Part 4 (1/2)

An animal mind expanded inside his own.

There was such pleasure in evil. Such ease and comfort. Such freedom. The s.p.a.ce between desire and fulfilment was an instant. There was a fiery simplicity to the savage.

At last, Detlef understood.

'Detlef Sierck,' said a voice, cutting through his thoughts, 'I am Viktor Ra.s.selas, steward and advisor to Mornan Tybalt, Chancellor of the Empire, patron of the Imperial bank of Altdorf.'

Detlef looked up at the man, eyes coming into focus.

He was a reedy character, dressed in smart grey, and he had a scroll in his gloved hands. The seal of the Imperial counting house was his cap-badge.

'I am here to present to you this pet.i.tion,' droned Ra.s.selas, 'demanding that you cease performance of The Strange History of Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida. It has been signed by over one hundred of the foremost citizens of the Empire. We allege that your drama inflames the violent tendencies of the audiences and, in these b.l.o.o.d.y times, such an inflammation is'

Ra.s.selas gulped as Detlef's hand closed on his throat.

He looked at the man's fearstruck face and gripped tighter, relis.h.i.+ng the squirming feel of the neck muscles trapped under his fingers. Ra.s.selas' face changed colour several times.

Detlef rammed the steward's head against the wall. That felt good. He did it again.

'What are you doing?'

He barely heard the voice. He slipped his thumb under Ra.s.selas' ear, and pressed hard on the pulsing vein there, his nail digging into the skin.

A few seconds more pressure, and the pulse would be stilled.

'Detlef!'

Hands pulled his shoulder. It was Genevieve.

The darkness in his mind fogged, and was whipped apart. He found he was in pain, teeth locked together, an ache in his head, bones grinding in his hand. He dropped the choking steward, and staggered into Genevieve's arms. She supported his weight with ease, and slipped him into a chair.

Ra.s.selas scrambled to his feet and loosened his collar, angry red marks on his skin. He fled, leaving his pet.i.tion behind.

'What were you thinking of?' Genevieve asked.

He didn't know.

VIII.

The pupil was learning faster than the Trapdoor Daemon had expected. She was like a flirtatious vampire, delicately sucking him dry of all his experience, all his skill. She took rapid little sips at him.

Soon, he'd be empty. All gone.

In her room beyond the gla.s.s, Eva sobbed uncontrollably, her face a cameo of grief. Then, as one might snuff out a candle, she dropped the emotion completely.

'Good,' he said.

She accepted his approval modestly. The exercises were over.

'You have refused Lutze's offer?' he asked.

'Of course.'

'It was the right thing to do. Later, there will be more offers. You will take one, eventually. The right one.'

Eva was pensive, briefly. He could not read her mood.

'What troubles you, child?'

'When I accept an offer, I shall have to go to another theatre.'

'Naturally.'

'Will you come with me?'

He said nothing.

'Spirit?'

'Child, you will not need me forever.'

'No,' she stamped her feet. 'I shall never leave you. You have done so much for me. These flowers, these notices. They are as much yours as mine.'

Eva wasn't being sincere. It was ironic; off the stage, she was a poor dissembler. Truly, she thought she'd outgrown him already, but she wasn't sure whether she was strong enough to proceed the next few steps without her familiar crutch. And, at the back of her mind, she feared compet.i.tion, and a.s.sumed he would find another pupil.

'I am just a conscientious gardener, child. I have cultivated your bloom, but that does no credit to me.'

Eva didn't know, but she was the first he had instructed. She'd be the last.

Eva Savinien came along only once in a lifetime, even a life as extended as the Trapdoor Daemon's.

The girl sat at her mirror again, looking at her reflection. Was she trying to see beyond, to see him? The thought gave him a spasm of horror. His hide crawled, and he heard the drip of his thick secretion.

'Spirit, why can I never see you?'

She'd asked that before. He had no answer.

'Have you no body to see?'

He almost laughed but his throat couldn't make the sound anymore. He wished what she suggested were true.

'Who are you?'

'Just a Trapdoor Daemon. I was a playwright once, a director too. But that was long ago. Before you were born. Before your mother was born.'

'What is your name?'