Ghosts of Columbia (64 page)

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Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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The audience got more and more enthused with each song in the second part of the program, and it wasn’t clear if the ovations after the encore would ever end.
I hugged Llysette once she cleared the stage. “You were wonderful.” And I meant it.
“I wasn’t sure how it could be better than last night,” added Perkins, “but she was. We’ve got some incredible recordings, if they didn’t have technical problems.”
That was about as far we got at that moment, because people began appearing from everywhere. There were more admirers and a lot more guards, both those in serge blue uniforms and Danites. And I could see the hidden and portable scanners. While I admired the efficiency, I got an even colder feeling, because it was clear someone had let the presumed Austro-Hungarian agent in. Then, he could have been one of deGaulle’s as well. Either way, his presence had been permitted, and that meant Deseret was no different from Columbia or anywhere else.
When the last admirers finally left and Llysette was beginning to sniffle amid another pile of flowers, I looked at her.
Should I tell her? If someone else did, that would upset her even more. I took a deep breath.
“You had another fan backstage,” I finally said.
“A fan?”
“I think he was invited by your former friend Ferdinand. He’s now getting a rest cure, courtesy of the Saints.”
Llysette’s eyes widened. “Backstage you were… . Was that why?”
“Just a feeling,” I admitted. “I didn’t think anyone would try something opening night. People let down their guards after opening night. So… .” I shrugged.
“There was a coldness after the Handel, but I sang.”
Brother Jensen, nearing with a pair of Danites, frowned at her words.
“I tried to be quiet, and I hoped it wouldn’t upset you.”
“What drew you to the intruder?” asked Brother Jensen.
“He just didn’t feel right.” What I didn’t want to say was that, for some reason, the Saint security had let him into the backstage area. Were they watching me? If so, I’d fallen for the trap, and that meant trouble … but how could I have risked letting Llysette get shot?
Someone clearly knew that, as well, and that left me feeling even more helpless.
“Tonight, you must take the steamer,” Jensen insisted.
Neither of us was about to argue and after Llysette changed, we followed him down a long ramp, flanked by Danites, two of them carrying more of the flowers. With Llysette’s garment bag over my shoulder and my fingers concealed by it, I checked the hidden belt knife, then the calculator components.
We needed neither. A shimmering Browning—brown, of course—waited below with Heber at the wheel.
We sat back in the dark leather seats of the Browning as it crept from the garage underneath the performing complex up a concrete ramp and around two corners and onto the street, going around the block to bring us in under the canopy of the Lion Inn.
“It is sad. One concert, and now I can no longer walk a few meters.”
It was more than sad. I nodded.
I
t was awake well before eight, and I finally eased out of bed before nine, leaving Llysette to get the sleep she needed. My back was stiff from trying to be quiet and still when I was wide eyed. I never could sleep as late as Llysette, but I wasn’t under the same kind of strain that she was, nor was I undertaking the more strenuous kind of workout that a full recital or concert happened to be.
After closing the bedroom door, I did struggle my way through my exercises again—twice. They weren’t a substitute for the running up the hill and through the woods, but the mild workout helped both body and mind. I wasn’t about to go running off, literally or figuratively, not while she was sleeping or after the various attempts on either or both of us.
I did go downstairs and retrieve the papers, but no stories appeared in either daily, even concealed, about the assault by the phony stagehand or about Llysette. Most of the news that wasn’t local was focused on the Atlantic naval buildups and the increasing tension between the Austrians and New France and Columbia, although Ambassador Schikelgruber had met with Minister Holmbek to assure him that Austro-Hungary had no intention of beginning a naval war in the Atlantic.
“Just like Ferdinand had no intention of annexing France or the Low Countries … ,” I murmured to myself.
I had two cups of the powdered hot chocolate while I studied the papers, even the advertising, but there wasn’t even a hint in the police reports about the attack on Llysette. Should I have been grateful? I wasn’t sure.
Then I read through the cards that had come with the flowers. A few were recognizable, one way or another, like the formal card from Walter Klein, the Columbian ambassador. He was one of President Armstrong’s few political cronies who had actually gotten rewarded. I might have met him once or twice. There was one from Hartson James, the TransMedia mogul, who definitely saw something in Llysette. I just hoped his interest was purely commercial. The rest were from people, presumably Saints, whose names were unfamiliar.
Finally, I flicked on the videolink, keeping the volume down, and sampled the five channels, trying to avoid the endless family-centered commercials and to find something resembling either news or a cultural program.
