Vincalis the Agitator (42 page)

He handed her the list and a pen. “Number them, ‘one’ for most important, down to ‘twenty-five’ or whatever your least important
visit turns out to be. I’ll make the first batch of appointments today, and see how you stand up to the strain. If you’re
still gray tomorrow, I’m going to have to lock you in your room for the day.” He gave her his sad little smile and said, “I’m
only joking, you know.”

“I appreciate the concern. You’ll be amazed at how fine I am once I’ve had some sleep, though.”

Those sad eyes never left hers. “No, I won’t. I’ve always known how fine you were.”

She turned away, and he didn’t say anything else. She pretended most of the time not to know that he cared for her, or that
he would have been happy to become her lover in an instant, and he pretended most of the time that he thought no more of her
than any assistant felt for his employer. Every once in a while, though, the masks slipped, and Jess was always the first
one to back away.

He wasn’t Wraith. Nobody but Wraith was Wraith, and she knew she was an idiot and a fool, but her few lovers since Solander
had been disasters, simply because she couldn’t put Wraith aside. She wasn’t going to destroy a perfectly good working relationship
for a romance that would end in ruin.

“Well, I guess I’ll go ahead and hire that aircar now,” she said. “You find Gellas—or one of his secretaries—and make that
appointment. A good hour, please—no less. I don’t believe we’ll be able to get to contracts on a first meeting, or even on
this visit, but I think we should be able to work out the majority of the details, provided he’s interested.”

Patr nodded. “And then I’ll order a meal to be delivered to your home for the two of us.”

“That sounds wonderful.” She reached out a hand and flagged down one of the passing aircars-for-hire. “Then I’ll see you tonight.
Good luck.”

She fell into her bed without being aware of how she got there, and dropped into darkness still fully clothed and wearing
her shoes.

M
orning. Wraith had slept poorly, woke tense, went out into cool break-of-dawn air, and discovered that the odd-eyed man who
had been watching him the night before had been replaced by an attractive young woman with dark, swept-back hair and delicate
features. She did not meet his eyes when he passed her, and when he glanced back, she was talking into a hand-vox.

At the New Brinch Theater, he checked receipts for the previous night, went over the day’s problems with his manager, headed
out to the Galtin District Theater.

And the attractive young woman was waiting. She sat on a bench beneath a fashan tree, reading a book. She did not look at
him.

His heart raced, his skin felt clammy, and he felt light-headed. Knowing that he was being watched made his blood feel like
ice in his veins.

At the Galtin, he checked sets, glanced over the short stack of scripts from new writers that his on-site manager thought
would be worth giving short runs, and ate the meal his Galtin secretary had waiting for him. When he stepped out into the
midday sunshine, he didn’t see the watcher, and he breathed a little easier. Perhaps she had lost track of him.

But then he saw the odd-eyed man again, and his heart slammed up into his throat and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

They couldn’t touch him. He was stolti. He had people who would swear to it. He had covered his tracks.

But there were people who knew who he was, too—who could sell him for their own gain.

He proceeded to the West Beach Experimental Playhouse, this time hiring one of the aircars he so hated. He stepped out, saw
the odd-eyed man step out of a car half a block down the street behind him. Did they think he didn’t see them? Or did they
not care?

“You don’t look like you’re feeling well,” his assistant, Loour, said. She brought out a list of items that needed his attention.
Halfway down the list, he saw an appointment with Jess scheduled for midday on the morrow. One hour. At the West Beach.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I knew she was an old friend of yours, so I didn’t even question it.”

“Contact her, tell her I won’t be able to make the meeting.”

“I can’t. She didn’t leave a contact address. But when she comes tomorrow, I’ll convey my apologies.”

Wraith closed his eyes. He didn’t want Jess linked to whatever was going on in his life. He didn’t want her seen at any of
the theaters, didn’t want her followed, questioned, considered as suspicious by whoever it was that was watching him. She
couldn’t come to the West Beach. And he couldn’t go to her.

Or could he?

He was in a theater, for the gods’ sakes. Every sort of costume, makeup, and appearance-changing artifice in the world was
within his reach. He had talented costumers and makeup artists—and he could damned well pull one of the junior makeup assistants
off of a character and let him try out his wings for the evening, while Wraith became someone else.

Wraith smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get word to her somehow. We’ll set up her meeting for another day.”

Loour looked relieved. “I’m so glad. Her assistant said the meeting was quite important. He mentioned a plan for increasing
your business and hers, though of course he didn’t have many of the details—or if he did, he didn’t give them to me.”

“I’ll find out what she has in mind.” He gave her a quick hug. Of his several assistants, she was his favorite. She always
seemed to care about what he was doing and how he felt. He sometimes wondered if he ought to ask her to dinner sometime. He
thought it might be nice to have someone to talk to in the evenings. She would never be Velyn—but that was a good thing, wasn’t
it? He didn’t love her, but he liked her a lot. If he didn’t love her, she couldn’t hurt him.

He smiled to himself, just a little. How easy it was to think to the future now that he’d come up with a plan that would let
him leave the theater without being followed. How easy to pretend that not being himself for a night would be the same as
just disappearing. Someone was waiting to follow him, someone who would be waiting when he reappeared.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Her smile seemed special to him. Personal, deeper than the smile of an employee.

When he got his life in order—when he solved the problem of the person or people who were having him followed—he needed to
think about Loour. About possibilities. He’d spent long enough mourning his foolishness.

Down in makeup, Wraith told Brenjin, who did makeup for several of the secondary characters, that he needed to be a convincing
woman for the evening. Brenjin brayed, and then flushed bright pink when he realized that Wraith was serious.

