"Ah, beautiful, Miss Virgine, simply beautiful," rhapsodized Maestro Terne when the last strains had died away. The meadow song in the second act was Coralia's most famous aria not only for its beauty but for its technical difficulty. Goldenlake was not commonly performed on account of it, as the majority of sopranos with sufficient skill to master the song were too mature to be convincing in the role of the naive waif.
As always, Amoretta had sung to perfection.
"Indeed, if we were an oratorio company, we would be quite prepared," Maria Bacardi said waspishly. Terne flashed her a look, then shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"Ah, well, there is a point there. Remember, you are a young maiden in the throes of first love. You have been overcome by joy! Your world is sunlight and rainbows! You are light on your feet, swept along by your emotions! But no, when you sing it you are too controlled, too restrained in your actions. You must seem to be carried away by passion, by love!"
This was Amoretta's greatest flaw as an opera singer. She knew it was true, not just because Terne exhorted her to improve it at every rehearsal or because the critics declared it to be so, but from her own knowledge. She always sang perfectly, not just because she never forgot a note or dropped a line, but because on an instinctive level she knew how to imbue a lyric or melody with the kind of emotional content it was supposed to evoke. When it came to acting, though, she just couldn't seem to do it. She could understand the goal of a scene, but not how to express it with gestures, movements, facial expressions, and posture. The end result was that it appeared she was just going through the motions, obeying the stage directions like an automaton even while the most exquisite music emerged effortlessly from her mouth.
It frustrated Amoretta immensely, because while opera was more about the music than the physical performance a great artist included both to completely draw in the audience. She worked hard at it, but could not seem to conquer her flaws.
Lillet had speculated that her dual nature had something to do with it. After all, she'd only had a body for a handful of years and that through alchemy, not nature. On the other hand, if one accepted the idea of heavenly choirs and the like, she might well have been singing since before the planet had been created.
It would certainly explain the difference in my skill levels.
"I'll try harder, Maestro."
"You must, Miss Virgine. Your voice is exquisite, perfection--you could be one of the legends of the stage if only..." He yanked at his flowing hair in frustration and stamped his walking-stick on the floor. "If only you could match that voice with equal...with even adequate acting!"
Amoretta bowed her head.
"I am sorry."
Terne waved his hand, dismissing the apology.
"I do not want your sorrow. I want improvement! Now, we try this again." He pointed the tip of his stick at the orchestra. "From the second scene, Coralia's entrance. Miss Virgine, remember: you are not singing a song, but are a maiden in the first blush of her first true love. You seek to explain how you feel to your friend." He nodded to Bacardi, who had returned to the role of Wren. Amoretta admired the woman's talents; her voice wasn't as good as Amoretta's but she was quite capable of cloaking her vanity and pettiness in whatever character she played.
Amoretta nodded to the Maestro. At least this is a feeling I understand. She though of the way she'd felt when Lillet had offered her her love that very first time. "Transported," as Maestro Terne had put it, scarcely began to describe the feeling. She thought of Elie's line the murderer had quoted, "My heart is hollow." It described perfectly the way she'd felt for the first hundred and six days of her life. Empty and unfulfilled without love, an artificial thing not even part of God's creation but cobbled together by human will alone, without even the love of her creator. Lillet was more than her beloved; she was quite literally Amoretta's reason for living. How had she felt to be offered that? Amazed, exultant, swept away indeed! It was beyond that, almost as if she'd been granted a miracle.
That feeling had never really gone away, even though years had passed.
As she raised her voice in song, she tried her best to show that feeling to those watching the rehearsal. Even as she did, though, Amoretta could not help thinking of what Lillet was doing, and hoping that she found success.
Charles Danae quivered under the gaze of Inspector Ballatore. He licked his lips nervously, his eyes flickering away to Riesling and to Lillet as if hoping that either witch would offer him respite. He found no help there; Riesling was impassive, and Lillet... She was actually smiling, and Danae had been working the gray markets long enough to know that kind of smile wasn't the least bit kind or helpful.
"Listen to me, Danae. Listen to me very closely. You and I both know that the only reason your shop hasn't been raided a half-dozen times this year is because you keep the right palms greased, be it in the Watch, the City Warden's office, whatever. That keeps the petty complaints off your doorstep for the smuggling and the contraband we both know run through here every day."
"I'm just an ordinary importer, Inspector; nothing wrong with that. You've got no call to--"
Ballatore didn't even bother to acknowledge that he'd spoken, but pushed right on.
"This is different than a few cases of port without their import stamps or foreign antiquities where the ink isn't dry on their provenance. This is black magic we're talking about--and it's a Palace matter now, so your friends aren't going to get between you and the stake."
"Black magic?" Danae yelped.
Ballatore reached over and picked up the copy of the Gazette that sat on Danae's desk. The language wasn't so inflammatory as the Star's, but the facts no less so.
"I see you're familiar with the matter." He dropped it back on the desk. Danae's eyes followed it, seeing the headline that looked back up at Ballatore.
"The theater killings? You think I'm involved in that?"