Llysette kept sleeping and I kept switching channels. After probably another hour, I picked up the wireset to order a brunch for us—Llysette needed to get up before long and eat.
As I did, I thought I saw a video image of the Salt Palace, and I put down the wireset and eased the video volume back up.
“. . Columbian soprano Llysette duBoise, in the midst of an acclaimed series of performances at the Salt Palace, has shown a side that most women in Deseret would find closer to their hearts than navigating the treacherous slopes to a high C. DuBoise was apparently inundated with flowers from admirers. While she has kept the cards, she sent all but a single bouquet to those in hospitals and homes.”
The video showed the same clip of a flushed Llysette taking a bow with Perkins and then one of the interview clips with Llysette speaking.
“The beauty of the music will last when we are gone… . Many of the people, they are friendly.”
The video went back to a group of three around a low table in a studio setting
designed to resemble a sitting room. A blond man sat with a redheaded woman on his right and a brunette on his left.
“She sounds like a woman who has her heart in the right place,” commented the redhead.
“She probably does,” answered the man. “What’s more interesting is that she insisted on paying for the transportation of the flowers and that the donations of the flowers be anonymous.”
“Does she have any children?” asked the brunette.
“No … her marriage to Minister Eschbach is her first, and they’ve been married only about a year.” The blond announcer paused. “For those of you who only know that she’s a high-paid diva and sings beautifully, you might also be interested to know that she spent several years in an Austrian prison. Reportedly she was tortured before she was released.”
“So … you’re saying, Daniel, that this is one singer who isn’t just an image and a pretty face?”
“Does it sound that way?” asked the smiling blond man.
“No. She sounds like quite a lady. Have you heard her?”
“Last night. She and Perkins are wonderful. You’re going tonight?”
“I already was, but after hearing all this, I really wouldn’t miss it.”
“You won’t regret it. Now … we’ll be right back with a heartwarming story on the Heber City playground.”
With that, the video cut to another smiling Saint family and a sickeningly perky jingle. I switched stations, then turned the videolink off.
The story on Llysette was planted, so firmly I could smell the odor of manure seeping from the silent video set. I hadn’t checked the station, but I would have bet that it was the one owned by First Counselor Cannon.
The story was pitched to women, in a sickening way, and even cleverly suggested that Llysette was both to be admired and pitied—admired because of her pluck and talent and pitied because of her childlessness.
I almost wanted to retch. How many other stories were out there—ones I hadn’t seen? And why? Was this a crash effort in humanizing the former enemies? Or something else?
The silence about the intruder was deafening. No one had wired, and there was nothing on the videolink news or in either paper.
I felt isolated.
The bedroom door opened, and Llysette stepped out, eyes squinting even in the indirect light of the cloudy late morning.
“Johan … how you can chirp like the bird so early, that I do not know.”
“Heredity. You should see my Aunt Anna.”
“
Toute la famille?”
“Not all. My father was more like you.” I glanced toward the window. “I was about to order something to eat.”
“Another meal in this room …
non …
that will not do.”
“That’s fine. Do you want me to wire Jensen and find another restaurant?”
“Non
… the bird in the cage will I be.” She sighed. “But the cage downstairs,
du moins.
I will not be long.”
Her definition of
long
was another comparative I let go, especially since I also needed to shower and to get dressed. First, I did fix Llysette a cup of chocolate, before I climbed into the shower. The hot water felt good, and despite the chocolate I’d had, my stomach was growling by the time we stepped into the elevator.
The lobby was more crowded, but no one gave us more than a passing glance, and a tall blond waiter escorted us to a corner booth in the Refuge—not the same one we’d had before, but a corner booth that was relatively isolated, and I got hot and steaming nonpowdered chocolate, which I sipped most gratefully.
The family at the long table nearest our corner of the Refuge kept looking at us. I tried to concentrate on whatever a Deseret skillet was—a concoction of red potatoes, various peppers, eggs, and slabs of ham all served in a miniature cast-iron skillet set on a wooden holder or plate.
“That’s her … know it is … saw her on the link.”
“Must be her bodyguard with her… .”
I winced at that.
“Her husband … say he was a spy once.”
“… looks pleasant enough.”
I felt like glaring but didn’t.
“Do you expect a spy to look like a Lamanite, Ellie?”
“A spy you do not look like.” Llysette’s eyes twinkled, and she raised her water glass. “Even when you are spying.”
I decided to eat more and eavesdrop less.
