Casino Infernale

by Simon R. Green

  “Those aren’t our stars,” said Molly. “We’re not in Nantes any more, Toto.”

  “Just how much power does the Casino have?” I said. “To power a dimensional door like that? To transport us to a whole new world just to play Games?”

  “Why do you keep asking me questions, when you must know by now that I’m not going to be able to answer?” said Frankie. “No! I don’t know where we are! No, I don’t know how we got here, or how they do it. For all I know it’s all done with mirrors. The important thing for both of you to concentrate on is that the only way for us to get back is for you to win at the Games.”

  “And win big,” said Molly.

  “Well, obviously,” said Frankie. “That is why we’re here.”

  He led us down the hill to the Arena, and the purple-green grass crunched dryly under our feet. Rows of stalls had been set up around the outer perimeter, offering complimentary champagne and mulled wine, along with the usual assortment of civilised nibbles. All taste and no substance, but absolutely guaranteed to be packed full of everything that was bad for you. I walked straight past the stalls, dragging Molly along with me when she showed signs of being tempted. My gaze was fixed on the Arena. There was something about the bare, brutal sensibilities of that open stone circle, surrounded by open stone seating, that made it seem just as brutal as the Pit. A very old game, and a very old spectacle, designed to appeal to our most basic emotions. To bring out the beast in us.

  Frankie strayed towards one of the stalls, and I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back again.

  “Hey!” said Frankie, not actually fighting me. “I could use a little something for the inner man! I have been on the go all day. . . .”

  “Never trust goblin food,” I said.

  Frankie looked at Molly. “What?”

  “You can never tell where goblin fruit has its roots,” Molly said briskly. “He’s being paranoid and so should you. I don’t like this place. It doesn’t feel like a place where people come to play games. This is where people come to fight and kill and die, while other people watch and bet on the outcome, and have a good time.”

  Frankie shrugged. “That’s what Casino Infernale is all about. That’s what all casinos and all gambling is about. They’re just a little bit more honest about it here.”

  “Talk to me, Frankie,” I said. “Tell me things I need to know. What kind of Games do they play in this place?”

  “Just a handful of actual Games, really,” Frankie said quickly. “It’s more about the side bets. And remember, from now on, it’s all about the souls. The Casino makes all such transfers possible, and enforces the outcome, and of course the house always takes its more than generous cut along the way. Cheaters really don’t prosper here.”

  “But what Games are there?” I said. “What should we choose?”

  “I don’t know,” said Frankie, looking interestedly about him. “I never made it this far before.”

  He broke off abruptly, as both Molly and I grabbed him by the arms and swung him round to face us.

  “Then what use are you to us?” Molly said bluntly.

  “I know the general rules!” Frankie said quickly. “And I have talked to a lot of the staff about the Medium Games. They hear all kinds of things. . . . Look, I know how the Games work, and I know how they do things here. Basically, you have to challenge someone, before someone challenges you.”

  I looked back at the Arena. Stone seats, surrounding a stone circle of death. More and more people arriving, presumably from other dimensional doors. They filled the rows, usually in small chattering groups, eating and drinking and laughing, ready for the spectacle to come. Like so many predators with their nasty smiles and hungry eyes. And part of me wanted to kill every single one of them just on general principle.

  I was right, this kind of Game really did bring out the worst in me.

  A uniformed flunky approached us, and we all turned to face him. He stopped a respectful distance away, and bowed courteously. The uniform was basic; the person inside it even more so. Average height, average weight, all within acceptable parameters. It was the face that gave everything away. He had no hair on his head, no eyebrows, no trace there had ever been any hair on his face. And his features were strangely blank, utterly lacking in character. Almost a generic face. A generic uniformed flunky. Except, the clothes looked somehow wrong, on something that wasn’t actually human. Like dressing up a dog. He started speaking, in a calm uninflected voice, and I paid careful attention.

  “Mr. Shaman Bond, I regret to inform you, sir, that if you are contemplating wagering your soul in any of the Medium Games, that cannot be allowed. Our records show that the Casino already has a claim on your soul. It was used as collateral, some time earlier, by another player in another Game. It was lost to the Casino.”

  “I know,” I said. “I have already been told that and I would like the Casino to know that I am not at all happy about it. I would, in fact, very much like to see the Casino try to collect. But, that’s a matter for another time. I’m not betting my soul. I’m betting hers.”

  And I nodded at Molly, who smiled brightly at the flunky.

  “Hi there!” she said sweetly. “I’m Molly Metcalf!”

  The flunky bowed again, briefly. “We know who you are, miss. Your arrival here set off all kinds of alarms. Including a few we didn’t even know we had, until you woke them up. Our records indicate that there are already a number of claims in place on your soul.”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “But not by the Casino!”

  “True,” said the flunky. “Very well. There are . . . precedents. You may continue in the Games, sir and miss.”

  “You didn’t mention Frankie’s soul,” I said.

  “We wouldn’t accept anything that soiled, sir,” said the flunky.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “But, I have to ask . . . are you human?”

