Califia's Daughters (36 page)

If she gave him what he asked for, paid what seemed to be the Quarter's price for Robin's and her freedom, if she led them to the small room with the transmitter device, who, then, would die? Number 489, perhaps, Alicia of the beautiful hands and the delicate watercolors and the earthy jokes? Or 314, middle-age Johanna, who cried whenever she thought of the granddaughter who refused to see her? Or 824, gorgeous lithe black Dinah, just joined at age seventeen and gently troubled by the morality of her choice? Or Suellen, the D who cleaned Dian's rooms, placid and big of heart? Or Lani, the oldest Angel in the Center, white-haired and straight-backed and lightning with the wand and generous of her time to teach the newcomers? And what of Laura, she of the wide mouth and dark moods, who had once when in her cups admitted to the embarrassment of having two escapees in her family, a pair of cousins named Miriam and Isaac? Would all those numbers, walking their patrols, running perhaps through the halls of the Center to the alarm bells, stop in their tracks with a faint look of surprise and then collapse as the capsules beneath the Angel brand—those tiny receiver, trigger, and poison devices implanted by Breaker's diabolical metal-cloth hand—burst open to release their silent death?

Not the Captain, oh, no. She would have no capsule burning her breast.

And not 820; Robin would cut Dian's from her in time.

But number 749? She of the firm and gentle hands and the profound sense of the ridiculous and the deep doubts about the rightness of what she was doing: what of Margaret?

Dian traced the upswept wings gently, then suddenly scrubbed the heel of her palm hard across the mark two, three times, with no result but a momentary sharp pang where there was normally an ache.

Dian supposed she loved Margaret. It was a form of love, anyway, this coming together of two mismatched souls. However, if truth is in wine, then strong spirit holds the stronger truth, and in her near-empty cup Dian could only see that Margaret was not to be trusted. From the very first, she had seen the Angel healer's flirtation with death and disaster, and the whiskey told her that Margaret, given the tools, would not be able to resist pulling it all down on their heads. Unwillingly, unconsciously even, but she could simply not be trusted with a secret. Short of kidnapping her, or knocking her out and cutting the capsule out of her, there was no way of saving Margaret other than putting her life in the hands of the men.

She raised the bitter cup to her mouth and drained it, then reached down for her robe, flushed the toilet, and went back to her bed.

“DO YOU ESTEEM MY STRENGTH SO LITTLE THAT YOU PLAN TO DEFEAT ME WITH STICKS?”

T
WENTY-NINE

T
HREE WEEKS.

Twenty days, twenty elongated, slowed-down, stretched-out days, every tick of the clock spanning a slow breath and each evening an eternity from its morning, and yet, as with any event of massive import, the hours seemed incongruously to tumble one upon another in uncontrollable panic as the end loomed inescapably closer and closer. The days gathered tension to themselves as an avalanche gathers pieces of hillside, and the nights—the nights were sheer hell.

No one must know. Margaret must not guess. Breaker must catch no faint whiff of suspicion or she would be on it in a flash, and all would be lost. Utter and absolute normality, the mask she had held up in front of her since the day back in January when she had ridden up to Ashtown's snow-covered forecourt, must be maintained. Nothing of the massive landslide of tension thundering through her could be permitted to show. The appearance of normality was urgently, hugely important.

It was also quite impossible.

She maintained the facade for a day, two days, three, with nothing more than an odd glance from Margaret and an offhand joke from one of the other Angels to rake her raw nerves.

And then on the fourth day she knocked the midwife unconscious.

From the first visit the woman had made Dian's hackles rise, for no discernible reason other than her perpetual cheeriness and jocular nagging. This time she was jovially displeased about Dian's blood pressure and launched off on a lecture concerning Dian's activities, scolding her about her visits to the Quarter and threatening her with bed rest. It was this last that caused Dian to lose control—only briefly, just one fist, but the midwife was not really an Angel and was unprepared. Instruments scattered and a chair was flattened in the impact, and Dian stormed out past the woman's assistant, knowing that disaster had just struck.

Two hours later she was summoned to the chief healer's offices near the infirmary. She had seen Margaret's superior only two or three times, and on each occasion she had been struck by the woman's quiet calm and her sense of burdens borne. She reminded Dian of a sad Ling. This time was no exception. The healer took Dian into her office, sat for several minutes with her fingertips on the pulse in Dian's wrist, then moved her chair around to face her patient.

“You find Charlotte difficult?” were her first words.

“I'm sorry, I do. But hitting her was unforgivable.”

