People screamed and fled, and Don stared in disbelief at the cross-legged figure burning on the sidewalk, its wide white eyes shining in ultimate agony through the flames. ‘My God,’ she said, retching. ‘My God. They’re burning a person!’
‘An immolation?’ Blanchet asked, mouth drawn into a rictus of distaste and horror. He speeded the car to move them away. ‘Sorry. It’s been a moon or more since they did one of those here in the city. Are the soldiers on top of it?’
She looked back. Uniformed figures were moving purposefully through the crowd, one with a fire extinguisher.
‘Soldiers are there. Why do they burn themselves?’
‘To show the authorities they aren’t afraid of death, or pain, or torture, or imprisonment. To show they can’t be controlled by police methods. We’ve got a small scale holy war on our hands. It’s just that no one in government seems to realize it yet. People are taking bets on whether the Governor has been paid not to act. And these public immolations are bad enough. The secret, ritual killings are worse….’
‘Ritual killings?’ she faltered, afraid of what he was going to say to her.
‘Killings by torture. Women carved up …’
‘Blanchet, don’t. Please don’t. One of them was a friend of mind. Gretl Mechas. She was cut to ribbons. They said it took hours for her to die. I had to identify her body and I couldn’t identify anything except her clothes. Oh, Lord, no one in Northwest called it a ritual killing.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t. Sorry, Tella. Your friend wasn’t the only one. There have been others. Always women or young boys.’
The horrible sight of the immolation, the hideous memory of her friend, as well as Blanchet’s comments on the current political scene had ruined Don’s desire for dinner or entertainment. Oh, Gretl! Lovely, warm, friendly Gretl. Why! And she couldn’t take time to grieve over Gretl tonight. She had to remind herself that there were other, urgent reasons for her to be abroad in the city.
‘Where are we going for dinner?’ she asked, keeping her voice flatly matter of fact and not caring what the answer might be.
‘The Magic Viggy,’ he told her, shaking his head. ‘I’d planned it as an appropriate place to take someone with red hair and a very blue dress. I’m afraid it will seem rather trivial, now.’
It did seem trivial. They ate imported food at extortionate prices. They drank, albeit abstemiously. Blanchet would have been quite happy to fill her glass more often, but Don let it sit three-quarters full during most of dinner. She didn’t need to be more depressed, which the wine would eventually do. They chatted. Though Blanchet was a well-informed and interesting companion, she had trouble later recalling what they had discussed. Magicians and clowns moved about, playing tricks, distributing favors. A neighboring table was occupied by a noisy crowd of elderly sightseers. There was a lot of clutter. When they were ready to leave, Don missed her bag and found it on the floor, half buried under a bouquet of flowers that a magician had pulled from her hair.
‘Like a circus,’ she said. ‘Like a carnival.’
‘The most popular place in town,’ he agreed. ‘Now, I have tickets to Chantry.’
‘Not Lim Terree?’ she asked, cocking her head. ‘I really liked him last time I was here.’
‘Oh, hadn’t you heard?’ he asked. ‘It was on the news here a few days ago. Lim Terree is dead.’
She made an appropriate expression of dismay without letting the shock show on her face. She felt herself go pale and cold, but the flickering lights in the restaurant hid that. By the time they reached the street, she was in command of herself once more, able to sit through Chantry’s concert and pretend to enjoy it. When it was over, she asked to return to the Chapter House, and once there, claimed weariness and was left alone, though Blanchet expressed regret for that decision as she smiled herself away from him. How desirable to be alone! Except, she reminded herself, for whatever listening and watching devices were undoubtedly placed here and there in her rooms.
She rummaged in her bag, as though for her handkerchief, her fingers encountering something that crackled crisply. She palmed it in the handkerchief, wiped her nose, then thrust the note under her pillow as she turned down the bed. Nightly ritual, she told herself. The whole bedtime score with all variations. Shower. Teeth brushed. Hair brushed. Nightgown. Emergency kit on the bedside table. No Explorer would ever go to sleep without the emergency kit within reach. Then, pick up the new exploration digest, delivered to her door in her absence, and read the professional news for a while. A new theory of variation. Which wasn’t new. Yawn. Let the eyes fall closed. Rouse a little. Put out the lights.
She let a little time go by, then silently brought the emergency kit under the covers and turned on its narrow beamed light. The note she had put in her purse before leaving, informing her friend that someone had tried to kill her, was gone. In its place were two others. The letters were minuscule, hard to read.
‘Terree informed and supplied as per our plans. He is obtaining Enigma score in Five. Took him some time to set up tour. Should return at end of Old Moon.’
This was dated weeks previously and was on a tiny sheet of paper, no larger than one-quarter the palm of her hand. Folded inside it was another sheet, even smaller, dated a few days prior.
‘Word received two days ago, Lim Terree dead on Enigma. Trying to find out what happened. Make contact.’
Both were signed with a twisted line that returned upon itself to make three links of a chain. She put out the light, replaced the kit on the bedside table, then methodically tore the two notes