The Saturday afternoon master class was nearly a repeat of the Friday one, except the students were more nervous and Joanne Axley gave Llysette a more glowing introduction.
Afterward, several of them clustered around.
“… will you be back to give more recitals here?”
“I must be asked,” said Llysette politely. “The arrangements are made years before, at times. This was not planned.”
I’d almost forgotten that.
“You were so good… .”
Llysette nodded toward Joanne Axley, who stood talking to a redheaded young man. “Your professor, she is very wise. You are fortunate.”
The slightest frown crossed the student’s forehead.
“So easy it is,” Llysette continued, an edge to her voice, “to forget. Do you know of Madame Rocza?”
“Ah … no, Miss duBoise. Is she a singer?”
Llysette shook her head. “She taught many of the best when they were young. Now … some, they scarcely know her. Do not do that.” She smiled politely.
“Ah … thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Joanne Axley slipped over toward Llysette as the conference room emptied. “I overheard your words to Bronwin,” she said to Llysette with a small laugh. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t know if she’ll listen.”
“The students, they are dense.”
I could vouch for that.
“Weren’t we all?” asked Axley.
Somehow I doubted that either of them had been. I had been, and I knew it, and I’d had to learn far too much the hard way. My only grace in that department was that I knew I’d been dense and spoiled—and fortunate enough to survive both.
After the master class, we walked eastward, through the light and chilly gusting breeze. I glanced ahead toward a large building taking up an entire block. “Zion Mercantile” was spelled out in shimmering bronze letters.
“Shall we?” I asked.
“Mais out.”
The first stop was the dress section.
Llysette frowned at the long-sleeved, almost dowdy, dress on the mannequin, then went to the next one—equally conservative, with another ankle-length skirt. Her eyes went to the shoppers.
A tall, graying redhead passed us, her camel overcoat open to show a high-necked cream silk blouse and dark woolen trousers. With her was a younger woman, also a redhead. After them came a stocky blonde, with a wide, if pretty, face and sparkling blue eyes. Each hand grasped a child’s hand—both blond and blue-eyed like their mother—and neither boy was over five or six. The mother wore a blue turtlenecked blouse, also of silk, and a skirt that reached nearly to her ankles. Under the skirt I could see blue leather boots. All three women had their hair in French braids. In fact, most of the women in Deseret had long, braided hair, I realized.
Silk blouses? They didn’t look synthetic, unless the Saints’ synthetic fibres were far better than those of Columbia. Then, the Saints had developed a silk industry early in south Deseret.
I followed Llysette into the coat department, where a well-dressed and gray-haired woman stood with three girls who looked to be of secondary school age. All four had their hair braided, and the girls tried on coats.
Llysette picked up several coats, among them a dark green woolen one.
“That looks nice.”
“At least, you do not tell me when I sing that it is nice.”
I winced. Llysette hated the word
nice
, but I didn’t always remember.
She handed me her coat and tried on the green, then walked over to the flat
mirror on the wall before shaking her head. I handed her back her coat and returned the green one to the rack.
The next stop was lingerie, and I tried not to frown at the filmy garments in every shade of the rainbow. While the coats and dresses had been solid and conservative, not even the theatre district of Philadelphia showed undergarments like some of the Zion Mercantile offerings.
Llysette saw my face, clearly, and a wide smile crossed her lips as she lifted a black lace teddy from a rack. “This one … you would like?”
I could feel myself flushing.
“Oui… .”
I had to grin.
“About some things, Johan, Dutch you are still.”
She was probably right about that, too, and I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that she didn’t buy any of the lingerie. Nor anything else except a small jar of a body cream. All in all, we spent nearly an hour roaming through the store, and I spent as much time thinking as looking.
The store bothered me, and I wasn’t sure why, exactly. There hadn’t been more than a handful of men anywhere, and the women in the store were well dressed and well groomed, and a number of them were smiling. Not exactly what I would have expected in a rigid theocracy.
“Johan?”
“Oh … sorry. I was just thinking.”
“We can go. I have found nothing that I could not do without
absoluement.”
As we walked slowly back to the Lion Inn, toward a sun low in the sky, with the wind ruffling my hair, I watched the people even more closely. A woman with braided blonde hair coiled into a knot at the back of her neck walked with an older white-haired and bearded man. Neither looked at the other. She wore a long camel coat, as did he. Two women in short wool jackets and ankle-length skirts shepherded six children, all fresh-faced and scrubbed, in the direction of the Temple park. A young man, clean-shaven, strode briskly past us.

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