Part 3 (1/2)

'Listen,' he'd said. 'I can help you'

He had been coming to her dressing room mirror for months, giving her advice, pa.s.sing comment on each nuance of her performance, encouraging her to stretch her instrument.

Now he'd helped her as much as he could. Soon her future would be her own responsibility.

'In the fourth act,' he said, 'when you fall, you are falling away from the audience. You should take them with you as you die.'

Eva nodded, paying close attention.

VI.

The horse died under him just before dawn. Thereafter, the Animus kept Scheydt running through the twilight, almost matching the pace of the animal it had driven to a foamy death.

If there was a record time for the trip from the Grey Mountains to Altdorf, Scheydt would beat it. No Imperial messenger could best his stamina, his resolve, his purpose.

Scheydt's feet were bleeding in his boots and his joints popped with each step, but the Animus ignored its host's pain. As long as Scheydt's skeleton and musculature were mostly intact, it could keep going. If the cleric of Solkan wore out, the Animus would just find another host.

The road pa.s.sed under his pounding feet as the sun rose. Scheydt was lagging behind the Animus, ceding control of the body, slumping into occasional dozes during which his consciousness would shrink, giving the creature inside him a clearer hold on the world, a more acute vision of the things around. They were already out of the mountains and into the Reikwald Forest. The road ran straight, bounded by tall evergreens. Scheydt's feet struck holes in the ground-mist. His footbeats and laboured breathing were the only sounds in earshot.

Ahead, the Animus saw a small figure, set side-saddle on a pony, proceeding slowly down the road. It was a plump, middle-aged woman in the robes of a priestess of Shallya. In the countryside, priestesses often pa.s.sed from village to village, exercising the healing arts, delivering babies, ministering to the sick.

Scheydt caught up with the pony, and pulled the priestess from her perch. She struggled, and he snapped a right-angle into her spine, tossing her into a roadside ditch. The pony bent under his unaccustomed weight, and he dug in his heels like spurs. The animal wouldn't last the morning, but would give him speed.

'My shoes,' the girl said.

'Shoes?'

'It's snowing. I can't go into the streets without my fur shoes.' The girl stood up to him, growing in stature, unbending her body, squaring her shoulders. There was a dab of red paint on her cheek, a graze from earlier.

He made and unmade fists, then slipped one meaty hand into his studded metal glove. It was an impressive prop.

'Hurry away, Nita, my dove,' he sneered, the false teeth bulging and deforming his mouth. 'Your Mr. Chaida has an important appointment. We can't have trash like you lying about while we entertain a lady.'

'My shoes.'

It was the third night. Eva Savinien was even better than in the last two performances. Illona was much improved, but she was still outshone. It was almost eerie. This didn't come from him, Detlef knew. It was something inside the girl, blossoming like a flower.

She moved on the stage, towards the lights. He hadn't directed her in that. In her position, the audience's attention would be focused. He was pushed into the shadows behind if he was to hit his mark and strike his blow.

Clever girl.

'I'll give you shoes,' he said, following her, raising his glove.

He wondered if anyone had been teaching little Eva how to steal a stage. She was becoming an adept thief.

Squeezing the bladder of stage blood, he brought his hand down, thumping her from behind, bursting the sac.

She fell, not to the boards but to her knees. Seeing an opportunity, she was seizing it. Blood dribbling down her beautiful face, she looked out into the audience for a long, silent moment, then fell on her face.

Now that was over, he'd have to take back the scene.

From Box Seven, the Trapdoor Daemon saw his pupil perform, and was pleased. Through Eva, he could reach an audience again, could make them feel joy, despair, love, hate He hadn't been so excited by a discovery for many seasons.

Her new death scene was masterly, an unforgettable moment. Now the scene was Nita's, not Chaida's. The audience would remember the play as the story of a street girl's downfall, not of a cleric's double nature.

He was too rapt to join the applause that exploded from the house when Eva Savinien came to take her curtain call. Flowers were conveyed to the stage. The company joined the applause. Even Detlef Sierck tipped a salute to her. She was modest, bowing only slightly.

Exhausted by the performance, she had no more to give. She'd discharged her obligation to the audience, and knew how to take its praise.

She'd have to be cultivated properly. A play would have to be found for her, a suitable vehicle. She might need a patron as well as a tutor.

When they hailed her, they would be doing the Trapdoor Daemon honour.

The girl brushed past Genevieve on the way to her dressing room, an attendant carrying her flowers behind her. Eva Savinien had never spoken with her beyond the demands of conventional pleasantry. Genevieve a.s.sumed she was wary of vampires.

'That's a fine creature,' Detlef said, wiping his paint-smeared face. 'A fine creature indeed.'

She nodded agreement.

'She took that scene from me as you'd take a toy from a toddler. It's a long time since anyone's done that.'

'How do you think Illona feels?'

Detlef was pensive, his knit frown dislodging the slabs of makeup that made Chaida's brows beetle. Eva was back in her dressing room now, alone.

'She spends a lot of time in her room, doesn't she? Do you think Eva has a jealous lover?'

He considered the point, and spat out Chaida's false teeth into his hand.

'No. I think she's a devout wors.h.i.+pper at the shrine of self, Gene. She spends her spare time improving herself.'

'Is she improved?'

'In herself, yes. I don't know if the company will be happy to work with her much longer.'

'I understand she has had other offers. There were flowers tonight from Lutze at the Imperial Tarradasch Players.'

Detlef shrugged.

'Of course. The theatre is a nest of vultures. Eva is a tasty morsel.'

'Very,' she said, a twinge of red thirst in her tongue.