The Snow Queen

by Joan D. Vinge

  “Fate doesn’t know how to reach him.” Moon saw his head come up. “But she told me about somebody who might: Her name is—; Persiponë; she runs a casino.”

  She thought he was disappointed. But he nodded. “Right. I know the place. Uptown, one of the biggest. We’ll try it next.” He glanced toward the spidery stairway that helixed to the upper floors, and to the room that had been theirs for a night. “Just let me ... get my coat.”

  - 39 -

  “Hi there ... hello, sexy ... welcome to hell, big spender ...”

  Tor leaned languidly against a pillar, greeting the faceless mob that poured through the wall of tinkling mirrors with soulless monotony. She bit down on a yawn, her mouth crinkling with the effort, trying to keep her makeup intact. They had just reopened after being closed for a few hours of rest and recovery, and they would not be closed again until the night of masks was over and the day of Change had come. She had been gulping uppers until they barely gave her a jolt, and her flower-lidded eyes were ready to sink into her skull. Like somebody about to begin a life of unwilling asceticism, the Festival crowd was insatiable in all its appetites, and the Source wanted them squeezed to the last drop.

  And whatever the Source wanted, she meant to give him. He had touched the bureaucratic mountain of permission forms with his omnipotent, distorted finger, and it had melted into an unobstructed plain: He had given his blessing for her marriage to Oyarzabal, her escape from this world before the off worlders slammed the lid on Winter’s coffin and nailed it down tight. In just a few more interminable hours, this casino would close forever—well, forever as far as she was concerned. It struck her that she was going to miss this place, and that surprised her. But this casino had been filled with people who lived, people who weren’t afraid to take chances, people from a collection of worlds so diverse she could barely begin to fathom them; worlds she wanted to get her hands on, and would, thanks to Oyarzabal and the Source.

  She experienced a moment of fleeting doubt at the thought that she would actually be Oyarzabal’s wife. The off worlders legal marriage seemed as heavy and ugly as a length of chain. To be chained to Oyarzabal forever ... Oyarzabal, who was in lust with Per sip one not Tor Starhiker. Would she have to wear this damned wig, this painted, phony shell, forever, until it became the reality? Oh, the hell with it. If she got sick of Oyarzabal she could lose him fast enough: Chains were made to be broken. “... You look like a real winner ... hello there—” She stopped in mid-drone, her mouth hanging. “Your Majesty?”

  The white-braided girl in a nomad’s tunic looked at her in strange confusion, and the look was enough to convince her that she was wrong. But the girl stayed put in front of her, oblivious to the crowd’s jostling as it eddied past. “Are you Persiponë?”

  She smiled garishly. “Only a cheap imitation, kid. But by the gods, you’re a high-priced copy of the Queen.”

  “I ... uh—” The girl didn’t seem very flattered at the comparison. “Fate sent me.”

  Tor laughed nervously. “Gods, I hope not ... Oh! You mean Fate Ravenglass?”

  The girl nodded. “My name is Moon Dawntreader. She said you know my cousin Sparks.”

  “Sparks! Yeah, I certainly do.” She felt an irrational relief rush I her, pushed away from the pillar. Hell and devils, I’m way too high tonight. “Come on, let’s get out of the stampede.” She realized for the first time that the girl wasn’t alone; a scarecrow Kharemoughi stood behind her like a shadow, wearing a Blue’s jacket with inspector’s insignia. Her heart leaped into her throat, irrationally again, before she saw that the rest of him was strictly nonregulation, saw the stains on his jacket front. The stains looked like dried blood. The possibility did not reassure her. Don’t ask; just don’t ask. She pointed, led them on through the casino. Moon Dawntreader gawked like a rube at the game effects drifting through her in the air, at the astounding extremes of clothing and the extremes of behavior that went with them; at the blaring, mind-battering totality of a gambling hell being experienced by a virgin soul. She heard the girl’s half-shout thinned by the throbbing music: “Look at us!” They were passing through the spillover of a hologrammic Black Gate, engulfed in flaming flotsam. “I never saw anything like this on Kharemough, not even in the Thieves’ Market!”

  Tor looked back in surprise; the fallen Blue said, feelingly, “And you never will!” Tor shook her head and went on.

