“And Rider’s not what you’d call a Beauty,” Gelsomina went on, her voice rising, querulous.
“She’s surely not a Beast,” Roscha answered, and Lioe intervened again.
“What is the rule?”
“There isn’t really a rule,” Gelsomina said, grudgingly. “Not written down, anyway. But the tradition is to alternate the pageant barges, a Beauty and a Beast, and the figures are usually taken from mythology. Not from the Game.”
“The Game’s a kind of mythology,” Lioe said mildly, overriding something Roscha started to say, and after a moment the john‑boat pilot subsided.
“Oh, I know,” Gelsomina answered. “It’s just–oh, very God, I hate getting old. You always end up sounding like your own mother.”
Lioe grinned and saw Roscha relax even further. “Who designs the puppets?” she asked at random, hoping to turn the conversation even further, and saw a fourth barge pull into view.
“Who’s that?” Roscha demanded.
Gelsomina worked her glasses, shook her head. “Can’t tell yet.”
On the distant deck, a figure unfolded, barely rising out of a crouch before the spotlights struck it. A dancing satyr leered back at the crowd, goat‑legged, rude horns jutting from its forehead and implied beneath its gilded fig leaf; it was crowned with oak and ivy, golden acorns– they must be the size of melons, Lioe realized, too big to span in my cupped hands–and carried a double flute. The cheers were less than enthusiastic, to her surprise, and she looked at Roscha.
“It’s been done before,” Roscha said, and Gelsomina shook her head.
“It’s Soresin, too. I expected better, after what I heard they spent this year.”
Then, quite suddenly, the satyr began to move. As though it had heard the comments, it thumbed its nose to each bank in turn, still grinning, then lifted its flute to its thick lips. It began to play, and, seconds later, the sound reached the watching crowd, a thin, seductive melody that carried the urge to dance and weep in the same quick, minor‑keyed strain. A moment later, the puppet began to dance to its own piping, the movements timed so perfectly that for a long moment Lioe forgot the barge, forgot that it was a puppet, and saw only the ghost of an abandoned god dancing against the horizon.
“Now that’s more like it,” Gelsomina said, and her words were nearly drowned by the cheering from the shore. On the seiner next to them, some of the people were dancing, sketching the same quick steps to the satyr’s music. Lioe glanced toward them, saw a young man clasp a woman’s hands and swing her in a sweeping circle. She leaned back, eyes closed, bright skirt flying, her long hair tumbling loose from a Carnival crown of braids, brushing the decks. She came upright laughing, and Lioe looked away from the wild abandon in her face.
“If that doesn’t take all the awards,” Roscha began, and her voice trailed off into nothing.
Gelsomina nodded, but her expression was less certain. “Everything for puppetry, certainly.”
The barge that followed Soresin’s dancing satyr carried another female puppet, this one tall and very slim, dressed in a short, one‑shouldered tunic and carrying a spear nearly as tall as the puppet itself. Light flared from the fingers of her free hand; she touched the spear’s point, and fire ran up and down the shaft. It was impressive, but after the dancing satyr anything would have been an anticlimax.
The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood–“Imbriac,” Gelsomina said, “one of the Five Points Families”–that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of one of the Game’s grand villains, the Baron’s henchman Ettanin Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face. The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man’s face without deformity; the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur, approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character.
“That,” Gelsomina said, “was Chrestil‑Brisch.”
“That takes guts,” Roscha said. “Considering that’s what most people think of them anyway.”
Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. “They’ve got a reputation for being, well, chancy. You’re never really sure where you stand with them–or so they say.”
Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless sky. There were only three more–a female shape with a fan, from a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best, neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles. It barely moved–“too fragile to move much,” Gelsomina said–but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to release the mooring.
They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route, up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of Shadows. The streets were quieter here–most people were still on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks–and Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security drone sail past overhead.
“I appreciate your help,” Gelsomina said. “It’s nice to see the parade from a decent viewpoint.” She had pushed the Viverina’s mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other.
“Thank you,” Lioe said. “I didn’t–I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was just incredible.”
Gelsomina smiled. “And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you want Cor‑Clar?”
“Yes, and thank you,” Roscha answered, and reached with unerring speed for the rich brown‑skinned mask.
