Part 6 (1/2)
'Anyone home?' she asked, the pa.s.sages throwing back echoes at her. There was no other answer.
She remembered the dark hallways of Drachenfels, and the unease that had set into her soul when she entered that castle. Even before anything had happened, she'd known that had been an evil place, the haunt of monsters and madness. This was different.
Reflecting upon her emotions, she realized she was depressed, not afraid. Whatever walked here, walked alone, lived alone. It hid away in the dark not from malice but from shame, fear, self-disgust.
She opened a door, and a stench enveloped her.
Her sense of smell was keener than a human's, and she had to hold her nose until the first wave had dissipated. Her stomach convulsed, and she would have vomited if there'd been any food in her. She didn't need to eat, but sometimes did so to be sociable or to sample a taste. But she hadn't taken anything solid for weeks. The nausea spasms were like blows to her abdomen.
Standing up, she looked into the cupboard.
It was something's larder, well-stocked with pale sewerfish, dog-size rats, various small altered creatures. The meat animals of the labyrinth all bore the taint of warpstone: the fish were eyeless or possessed of rudimentary forelimbs, the rats had heads out of proportion with their thin-furred bodies, other beasts were unidentifiable as what they had formerly been. They'd all been killed by something strong that broke necks or took large bites from its prey. Evidently, the epicure would not touch meat that was not yet a few days rotten, and these morsels had been left to putrefy a little, until they were fit to serve the larder-keeper's taste.
'G.o.ds,' Genevieve swore, 'what a way to live!'
Moving on, she came to a drop that fell away into the depths of the city like a cliff. It was covered with what looked like a s.h.i.+p's rigging, a net of thick ropes, st.u.r.dy if tattered. It would be comparatively easy to climb down, but she thought that adventure could wait for another night.
Down below, she heard water lapping.
Turning away, she confidently expected to be able to retrace her steps. Within fifty paces, she was in new territory, lost.
She thought she was still on the same level as the theatre, and if she held still she could even hear the distant sounds of Felix's overture. She could not have gone that far into the labyrinth. There were trapdoors all over the place. Some must lead back to the public ways of the house.
Trying another promising door, she found herself surrounded by books and papers, stuffed into floor-to-ceiling shelves. There was a longbane taper burning, giving the room a woody, pleasant smell.
Longbane was known as Scholar's Ruin, because its fumes were mildly euphoric, mildly addictive.
This was a fairly ordinary theatre library. There were much-used and scribbled-on copies of standard works. A full set of the plays of Tarradasch, actors' and directors' copies of other repertory warhorses, some basic texts on stagecraft, a bundled collection of playbills, scrolled posters. A bound folio of Detlef Sierck was upside-down among the other books.
Genevieve looked about, wondering if any unusual book might turn up here, some grimoire of power bound in human skin and holding the key to a vast magical design. There was nothing of the sort.
What she did find was a whole case given over to books by someone of whom she had barely heard, a playwright of the previous century named Bruno Malvoisin. He was the author of Seduced by Slaanes.h.i.+, which she remembered as a scandalous piece in its day. Apart from that, he'd contributed nothing which still lived in the repertoire. She read the t.i.tles of plays from the elegant spines of the books: The Tragedy of Magritta, The Seventh Voyage of Sigmar, Bold Benvolio, An Estalian's Treachery, Vengeance of Vaumont, The Rape of Rachael. A whole life was wrapped up between these covers, a life spent and forgotten. Evidently, Bruno Malvoisin meant something to the inhabitant of the labyrinth. That might help solve the puzzle. She must ask Detlef if he knew anything about the man. Or, more usefully, Poppa Fritz: the stage-door keeper was an inexhaustible fount of theatrical lore.
She stepped back into the pa.s.sageway, and tried the next trapdoor. It led to a small s.p.a.ce that smelled of bread and belched a pocket of warm air at her. Genevieve almost pa.s.sed it by, but then recognized that the back of the s.p.a.ce was a door as well. She pulled herself into the recess, and pushed the doora heavy, iron flap but unlockedopen.
