The Master Of Misrule Part 16

Blaine frowned. "I've got an idea the Triumph of the Emperor has an eagle on it but I don't have the card. How about you?"

"Nope. Nor the one with a woman taming a lion. The Triumph of Strength, I think it is. Toby or Flora must have those two. But my Four of Swords has got a knight's statue on a gravestone. He could be our man."

"It's a start."

"And you know what?" Cat added. "There mightn't be a bull on any of the cards but there is one loose in the Arcanum. Or half of one, at any rate. The Minotaur."

"I thought you drowned him."

"The High Priestess didn't think so; she seemed pretty sure he's wandering around the Arcanum, just like her. It must be because of Misrule messing with the Game-the boundaries between moves are breaking down."

Blaine flipped through the stack of cards he'd drawn up with his amulet. "Um ... OK ... How about trying the Six of Wands, then? There're no animals on it but the ill.u.s.tration is of a triumphal procession. And our bull is meant to be led in triumph, right?"

They exchanged tentative smiles. It felt good to be working out the prophecy together, as if it was merely a puzzle or a crossword clue. Something abstract and manageable.

"So d'you want to start with trying to find the man or the bull?" Cat asked. "My Four of Swords or your Six of Wands?"

"If the High Priestess is looking for the Minotaur, too, it might be a good idea to get him out of the way first."

"Fair enough." Cat dropped a mock curtsy. "Lead on, Your Majesty."

Blaine grinned, and rolled the die. A new threshold, another move.

The Six of Wands took them into the middle of a carnival. The pavements were packed with people cheering a street parade as the sun blazed and a succession of floats trundled past to the oompah-pah of a marching band.

After the traumas of fire and mud, the party atmosphere should have been a relief, but Blaine and Cat found it overwhelming. All the noises were blaring and all the colors were gaudy, from the holiday clothes of the crowd to the garish floats and the town houses painted in vibrant pinks and yellows and blues. Every building was decked with bunting bearing the image of wands, and there was a hot, sharp smell of frying meat, exhaust fumes and burned sugar. Someone presented Cat with a stick of cotton candy and Blaine with a bottle of soda; somebody else placed cardboard crowns on their heads.

The carnival displays were on the backs of trucks or on platforms towed by cars, with a few on horse-drawn wagons. The floats were adorned with figures from the Greater Arcana, though the triumphs had never looked so cheerful. Death was a prop from a Halloween party, his plastic skeleton face grinning atop a rocking horse. The Lovers were two naked shop mannequins decorated with felt fig leaves; the Fool was a red-nosed clown; the Tower, a pink papier-mache version of a Disney castle.

"Look!" Cat grabbed Blaine's arm.

This time, the oracle hadn't failed them. There was the Minotaur, following the High Priestess's float. The mutant was in a narrow cage on a trolley, pulled along by chains attached to his horns and held by three soldiers in ceremonial uniform. Behind them marched a troop of baton-twirling cheerleaders.

His body was the same exaggerated hulk that Cat remembered. Yet the Minotaur's huge, s.h.a.ggy head was bowed, his eyes were glazed and he made no attempt to break out of his prison. The spectators certainly showed no fear at his presence. As the cage trundled past, people threw confetti and flowers, women blew kisses and men cheered.

Blaine attempted to force his way through the throng, moving parallel to the parade. "Keep up-we mustn't lose him."

Working their way along the tightly packed pavement proved impossible; the best they could do was to push their way to the barricades at the front. Blaine helped Cat scramble over the makeshift railings, and together they ran to join the procession. The floats were moving at such a slow pace that it was easy enough to swing up onto the nearest vehicle.

It was the Chariot: a red Christmas sleigh drawn by white fibergla.s.s reindeer, with just enough room for two on the seat. They had forgotten they were still wearing the cardboard crowns, but as the spectators applauded and whistled and showered them with chocolate coins, it seemed the least they could do was give a regal wave or two. They ate some of the chocolate, pa.s.sed the soda bottle between them and grinned.

As the sun shone, the cheerleaders pranced and the music played, the Eight of Cups seemed as insubstantial as its mists. A stream of rainbow bubbles bounced in the air. But the horned bulk of the Minotaur loomed ahead, a dark stain on the brightness.

