by Laura Powell
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2009 by Laura Powell
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in paperback in Great Britain, by Orchard Books, a division of Hachette Children’s Books, a Hachette Livre UK Company, London, in 2009.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Powell, Laura.
The game of triumphs/Laura Powell.—1st American ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Cat and three other London teens are drawn into a dangerous game in which Tarot cards open doorways into a different dimension, and while there is everything to win, losing can be fatal.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89774-0
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Role playing—Fiction. 3. Games—Fiction. 4. Tarot—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6. England—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P87757Gam 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010021813
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
In memory of my grandfathers:
William Vaughan Wilkins (1890–1959)
Newby Odell Brantly (1905–1993)
The Wheel of Fortune turns,
I go down, demeaned;
Another is raised up;
Far too proud
Sits the king at the summit —
Let him fear ruin!
For under the axis we read
That Hecuba is queen.
From the Burana Codex, circa 1230
In every bet, there is a fool and a thief.
Chinese proverb
CARDS PLAYED IN THE GAME OF TRIUMPHS
The Greater Arcana
(Triumph Cards and Their Prizes)
Victory Fame
Beauty Inspiration
Health Destruction
Hedonism Reconciliation
Death Sacrifice
Strength can be played to win a new card
Time Justice
Heroism Love
Wisdom Leadership
Wealth Prophecy
Charisma represents chancers in the Game
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Cards Played in the Game of Triumphs
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
The Lesser Arcana
(Court Cards)
King/Queen of Cups
Knight of Cups
Knave of Cups
Ace of Cups Root of Water
Two of Cups Reign of Love
Three of Cups Reign of Abundance
Four of Cups Reign of Blended Pleasure
Five of Cups Reign of Lost Pleasure
Six of Cups Reign of Past Pleasure
Seven of Cups Reign of Illusionary Success
Eight of Cups Reign of Abandoned Success
Nine of Cups Reign of Material Happiness
Ten of Cups Reign of Perfected Success
King/Queen of Pentacles
Knight of Pentacles
Knave of Pentacles
Ace of Pentacles Root of Earth
Two of Pentacles Reign of Change
Three of Pentacles Reign of Material Works
Four of Pentacles Reign of Possession
Five of Pentacles Reign of Material Trouble
Six of Pentacles Reign of Material Success
Seven of Pentacles Reign of Success Unfulfilled
Eight of Pentacles Reign of Prudence
Nine of Pentacles Reign of Sheltered Luxury
Ten of Pentacles Reign of Wealth
King/Queen of Swords
Knight of Swords
Knave of Swords
Ace of Swords Root of Air
Two of Swords Reign of Peace Restored
Three of Swords Reign of Sorrow
Four of Swords Reign of Rest from Strife
Five of Swords Reign of Defeat
Six of Swords Reign of Earned Success
Seven of Swords Reign of Futility
Eight of Swords Reign of Shortened Force
Nine of Swords Reign of Despair
Ten of Swords Reign of Ruin
King/Queen of Wands
Knight of Wands
Knave of Wands
Ace of Wands Root of Fire
Two of Wands Reign of Dominion
Three of Wands Reign of Established Strength
Four of Wands Reign of Perfected Work
Five of Wands Reign of Strife
Six of Wands Reign of Victory
Seven of Wands Reign of Valor
Eight of Wands Reign of Swiftness
Nine of Wands Reign of Great Strength
Ten of Wands Reign of Oppression
IT WAS HIS BREATHING that she noticed first: the hoarse, ragged wheezing of someone who has been running hard. Which was odd, as the crowd hadn’t moved more than five paces in the last ten minutes. Two escalators were down at the Piccadilly Circus Tube station, and at half past nine on a Friday night, the station was at a rowdy, jostling standstill.
“Oi, mate, shoving won’t get you nowhere, all right?” said a woman ahead as they moved another inch toward the foot of the motionless escalator. The man slid his eyes toward Cat, as if in appeal, but she had her London face ready—blank and impenetrable. He was just a nondescript middle-aged guy in a suit, but that didn’t mean anything. You met all sorts of nut jobs on the Tube. “Please,” he wheezed to no one in particular. “Please.” He closed his eyes and she caught the scent of his sweat. Must be claustrophobic, she decided.
At last they shuffled onto the escalator, their pace gaining momentum as people spilled off it toward the ticket barriers. With a whimper of relief, Heavy Breather pushed past her and was gone. She would have soon forgotten him if it hadn’t been for a snatch of conversation she overheard a few minutes later. Two men and a woman, in dark clothes, lean and purposeful, had come out of the east exit. “He must have gone this way,” said the woman. “It won’t take long,” said one of her companions. They set off up Regent Street, weaving through the crowds with practiced ease.