The healer smiled gently. “You didn't hurt her, and you may have taught her a valuable lesson. I assure you, you're not the first to find Charlotte's style of midwifery oppressive. Personally, if I were to find myself under her care, I'd probably strangle her. You will come to see me for the remainder of your pregnancy. No, don't worry, I enjoy birthing—it's a pleasant change from broken bones and concussions. I always look forward to Charlotte's ‘rejects'—they're generally more interesting than her star pupils.” She laughed, a cough of humor. “But I'm afraid she is right: you are doing too much for your health and the health of your child. You're also worrying, and you're not sleeping well. You're an Angel, but even Angels have to recognize that they are primarily women. I know it's difficult. It's not easy to think that you're heading into a period of relative helplessness. The stress,” she added, “being on
relative
. Your training, your very personality go against accepting a degree of dependence. However, you must learn to accept it, and relax, or you're going to be ill. Now, how do we do this? Do I take you off the street?”

“No! I mean, please, I really would crack up if you locked me away. That's why I hit her—the thought of bed rest . . .”

“I see. Nonetheless, you must cut back. I will allow you to maintain a quarter-time schedule, three half-days a week, for the next month. After that you will simply have to find other outlets. And speaking of which, your visits to the Quarter. You told Charlotte that you do nothing more physical there than dancing. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Make sure it stays that way. Also, I want you to promise that you will lie down for one hour every afternoon.”

Dian was glad she was sitting; she went light-headed with relief. “All right,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”

It was as simple as that. Word spread, as always in the Center; the other Angels made their subtle and accustomed adjustments to this latest manifestation of the mild craziness of all Angels, and made no further reference to Dian's pregnancy, not to her face. Dian knew there were numerous remarks and humorous glances when her back was turned, but she gritted her teeth and encouraged the attitude. It gave her fellows a focus well away from the true source of her worries.

Fifteen days left to the rising. A new series of graffiti appeared overnight, an odd pointy squiggle of bilious green paint, like an upside-down mountain range, soon interpreted as two long fangs on either side of a row of pointed teeth: Vampire teeth. The Ds were busy all day painting the marks over; the next morning they were back again. Rocks flew out of nowhere at Angel heads, a pair of teenagers was found painting a fence with a vaguely similar green color, and the arrest edged into a near-riot before an alibi was provided. Sharpened stakes fell out of doorways, trip wires in alleyways sent bucketloads of filth onto Angel heads, and a pail of green paint fell from a roof, spattering the double patrol with indelible, pus-colored smears.

Inside the Center, tempers flared. The Captain raged, Ds and newcomers collapsed in tears, quarrels escalated into drawn weapons. A minor disagreement with Margaret blossomed into a crisis, ending late at night with a hysterical and very drunk Margaret slamming out Dian's door. Dian gave her half an hour to calm down and then followed her to her rooms and spent the next three hours comforting her, listening to her weepy plaints and apologies, and feeling gray exhaustion creeping up. The next day, for the first time ever, Dian canceled a patrol and stayed in bed, knowing that the authorities would have heard of her night and been displeased if she had pushed herself onto the streets.

Fourteen days; thirteen. A messenger Angel at her door: her presence was required by the Captain. Dian's heart beat heavily in her chest and a hissing built in her ears, but although she felt giddy and shut the door with a degree more abruptness than was good manners, she did not faint. She changed into her newest and most voluminous tunic and, Tomas as always touching her left fingers, walked with the messenger to their Captain's door. The other Angel raised a hand to knock, but Dian forestalled her with a question.

“Say, Violet, you've done some work on security, haven't you?”

“Some, yes.”

“Well, I was talking to Lieutenant Carmela last week.” This was the woman in charge of the Center's internal security. “Something she said made me think about this wing, and I've been wondering if there's any way we might improve it. I know the Center's tight, but if—God forbid—some crazy got inside, she'd be sure to aim for the Captain. What I was thinking was, is there someplace—even a small room—that's fairly secure already and would only need to be strengthened?” Violet's eyes flickered to one side, and without following her gaze Dian went on. “Just a space for the Captain to be absolutely safe until we could get her out. It's not urgent, I suppose, certainly not worth bothering the Captain over until after the Queen is gone, but think about it, huh?”

The Angel nodded and turned back to the door, and Dian with her, but afterward, coming out of Breaker's rooms furious and humiliated and relieved and desolate, her eyes went to the spot that had drawn Violet's eyes. It was an awkward corner, created when two neighboring buildings had been joined, but the paneling was broken in a door-sized rectangle, and a small plate of polished black glass, nearly hidden behind an ill-lit statue of a nude male, covered the number-pad release for a high-security door. Dian noted its position mechanically and walked away.

She walked alone.

The pain of Breaker's order, the emptiness at her side, made further explanations about her state of nerves unnecessary. It also submerged the anxiety almost completely. Several times over the next days she forgot entirely, found herself thinking,
When Breaker comes back and I have Tomas again
—only to remember that, no, she would not see him again, ever. Unless she failed.

