The Master of Misrule (14 page)

When Cat stumbled into the room, she, too, cried out. She was face to face with the King of Swords, playing cards with the three other Game Masters.

“It’s all right,” Flora told her. “They’re not—awake. They can’t …”

In fact, it was apparent that they couldn’t do anything. The kings and queens were as pale and motionless as waxworks, seated around a circular table of green baize, each with their right hand resting on a card. The left hand was upturned, with what looked like a spherical die lying on the palm. The cards were blank and their eyes were open in wide, unblinking stares.

The rest of the room had suffered none of the damage wreaked on the house above. The black-and-white floor and paneled walls were polished smooth; the golden curtain that hung in the arch was neither torn nor stained. The only flaw in the place was a picture whose gilt frame enclosed a canvas so grimy with age it was impossible to discern the image. But that had been the case the first time they saw it.

Cat’s eyes kept darting back to the macabre tableau in the center. “What’s
happened
to them? I thought Misrule had banished them from the Game.”

“So he did,” the High Priest replied sternly from across the room. “The four men and women you see before you are only the shadows of the rulers you deposed, and their livings selves endure in torment.”

He drew closer to the table. “Tell me … do you know how a knight may become a king?”

“I do,” said Toby promptly. “The knight has to win every triumph in the deck, but not use them. Move after move, round after round, risking everything again and again. The
Game Master he wins the most cards from is the king or queen he kicks out.”

The High Priest nodded. “In such an event, the defeated ruler is forever expelled from the Game, though they will spend the rest of their life trying to return to it. But that is not the punishment Misrule imposed.

“The Game Masters you overthrew have been returned to their past rounds within the Arcanum. Under Misrule’s sentence of exile, they are doomed to eternally repeat every card they were ever dealt in the Game. This time, however, no matter how cleverly or courageously they play, each move will end in defeat. They must suffer the pains of that failure—imprisonment, transformation, torment—before moving to the next card, and the next failure, endlessly.”

He rapped the screen of a little portable TV that they had not noticed before, set in the corner of the room. Shapes and movement began to swim out of the static. Blurred forms fleeing some unseen terror, or else fighting some unknown enemy … mouths opening … eyes widening … arms flailing …

As the chancers watched, they realized that the figures on the screen were the same as those around the table. The Game Masters had used a range of modern technology to monitor play in the Arcanum, peering into computer monitors and TV screens as if they were crystal balls. Now it was their turn to be spied upon.

Flora looked back to the immobile cardplayers. They were not as frozen as they first appeared, for the hands resting
on the cards would occasionally twitch, jaws clench and shoulders quake. She knew all too well how a player in the Game could be trapped both in and outside the Arcanum. At this very moment her sister’s body lay immobile in a hospital bed while her living spirit waited for rescue in the Eight of Swords. But Flora didn’t want to equate her sister’s fate with that of the kings and queens.

She moved as far away from the table as she possibly could. “Very well,” she said to the High Priest. “Why have you brought us down here?”

The old man raised his brows. “So that you can restore the rule of the courts, of course. Just as only a fool could release Misrule, it will take a king—or queen—to bind him.”

Everyone began to talk at once, in a babble of protest and confusion. Blaine spoke the loudest. “No way. There’s no way in hell we’re letting those bastards back in. No.”

“Absolutely not,” Flora agreed. “It’s only been three days since they were thrown out of power. My sis— Well, there are people who get trapped in the Arcanum for years, sometimes
forever
.”

“Time passes differently in the Arcanum,” the High Priest answered. “Be assured that their present suffering feels as boundless as their reign over the courts once did. These four cannot win again.”

“I don’t understand. If the kings and queens can’t be brought back—”

“Then we must find new ones.” The old man’s cloudy eyes regarded them steadily. “If each of you were to take a
card from under their hands, play its move and win, then the outcast kings and queens would return to their past lives … and
you
would become the new Game Masters.”

There was an incredulous pause.

“You mean,” breathed Toby, looking at the rigid gathering around the table, “I could be the next King of Pentacles? Or Swords, or—?”

