Genevieve 02 - Genevieve Undead Page 3

  As he entered the rehearsal room, cast and company broke into congratulatory applause. He bowed, accepting the praise that meant the most to him. Then, he broke the cheer up by producing a scroll with 'a few more notes'

  When he was finished, and the girl who played the innkeeper's daughter had stopped crying, he was ready to consider the business matters Guglielmo Pentangeli thrust at him. He signed a few papers and contracts, including a letter of thanks to the Emperor for continuing his patronage of the Vargr Breughel.

  'Does that hurt?' Guglielmo asked.

  'What?'

  'Your neck. You were scratching.'

  It had become an unconscious habit. His bites weren't painful, but sometimes they itched. Occasionally, after Genevieve bled him, he felt tired and drained. But today he was refreshed, eager for tonight's performance.

  'Did you know the Chancellor had condemned the play? In the strongest of terms.'

  'He said as much last night.'

  'It's here in the Spieler, look.'

  Detlef cast his eyes down the column of blocky print. Mornan Tybalt had branded Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida an obscenity, and called for a ban on it. Apparently, the horrors of the play were an invitation to the feeble-minded to act in imitation.

  Tybalt cited the thumb tax rioters, the Beast and the Warhawk as the logical results of a theatre exclusively concerned with the dark and the depraved, the violent and the vile.

  Detlef snorted a laugh. 'I thought those riots were a logical result of the silly tax Tybalt himself devised.'

  'He's still a powerful man at court.'

  'A ban isn't likely, not with Prince Luitpold on our side.'

  'Be cautious, Detlef,' advised Guglielmo. 'Don't trust patrons, remember'

  He did. Detlef and Guglielmo had met in debtors' prison, after the default of a previous patron. After Mundsen Keep, everything seemed like an unconvincing play. Sometimes he was certain the curtain would ring down and he would wake up back in his cell with the other stinking debtors and no hope of release.

  Even a terrible, death at the hand of Drachenfels would have been preferable to a life slowly dribbled away in the dark.

  'Have Tybalt's comments engraved on a board, and hang them outside the theatre with all our good notices. There's nothing that increases queues like a demand something should be banned. Remember the houses they got after the Lector of Sigmar tried to suppress Bruno Malvoisin's Seduced by Slaaneshi or: The Baneful Lusts of Diogo Briesach?'

  Guglielmo laughed.

  'The Trapdoor Daemon is with us, you know,' Detlef said. 'I'm sure of it.'

  'Box Seven has been cleaned out.'

  'And'

  Guglielmo shrugged. 'The food was gone, of course.'

  'It always goes.'

  This was a recurring joke between them. Guglielmo claimed the offerings were taken away by the house-cleaners for their families, and that he should be allowed to put on sale tickets for Box Seven. It was only a question of five seats, but they were the most potentially expensive in the house. Guglielmo, like all ex-debtors, knew the value of a crown, and frequently mentioned how much the Vargr Breughel lost by not letting out Box Seven.

  'Any other signs of spectral visitation?'

  'That peculiar smell, Detlef. And some slimy stuff.'

  'Hah,' Detlef exclaimed, delighted. 'You see.'

  'Many places smell funny, and slime is easy to come by in this place. A good fumigation, and some new furniture and the box would be good as new.'

  'We need our ghostly patron, Guglielmo.'

  'Maybe.'

  The Trapdoor Daemon heard Detlef and Guglielmo discuss him, and was amused. He knew the actor-manager only pretended belief as a pose. Still, there was an obvious kinship between them. Once, years ago, the ghost had been a playwright too. He was touched that Detlef remembered his work. Few others did.

  From his space behind the walls, he observed everything, eyes to the peepholes concealed in the scrollwork of a tall cabinet no one ever opened. There were peepholes all over the house, and passageways behind every wall. The theatre had been built at a time when the reigning emperor alternately persecuted and patronised the players, necessitating the incorporation of multiple means of escape into the building. Actors who failed to please were able to get away without encountering the emperor's halberdiers, who then had a reputation as the harshest dramatic critics in the city.

