Page 81 of Gunslinger Girl
Pity leaned against a table. Hours earlier she had sat in the same spot with Eva, preparing for the evening’s show.
Her mentor had minced no words. “You are worried about being chosen for the Finale.”
No, actually I’m not. She had swallowed that response. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”
Eva’s dark-lashed eyes narrowed. “Say what you really mean.”
“I am. He tried to kill me. I want him dead.”
“A bit of advice for you: do not play poker.” Eva ran her knife across a whetstone. “I only want to know one thing: will you be able to perform tonight if you have to?”
“Yes,” she had replied, her stomach slithering like it was full of Scylla’s snakes. “If I have to.”
Would it be worse, Pity wondered, if she didn’t know she was going to be chosen? If there was still the chance that she’d end the night with clean hands?
For days she had thought about little besides the upcoming Finale and Selene’s mandate. Now she searched the depths of her mind, trying to dredge up the emotions she had felt after the attack on her and Finn, after the assassination attempt and hearing Duchess’s story. Pain, helplessness, anger…Hold on to them, she told herself. Don’t let the rage get away. But they were oily, slipping away through her mental fingers no matter how hard she grasped.
The only emotion that lingered was dread.
Wherever Selene was watching tonight’s performance, it wasn’t from a box in the audience, but a familiar face flashed on the wall of screens: Patrick Sheridan. Pity hadn’t heard of his return, but the last few days had seen a brisk influx of patrons.
Maybe he’ll send you another bottle of wine to celebrate your first Finale.
She shook away the grisly thought as Eva glided over, Marius a few steps behind.
“Almost time,” Eva said softly.
Scylla wandered over, too, followed by the Rousseaus and more Theatre members, until Pity’s solo watch had turned into a crowd. She looked for Max and found him at the very edge of the gathering, his face bleached white by the glow of the screens. He pushed his way through to her. When he reached her side, he didn’t say anything. Pity was glad for it. There were no words to soothe the trepidation that gripped her like a fever.
The last act ended and Halcyon appeared on every screen, his face somber.
“One year ends,” he said, “and another begins. But before it does, we in the Theatre Vespertine have one last matter, one final reckoning to attend to.” He paused, visibly vexed. “No! No, this goes beyond the Theatre, beyond even Casimir. There has been a transgression upon every one of us within the bounds of Cessation… upon our city… upon our home. As all of you know, several months ago someone attempted to assassinate Miss Selene.”
The crowd booed and hissed.
“This someone—whose name we shall not speak—escaped justice, but thanks to the efforts of our exceptional security forces, one of his minions was not so lucky. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, tonight, in our arena, we have one of the very perpetrators who violated Casimir’s hallowed halls with intentions of murder!” Halcyon waited as the crowd worked itself into a frenzy. “It’s time to choose,” he continued, “to decide who will serve as Cessation’s hand of justice!”
Pity tensed as the projections appeared on the ceiling. For the first time, her own face stared down, ringed by images of Scylla, the Zidanes, the Rousseaus, and others. They began to spin. The first to pop out was Scylla. The crowd cheered. Then came Eva and Marius, and they cheered louder, not knowing it was a sham, a façade.
Another act.
Entertainer. She swallowed hard. Executioner.
Either way, this was a price she had to pay.
“Well,” cried Halcyon, over the ensuing din, “it sounds like Cessation’s justice will have a razor’s edge tonight.” He threw up his hands. “The Zidanes it is!”
Pity started as if doused with cold water. The breath she was holding came out in a single rush, her shoulders releasing their tension. She hadn’t even been offered as a choice. Had someone intervened—Halcyon or even Beau? Or had Selene decided she’d already spilled enough mercenary blood? It didn’t matter. However her reprieve came about, she was spared.
I’ll do what I need to do. The resolve suddenly sounded so silly, so childish, that a laugh almost bubbled out of her.
On the screens, the Zidanes’ picture disappeared, but the others remained. They kept spinning above Halcyon, who grinned his madman grin. “But this is no ordinary criminal, my friends, and so this must be no ordinary Finale! A trained mercenary, an experienced assassin—surely we would not risk any of our beloved family by sending them into the ring with such a creature unassisted!”
Pity’s relief turned glacial. Around her, the world went fuzzy. An image of the Rousseaus filled the whole of her vision, eliciting a robust round of applause. But when her face appeared the roar was like that of an oncoming tornado.
The next thing she was aware of was Max’s hand on her arm. His mouth was parted slightly, the reflections of the screens rippling over his metal piercings like tiny flames. It was a moment before he found his voice. “You can say no.”
“No,” she said, anxious blood prickling in her cheeks. “I can’t.”