“A king of sorts. You would have no players to command, prizes to award or forfeits to impose. Misrule saw to that when he overturned the rule of the courts. Meanwhile, he has his own pack of tricks to play with.

“But you would inherit the cards of the Game Masters’ decks. Though you may neither give nor claim them as prizes, the cards can be used in your search of the Arcanum, to deal your own round and plot your moves.”

“And what would we be searching for?” Blaine asked.

“The greatest triumph of them all. It is the prize above all other prizes, and so only a king or queen, a player above all players, may win it.

“Behold—”

The High Priest slowly raised his arms. As he did so, the blackened canvas on the wall began to lighten, revealing new shapes and colors.

The chancers recognized it at once. A dancer encircled by a serpent hovered over the earth, in the Triumph of Eternity. Its image glowed with eerie beauty, more detailed than the picture on the knights’ cards of invitation they’d seen. The four faces within the wheels at each corner were clear and bright: a lion, an eagle, a bull and a man.

“Why isn’t this painting upstairs, with the other pictures in the gallery?” Flora asked.

“Because Eternity has never been won. There are as many ways to win it as there are moves in the Game, yet the conditions change with each turn of the Wheel.”

Even as they watched, the artwork began to fade, dissolving into murk and grime.

“The nature of its supremacy is this,” the High Priest continued. “Whoever holds Eternity has dominion over all other triumphs—yes, even Fortune, and most certainly the Hanged Man. Eternity is the Great Triumph, and what the Game Masters have been searching for throughout the long history of our Game.

“Each of you must play the part of the outcast kings and queens, to win where they fail, and become Game Masters in their place. Only then will the Great Triumph be within your grasp, and only then will you be able to defeat Misrule.”

“But if none of the other kings and queens ever got close to finding Eternity, what hope do
we
have?” said Cat, trying not to sound too obviously dismayed. “You said yourself we’d be Game Masters without any of the real powers or perks.”

“The odds are doubtless against you,” the old man replied calmly. “Nevertheless, if a fool can become a king, who knows what else is possible? Perhaps chaos creates chances that order does not. If there is any hope, it is that the Master of Misrule’s victory has sown the seeds of his own defeat. Although,” he added, “that is a faint hope indeed.”

The High Priest turned away to gaze at the blackened
canvas of Eternity. The TV screen again showed static. It was up to the chancers now to make a decision.

They looked at each other uncertainly. In unspoken agreement, they left the man to his painting and held a whispered conference by the stairwell.

“The old chap makes some fine speeches,” Cat said in an undertone, “but so did the Hanged Man. It could be another trap. What happens if we go on as substitutes for that gang round the table but don’t win? We could end up banished as well—or worse.”

“We all witnessed Misrule expelling the old kings and queens,” Flora said, “so if the High Priest says they can’t come back, I believe him.”

“It sounds like a good deal to me,” Toby put in. “We only have to play one card each to become Game Masters. And once we find Eternity, we won’t just have our own prizes, but
every other
triumph as well. We’ll rule the Game and save the world!”

“For the moment, I’m more worried about saving ourselves,” Cat retorted.

“Same difference,” said Blaine starkly. He was thinking of Helen and Liz. The woman who had given him his last job, washing dishes at a hotel. The boy who’d taken his place at the Soho squat. London’s millions. The world’s billions. Thanks to what he and the others had done, nobody was safe from the Game. “You know what the visions in the mirrors showed. Humanity enslaved to some mad lottery, and all because the four of us mucked about with something
we didn’t understand. This isn’t just about us and our prizes anymore.”

Before the others could respond, he turned back to the High Priest. “So what do we do next?”

The old man looked across the table, his expression inscrutable. “You see that each of the former kings and queens rests their hand upon a card. To play it for them, you have only to take the card and enter the Game. But since the exiles play without beginning or end, at what point in their round you will enter, and what card will be revealed by the Arcanum when you get there, I cannot tell.”

“I see.” Blaine lightly touched the scar on his arm. Through a spasm of coughing, he said, “Then I’m going in.”

“Me too,” said Toby. “It’s meant to be.”

“And me,” said Flora, looping her hair neatly behind her ears and straightening her clothes.