“And you, Na Lioe?” Gelsomina asked.
Lioe shook her head. “I can’t decide. They’re all gorgeous, and I don’t know who I want to be.”
“Well, you’re not leaving empty‑handed,” Gelsomina declared. “We had a bargain.” She turned slowly, leaning on the Viverina’s stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then, and reached out with her staff. “Take that one.”
“If you’re sure, Na Gelsomina,” Lioe began, and the woman nodded.
“Take it. I insist.”
“Thank you,” Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace, roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single six‑millimeter stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked almost transparent in the light. “Thanks,” she said again, and let Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to see Gelsomina–the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into place and staff in hand–standing beside the row of masks that looked almost alive in the amber light.
“We’ve got some time,” Roscha said. “Do you want to stop for coffee, or something?”
Lioe looked sideways, found a patch of grey stone that would let her see the chronometer’s numbers. In a little more than an hour she would have to start the night’s session, and she shook her head decisively. “No. I want to get back to Shadows.” She was aware suddenly that Roscha was frowning, added a belated, “Thanks anyway.”
Ros
cha shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself.”
“Some other time,” Lioe said, and got no answer. They kept walking through the patches of light and shadow that filled the streets, pools of light puddling in the intersections, shadow creeping back at the middle of the blocks, where the streetlights did not overlap. Distant music wound through the darkness, fits and snatches that she could almost weave into a tune. She tilted her head to one side to listen–she didn’t even quite recognize the instruments, except for the heavy bass and the thin whine of metal strings from a violo–and started when Roscha’s hand brushed her own.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Roscha said, in an affronted voice and Lioe shook her head.
“I’m sorry, you just startled me. That’s all.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Roscha looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said again, in an entirely different tone.
“It’s all right,” Lioe said, and did not move away when Roscha reached for her hand again. They walked on hand in hand, their footsteps echoing on the paving, and then Roscha pulled away again. Lioe bit back annoyance–she didn’t need this, not before a session–but said nothing. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’ll have to get over it on her own; I don’t have the time to nursemaid her. Then, in spite of herself, she gave a rueful smile. Why are my one‑night stands always more complicated than they should be?
Evening, Day 1
Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch
Palazze, Five Points
Damian Chrestil stood on the wide balcony that ran along the base of the palazze’s roof, watching the fireworks that bloomed over the Wet Districts and the Inland Water. Each burst drew a murmur of appreciation from the other guests, watching from the open doorways farther down the roof, but he enjoyed the annual display too much to share it. The bursts of red and gold flared like flowers, drowning the stars and the starlike lights of the distant buildings. He would rather have been watching from the Water itself, where the sky rained golden fire with each explosion, but Chrestillio had asked– and we all agreed, in some perverse fit of compliance–that they all attend the family’s party as a show of solidarity. Customs‑and‑Intelligence was still asking questions about the Demeter shipment, and it was important that they look as though they trusted each other, and weren’t worrying about anything. The fireworks slackened, the breathing space before the finale, and Damian glanced over his shoulder toward the guests who lined the balcony. About half of them were masked, all from the Five Points Families: the Old City did not mask, preferred more refined pastimes, but the real power had never needed refinement. Damian smiled at the thought, nodded to a thin woman– she was something in the bank, he thought–who lifted her glass to him, and looked away.
The finale caught them all by surprise, and there was a collective gasp as the first burst flowered into an enormous spray of red that turned to gold and then fell in streamers of light toward the distant Water. Another shell burst into a flare of purple brightening to pink, and then another, and another, so that the balls of light hung for a moment on a trail of gold fire like flowers on a stem. Even as they fell, dissolving into a shower of sparks, four more shells flew up, trailing thin lines of flame, exploded into flat sheets of light. From the Water, Damian knew, it would be as though the world were frozen for an instant by that crack of light, and he sighed for what he was missing.
In his pocket, the house remote buzzed softly, a tingling vibration against his thigh. He swore under his breath, and reached for it, cupping his fingers over the control points. The message vibrated against his hand: urgent message, come at once. He swore again, but the code was his highest priority. He glanced over his shoulder again, saw no one watching, and turned the remote to touch the control combination that released the gate to the outside stair. It was in shadow, and everyone’s attention would be on the finale for at least half an hour. He looked again toward the Water–red and green halos flared around a golden center–and made himself turn away.
