“Delia?” Malcolm’s voice sounded rough in the sudden silence, and there was a stuffy, nasal undertone that made her wonder if he’d been crying. “Get in here. The rest of you, clear off. If you don’t hear from me in half an hour … well, you’ll hear from me in half an hour. For now, keep on like we’re doing the show.”
“Aren’t we?” she asked, pushing through the rest of the cast as they left.
“Come in,” said Malcolm. “Shut the door.”
Ari was in Malcolm’s office, and Liesl, taking up the love seat and the extra chair, respectively. Cordelia reached for the stool under the coat hooks, the one Tory usually used. Malcolm looked pained. Ari coughed and made a little gesture with his hand, outside of Malcolm’s view. Cordelia left the stool and stood awkwardly in front of Malcolm’s desk. She felt like she was about to have her knuckles slapped by a school teacher.
“What’s wrong?” she snapped. “You all look like somebody died.”
Aristide closed his eyes and mouthed something that looked like a short prayer. Liesl ran her teeth over her lower lip. Malcolm’s face was indescribable.
Cordelia clutched her purse straps. “Who is it?” Then, remembering the reaction when she reached for Tory’s stool, she took a sharp breath and choked on it. “Mother and sons. He’s not—” She staggered and reached out. Liesl was beside her, suddenly, with a hand under her outflung arm. The conductor guided her to the love seat and settled her next to Ari.
“No,” said Liesl, “no, he’s not. Damnation, your hands are cold. Malcolm, you might have told her to sit down first.”
But Malcolm had the heels of his palms against his eyes, and didn’t apologize.
“He’s not dead,” said Aristide, staring at Malcolm. “But he’s very badly injured, and he hasn’t woken up. They aren’t sure that he will.”
“Where is he? What happened?”
“His performance last night was positively stinging,” said Ari. “You missed it—costume change, I think—but he’d never done better.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well he rubbed a couple cats the wrong way, didn’t he?” Malcolm let his fists fall to the top of his desk, rattling pens and empty glasses. “And they scratched.”
“What do you mean? What did he say?”
“He destroyed Acherby.” Malcolm laid a square of rolling paper out and added a pinch of tobacco. He tried, twice, to twist it up, then slashed it away with the flat of his hand. “Took him apart and dangled his bits up like a carnival sideshow. It was genius. Only, some of the punters got pinned about it and sang to the blackboots. Near as I can put together, he got about halfway home before they caught up with him. The ACPD picked him up around four a.m. and got him to Seagate Hospital, but by then he’d been lying in the gutter a couple hours.”
“Holy stones,” said Cordelia, reaching blindly with a shaking hand. “Has anybody got a straight?”
Aristide produced his case and offered it around. Malcolm accepted, gratefully. Liesl waved him away. When Cordelia put one of his cigarettes between her lips, Ari handed her a smudged book of matches with a few sticks missing. She lit up with shaking hands and took a deep, smoky breath. Exhaling, she asked, “So. Are you canceling?”
“That’s what we’re trying to decide.” Liesl’s expressive hands fidgeted on her knees. “The whole cast is having fits.”
“We’ve had fits before,” said Cordelia. “Mal, I know you ain’t gonna take that for an excuse.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “But it ain’t just that. Without Tory…” He paused for a steadying drag on Ari’s gold-stamped straight. “Without Tory, there’s some gaps in the show that need filling. About fifteen minutes, all told. Three acts.”
“Drag out some old material,” said Aristide. “Two seasons old. No one will remember it.”
“Damnation, Makricosta, I know. You’ve said it twice. But—”
“But nothing,” said Ari, biting the “t” so sharply Cordelia could hear his teeth click. “Your friend’s in hospital. You’re shattered, I understand. But plague it all, Malcolm Sailer—” Malcolm winced, and Cordelia wondered whether it was because the northern curse called Tory to mind, or because Ari had used his full name. “—that stage will not stay empty tonight. If it does, they’ve won.”
“I didn’t realize you cared so much about politics,” said Malcolm, tapping a column of ash right onto the floor.
“Malcolm, this is your livelihood. At least pretend you understand the consequences of your actions.” Ari leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If you cancel tonight’s show, you have given them everything. If you put on any act the Ospies don’t like, they’ll know they can attack your stagefolk on the street and close you down.”
“Well I can’t exactly run a show with my cast in hospital, can I?” Malcolm’s nicotine-stained snarl put Cordelia in mind of the yellow fangs of a cornered street dog. “Can’t imagine you’d be too thrilled to end up at the wrong end of a cosh, yourself.”
“No,” said Aristide. “But I’d like it far less if I knew it worked. Put on the show, Malcolm.”