The procession wound its way to an oval arena whose tiers of benches were buzzing with more spectators. The arena itself was just a plain, sandy s.p.a.ce, about the size of two tennis courts, its railings decked with balloons and flags. A man in a white suit and chains of office was standing on a platform to the right of the entrance gates. His grin was even shinier than his suit, and he was flanked by two beauty queens in prom dresses and tiaras. A large plasma screen had been erected above.

The carnival procession forked at the entrance and proceeded to encircle the arena. When they saw that the Minotaur and his entourage had come to a halt in front of the gates, Cat and Blaine took the opportunity to get down from the float and draw near to the entrance themselves.

A drum rolled, and the mayor's voice echoed confidently around the gathering.

"Welcome, one and all, to our city's carnival day. What a parade, and what a spectacle it's been!"

The crowd whooped its a.s.sent.

"And now is the moment we've been waiting for. Friends and citizens, honored guests, we must solemnize as well as celebrate our festivities. It is time to make the final offering at our Triumph Games. Let us hail the sacrifice!"

The Minotaur's image was beamed on the plasma screen overhead, almost as large as life, as a little girl in a pink fairy costume skipped up to the stage. She was carrying a double-headed ax, which she presented to the mayor with a curtsy. He brandished it on high, and the blade winked in the sun.

Meanwhile, the Minotaur's escorts had unlocked the cage and opened the gates, prodding their prisoner through with long poles, so that he shambled into the center of the arena. Released from their chains, his curved horns were as brutally sharp as ever. But Cat remembered his face before he had made the change from man to monster-how his eyes had been human, and anguished.

"Blaine, I get that we're supposed to be making a sacrifice of some sort, but ... the ax ... this arena ... It feels wrong. Messed up. What if we've made a mistake? The Minotaur isn't a proper bull, after all."

"I know. Still, we're not committed to anything, not yet. We'll just have to play along and see what happens."

There was no chance to talk further, for the mayor himself had turned to them, beaming and beckoning.

"Welcome, my friends. Come on, come on, don't be shy!"

Before they knew it, they had been ushered onto the platform and found themselves standing on either side of the mayor. "A big hand, please," he cried, "for the latest players in our Triumph Games!"

The crowd yelled its approval. The little girl in the fairy costume skipped and smirked. Under cover of the noise, Cat leaned toward the mayor's ear, trying to be discreet. "Um ... We're here for the Minotaur."

"Well, of course you are! He's waiting for you now." The mayor's grin flashed brilliantly around the screen. "All you have to do is fetch him."

He signaled to one of the beauty queens, who stepped forward to present Cat with a battered leather collar set with six iron studs in the shape of wands.

"Just slip it over the beast's head, and he'll be good as gold," the man told them. "A lamb to the slaughter, one might say! No need to look so anxious," he added, patting Cat on the arm. "We'll ensure you're well equipped."

"With the, er, ax?"

"Good Lord no! It's only used for ceremonial purposes."

At this, another girl handed Blaine a metal rod, about three feet long, with a rubber handle at one end and two metal p.r.o.ngs at the tip.

Blaine looked at it disbelievingly. "That's it? A cattle prod?"

"Ah, but it's two against one." The mayor clapped him on the back jovially. "It wouldn't do to skew the odds too far in your favor. Now then, best of luck, and put on a good show, won't you? We're all counting on it!"

He grabbed them by the hand and swung their arms up in salute as the audience roared with approval. This time, it was their own image filling the plasma screen.

Since there was nothing else for it, the two of them went to stand by the gates to the arena, accompanied by a fanfare from the band and a frenzy of flag waving from the spectators.

"The Minotaur's not acting the same as he was with the High Priestess," Cat muttered. "It's almost like he's been doped or something."

"Let's hope so."

Now that he was freed from the cage, they could see that the creature's body was bruised and battered, and that his movements lacked the savage force, and indeed grace, that Cat remembered from before. His bloodshot eyes were dull. But he was still formidable-over eight feet tall, his musculature as craggy as a rock.

Cat tested the weight of the collar. Her throat felt very dry. "How do you want to do this?"

"Our best chance is to sneak up on him from behind, I reckon. I'll distract him with the prod and try to draw him off." Blaine rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms, as if preparing for an ordinary fight. "Then you can try to work your way around and throw the collar over him from the back. After that ... Well, let's hope it's somebody else's turn to deal with him."

"OK."

"We'll be fine. I promise."

Cat nodded as coolly as she was able. "I know."

Together, they walked through the gates. The band had ceased playing and the crowd was utterly silent, except for the crying of a child somewhere. On the screens at either end of the arena, their own faces loomed into the sky.