Margaret came in that evening to find Dian sitting in a cold, dark room, staring unseeing at the ashes in the fireplace, a half-empty bottle of Ashtown rotgut on the table before her. Dian did not look up at the movement of the door, seemed not to notice the sudden illumination of the room, and Margaret, after studying her for a long moment, shrugged out of her jacket and took it to the closet, went into the kitchen and put the chicken she'd stewed earlier back into the oven to heat, rubbed out the note she'd written on the message slate asking Dian to put the dish in, made two cups of strong tea, and carried them out into the living room. Dian had not moved. Margaret put the mug down in front of her, laid and lit a fire, closed the curtains, and took the bottle out into the kitchen. She came back to sit near Dian, tucked her feet under her in the chair, and blew at her cup.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

For half a minute more Dian sat unheeding, and then blinked and looked at the fire, then at Margaret.

“Tomas. She took Tomas.”

“The Captain?” Margaret was surprised, not at the idea but at Dian's reaction. Breaker often kept the dog with her for hours, half a day at a time.

“Bitch,” Dian spat out. “Worse than a bitch in heat. Shameless.” Margaret could hear the slur of Dian's voice now and knew that she was indeed profoundly drunk. She had never seen it before and was alarmed at the thought of listeners, but there was no stopping Dian. “Been after him for months. Stupid fucking dog, can't see into her. He's not mine anymore. Wouldn't go for her if I ordered him to, not now. Not mine. Never again. Gone. He's gone. Stupid damned male, thinks with his—” She stopped dead, slapped her hand over her mouth, and turned so pale that Margaret hurriedly put down her cup and scrambled to her feet, looking desperately for something Dian could vomit into.

Dian dropped the cup she was holding, fumbled to retrieve it, then abandoned the effort and struggled, heavy now and awkward, to her feet. She turned her back on Margaret and walked with swaying dignity out of the room, but she did not pause in either bathroom or kitchen. Instead, Margaret heard the bedroom door close softly, and the creak of the bedsprings, then silence.

She sat down on the sofa in Dian's place, filled with bewilderment and uneasiness. Surely Breaker would return Tomas after Bess's visit. He was much too valuable to sell or give away, and what on earth could she do with him in the Center if not return him to Dian? She couldn't possibly spend the time on him that Dian did, nor was she a stupid woman, willing to cripple one of her Angels just to demonstrate her power. But Dian had sounded so final. And the hand over the mouth—that had not been the stomach's rebellion, but almost a parody of shut-my-mouth, especially accompanied as it had been by a strange expression of—what? Drunken slyness? A shaft of sober fear? Alarm, certainly. Because the thought of listeners had suddenly broken through to her? Somehow Margaret thought not. And the uncertainty made her unhappy.

It had to be connected to the guilt that Dian had been demonstrating in recent days; of that Margaret was certain. Her sudden interest in the Men's Quarter, her jumpiness and absentmindedness, and tonight's abrupt self-interruption while referring to male intractability—yes, no doubt about it: there was a man in it somewhere.

In the dark bedroom Dian lay staring up at the ceiling, nowhere near as drunk as Margaret thought, but far more so than she should have allowed herself to be. She lay staring at the ceiling, imagining ways to kill her Captain, the woman who had stolen her dog's loyalty, who had toyed and teased Dian with Tomas's obedience, taken such languid pleasure in demonstrating her power over the dog, reveling in Dian's helpless rage, and finally been both amused and aroused by Dian's hatred of her. She had kissed the nape of Dian's neck in mocking affection, and laughed aloud in sheer happiness when Dian came within a breath of attacking her.

God, she hated Breaker, loathed her, wanted nothing more in life but the pleasure of killing her. Almost nothing, she corrected herself. First she would thwart Breaker and her city, walk away from its prison bars and loose the menfolk on it: freedom, whatever the cost. She would give Robin that, and (she was becoming more sober, depressingly so) she would carry out her responsibilities to the child in her womb, Isaac's child.

Someday, though, she would return. Someday.

         

Twelve days. Dian woke to find herself alone and bereft, but safe: the Center thought she was going nuts with her pregnancy, the Captain saw her being pushed off center by the loss of Tomas, and Margaret read her anger as guilt; all were, in part, correct. As long as Dian refrained from disillusioning any of them, she and the men were safe.

Eleven, ten, nine days. The Angels cracked down hard, drew the curfew back an hour, punished anyone found with paintbrush or rock in hand. It appeared to be working; things calmed down, the Vampire graffiti failed to appear one morning, the turmoil within the Center calmed somewhat. Breaker walked with a swing in her stride, believing her hard hand had done the trick. Dian knew the truth: the men didn't want to risk her canceling the trip north.

One week before Breaker was due to leave for the rendezvous with Queen Bess, Dian went to the Angel in charge of the duty roster and told her she wanted to start her maternity leave.

“About time, I'd say. Effective today?”

“If it's convenient.”

“Sure. Things have been quiet lately. You'd never've thought so a couple of weeks ago, but the problems just faded away. Bit of graffiti last night, but we haven't had anyone throwing rocks in days. Must've been a phase of the moon or something.”