  Several players had got lost in the tunnels, and the ghost had found their skeletons, still in costume, strewn in nooks around the theatre's catacombs.

  There was no formal rehearsal this afternoon. Everyone was elated from the night before, and eager to repeat the performance this evening. The test of a hit was its second night, the Trapdoor Daemon knew. Magic can sometimes strike once, and be lost forever. From now on, the company of The Strange History of Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida would have to work to live up to their reputation.

  Poppa Fritz, who had been with the house almost as long as the ghost, handed out mugs of coffee and flirted with the chorus girls. If anyone was responsible for the endurance of the legend of the Trapdoor Daemon it was Poppa Fritz. The stage-door keeper had encountered him on more than one occasion, usually when in his cups, and always embroidered and elaborated when he told of these incidents.

  According to Poppa Fritz, the ghost was twenty feet tall and glowed in the dark, with bright red skulls in the pupils of his huge eyes, and a cloak woven from the hair of slaughtered actresses.

  Detlef did what the Trapdoor Daemon would have done, and concentrated on Illona Horvathy and Eva Savinien. They had few scenes together, but the contrast between them was vital to the piece, and last night Eva had outshone Illona to the detriment of the play. The trick was to bring the one up without taking the other down.

  Illona was not in a good mood, but tried hard, listening intently to Detlef and following his instructions to the letter. She was intently aware of her position. Having had twins a few years ago, Illona was constantly struggling to keep her figure. Last night she must have realized that in the next Vargr Breughel production, Eva Savinien would be the leading lady and she'd be playing somebody's mother. Reinhardt Jessner, on hand merely to read his lines, gave his wife support, but was careful not to tread in the director's way.

  Eva, however, was quietly firm, displaying a backbone of steel in her willowy body. She might step from ingenue to star on the strength of Nita, and was even more careful than Illona. She was not a flirt exactly, but she knew how to flatter without seeming to, to ingratiate without being unctuous, to further herself without displaying a hint of ambition. In the end, Eva would be a great star, an extraordinary presence. The Trapdoor Daemon had seen that from the first, when she had had the merest walk-on as a dancer in The Treachery of Oswald. Since then, she'd grown inside. He felt pride in her achievements, but also nagging doubts.

  Just now, while Illona and Detlef were playing the scene in which Sonja first meets and is attracted to Chaida, Eva sat on a table, hugging her knees, watching intently, and Reinhardt Jessner was in a huddle with her, massaging an ache in her back.

  Before scaling the mountain, you first conquer the foothills, and the gossip was that Eva would doubtless seduce Reinhardt away from Illona before she tackled Detlef. The Trapdoor Daemon discounted this rumour, for he knew the girl better, understood her more finely. She wouldn't have a personal life until her position was assured.

  Then, Detlef was working with Eva, restaging their final argument, smiling encouragement when he wasn't spitting hateful lines at her. After their dialogue was over, Detlef lightly tapped Eva on the skull and she fell down as if mightily smitten. The company applauded, and Reinhardt helped her up. The ghost saw Illona watching her husband intently, chewing a corner of her lip. Eva, without cruelty or encouragement, pushed Reinhardt away, and paid attention to what Detlef told her about her performance, nodding agreement at his points, taking them in.

  The Trapdoor Daemon realized he'd not misjudged Eva Savinien. The girl
didn't need to bestow any favours. She would advance on talent alone. And yet, despite the affection he felt for her, he could not but realize there was something chilling about the girl. Like some great performers, there might not be any real person inside the roles.

  'All right,' Detlef concluded. 'I'm happy. Let's go out there tonight and kill 'em.'

  V

  The mountain whore was snoring, eyes swollen shut, as Scheydt chewed his tough meat, washing the chunks down with bitter wine. He'd returned to his room and made his wishes known to the innkeeper in language blunter than the dolt was used to hearing from a cleric of the Law. The Animus rested inside his head as Scheydt fulfilled the desires that had been revealed to him. The mask was a part of him now, and he could open its mouth to eat, to speak, to gobble

  Scratching himself, he stood over the shrine he had erected in the corner of the room when he first came to the inn. It was perfectly laid out, balanced and symmetrical, the symbol of the strength of order over Chaos, an arrangement of metal rods and wooden panels around a central sundial, engraved with the sayings of the Law, decorated with preserved leaves. He hiked up his robe and relieved himself on the shrine, washing away the leaves with his powerful flow of urine.