Blaine went forward to meet the monster.

The Minotaur lowered his head at Blaine's approach, snorting and blowing. As his bare right foot raked the ground, he raised a cloud of dust. A moment later, the Minotaur swung round to stare at Cat, and the leather collar. Before he could lumber in her direction, Blaine made as if to run at the creature, then swerved away and back at the last moment.

And so the dance began. The beast's wits were certainly befuddled, for he seemed unable to make up his mind as to which of his adversaries he should take on first. The Minotaur's reactions were so sluggish that Blaine felt as if he was locked in a crazed version of blindman's buff as he swooped first near, then far, pausing to draw the creature in, only to sway out of his path at the last minute. If Blaine showed signs of being backed into a corner, Cat would make a sudden movement or give a shout to draw the Minotaur off, to rapturous applause from the crowd. Similarly, whenever the Minotaur seemed ready to lunge at Cat, Blaine's feints with the cattle prod would goad him into another change of direction. Yet the creature was never distracted long enough for Cat to creep up behind him, or get close enough to risk flinging the collar around his bulging neck.

And as the flies droned in the heat, dust rose from the sand and the crowd whooped, it became apparent that while the two humans were beginning to flag, the beast was regaining his speed and strength. They couldn't keep this up for much longer. A couple of times, Blaine got in a jab with the cattle prod, so that the creature flinched from the electricity's fizz and backed off, tossing his head and bellowing. Yet as the Minotaur grew angrier, he also became more alert, as if the shocks had sharpened his blunt wits.

The creature grew bolder, until the moment came when Blaine slashed at him with the prod and the Minotaur didn't bawl or back away. Instead, he used his brawny arms to block any further a.s.saults, and began to close in on his tormentor.

This time his advance was steady, purposeful and impervious to all Cat's attempts at distraction, all the screeches from the stands. In the Minotaur's shadow, Blaine looked like a small child waving a stick.

Cat realized that it was now or never.

She raced across the arena, and leaped up against the beast's broad, muscled back.

TOBY WAS IN TROUBLE. After Mia had gone, he tried to make his way back to where he had last seen the others, at the Eight of Cups' threshold by the dump. It didn't take him long to realize that he was hopelessly lost. The path, which had begun muddy, rapidly grew wetter and boggier. Soon he was floundering knee-high in a swamp. The more vigorous his efforts to free himself, the deeper he sank.

"Help!" he called out, and giggled weakly in spite of himself. It was all so pathetic. Stuck in a bog, bawling for rescue ... Of course, there was no one to answer his cries. Everyone had gone, swallowed up by the marsh, led astray by its phantoms. The sludge was nearly up to his waist, and although he knew it would only make things worse, the spurts of panic rising in his chest made it impossible not to obey his body's instinct to thrash its way out of danger.

"Help," he cried again, at one of the mist-wraiths. Perhaps the ghost of Mr. Marlow was about to emerge and finish him off. Or Misrule himself. Although it was hard to be dignified when he was waist-deep in mud, he pulled himself as upright as he was able, ready to face what he had to.

"Toby," said Flora flatly.

She was standing on a clump of reeds and was almost as white as the fog.

"Are you really you?" he asked suspiciously.

Flora sighed in exasperation. "Don't be idiotic." The mist lifted a little, revealing a scoop of yellow moon. "All right. I'll be back in a minute."

He resisted the urge to beg her not to leave him.

Splashing and squelches sounded from behind. And exclamations of disgust. "Ugh. This swamp ... Vile ... Everything stinks...."

Flora came back lugging the mattress from the dump. She spread it across the reeds, making sure it would support her weight, and gingerly lay down on her stomach. Then she reached out to Toby. "Here, take my hand. Please try not to get more sludge over me than you can help."

After several minutes of clumsy struggle, she managed to pull him free. The bog released him with a comical belch. Toby flopped out on the mattress, under the clear night sky, and laughed with relief. Then he looked around him.

"But, Flora ... where are the others?"

After much discussion, Flora and Toby came to the same conclusions as Cat and Blaine. There was nothing to do but press on in search of the creatures from the prophecy, in the hope that wherever the others were, they, too, were able to continue the quest. They would just have to trust to luck, and the Game, that they would find each other again.