  “I am a generic human template, sir,” said the flunky. “Grown here at the factory farms, on behalf of Casino Infernale. I live to serve.”

  “This isn’t planet Earth, is it?” said Molly.

  “I do not know the name, no, sir and miss,” said the generic flunky.

  “Then where are we?” I said. “Exactly?”

  “Sector Seventeen, sir. Home to the Medium Games. I have not been programmed with any further information on these matters.”

  “Doesn’t the Casino have a . . . representative here, to run things?” I said.

  “No, sir. This is our place, given over to us. We run things here in return for being left alone.”

  “And, when there are no Games?” said Molly.

  “There are always Games, miss. We are made to serve.”

  “Can’t you say no?” I said.

  “We are not allowed that privilege, sir,” said the flunky. “It is not a part of our programming. The best we can hope for is that while some of us run the Games, some of us are left alone.”

  “I will not stand for this,” I said. “I will do something about this.”

  “Many people have said that, sir,” said the generic flunky. “But we are still here.”

  “You never met anyone like me,” I said.

  “That’s enough, Shaman,” Molly said quickly. “You do like to promise things, don’t you?”

  “People manufactured to be slaves?” I said. “I’m not having it!”

  “The Games,” Frankie said urgently. “You have to make a start, get your challenge in, before you’re noticed by some of the sharks operating here.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir and miss,” said the flunky, “I have my business to be about.”

  He bowed, and left. There wasn’t even any character in the way he walked, or held himself. More like a toy that had been wound up and left to run.

  “The more I learn about this place, the less I like,” I said. “I
don’t think my family knows nearly enough, about the Casino, or the Shadow Bank, or the people behind them . . . if they are even people. Dimensional doors, people factories . . . Once this mission is over, I will get some answers. . . .”

  “First things first,” said Molly, soothingly. “We have to win here, and win big enough to get us into the Big Game, if we’re to break the bank. And get your soul back. That is why we came here, remember?”

  “If you survive the Medium Games,” said Frankie.

  Molly tapped me urgently on the arm, and pointed out a familiar figure moving casually through the stone seating, meeting and greeting with professional ease. Earnest Schmidt, current leader of the reformed Brotherhood of the Vril. He seemed in no hurry; happy to talk his poison to anyone.

  “Maybe I should challenge him,” I said. “Nothing like kicking the crap out of a Nazi to brighten up your day.”

  “Don’t aim so high,” Frankie said immediately. “He has many souls, and he knows his way around the Medium Games. You want someone who’s as unfamiliar with everything as you are. Someone like the individual currently heading our way.”

  A somewhat less than medium height, very slender, and very striking figure was striding confidently towards us. Dressed in full formal attire, complete with top hat, gloves, and spats, and a monocle screwed tightly into the left eye. He stopped before us, nodded jerkily, and then had to pause to stuff his monocle back into its eye socket again. He struck a haughty pose, and did his best to look down on me. Which is not easy, when you’re at least a head shorter.

  “I say!” he said, in a high breathy voice. “You’re that Shaman Bond chappie, aren’t you? I’m told you did frightfully well in the Introductory Games, even if you were mostly saved from your own folly by the assistance of others. You do understand that won’t happen here.”

  “And you are?” I said.

  “I am the Little Lord!” snapped the aristocratic figure. Somewhat taken aback and even affronted at not being immediately recognised. “Aristocrat of the Nightside and Gambler Supreme! Winner of many Games, and my soul is still my own! Not a mark on it . . .”

  “Do you know which planet we’re on?” I said.

  He sniffed, dismissively. “As though that matters. I’m a gambler, not a tourist!”

  Molly leaned forward suddenly, to get a really close look at the Little Lord, and then crowed triumphantly. “I knew it! You’re a woman!”

  “What?” I said.

  “Shut up!” said the Little Lord.

  “You’re a woman!” said Molly. She put both her hands on the Little Lord’s chest, and had a good feel. “You’ve got breasts! You’re female!”

  “Not officially!” said the Little Lord, backing away several steps. She glared at me. “And I challenge you, Shaman Bond, to a game of Change War!”

  Molly gave every indication of going after the Little Lord again, possibly to pull her clothes open for a fuller investigation. I grabbed Molly by the arm and pulled her back.

  “Behave, Molly!” I said sternly. “You’re not at home now.”

  Frankie murmured urgently in my ear.

  “Accept the challenge. It’s a simple, basic Game, one on one, win a soul or lose one. A good introduction to the Medium Games, and a chance to make a good impression in front of the crowds.”

  “Very well,” I said to the Little Lord. “I accept your challenge.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Molly. “We don’t even know what the Game involves yet!”

  “Too late, old dear,” said the Little Lord, smiling frostily. “Mr. Bond, I shall make you pay for these indignities, sir!”

  And she hurried away, heading for the Arena.

  “Little Bitch,” said Molly.

  The Little Lord’s back stiffened, but she pretended not to hear and kept going. Striding down through the stone seats, heading for the circle at the heart of the Arena. Top-hatted head held high. I considered blowing a raspberry after her, but decided against it. I had my dignity to consider. I looked at Frankie.

