Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories (6 page)

Not long later, the coach pulled into the carriage
circle, and Nicholas stepped down and handed Belina out. As the coach drove
away, Reynard watched carefully, but saw no one give them a second glance. Well,
one woman, but Reynard suspected she was only admiring Belina’s dress. Belina
herself was trying to look at ease while stealing glances at the other arriving
patrons. Reynard waited until they were through the front doors, then handed
his cup back to the coffee-vendor, crossed the street and made his own way in.

The big double doors opened into a three-story
pillared gallery, lit by crystal and gilt gas lamps and lined with different
colors of marble, all the way up to the paintings covering the arched ceiling. The
subjects were all classical, sex, death, and warfare, very appropriate to the
usual preoccupations of opera. He navigated through the crowd and across the
marble-floored entryway and went up the right side of the staircase. He didn’t
note any acquaintance, which was fortunate. More new arrivals were milling
around the grand foyer on the second floor.

After a moment, he spotted Nicholas and Belina. Nicholas
had secured a glass of soda negus for Belina and was radiating “friend of the
family escorting young lady in an entirely paternal manner.” Then a young man
in cavalry officer’s uniform approached Belina. Reynard saw her shoulders
stiffen and her chin lift and knew this was no friendly acquaintance. He
strolled close enough to listen, pretending to be waiting in the outer circle
of Lady Villechasse’s admirers.

The young man was saying, “This isn’t a palace ball,
my dear, we don’t need to be acquainted to speak.”

Belina said, “Sir, I don’t know you, and you need to
leave me alone.” Her voice was quaking with what Reynard read as a combination
of nerves and rage.

“Of course you’d have to say that here. I’ll join you
in your box, shall I--” It wasn’t a question.

Sounding a little bored, Nicholas said, “Leave, and do
not attempt to speak to her again.”

“And who are you?” The young man eyed Nicholas with
contempt. “Too old to be a suitor, I think. If her family has hired you to
escort her--”

“I won’t tell you again.” Nicholas didn’t move but his
weight shifted.

The young man was stubborn. “You’re unarmed.”

Reynard rolled his eyes. If this young idiot
challenged Nicholas to a duel, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his
countenance.

Nicholas’s smile implied physical violence would be a
terrible mistake. He said, “Draw your sword and find out.”

The young man hesitated a long moment, became
flustered under Nicholas’ steady regard, then withdrew. Reynard tracked his
progress across the crowd, but he didn’t appear to be signaling anyone, or
going to make a report. Still, it was an odd incident. He glanced idly back at
Nicholas and Belina.

Belina caught his eye briefly but didn’t make the
mistake of acknowledging him. She sipped her drink and said, “You can’t kill
someone in the grand foyer of the opera and get away with it.”

Nicholas raised a brow. “If it comforts you to believe
that.”

“How would you--” Belina frowned. “Do you have poison
darts?”

Nicholas’ failure to answer was pointed. “Why did that
creature think he could approach you that way?”

Belina bit her lip, controlled herself, and said, “I
think Idilane’s spread rumors. Well, I know he has. My friends have told me.”

“Mmm,” Nicholas commented, and flicked a glance at
Reynard.

Yes
, Reynard
thought,
this little bastard has a great deal to answer for
.

“You should have told us earlier,” Nicholas told
Belina, offering her his arm for the obligatory stroll around the grand foyer. “I
would have brought more poison darts.”

* * *

After Nicholas and Belina had started for the stairs
to the boxes, Reynard strolled around the crowd for a while, but couldn’t spot
anyone who matched the description of Idilane. The man could be magically
disguising his appearance; the opera’s wards wouldn’t interfere with such a
mild spell. He spotted one acquaintance, a young man called Dissonet who was
the despair of his family and proving it by already being drunk before the
performance had even started. Few people attended the opera unaccompanied, so
Reynard contrived to run into him. Dissonet greeted him with somewhat bleary
delight. “Morane! What are you doing here?”

“I was meeting someone for an assignation, but he didn’t
show,” Reynard made his tone mildly regretful. “And you?”

“I forgot it was
Life of the Good Duke
tonight,”
Dissonet said sadly. He wavered and Reynard took his arm to steady him.

“Yes, it’s unfortunate,” Reynard said, “Come along,
let’s find your seat.”

* * *

Before the first interval, Reynard left Dissonet
snoring in his box and made his way around to the Shankir-Clare box. He
listened through the door long enough to hear Nicholas and Belina having a
spirited conversation about the merits of
Voyagers of the Fire Islands
which was playing at the High Follies. Belina had of course not been allowed to
go to the scandalous production but had read her maid’s copy of the playbook. Reynard
slipped inside.

He crouched just inside the doorway, having an expert
knowledge of just where one could stand or sit in an opera box and still not be
visible from the floor or the other boxes. Though Nicholas and Belina had
evidently done such a good job of being boring and conventional that he doubted
anyone was watching. He had been waiting quite a while to air his principal
grievance and now whispered, “I can’t believe this bastard forced us to sit
through the first two hours of
Life of the Good Duke
.”

“It’s insupportable,” Nicholas agreed.

“Why does everyone think it’s a comic opera?” Belina
said. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s apparently hilarious for individuals who have no
sense of humor--” Nicholas began.

Reynard had kept one hand on the floor, and felt the
telltale vibration of someone approaching the box. “Someone’s coming.” He stood
and slipped behind the curtain.

Nicholas twisted to face the doorway. Belina knotted
her hands together, then deliberately forced them apart.

The polite knock was unexpected. Nicholas told Belina,
low-voiced, “It’ll be a steward.” Louder, he said, “Come in.”