  The noise woke up the whore, and she rolled away, her head to the wall, sobbing. After years of self-denial, Scheydt hadn't been a gentle lover.

  There was a knocking at the door.

  'What is it?' Scheydt grunted.

  The door opened, and an acolyte ventured in. They must all be chattering about him.

  'Brother Nachbar?'

  The acolyte goggled at Scheydt, appalled at what he saw. He made the sign of the Law, and Scheydt turned around, the last of his flow making a quarter-circle on the floorboards.

  Scheydt let his robes fall.

  Nachbar could not speak.

  The Animus told Scheydt he did not have to put up with fools like this for much longer.

  'Get me a horse,' he ordered. 'I'm leaving this pest-hole.'

  Nachbar nodded and retreated. The fool was so brain-blasted by the Law that he would carry out Scheydt's orders even if the cleric told him to consume his own excrement or slide a long sword into his scrawny belly. Perhaps, as a parting gesture, he would so order the brother, and tidy up a loose end. No, there was enough tidiness in the world. Let the end stay loose for someone to trip over.

  Scheydt washed his foul-tasting mouth out with the last of the wine, and tossed the bottle out of the window, ignoring the shattering crash below. He hoped someone with bare feet would chance by.

  Since the Animus and Scheydt had come to an agreement in their shared body, Drachenfels' creature could afford to slumber a little. It wasn't so much a question of taking over as it was of allowing the host to do what he always had wanted to do. The host was not a slave. Rather, the Animus set him free from himself, from the conventions that restricted his desires. Considering the grey grimness of Scheydt's life, the Animus was doing him a favour.

  It would take Nachbar a while to get the horse organised. Scheydt hawked and spat at the steaming ruin of the altar. He slipped back into bed, roughly turning the whore over, thumping her fully awake. He ripped her tattered garment, and forced himself onto her, grunting like a hog.

  The moons were up and Genevieve was about. She had wakened to an awareness of her own strength. Having fed well, she wouldn't feel the red thirst for days.

  Temple Street was busy, crowds hustling to the Vargr Breughel for the evening performance. She was amused by the excerpted reviews emblazoned upon the boards above the doors.

  A broadsheet-seller was exchanging papers for coins, shouting about another Warhawk murder. Obviously, atrocity sold well.

  Everyone in the city was looking up at the sky half the time, expecting the huge bird to swoop, talons first, out of the dark.

  The night tasted fine. The first of a fog lingered around her ankles. In the gutter, an old woman was bent double, scooping up dog turds with her ungloved fingers, dropping them in a sack. She was a pure-gatherer, and would sell her crap-crop to a tannery for use in the curing of hides. The woman shrank away instinctively from Genevieve. A vampire-hater, naturally. Some people didn't object to picking up shit, but couldn't abide the presence of the undead.

  Poppa Fritz recognized Genevieve and, with a bow, admitted her to the Vargr Breughel by the stage door.

  'The Trapdoor Daemon is about tonight, Mam'selle Dieudonne.'

  She had listened to the old man's spook tales for years. Fond of him, she'd become fond of his ghost.

  'Does our spectre care for the drama?' she asked.

  Poppa Fritz cackled. 'Oh yes. Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida is definitely to his taste. Anything with blood in it.'

  She showed him her teeth in a friendly way.

  'Begging your pardon, mam'selle.'

  'That's quite all right.'

  Inside, everyone was busy. Tonight, she would watch the play from the wings. Later, Detlef would quiz her in detail, asking her honest advice. In an open space, Reinhardt Jessner was practising his sword moves, bare-chested and sweating, muscles gliding gracefully under his skin. He saluted her with his foil, and continued to fence with his shadow.

  She caught the theatre smell in her nostrils. Wood and smoke and incense and paint and people.