  She led them through into the dim, gossamer-draped hallway where the prostitutes took their clients—the quietest, most private place she could think of offhand. Looking fruitlessly for an unoccupied room, she saw that Herne had still not come out of his own room and gone on duty at the bar. She pounded on his door with the flat of her hand. “Hey, beautiful, your fans are waiting for you! Let’s go!”

  The door opened. Herne’s corroding pretty-boy face glared at her and past her with undifferentiated loathing. “Why don’t you take a—” His gaze landed on Moon; his expression changed and changed and changed again. “My gods!” The final change was pure fury. “What are you doing here? You bitch, you goddamn back-stabbing bitch! I knew you’d come someday—you couldn’t enjoy destroying me unless you saw it for yourself—”

  “Herne!” Tor blocked him as he would have gone for the girl. “What the hell’s wrong with you, are you sky wheeling She’s a total stranger.”

  “You think I don’t know Arienrhod when I see her? I know your Snow Queen, I slept with her for years! Didn’t I, you white whore?”

  “I’m not the Queen,” Moon said feebly.

  “She’s not, Herne!” Tor cut him off before he could start again. “Shut up and use your bloodshot eyes, you jerk. She’s only a Summer, come looking for her cousin. You never saw her before; and I bet my life you never saw the Queen, either, let alone laid her. She’s got better taste.”

  “What do you know about it?” Herne said. “You don’t know a damn thing about her, or me!” He straightened up against the door frame, smoothed the wrinkles out of his garish over shirt trying to stand with some dignity. “I was Starbuck—until she sold me out for that weakling, Dawntreader.”

  “Dawntreader!” Tor gaped at Herne. “I don’t believe it!” That punk extortionist—had he been bleeding information out of her for five years to stay in good with the Snow Queen? Was it possible? Was it possible Herne wasn’t lying about himself, either; had Dawntreader been using her just to use him? She rubbed her face, dislodging a sequin, smearing the tendrils painted on her cheek.

  “Sparks Dawntreader is my cousin,” Moon said, ignoring Herne’s fierce scrutiny. “I know he’s become Starbuck; I want to find him before it’s too late.”

  “Your cousin?” Herne frowned, ignoring the rest. “Yeah ... there’s something about you: You disappeared ...” He scratched his side, as if he could scratch the memory loose. The drugs he used for the boredom and pain were turning his brain soft. “And you’re like her.” His eyes held hungry demons. “Just like her.”

  “Don’t waste your breath on that drug-soaked liar,” the renegade Blue said impatiently. “He’s insane. No Kharemoughi lowborn has enough talent to make himself Starbuck.”

  Herne seemed to notice him for the first time, stared at him while an ugly grin spread wider. “I remember the day I taught you how to kneel to your betters at the Queen’s court, Blue.” The other man jerked with recognition. “You were too good for her, for me, then, weren’t you, Gundhalinu-mekru? And look at you now!” He waved a hand at the Blue’s disreputable clothing. “You must have been crawling on your belly, mekritto. You’re not fit to speak to me!”

  The Blue struggled to keep the words in, but they got past him. “I’m still a better man than you’ll ever be, you dung heap bastard!”

  “You’re still a bigger ass. Thank the gods for that!” Herne spat, just as the next door down the hall opened.

  “Hey, watch it!” The prostitute led her aggrieved client past them quickly, glaring.

  “Well, are you going to get to work, or not?” To
r put her hands on her hips, feeling them slide on the silky cloth of her body wrap adding her own withering stare.

  “Not. Not till I hear more about this.” He bent his head at Moon. “Why Arienrhod’s double has come looking for Arienrhod’s lover.” He backed clumsily into his room, a travesty of gracious invitation. Tor followed with the others.

  She had never seen the inside of his room before, and she had the feeling that she still wasn’t seeing it. The room held a bed and a storage cupboard, like any other room on this hall, and that was all. A few dirty clothes thrown into a corner, nothing more. No picture on the wall, no books or tapes, no radio or threedy It was a room for a night—worse, a prison cell. Herne collapsed onto the bed, his steel-wrapped legs protruding. No one made a move to join him there; Moon and Gundhalinu looked at his legs while trying not to. “So what do you want with Sparks Dawntreader after so long, pretty cousin?”