“Gellas, I think I could make a great girl of you—but is there something you haven’t been telling us? I mean, we all just
assumed that you were avoiding women because you still hurt from Velyn. None of us really considered that you might …” Brenjin
leaned in and whispered, “If any of us would interest you, I promise you’d have a line waiting to proposition you come morning.
And I’d be at the head of it.”

Wraith hadn’t even considered anyone wondering why he might want to dress as a woman for the evening—nor had he considered
that he might know people who would consider that a good sign. He shook his head. “Everyone was right about me—this is just
for a trick I’m playing on an old friend. Make me as convincing as you can, will you?”

Brenjin sighed. “You have no idea how you gave me hope there for a moment. Certainly. Thin and fine-featured as you are, I
can make an excellent woman of you. Pity you’re so tall—that will ruin the illusion a bit, but you aren’t impossibly tall
for a woman. We’ll just make you wonderfully beautiful, and hide your larynx—gods-all, you have enough of that for two men.”

Wraith sat in the chair, and Brenjin started applying makeup. “Have you been in to see Kervin about a costume yet?”

“No.”

“You’re going to need big breasts to offset your shoulders—it may take him a while to make some for you that hang right. Let
me call him in, and he can measure you while I do your face and hair.”

Breasts. Wraith thought this was going to turn into a fiasco. He’d hoped for a bit of makeup on his face and a good wig, and
something voluminous and vaguely female that wouldn’t require a great deal of effort. But he did want to be convincing. He
wanted to be … perfect. And for that, he was going to need breasts.

He sighed. He hoped he would be able to get Jess to open the door for him.

The makeup and costuming took far longer than he’d anticipated. It tied up two of his best people from their work for the
better part of an afternoon. But when they stood him in front of a mirror—barely breathing because of the thing they’d cinched
around his waist and ribs—he couldn’t believe what he saw. Brenjin and Kervin had given him auburn hair, voluminous breasts,
a tiny waist, an outfit that showed off curves the two of them had created out of some amazing materials. He couldn’t believe
how pretty his face was, nor how completely the illusion obscured the truth. He would be able to walk out the door and down
the sidewalk and take an aircar to Jess’s home without having to worry about anyone connecting her with him. He might have
to worry about men trying to pick him up—he projected a definite air of moral laxity. But perhaps, he thought, it was because
he looked very much like Velyn had looked when she’d been younger. Had Brenjin done that on purpose?

“What do you think?”

Wraith looked over at Brenjin and said, “It’s perfect.”

“No, dear. It isn’t. You open your mouth and that voice comes out, and you’re going to ruin the whole thing. Let me see you
walk.”

Wraith walked.

“No. No, no, gods, no! Women walk with one foot directly in front of the other. They pivot from the waist. They don’t swing
their arms so wide. You want to think small. Try to take up less space. Long strides are fine if you can keep your feet lined
up and watch your arms.”

Wraith tried the walk.

“Still not it.” Brenjin sighed. “Watch me. I’m good at this.”

He walked across the room. Wraith would have sworn that a woman’s soul had just reached out and possessed Brenjin’s body.

“How did you
do
that?”

“Years of practice, Gellas. Years and years of practice. I didn’t get this job because I had theater experience. I got it
because I can turn myself into a girl even prettier than you—and in about half the time.” He grinned.

Wraith was shaking his head, disbelieving.

Kervin said, “It’s true. We got these jobs together because we had so much experience with costumes and makeup and creating
illusions—we just didn’t admit at the time where we got that experience.”

Wraith pitched his voice softer and throaty, and didn’t try to raise it too much. “I know true magic when I see it.”

He walked across the room, turned to the two men who watched him, and asked, “Better?”

“Much.” Brenjin tipped his head to one side and studied Wraith for a long, intense moment. “And the voice was acceptable,
too. Try not to talk too much, try not to walk too much, and stay out of bright, harsh lights.”

“Why? Will my face melt off?”

“No. But any little bit of beard stubble might show through the makeup.”

“Ah.” Wraith winced. “I’ll stay out of bright light. And now I must go. Luck with the rest of the evening—I’m sorry to take
you away from your real tasks.”

Brenjin and Kervin grinned at each other, and Kervin said, “You jest. You were a wonderful challenge. If you decide you’d
like to keep that look, let me know. I know someone who could do some fabulous outfits for your height and build and … figure.”

Wraith smiled thinly. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He heard Brenjin and Kervin laughing behind him.

Wraith strolled into the theater, and waited until the intermission— when the curtain fell and the bell sounded and most of
the theater’s patrons rose from their seats. He rose with them and followed them into the lobby, but unlike most of them,
he continued outside.

The boy at the door said, “Shall I mark your ticket, stolta? You won’t be able to enter unless it bears tonight’s mark.”

“Not at all,” Wraith said, a bit shaken by being addressed as “stolta.” “I have to leave early tonight.”

He stepped to the curb and waved a hand, and an aircar dropped down and the rear door opened for him before he had stood there
half an instant. He tried to recall ever getting such quick service and couldn’t. Perhaps the driver had not had a good night
and was desperate for a fare.

“Where to, stolta?”

Wraith gave the address.

“Show not to your fancy?”

Wraith started, realizing the driver was speaking to him, and then had to try to figure out what the man was talking about.
Drivers usually wanted to complain to him about their last passengers, or regale him with the racing scores, or the details
of their last gambling spree, or their philosophies of life and beer; they never asked him questions.