Cat glanced back at the stairs. She was trying to recall the image of morning light at the window, the moment where choice still seemed possible. But in spite of her distrustful queries and cautions, she knew Blaine was right. None of them could walk away from this.

“OK,” she said. “I guess that makes four of us.”

The High Priest looked at their apprehensive faces and smiled a little. “A bold move. You will not, however, be without help. I believe you are already in possession of dice?”

They laid them on the table.

“Though I cannot tell where your next moves will take you, I can load at least one roll of the dice.” He ran his
finger along the tip of each triangle. “There. Wherever you throw them in the Arcanum, the next threshold they raise will return you directly to my temple. And I have something else to give you.”

The old man reached for the small metal ball that lay in Alastor’s upturned palm. It was solid silver, the material symbol for the Court of Swords.

He used the ball to sketch a rough rectangle on the paneled wall, as one might scribble with a piece of chalk. The lines glowed faintly. With a plucking motion, he peeled the rectangle out of and away from the wall, except that it was neither part of the wooden surface nor thin air, but a playing card. He placed it facedown on the table before taking up Lucrezia’s golden ball and sketching another rectangle. Another card peeled away. Ahab’s ebony sphere was followed by Odile’s crystal one and two more cards.

One by one, he turned them over.

The first card depicted a sword, around which a tempest raged.

The second was a gold disc that sprouted green buds.

The third was a wooden staff, from which embers flew.

The fourth was a jeweled chalice overflowing with water.

They were the four aces of the Lesser Arcana, and each card was capable of unleashing all the strength and fury of the element it represented. The High Priest shuffled the cards, and held them out facedown for the chancers to pick. Flora drew the Ace of Swords, and Blaine the Ace of Pentacles; Toby held Wands; Cat, Cups.

Flora looked up from her card. “We used these to free the Hanged Man, so why can’t we use them to recapture him?”

“It is too late for that; only Eternity can bind Misrule now. But the aces shall protect you against other perils.”

“And what about the magic-ball things?” Toby asked. “Aren’t they what the Game Masters gave knights who won a triumph?”

“They are the amulets of the courts,” the man said reprovingly, “and tokens of their power. As such, they can only be forged from the blood and bone of kingship, and you are not Game Masters yet. If you succeed in your task, and return to my temple as kings and queens, I will show you the ways of their decks and amulets, and make divinations for your quest.” He indicated the table. “But now is the time to make your first moves. Choose your cards and claim your courts.”

Instinctively, each chancer moved to take the card from the king or queen who had been foremost in bringing them to the Game. Cat was playing for the King of Swords; Blaine, the King of Wands; Toby, the Queen of Pentacles; and Flora, the Queen of Cups. Once they had slid the cards from under the limp hands of the former Game Masters, the kings’ and queens’ eyes had slowly closed. Drained of all previous signs of life, their bodies became even more rigid than before.

When they had made their choice, the High Priest bowed his head toward them in grave salute. He gestured to the golden curtain and the words engraved over the stone
arch from which it hung:
regnabo, regno, regnavi, sum sine regno
. “It is time to follow me,” he said, “and enter the Arcanum. There is no need of thresholds when I am with you.”

His eyes were hooded, the lines and hollows of his face cast into stark relief by the light he was standing near. Even in his quaint uniform, it was difficult to believe they had ever thought of him as a mere doorkeeper.

Beyond the curtain, a labyrinth of shadowy chambers lay before them, like the cells in a honeycomb, though not as regular. Oil lamps set in alcoves flickered on arches and pillars, and there was the smell of incense and old stone. A carpeting of dead leaves skittered on the floor.

Once, the oil lamps had lit the way to Yggdrasil, and the man who hung from its branches in a living sacrifice. Now when the chancers reached the chamber of the Hanged Man, there was nothing there but a blackened tree stump and dead leaves. Lamps illuminated the curved frame of four archways set in the room’s circular wall. The silence and solemnity of the place had already worked on them: their minds felt emptied yet at peace. In a kind of trance, they stepped forward to take their places between the columns. Each carried an ace in their pockets and a card in their hands.