"I think that the killer had to obtain certain paraphernalia for his crimes. Crumbling old grimoires or suppressed publications. Sacrificial knives of strange metals." He glanced at Lillet, who offered additional suggestions.
"Powders from mummified bodies? Poisonous or hallucinogenic compounds? Bits and pieces of corpses from rifled graves? Candles rendered from human fat? The blood of an aborted child? The--"
"God, enough!" Danae exclaimed. "What do you think I am? I'm a respectable citizen! You can't accuse me of...of this!" He slapped his palm down on the broadsheet.
"He's not accusing you of that," Lillet said. "He's suggesting that a merchant might close his eyes to the nature of what he sells, not knowing the final result until it's too late, and he realizes that he hasn't been selling black-market goods to gullible fools and eccentrics but participating as an accessory to murder and illegal sorcery and will probably get his choice of hanging or being burned at the stake unless he decides to start cooperating immediately with the authorities."
"But I didn't have anything to do with this! How can I give you information I don't have?"
"The question is, how long is the Palace going to tolerate having devils murdering people in the streets?" Ballatore snapped. "Quick, decisive action will be ordered and carried out--and who knows what evidence of other crimes may be discovered in the course of such action?"
Danae sagged back in his chair.
"I tell you, goods like that don't pass through my shop."
"Whose shop, then?"
"What do you--?"
"Don't kid me, Danae. You know all the nooks and crannies in this quarter and do business in most of them."
"Damn it, Inspector, I resent--"
"Mage Consul, how long would it take to get a royal writ to authorize me to search this place?"
"For evidence of trafficking in unhallowed arcana? Exactly as long as it takes me to write it." Lillet gave Deane that smile again. "I'll have to be nice to the Chamberlain later, but my office does have full ministerial powers when dealing with magical matters."
"All right!" Deane shouted. "All right; you win. What do you want from me?"
"Names," Ballatore said. "Names and addresses."
Danae reached for his quill.
"You were right," Lillet told the Inspector outside the importer's. "He did know everyone." The list contained over thirty names, including smugglers, fences, resurrection men, back-alley "physicians," and purveyors of doubtful herbs. Some of them Ballatore or Riesling were familiar with from their work, while others even they hadn't suspected or known.
"Danae walks a fine line between being the most crooked of legitimate importers and the most honest of black marketeers, and he's got a finger in half the business of the Old Quarter. There's been no hard evidence against him--imagine that--and since his dealings are purely on a buy-sell basis instead of dealing in extortion, gambling, theft, or murder he's never been enough of a top priority to justify breaking down his protection."
"I see." Lillet was no amateur at politics, but the complexities of the way the city's underworld functioned were new to her. She looked at the list again. "There's no way we can cover all those in a day."
Neither of them asked her why she'd specified a day. The next nightfall might mean nothing, or it might mean another orgy of blood. Or it might be the time the sorcerer decided to stop playing games and to try directly for Amoretta.
Lillet tried not to think about that.
"We'll split up," Ballatore decided. He dug into his uniform pocket and took out a small clasp-knife. He folded Deane's list in half and slit it neatly along the fold, then gave the bottom half to Lillet.
"You take those; Janice and I will take these." Riesling gave him a surprised look--don't know why he trusts me to investigate alone, maybe?--but said nothing.
"Can you send a constable along with me?" Lillet asked. "Sometimes the uniform might be useful in symbolizing authority, and proving I am who I say to people who have good reason to be suspicious."
Ballatore nodded.
"Good idea."
"We'll meet back at the Watchhouse when we're done, or at eight, whichever comes first," she suggested.
"That's reasonable; we can compare notes."
"It's not just that. I need to get to the City Theater; Amoretta's singing tonight and I promised I'd see her safely home."
Danae's stomach was churning.
He looked down at the broadsheet again. BLOODY KILLER IN THEATER DISTRICT! the headline screamed at him. In his business he was no stranger to violence and brutality. Lessons had to be taught and all too often the only way to teach them was to make an example. He was genuinely surprised to find that he could still be genuinely disturbed and outraged by something.
Outrage and revulsion, though, were nothing compared to selfish fear. The noose, the stake--these were what concerned him. Danae had been driven by the fear of them to provide an accurate list to the Inspector, though the thought that some of his competitors were on that list gave him a few moments of pleasure.
The problem was, the list was genuine. It had to be, to keep the Inspector from believing himself deceived and carrying out his threats. But there was a chance that one of those people possessed actual information about the murdering sorcerer. That could lead to the crime being solved, and the murderer taken alive into custody.
And a living man might talk.
Besides, Deane told himself, he might not even be the killer. Surely there's more than one person buying sorcerous paraphernalia in the capital! And murderer or not, he could definitely implicate Deane in dealing in contraband.
The importer looked at the broadsheet again.
Self-interest won out.
Deane took up the quill again, and wrote a quick message. It was short and to the point. The Watch had been there in company with Mage Consul Blan, they were investigating the purchase of items useful in ritual sorcery, and that his recipient had better look out for himself. He sealed the note, then rang for one of the shop-boys.
"Here; deliver this letter, and be quick about it."
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NOTE: Charles Danae's name is taken from Chardonnay, the wine.
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