  “We’re pledged.” Moon faced down the dark insinuation in his eyes. “I love him. I don’t want him to die.”

  Herne laughed. “Oh, yeah. Arienrhod found his vows of faithfulness a real challenge; you ought to be proud. But she always gets what she wants in the end. How about you?”

  Moon stiffened, clutching her belt. “I’ll get my way. But I have to find him first. Fate said maybe you’d know how—” She turned back to Tor.

  Tor shrugged, apologetic. “You just missed him; he came to see the Source.” And I wondered why. Why would Starbuck come? Why would the Queen ... ?

  “Her plot gets thicker and thicker.” Herne grinned obscurely.

  And he knew Sparks was Starbuck ... Tor frowned inside her thoughts. What else does he know that he never told me?

  “What do you mean, I just missed him?”

  She refocused on Moon’s frustrated face. “He came from the palace with a message, about an hour ago.”

  “And he left again with a couple of Blues on his tail,” Herne said smugly.

  “What?” Tor raised her silver-dusted eyebrows.

  “The Commander,” Gundhalinu said. “She must have put out an alert on him, now that she knows who he is.”

  “What happened to him?” Moon’s fists twisted the painted belt leather. “Did they catch him?”

  Herne grunted, amused. “Hah. Those suckers couldn’t catch cold,” for Gundhalinu. “He got away into the crowd. But if he’s a smart boy he’ll stick to the palace where Arienrhod can protect him from now until the Change.”

  “He can’t! He can’t do that ... Damn her!”

  Tor saw the Blue try to comfort Moon, saw her twitch his arm off her shoulders, and the look on his face. Herne saw it, too, and smiled. Skeptical, Tor said, “Listen, if you were so devoted to him, kid, why did it take you five years to get around to this in the first place?”

  “It hasn’t been years, just months!” Moon shut her eyes, head back. “Why couldn’t it have been the other way around? Why does it just keep getting harder?”

  “Because you’re approaching Arienrhod,” Herne muttered, “and she’s the speed of light.”

  “She was kidnapped off world by smugglers five years ago,” Gundhalinu ran over Herne’s words irritably. “She just got back.

  She nearly died trying to get to Carbuncle to find him. Is that devoted enough for you?”

  Tor quirked her mouth, softening against her will. “It seems to be good enough for you, off worlder You poor lovesick bleeder. “And good enough for Fate. But she’s going to have to go to the palace if she wants to find him now.”

  “She can’t,” Gundhalinu said.

  “Why not?” Moon looked at him. “I can slip into the palace and find him. If that’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.” Her eyes changed, grew dim and unseeing, as though she were having a seizure; when they cleared again resolution glittered. “It’s right—I will go there! I have to. I’m not afraid of Arienrhod.”

  “And why should you be?” Herne stared at her, not really seeing her but something else.

  “Shut up, pervert! I’ll tell you why.” Gundhalinu caught Moon’s arm. “Because Arienrhod—because she ... because she’s—dangerous,” stupidly. Tor wondered, and Moon half-frowned. “She’s got guards all over the palace, and if she caught you trying to come between her and Starbuck ... damn it, shed stop you! How the hell are you even going to find him, you can’t just go asking who’s seen him!”

  “Why can’t she?” Herne grinned, hell’s advocate. “She’s got the best disguise anybody could ask for—Arienrhod’s face. She can do anything, and nobody’ll question it.”

  “What about the real Queen?” Tor said.

  “She’ll be entertaining the high lords of the Hedge, if you time it right. And I’ve got the thing that’ll make you perfect in the part.”

  “What is it?” Moon moved forward, bright with hope. Gundhalinu looked knives over her shoulder.

  But Herne’s gaze never left her; it moved slowly down her body and rose again to her face. Tor felt the static charge building between opposite poles inside him. “Spend an hour alone with me, Arienrhod, and it’s yours.”

  Moon paled into an alabaster statue. Gundhalinu’s freckles turned scarlet with outrage.

  “What are you going to do, Starbuck?” Tor jabbed vindictively. “Teach her how to play cards?”

