted, “One minute!” and then finished quickly, “Mick, how would you feel about going to another matinee tomorrow? I guarantee it’ll be as different as—as—apples from oranges.” He swung his feet off the bed.

  “I assume you mean the Ferupian outfit you used to travel with.” Mickey’s voice sounded cold and vindictive to him. Inside, he was weak with relief. He knew that in another second he would have crossed the line. “And 1 assume you don’t plan just to see the show, applaud, and leave. What you’re really asking is: how would I feel about meeting your people? Well, if they’re anything like Rae’s people, you’re going to need someone there to back you up. In for a sentime, in for a sackful.”

  “My people may not even be there anymore. That’s what I want to find out.” Crispin unlatched the door. A Cypean girl in a maid’s headdress stood on the threshold. She caught sight of Mickey sitting half-naked on the bed and dropped a smoothly professional curtsy.

  “Sir, someone to see Mr. Kateralbin? A lady, sir, a Miss Achino.”

  Rae? What’s she doing here?

  “She’s waiting in the second anteroom, sir. Shall I send her up?”

  “No,” Crispin said. He sounded as if he were choking. “No. One of us will be down. Thank you.” He dug in his pocket, thrust five sen into the maid’s hand, and closed the door in her face. Then he slumped against it.

  “You’d better go,” Mickey said jealously. “It’s after midnight. Significance only knows what’s happened to bring her here.”

  “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?” Crispin stumbled to the armchair Mickey had kicked aside earlier and sank down, massaging his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?”

  “You decide. Make something up. Significance, I hate to ask, since you’re her cousin and everything. But I just can’t face seeing her. Mick, if you love me, hell, even if you don’t, please just tell her something, tell her I can’t come down, tell her I’m asleep, dead, drunk to the point of incoherence—”

  “You are.” Mickey felt as if his heart were about to burst. He’d tried his best to reunite Crispin and Rae: failing, he ought to have been in possession of the field, his previous moral loyalty setting him free to make what he could of the wreckage of their strange game. He’d had no idea Crispin still felt this strongly about her.

  “Please, Mick,” Crispin mumbled, his head in his hands. “Please go. You’re much better at easing your way through things than I am.”

  Mickey put on his shoes and shirt, glancing now and again at the hunched, immobile figure in the armchair. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You disappoint me in every way.” It was the most cutting thing he could think of that was true. He went out into the dimly lit hall.

  2 Marout 1900 A.D. 1:39 A.M.

  Rae rose gracefully. “I just came to thank him.”

  She’d changed back into her basic black, layers of thick veils that disguised her figure and invited the comparison of her face to a pale flower blooming from the heavy cowl ruched on her shoulders. She wore raindrops like dewdrops on the petals of her cheeks. Raindrops glittered like jewels in her hair, sparkled like broken glass on her clothing. She extended a thin, wet hand. Mickey took it, and then, gritting his teeth, pulled her close for a cousinly embrace. “It’s coming down again, I see,” he said into her hair. “So much for summer.”

  She held on to him without replying. Her cheek beneath his lips was cold and moist and of an unutterably fine texture. As far as he could tell, she had no breasts at all, just bony ribs under all those wrappings. Dampness soaked through his shirt. Twice he tried gently to push her away, and twice she hugged him tighter. He grew anxious as he remembered the maid and two Enkhoupista footmen waiting outside in the hall. Even if etiquette forbade them to spy on their master’s guests, he knew they were listening not just to what was said, but to every little scrape and shuffle. Crispin wasn’t above questioning domestics. And—Mickey remembered with a shock—if he wanted to stay in Jice Sibelye-Enkhoupista’s good graces, he had to conduct himself with irreproachable propriety.

  Finally, reluctantly, she pulled back. “Oh, now, look. I’ve got you all wet.”

  “Better wet than never!” Mickey said, flippant with relief, and was instantly embarrassed. “Ah, cousin, Crispin wanted me to tell you—”

  She interrupted him by chanting a sudden high note. Outside, one of the footmen knocked something over. Closing her eyes, flinging her arms apart like a crucified figure, Rae sang scale after descending scale until she had reached the lowest register in which she could sustain full voice. Then she opened her eyes and smiled. “Walking in the rain is a very soothing exercise, cousin. Have you ever tried it? It’s better than meditation.”