They’re after that man, Cat thought, and though it was just a hunch, somehow she knew it was true. Perhaps he was a criminal, or perhaps his pursuers were.
It had nothing to do with her.
Cat went down Shaftesbury Avenue, turning left at Great Windmill Street and into Soho. Five minutes later she was letting herself into the flat. It was, as usual, dark and
empty, although Bel had left a note on the kitchen table. Bel worked as a croupier at the local casino, which sounded a lot more glamorous than it was. From the kitchen window, Cat could look across the street to the windows of the gaming floor, blacked out so that gamblers would lose track of time. A neon sign fizzed below: Palais Luxe, it said, in acid pink. Palace de Crud, said Bel.
Bel was Cat’s mum’s sister, though she had never called her Auntie, and certainly not Aunt. She was always just Bel, like the owner of a saloon bar in some corny old Western. She looked the part, too, with her big red mouth and big red hair and a confident swagger. She’d only been nineteen when her elder sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car crash, leaving behind a child of three, but Bel hadn’t hesitated. Cat was fifteen now and more Bel’s than ever. Theirs was a partnership against the world.
“Mind—you’ll always be an orphan,” she’d say, squinting at Cat shrewdly, “and don’t you forget it. People like a bit of tragedy. Adds color.” When Cat was younger, Bel wasn’t above improving on this “color.” Her eyes would moisten, bosom heave, and she’d be off: “Struck dumb for a whole year afterward, poor mite. Even now, she’ll wake screaming in the night—doctors say she’ll never get over it.…” This was Cat’s cue to look frail and interesting.
All sorts of useful things followed, from hefty discounts to extra helpings.
Bel wasn’t truly feckless, though, just footloose. They’d moved three times in the last five years, much more before that, keeping to small to middling-sized places, where it was possible for Bel to make the most of herself, and for Cat to stay in the background as she preferred. Then Bel met Greg. Greg, who told her he worked in a big London club and had a loft they could rent in the West End. “A third-rate casino, more like,” she reported the night she got back from checking it out, “and a tiny Soho flat. But I tell you what, puss-cat, London’s a town where anything could happen.” Three weeks later they were there.
So perhaps Bel was a romantic; perhaps London was the destination she’d been rehearsing all those other arrivals for. Her big adventure. It might have been the same for Cat. Her eyes were as cool and watchful as Bel’s, her mouth just as stubborn. But in London, Cat’s self-sufficiency had deserted her. There was just too much, of everything, always shifting and changing, everything for sale or rent or served hot. Even being invisible here was exhausting.
As autumn turned to winter, she headed for the Underground, where she sat tight on the Circle line, going round and round. There was no need to think or move in the endless looping tunnels. It felt like she was keeping the city at bay at last. Tonight it had taken three circuits before she changed lines for home, and that was only because she needed to pee.
Cat scowled at her reflection in the window above the sink. Thin, pale face; ragged black hair. “Nothing but a poor orphan child!” she mocked aloud, using Bel’s voice. A poor, starving orphan, she amended. Overcome by a craving for comfort food—salty fish and chips, noodles swimming in soy sauce—she went out again.
It was still early in Soho terms: the Christmas lights sparkling, swarms of people cruising from pub to club—merry, mostly, not yet at the puking or brawling stage. Cat decided on noodles from the Vietnamese place she liked, and ducked down the little alley that led to Golden Square. She was just at the corner when she felt someone take hold of her arm. “Please,” said a voice, very softly.
She tensed: ready to scream, to kick, to run. The place must be bristling with CCTV cameras—there were a couple of guys chatting only a few feet away—a girl on her cell at the corner—if she could just—“Please forgive the imposition,” said her would-be assailant, his voice trembling as he withdrew his hand. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.” It was the heavy-breathing businessman from the Tube.
Cat relaxed slightly, although every nerve was on alert. “What d’you want?”
“I need help.” His eyes were darting from side to side, his face clammy. “There—there are people after me.”
It was as if she’d walked onto the set of some cheesy detective film, though she was finding it hard to cast this man as a fugitive criminal. He looked too ordinary for that: middle-aged, middle class, middle management. Still, she was wary. “You’re being followed?” she asked, as noncommittally as possible.
“Yes, yes, that’s right. Ten of Swords, you see. I think I gave them the slip at Argyll Street, but it won’t be long now.” He licked his lips nervously and gave her an odd sort of half smile.
“If you’re in trouble, try the police.”