  Herne’s head swung toward her. When she saw what had happened to his face, she came closer to pitying him than she had ever come. “For gods’ sakes, Herne—don’t be a crud, for once in your life! Do something to prove you’ve got a right to be alive.”

  Herne’s upper body quivered with pent emotion; but she saw it drain away, and he looked back at Moon again. “In there.” He pointed at the storage cupboard. “Open it.”

  Moon went to the cupboard and pulled open the door. Tor saw clothes, and drugs, and half-empty bottles, and one shelf that was entirely empty except for a small black object.

  “That’s it. Bring it here.”

  Moon took it to him, handed it over, keeping her distance. He held it in the palm of his hand almost as if it were alive, stroking its surfaces with uncertain fingers. He touched a colored key, and then another, and another. Three changing notes sounded, loud in the cramped room’s silence.

  “What does it control?” Gundhalinu asked.

  “The wind.” Herne looked up at them all with defiant pride. “In the Hall of the Winds at Arienrhod’s palace. She has the only other one of these there is now. You’ll be able to get into the heart of the palace this way without anybody suspecting anything,” watching Moon again. “I’ll teach you how to use it, and where to look for Starbuck.”

  “In return for what?” Moon’s hands closed over the desire to hold the box again, but her face was set for refusal.

  Herne’s mouth twisted. “No strings. It’s yours by right ... and when could I ever refuse you anything you wanted? Or give you anything you wouldn’t have, no matter how hard I tried ...”

  Gods, he really thinks it’s the Queen. Tor shook her head.

  But a trace of sympathy crept into the mock-Queen’s eyes, and she said quietly, “If there’s ever—anything else I can give you ...”

  Herne glanced down at his atrophying legs. “No human being can give me that.”

  “Well, look, if you’re going to the palace you can’t go looking like a refugee.” Tor pointed. “Come with me, I’ll find you some royal rags, or at least something that’ll cover up those.”

  “Moon, you can’t go to the palace! I forbid it.” Gundhalinu blocked her way as she turned, desperately officious.

  “BZ, I have to. I have to,” undaunted.

  “You’re wasting your time; you’re risking your—soul, if you go there. He’s gone rotten, let him go, forget about him!” Gundhalinu held out his hands to her. “Just this once listen to me! You’re obsessed by a dream, a nightmare—wake up, for gods’ sakes! Believe me, I’m not asking this out of selfishness, Moon. You’re all I care about; your safety ...”

  She shook her head, looking away. “
Don’t try to stop me, BZ. Bell cause you can’t.” She went past him, and he made no move to hold it her. Tor led her out of the room.

  Gundhalinu stood looking after her, sealing his coat against a sudden chill; feeling Herne’s eyes boring into his skull, with no strength to turn back and face them.

  “You know the truth about her, don’t you?” Herne’s voice pulled at him. “You know they’re the same, Arienrhod and her.”

  “They’re not the same!” Gundhalinu turned back, stung by his f own guilty knowledge.

  Herne smiled, believing the answer his eyes gave away. “That’s what I figured. She’s the Queen’s clone, it’s the only thing she could be”

  “Are you sure?” He asked the question compulsively, not wanting to, not even meaning to.

  Herne shrugged. “Arienrhod’s the only one who’s sure. But I’m sure enough. It’s not her daughter—she never misses taking the water of life. And she'd never let a man get that hold on her.”

  “It makes you—sterile?” Gundhalinu blinked, taken by surprise.

  “While you use it ... maybe forever, after a hundred and fifty years. Who knows? That’s a joke, isn’t it? It makes you slow to heal, too. It’s even killed a few people.” Herne chuckled, pleased at the idea. “Makes some people go a little crazy too, “personality distortion’ or some crap like that. That’s what the whiners claim, anyhow—the have-nots. It’s the power that warps you, not the drug. How’s it feel to be a have-not, Gundhalinu-eshkrad?”

  Gundhalinu ignored him, an image of Sparks Dawntreader in a helmet of spines suddenly blotting out his sight. He started forward. “Give me the control box, Herne. You aren’t sending Moon into that snakepit

  Herne moved slightly, and there was a stunner in his hand. “Hold it, Blue. Suppose you just stand up against the wall, unless you really want what you’re asking for.”