It was a steward, a young boy in the opera’s black and
white livery. He said, “A note for Miss Shankir-Clare,” and held out a folded
piece of stationery on a silver tray.

Nicholas stood, took the note, and tipped the boy. The
boy bowed his way out of the box, and Reynard toed the door shut behind him. Reynard
said, “There’s no spell on that?” Some sorcerers could attach spells to
objects, which would then attach to the person who received them. Though it was
supposedly difficult to attach anything but a mild charm to paper.

Nicholas shook his head. “The note trays are solid
silver, and warded. The opera takes precautions. They don’t want idiots trying
to send love charms.” He handed the note to Belina and checked his pocket
watch. “We’re to meet him twenty minutes after the beginning of the fourth act,
in the west underpassage.”

Reynard checked his own watch. They had a good two
hours to go. “I haven’t been down there. It doesn’t sound salubrious.”

“It leads to the archives, where all the old sheet
music and so forth is stored. Probably years’ worth of attendance tallies and
accounts as well. There’s no reason for anyone to visit it during a
performance, so the corridor will be empty.” Nicholas looked down at Belina. “Will
you go?”

Belina folded the note and handed it back to Nicholas.
“I said I’d do whatever it takes to make him leave me alone.” She lifted her
chin. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Good.” Nicholas exchanged a look with Reynard. “Now
we know where his trap is.”

Reynard smiled. “So it’s time to set ours.”

* * *

Reynard used the confusion of the next interval to
slip out and make his way down to the west wing.

As Nicholas had explained, “It’s called the west
underpassage because it runs under the west side wing of the stage. There are a
number of trap doors in that section for dramatic appearances and
disappearances. They aren’t used now except during the more elaborate midwinter
shows. The trap doors lead to the mechanical areas under the stage, the way the
ones on the main stage do, but there is also provision made to allow chorus
members to exit below that level, so they can use the underpassage to go back
toward the audience end of the building and up to the dressing areas on the
level above--”

Reynard had cut to the point. “So there are trap doors
from the space below the stage down into that corridor.”

“How do you know that?” Belina asked. “More
importantly, why do you know that?”

“Because one day I might have to catch a blackmailer
in the opera,” Nicholas had told her.

Reynard took the precaution of buying a small posy of
violets from the flower-seller in the grand foyer and then made his way down
and into the dressing areas on the main stage level. There was a guard at the
door, but Reynard tipped him and was allowed in without comment; he was a
familiar figure here and knew he was considered a “safe” regular: one of the
many people who might come backstage during the performance to meet a lover or
just to visit with friends in the cast.

Reynard wandered down the dim hall of whitewashed
plaster,
Life of the Good
Duke
thundering away overhead, to the
rooms where the chorus waited to go on. He chatted for a while with the bored
young men cooling their heels until it was time to go up and sing through the
fourth act. Finally he moved on, handed his bouquet to the older woman who
helped with the costume changes, and then turned left and took a narrow set of
stairs down, deeper into the space under the stage.

Here it was nearly dark and smelled strongly of
sawdust and the paints used on the scenery and backdrops.
Life of the Good
Duke
had no trapdoor entrances or exits, and all the stagehands were up in
the flyover. He located the set of trapdoors in the unused west wing, finding
his way from the light that came down through the gaps between the floorboards.
He quickly located a trapdoor in the understage floor by its outline and the
folding steps that could be dropped down to allow chorus members to climb down
into the west underpassage. He lifted the door just enough to be able to see
down without letting the stairs drop. Below was a corridor, lit by a few wall
sconces. Carpets lined the marble floor and the walls were covered with
anaglypta paper, but it was clearly not meant for as much public use as the
foyers and stairwells.

Reynard closed the trapdoor again and explored this
part of the understage further, finding two more trapdoors with drop stairs,
spaced out along the length of the west wing. The one in the middle seemed the
best point to watch from. He dropped the stairs and they creaked and swayed and
bent under his weight as he went down for a brief exploration. He made certain
that there were no cross passages past this point, and that the far end of the
corridor ended in the securely locked door of the archives. Then he took the
fold of paper out of his pocket and began to sprinkle the contents on the
carpet. It was a combination of salt, various powders, and silver dust, given
to Nicholas by his sorcerer friend, and meant to reveal illusions and
temporarily dispel wards.

When Reynard finished, he returned to the folding stairs
and creaked his way up. As he reached the top and started to climb up into the
understage, a figure loomed before him suddenly. He jerked back and swore, then
realized he was looking at a support post framed by the dim light leaking
through the boards overhead.
Idiot
, he told himself, and climbed the
rest of the way up. He propped the trapdoor open a careful inch and settled in
to wait.

* * *

It seemed an interminable time later when the fourth
act finally rumbled into its opening salvos. Not long after that, Reynard saw
Nicholas and Belina make their way down the corridor, Nicholas a pace or so in
front. Then Nicholas stopped abruptly.

What?
Reynard
twisted to see the far end of the corridor. A figure stood there.

It was a tall, gaunt man, dark-haired and pale,
dressed in dark evening clothes a few years out of date. It was hard to tell
his age. The skeletal leanness of his body suggested age, but Reynard couldn’t
see any lines on his face.

This could be a problem
. Reynard was certain no one had walked past, and he
thought he would have heard the heavy door to the archives open if someone had
come out that way.

“Is that him?” Nicholas’ voice was quiet.

“No,” Belina whispered. “I don’t know who that is.”

The man moved forward, and circled around one of the
spots Reynard had sprinkled with silver dust.

Reynard felt the hair on the back of his neck stand
up. They had thought Idilane an unsophisticated amateur blackmailer. He had
certainly behaved like one. This seemed neither unsophisticated nor amateur.