  “Rae-n”—he remembered just in time to use her cult name—“is everything all right at home?”

  “Home? Oh, la! Talk about sun-time! After you and Crispin left, I found Lightnie, Tornie, and Fanny out of their minds with fear, clucking over Omarhad—he was exaggerating his illness to get attention, of course—and everyone else missing, except for the babies, who were crying with hunger in the nursery. The toddlers had got into the kitchen and decided to cook supper for themselves. Boiling water! Knives! I reached them in time to prevent a fatality, thank goodness. Jonny helped me clear up.”

  “He seems like a fine boy,” Mickey said automatically.

  “Of course I didn’t have time to go look for the rest of the children. When the others got back, Cloud spared ten minutes to tell me off, and then they all scattered. What a sight it must have been! Black she-crows flapping through Center City, cawing for their young, holding on to their hats for dear life!” Rae laughed—a clear, tranquil giggle—and wandered over to the hearth, where a fire had been laid before Mickey came down. It was a token of conspicuous consumption rather than a necessity. She knelt and held her hands to the flames.

  Mickey didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine what she’d come all the way here for. “Are you cold? Maybe you’re not well. You could have picked something up at the fairgrounds, those are unhealthy places…”

  “I’m always cold.” Something on the mantelpiece seemed to catch her eye as she stood up. “Do come look at this, cousin! Anyway, as I was saying, they all straggled back in ones and twos, very late. The children were sick to their stomachs from eating sweets. My Sisters were hot and bothered because they hadn’t, of course, been able to find them. Sometimes I think they will never learn! I just put Jonny and ’Stell to bed, got my shawl, and slipped out. No one noticed. Isn’t it curious?” she said as Mickey took the little silver amulet she’d been examining. “Have you ever seen one like it?”

  “It’s a Queenshead amulet—what the Children of the Dynasty used to wear. Silver’s worth nothing these days. They must keep it as a conversation piece.”

  She nodded and returned the little casting to its stand.
“I used to wear one. I wonder if it’s mine. That would be funny!”

  “It could as easily be my mother’s.” Mickey shrugged.

  “Or my mother’s, or my father’s!” she countered in delight.

  Talking about their common forebears’ miscalculations made Mickey uncomfortable. There were so many coincidences it was nearly impossible to explain them as anything other than family traits. “I ought to mention that Crispin’s not coming down. You were right, I’m afraid, about his tendency to overdo the potables; he’s out cold on the couch. Now that’s funny.” He forced a guffaw. “I’m not sure yet of our plans for tomorrow, but if there’s a message you’d like to give him, I’d be happy to pass it on.”

  “That is rather a pity,” Rae sang.

  She drifted away from him, twirling around the room, almost dancing. Her fingertips swept along the backs of chairs and couches. Crispin would have found her, too, guilty of “wandering about like a tax appraiser.” Whether she knew it or not, she had the Achino mercenary instincts. Even in this anteroom—essentially a holding pen for strange callers—the furniture was plentiful and luxurious. “Such a pity! I came in part to tell him that we shan’t see each other again.”

  “You can’t mean that! Why ever not? At least you won’t deny me the pleasure of your company.”

  “I’m afraid so. Afra-a-aid so.”

  “Is it because Crispin and I insisted on coming to the Enclave? Were we found out? By who?”

  “Queen, no!” Posing against a screen painted in blacks, grays, and reds, she tossed him a beaming smile. “Only by my conscience.”

  Mickey went to her but she floated away again. He stopped, feeling angry, feeling a fool. “Rain!” he barked, and then shook his head. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the eavesdropping servants. His sense of defeat intensified with the strange sense that he was sanctioning a tragedy. He said sharply, “Cousin, if you need a ride home, I’ll have them bring a sedan chair. The Enkhoupistas keep one always on call.”