“Oh no,” he said, frowning slightly. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s against Game rules.”
“Game?” God, there were some wackos around. Ten to one it was some kinky Soho sex thing. “Well, have fun then.” She turned to go.
“No, wait. Please.” He put out a hand to stop her, his expression crafty. “If you were to stay with me, Swords would have to back off. Bystanders can’t engage in play, you see.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you—”
“Just for a while,” he wheedled, grabbing at her arm. “Just to give me some time—one last chance—” His whole body was shaking, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Fear, yes, but also excitement, and a kind of greed. She swore, and shook him off.
His face hardened into a snarl; then he turned and disappeared up the alley. And good riddance, thought Cat. But as she turned to go, three people appeared at the top of the street. Two men and a woman, dark and purposeful. They moved swiftly, and would have gone past the alley if Cat hadn’t caught the woman’s eye. “If you’re looking for a running man,” she said, “he went up that way.” Serve him right for creeping her out.
The three of them stopped dead in their tracks and turned their gaze on her. Under their cold scrutiny Cat felt sudden misgivings. But it was too late now. The woman gave a terse nod, and before Cat knew what was happening, they swept past her up the alley.
Crazy way to spend a Friday night, she thought, looking after them. Something on the pavement drew her eye—a postcard or flyer that the man must have dropped. It appeared to be a playing card, though not from any game Cat was familiar with. One side was patterned with interlocking circles or wheels; on the other was a picture of a fallen figure in a barren landscape, a cluster of swords stuck in his back. There was red blood and black clouds, and the top of the card was marked with an X.
A game, the man had said, just a game.… But Cat’s misgivings increased. Not quite knowing what she was doing or why, she doubled back up the alley. She didn’t really believe she would find them in the Friday-night bustle, but then she saw one of the men whisk around a corner and found herself jogging to catch up.
They were in the heart of Soho now, a maze of narrow streets heaving with people, and the hunt—if a hunt it was—was zigzagging through the crowds. At one point Cat thought she had lost them, but then she saw the woman’s head in profile, eyes scanning the street, before she turned right and disappeared.
When Cat reached the turning point, she found herself at a dead end, a little courtyard crowded with trash bags and empty beer crates. It was the back entrance to a pub. The others would have gone straight through and out onto the street again. Or maybe this was home base and they were downing pints at the bar by now, adding up their points and penalties or whatever it was.
Yet this cozy vision didn’t quite convince. A creepy playing card was one thing, but there was something about the way those three people had looked at her—so cold and resolute—that felt wrong. As Bel always said, Don’t go looking for trouble, else trouble comes looking for you. But perhaps because Cat was tired of these empty weeks, of feeling so damn lost, she decided that now was the moment to get a grip and make a move. She walked past the trash bags and through the door.
Inside, there was a dark passageway ending in a door to the bar, and a narrow set of stairs to the right. Although she could hear the bar crowd through the frosted glass of the door, the handle wouldn’t open. Locked. But th
ose people must have come in here. Her stomach let out a growl of hunger, or it might have been nerves. She gave herself a shake, then turned and began to climb the stairs. At the top was another door, with a ragged sort of circle scratched into the wood. Cat hung back for a moment, then opened it and walked in.
She was in a room that looked halfway between some sort of fancy, members-only club and a caretaker’s closet. There was a stack of paint cans and a battered filing cabinet in one corner, with a small TV on top showing nothing but static. The walls were paneled with wood, badly scuffed, but an old-fashioned oil lamp was glowing on the windowsill, and the carpet beneath her feet felt thick and rich. In the center of the room, four people were seated around a table covered in green felt, playing a game of cards. They all looked up at her entrance, but not in an outraged sort of way. They didn’t even seem that surprised. “Ah,” said one of the ladies, arching her brow. There was an expectant silence.
Cat knew that she should begin with an apology or excuse of some sort: “I don’t mean to interrupt but …” or “I’m sorry to intrude …” Instead, she stepped forward holding out the crumpled card. “There was a man,” she said, “a man I followed here. I think he’s in some sort of trouble. Do you—have you—” She ground to a halt.
The man sitting nearest to her got up in one graceful movement, came across and took the card. Glancing at it—the blood, the swords, the lowering storm—he gave her a quizzical smile. “Trouble? Yes, I should think he is.” He looked to be in his late twenties, tousle-haired, with a boyishly sophisticated face and sleepy eyes.
Cat tried again. “He asked for help. Some people were after him. I … I followed them here.” She found she didn’t want to admit that it was she who had set them on his trail. And even as she spoke, she felt the absurdity of her words—the only intruder in the room was her.