The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze, with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past impassive human security to the third floor’s secondary hall. The corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away, let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the windows completely before he crossed to the control board and entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it.
In the screen, ji‑Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping somewhere out of sight. “Your plans are starting to unravel,” he said, without preamble.
Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him– how did I come to join forces with him?–said aloud, “Weren’t you able to get the codes?”
Ji‑Imbaoa waved away that question. “They are coming. There has been some trouble with the transmitter; I’ve had to go through the commercial links. But that is not the issue.”
“Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was the cause of this delay,” Damian said.
“The codes are on their way,” ji‑Imbaoa said again. “Do you doubt me?”
Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. “No. I don’t doubt they’ll get here.” Eventually.
“I accept the apology.”
It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an effort, and said, “Then, Na Speaker, what’s happened to upset you?”
“Ransome,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “He has concluded that the Game is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere.”
Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the port nets, and with Customs‑and‑Intelligence still asking questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too easy to track down what was really going on. Easy for Ransome, anyway. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji‑Imbaoa went on.
“I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don’t know how long it will last.”
“Good,” Damian said, and then considered. “What did you do?”
“The only thing I could do,” ji‑Imbaoa answered. “I have made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with the Game–I have wagered my name and my fathers’ that there will be something there for him to find. I trust that it’s so.”
Do I care about your fathers’ names? Damian ran his hand through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. “There are things for him to worry about, yes,” he said, “and I can arrange for him to find some more political material.” I think. If Cella can get time. “But under these circumstances, Na Speaker–let me put it plainly, if you don’t get me those codes, tonight or tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of us, money and prestige alike.”
“Let me remind you,” ji‑Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as still as Damian had ever seen them, “that you have significantly more to lose than I.”
“I’ve done all that I promised,” Damian answered, and left the rest unsaid.
“I’ll get you the codes,” ji‑Imbaoa said. “But you will have to keep Ransome busier.” He cut the connection before Damian could reply.
Damian swore at the blank screen, slapped the controls with more force than was really necessary. But ji‑Imbaoa was lord and master of Highhopes, and if the jericho‑human colony there was going to trade with Burning Bright without the interference of the brokers backed by the tzu Tsinraan, they had to work through ji‑Imbaoa. And ji‑Imbaoa had to get his share of the profits. The system shut itself off, and he stood for a moment staring at the sky beyond the long windows. The last shells made a curtain of fire, sheets of gold and red that frayed to long streamers against the invisible stars, but he bare
ly saw it, lost in calculations. If Ransome wasn’t distracted by the Game, his own security was probably inadequate: he paid well, employed the best experts, but Ransome was a superb netwalker in his own right, and he knew too many people within the systems. If he couldn’t crack the security wall himself, he would know someone who could give or sell him the keys. Damian tapped his fingers against the case, winced at the echo of ji‑Imbaoa’s gesture. He’d increase security– it’s a good thing I thought to organize a blockade of the port feed already, but I’ll have to do something more. And I can’t transfer the lachesi to the transshipment group without those codes. Still, it would be better if Ransome stayed in the Game.
The door chime sounded then, and the remote buzzed gently against his thigh. He frowned– no one should know I’m here–and touched the code that threw the security feed onto the small display. Cella was waiting in the hall, demure in a sheer overdress. Damian’s frown deepened, and he touched the controls that released the lock.
“They’re starting to wonder where you are,” Cella said, without preamble.
“Damn them,” Damian said, and then, “Which them, anyway?”
“Your siblings, mostly,” Cella answered, and Damian made a face.
“I’d better go up, then.”
“I do need to talk to you,” Cella said.
Damian Chrestil looked at her. “I hope it’s good news. I’ve not been having a pleasant evening.”
Cella smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not.”
Damian sighed. “Well?”
“I suppose it’s good and bad, at that. I stopped in at Shadows before I came here. Lioe–Ransome’s pilot–is running a session tonight, and I wanted to look over the play list. The good news is that Ambidexter himself is back in the Game–he’s even playing Harmsway–but the bad news is that Kichi Desjourdy’s also part of the session. And as best I can discover, it was Lioe herself who asked her to play.”
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