  A rope dangled beside her, and Detlef came down it from the gods, breathing a little heavily. His belly might be swelling but his arms were still hard muscle. He clumped onto the stage, and hugged her.

  'Gene, dear, just in time'

  He had a dozen things to ask her, but he was called away by Guglielmo with some tiresome business matters.

  'I'll see you later, before the performance,' he said, dashing off. 'Stay out of trouble.'

  Genevieve wandered, trying not to get in the way. Master Stempel was mixing up stage blood in a cauldron, cooking the ingredients over a slow flame like Dr. Zhiekhill preparing his potion. He dipped a stick into the pot, and brought it up to the light.

  'Too scarlet, don't you think?' he said, turning to her.

  She shrugged. It didn't smell like blood, didn't have the shine that excited her thirst. But it would pass for non-vampires.

  She went to the ladies' dressing rooms, passing a pile of flowers outside Eva Savinien's cramped quarters and stepping into the largest suite on the corridor. Illona was painting her face meticulously, peering into a mirror. Genevieve cast no reflection, but the actress sensed her presence and looked around, trying to smile without disturbing the drying paint.

  Illona was another veteran of Drachenfels. They didn't need to talk to communicate.

  'Have you seen the notices?' Illona asked.

  Genevieve nodded. She knew what must be bothering her friend.

  ' 'A new star shines'?' Illona quoted.

  'Eva was good.'

  'Yes, very good.'

  'So were you.'

  'Hmm, maybe. I'll just have to be better.'

  The actress was working on the lines around her mouth and eyes, powdering them over, smoothing them into a mask of flour and cochineal. Illona Horvathy was a beautiful woman. But she was thirty-four. And Eva Savinien was twenty-two.

  'She'll be in this room next time, you know?' Illona said. 'She radiates. Even from the stage, even in rehearsal, you can see it.'

  'It's a good part.'

  'Yes, and it's the making of her. But she has to fill it, she has to be there.'

  Illona began to comb her hair. The first strands of grey were there already.

  'Do you remember Lilli Nissen?' she asked. 'The great star?'

  'How could I forget? She was to play me, and I ended up playing her. My one moment in the limelight.'

  'Yes. Five years ago, I looked at Lilli Nissen and thought she was a fool, clinging to a past she should have let go, still insisting she play roles ten or twenty years younger than she was. I even said she should be glad to play mothers. There are good parts for mothers.'

  'You were right.'

  '
Yes, I know. That's why it's so painful.'

  'It happens, Illona. Everyone gets older.'

  'Not everyone, Gene. Not you.'

  'I get older. Inside, where it counts, I am very old.'

  'Inside is not where it counts in the theatre. It's all out here,' she gestured in front of her face, 'all outside.'

  There was nothing Genevieve could say that would really help Illona.

  'Good luck for tonight,' she tried, feebly.

  'Thank you, Gene.'

  Illona looked back into the mirror, and Genevieve turned away from the empty stretch of glass where her image was not. She had the feeling there were eyes behind the mirror, where hers might have been reflected, looking at her curiously.

  The Trapdoor Daemon squeezed through the passage behind the ladies' dressing rooms, looking through the one-way mirrors like a patron in an aquarium examining the fish. The vampire Genevieve was with Illona Horvathy, talking about Eva Savinien. Everyone would be talking about Eva today, tonight, and for a long time

  In the next room, the chorus girls were getting into their costumes. Hilde was shaving her long legs with a straight blade and rough soap, and Wilhelmina was stuffing her bosom with kerchiefs. He retained enough of his maleness to linger, watching the fragile young women, feeling arousal and guilt.

  He liked to think himself a guardian spirit, not a peeper.

  He pulled himself away, and passed to the next mirror. The passage was narrow, and his back scraped against the wall as he pushed on, feeling pressure on his rough hide.

  Beyond the glass, Eva Savinien was already in costume. She sat before her mirror, hands in her lap, looking emptily at herself. Alone, she was like a stored mannequin, waiting for the puppeteer's fingers to come and bring her life.