  “All right,” I said. “What have I just agreed to, on your advice?”

  “Change War,” said Frankie. “You both take a potion, provided by the Casino, a mixture of classic Hyde formula and Chimera Venom. Gives you both the short-term ability to transform your body into absolutely anything your mind can conceive of. You both change shape repeatedly, trying to outmanoeuvre and overwhelm each other, until one of you turns into something the other can’t match. Basically, you just keep fighting in one form after another until there’s a clear winner. And a loser, of course.”

  “Didn’t I see this in a Disney film once?” said Molly.

  “The thought of you watching a Disney film feels frankly unnatural,” said Frankie.

  I thought about it. “Is there any way I can get out of this Game?”

  “No!” said Frankie. “No, really, you don’t want to do that! This is a good deal! You’re a trained fighter, and a Drood, so you’re bound to have encountered far weirder and more dangerous things than the Little Lord! You can outclass and outfight her and . . . and walk all over her!”

  “If it’s such a good deal, why are you getting so loud?” said Molly.

  “I don’t want to kill the Little Lord,” I said to Frankie.

  “You won’t have to,” he said quickly. “Just . . . overpower her. We can get really good odds on you, in the side betting!”

  I looked at Molly, and she nodded reluctantly. “Do what you have to do, Shaman.”

  “Good thing Jacqueline’s not here,” I said. “To see what they’ve done with Hyde formula.”

  “Don’t be naive,” said Frankie. “Who do you think sold the details of the formula to the Casino in the first place? In return for an invitation, and enough money to play with?”

  • • •

  I took my time walking down through the stone seating, towards the circle. I really didn’t want to fight anyone, after what I’d been through in the Pit, but there was no denying the idea of Change War intrigued me. I had some experience in changing the shape of my armour, but to actually change my body . . . into someone or even something else . . . I made myself smile and nod easily to everyone I passed. The crowds were really gathering now, filling the stone seating, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Many were already discussing Shaman Bond and the Little Lord with cold familiarity, like two racehorses. Bets were being placed. It all seemed very sporting and civilised, until you remembered they were wagering other people’s souls. I stopped, right at the edge of the circle. The Arena. Nothing could happen, nothing could begin, until I stepped into the Arena. The Little Lord was already there, strutting up and down, waving to the crowd in a haughty, affected manner. As though they were privileged to be watching her. I suppose, if you’re going to play a part, play it all the way.

  Another uniformed flunky appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He stepped into the circle, bearing a silver salver with two champagne flutes on it. No point in putting it off any further. I strode out into the circle, and the crowd cheered me in a mostly good-natured way. The Little Lord came forward, and we both stood together before the Casino’s generic flunky.

  “Have we met?” I said, peering into the familiar characterless face.

  “No, sir,” said the flunky. “An easy mistake to make. I am told we all look alike to you. Please, drink. So that Change War can begin.”

  The Little Lord snatched one of the champagne flutes from the tray, and tossed the clear liquid back. She slammed the glass back onto the tray and walked quickly away. I picked up the remaining glass and studied the contents carefully.

  “How long will this stuff last?” I said, to the flunky.

  “As long as it needs to, sir. The act of winning, or losing, acts as a psychic trigger to shut down the potion’s effects. It’s all been very carefully worked out, sir. We have done this before. Win, and t
he Little Lord’s soul is yours. Lose, and your opponent takes control of Miss Molly’s soul. I am not permitted to take anyone’s side, but I believe I am allowed to say ‘Good luck, sir.’”

  He bowed, and stepped back. Not a trace of emotion anywhere, in his face or voice. Just waiting for me to drink so the Game could get under way. I looked out into the crowd and there was Frankie, moving quickly back and forth, nailing down those important side bets. I hoped he was getting good odds. I looked round and there was Molly, standing right at the front of the crowd, in the first row. I moved over to stand before her, still holding my champagne glass. We stood and looked at each other for a long moment.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Molly. “I could do this for you. I’ve as much experience as you, and I can hold my own in a fight. You know that.”

  “I have to do this,” I said steadily. “If the horse throws you . . .”

  “Then you shoot the bloody thing in the head and move on!” said Molly. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Shaman.”

  “Perhaps I have something to prove to myself,” I said. “You don’t know how close I came to losing against the Dancing Fool. I had to descend to his level to win. I don’t like how that made me feel. I need to win this, Molly, and I need to win it . . . in a good way. To be myself again.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Molly. “Just . . . don’t get chivalrous. Kick the crap out of the Little Tranny, and come home safely.”

  “Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day,” I said.

  I smiled at Molly, and she smiled at me. And then I turned away from her and strode out into the stone circle, to where the generic flunky was waiting patiently for me. The Little Lord was standing stiffly in place now, impatient to get started. I toasted her with my champagne flute, and gulped the clear liquid down. After my horrid experience with the Armourer’s potion, I didn’t want the stuff lingering in my mouth any longer than necessary. I braced myself, ready for some really horrible taste, some open assault on my taste buds . . . and was surprised to discover that the potion had no taste at all. I might as well have been drinking tap water.