Slipping out of one of the ovens, she found herself in the kitchens of the Vargr Breughel Memorial Playhouse. A chef turned, gasped, and dropped a tray of intermission pastries.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I thought I was cooked through.'
XI.
Throughout the play, the Animus observed Detlef Sierck. In their scenes together, Eva was close to him, and the Animus could see through the filter of her mind. The actor was a huge man, almost swollen, physically strong, a powerful projector. This host wouldn't formerly have been able to best him in a struggle. Even with the Animus guiding her, taking away any restraints of pain or conscience, she might take a long time to overcome him. And Eva knew that, frail as she might seem, the vampire would be even more resilient.
With the rider in her mind, Eva lived the role of Nita as never before, wrestling the piece away from Detlef and the other players. The second act curtain was hers, as she returned on her knees to Chaida, lifting her scarf away from her bruises and throwing herself upon his mercy. The tableau was thunderously applauded.
Once the curtain was rung down, Detlef said, 'Good work, Eva, but, perhaps, from now on, less is more'
As she stood up, the scene s.h.i.+fters working around them to change the stage set, Detlef looked at her. Sweat was pouring from him, beads glistening through his monster face-paint. His role was exhausting.
Reinhardt swarmed around, and kissed her on the cheek.
'Magnificent,' he said, 'a revelation'
Detlef frowned, his Chaida brows moving together ferociously.
'She gets better and better, don't you think?'
'Of course,' the actor-manager nodded.
'You're a star,' Reinhardt said, touching her chin with his thumb.
The Animus knew that Reinhardt Jessner wanted s.e.xual congress with its host. From Bernabe Scheydt, it understood l.u.s.t.
'Just remember,' Detlef said, 'at the end of the play, I kill you.'
Eva smiled and nodded humbly. The Animus sampled the complicated emotions that ticked over inside the host's head. She was more ordered in her thoughts than Scheydt, the supposed devotee of the Law, had been. In her single-mindedness, she was very like the Animus itself. In the near distance she had purposes, and every-step she took brought her nearer their achievement. Surprised, the Animus found itself in sympathy with Eva Savinien.
Coolly, professionally, the host stood to one side of the stage, allowing her dresser to change her shawl, and a make-up artist to dab stage blood and blue bruising onto her face.
'More flowers,' said an old man Eva knew as Poppa Fritz. 'Flowers from the palace.'
The Animus allowed Eva a tight smile. She thought the admiration of influential men a distraction. Despite everything, despite her resolve, despite her calculation, her life was for the theatre. She thought of taking lovers, patrons, a place in society. But they were just underpinnings. Her purpose was out in the limelight, out on the stage. Eva understood she was different, and didn't expect to be loved by individuals. Only the audience counted, that collective heart which was hers to win.
'And a special bouquet,' Poppa Fritz continued, 'from a kind spirit'
A chill struck Eva, surprising the Animus.
Poppa Fritz held out a card, upon which was written, 'From the Occupant of Box Seven.'
'That's the Trapdoor Daemon's perch,' he explained.
A panic grew inside Eva, but the Animus soothed it away. Sampling the girl's memory, it understood her instinctive fears, understood the tangle into which she'd got herself. It could help her overcome these untidy emotions, and so it did.
The Animus was beginning to lose its sense of a distinct ident.i.ty. It had started to think of itself as herself. Its former existence was a dream. Now, it was Eva Savinien. She was Eva.
Her name was called, and without a thought she took up her place on the dark stage. The curtains parted, and the light came up.
Nita lived.
Eva was different tonight. Of course, the Trapdoor Daemon had expected that. After the shock she'd had, most actresses would not even have gone on this evening.
He couldn't understand, though, how she could be so magnificent. She was a different person onstage. The screaming girl in the dressing room was left behind somewhere, and all the audience could see was Nita. He wondered how much of the luminousness of her playing was down to fear, down to the memory of the thing she had seen.