Toby held the Triumph of the Emperor, whose ill.u.s.tration included the image of an eagle on a scepter. Flora's Triumph of Strength depicted a woman taming a lion. They decided to start with trying to find the eagle. The Emperor was an authority figure of sorts, so even if it turned out that they had misinterpreted the oracle, it was possible he could set them right again. "Plus, an imperial palace will be a big improvement on this swamp," said Toby.

Flora was distastefully brushing mud off her trousers. "I wouldn't get your hopes up. This is the Arcanum, remember."

Flora's pessimism proved justified. Once they had raised a threshold with their die, the card took them to the sh.e.l.l of a building that might have been impressive once but now lay in ruins, open to the skies. A sallow dawn was just breaking. As wind moaned sadly through cracked columns and tumbledown arches, the monumental nature of their task struck them with new force. Both thought again of Cat and Blaine, and the treacherous marsh pools they had left behind.

After wandering through a series of empty chambers and courtyards, they reached the main hall, the entrance to which was partly blocked by a mound of rubbish, marked off by red rope. Close to, they saw it was more like loot: statues, paintings, tapestries, gla.s.sware and goblets piled in a dust-furred heap. The other side of the hall ended in a broken colonnade, with a broad flight of steps leading down to a terrace. A man was sitting on a throne beneath the portico.

His skin was as fragile and lined as a cobweb, and his beard was cobwebbier still. He was wearing a tarnished breastplate, and had a dried laurel wreath on his head. Propped against the throne was a golden orb and scepter with a heraldic eagle at the end, just like on the playing card.

"Good, er, morning," Toby began. "I'm the King of Pentacles, and this is the Queen of Cups."

"Then I bid you welcome," the old man replied in a voice as withered as his laurel leaves. "For I am a king also, lord of all I survey." He tilted his head to indicate the paved terrace and the cliff edge beyond. Below it was a windswept plain of dead trees and rocky ground.

"It looks very extensive," said Flora politely.

The Emperor fidgeted with his beard, coughing, and leaned forward to peer at them with filmy eyes. "Hmm. You strike me as a strangely muddy species of Game Master. Kings and queens of the courts don't go grubbing about in the Arcanum. They deal the cards and roll the dice, and scheme and gamble from afar. Which seems a poor sort of rule-but then, who am I to talk?" His tone grew melancholy. "An aged man is a paltry, tattered thing. I, who commanded the boundless reaches of empire! The soldiers and sages, the lords and ladies, golden smithies and starlit domes ... They've all gone. Everyone, everything." A tear slid down his wrinkled cheek. "Everything but my faithful Juno."

"Juno?"

"My queen of the heavens. See! She has been feeding, and now she comes back, replete." His ancient face became almost childish with pride. "Come here, my darling!"

There was a sound of great wings beating the air as a gleaming shadow swooped through the columns to perch on the armrest of the throne. As the eagle folded its wings, its feathers ruffled with a curious creaking sound.

The bird was made of gold. From powerful talons to feathered breast to cruel curved beak-every piece was metal, except for its ruby eyes. It bent its head to allow the Emperor to pet its chill neck, and uttered a hoa.r.s.e cry. Something like rust stained its beak.

"Did you feast well, little one?" the Emperor crooned.

A gust blew across the terrace, carrying with it the stench of rottenness. Flora moved from under the shadow of the portico onto the steps. In the wan light, she could see a pale heap lying on the terrace with a glistening dark hole in its side.

"My last visitor," the old man told her. "A knight from your Court of Cups, I believe."

"You-you fed him to the eagle?"

"The player failed. His task was to steal a flame from the mountain, but the torch blew out. And so his liver is meat for my Juno here.... I don't see why this should disturb you," he added fretfully. "You are Game Masters, not common knights. Your days of risk are over. You may come and go as you please."

The eagle flapped its wings with a m.u.f.fled metallic clash. Each golden feather looked razor sharp.

"You're right," said Toby abruptly. This wasn't an occasion for deference, he had decided. It was time to show the Arcanum who was boss. "The two of us are Game Masters. And while you might be Emperor in these parts, we're in charge of all the triumphs-including you."

"Toby," Flora hissed. "For goodness' sake! We can't just march in expecting-"

However, the Emperor did not seem affronted. "You wish for tribute?"

"Yes. We wish for the eagle, in fact. It's part of our bid for the Great Triumph."

The old man stared at the barren plain. "Ah, Eternity. I have vast deserts of the stuff; it is what all empires come to, in the end. As for their beginnings ... Well, you must know the story of how the Game arose."