The Master of Misrule (8 page)

Since Cat hadn’t yet tried to claim her prize, she didn’t really feel in a position to present the case. However, as neither Toby nor Blaine appeared ready to contribute, she pressed on. “Well, the four of us were promised that the cards we won would give us something we’d been searching for in the Arcanum. Except it turns out that nobody who’s played their card has actually been awarded anything.” Toby tried to cut in at this point, but she continued, speaking over him. “It’s starting to look like the whole prize offer was bait so we’d set the Hanged Man free to mess up the Game. And, er, there’s this, too—”

She passed the newspaper article to Flora, who skimmed it listlessly. Afterward she let the paper drop to the ground. “I don’t know about the scratchcards,” she said. “I don’t know about the cheating. All I know is that I failed.”

“Our cards weren’t tests for passing or failing. They were supposed to be rewards,” said Blaine with the barely suppressed violence Cat remembered from their last meeting.

Flora turned to him slowly. “Then what happened to yours?”

“Not much. My prize was the Knight of Wands. The card should have taken me to whichever move my stepfather was in, but there was nobody there.”

“I found who I was looking for,” Flora said painfully. “I—I even held her in my arms. All I had to do, the
only thing
, was to get that doll and take it across the threshold.…” She swallowed. “As it turned out, I nearly didn’t come back myself.”

The other three waited. Finally, and with laborious reluctance, Flora recounted what had happened in the Eight of Swords: the Spinners and the doll, the sleeping girl and the maze.

“So you see,” she finished, looking down at the scratch marks on her hands, “I did have the opportunity to save my sister. Only I got everything wrong.”

Blaine shook his head. “It’s not your fault. The Arcanum’s bust. Whatever you did, however you played, the outcome would have been the same.”

“Well,
my
wish was granted,” said Toby tactlessly. He had drunk in Flora’s story with rapt attention and shining eyes. “I wanted more adventure and now it looks like I’ve got it.”

Cat snorted. “The only thing you got from the Chariot were murky warnings about the Game in meltdown, and how it’s all our fault.”

“Hey, I was given a
quest
. And anyway, what do you know about it?
You
haven’t even played your card.”

For a moment, the other three looked at her with resentment.
They were all aware that for as long as her reward stayed unclaimed and unspent, Cat still had her chance of victory. It might turn out differently—better—for her.

Cat lifted her chin. “Seems to me that none of us here knows much about anything. In which case, it’s time we went to HQ and looked for answers.”

The first time Cat had seen Temple House, it had been on the night of a Lottery and a prizegiving. New to the Game, she had watched as a knight was allotted a new card to play, chosen at random by the spinning of a wheel. She had had no idea of the risk the knight had taken, nor had she understood what it meant when another player was awarded the triumph she’d won. But even without knowing what was at stake, Cat had felt the intoxicating luster of the place.

Then, and at every other formal gathering required by the Game, the house transformed into a grand old manor, glowing with opulent silks and polished wood. There had been a glow, too, surrounding the guests who cooed and applauded as the champagne bubbled and the wheel spun. At such times, the atmosphere was something between an exclusive cocktail party and a ceremony of state.

At all other times, however, the house had had the look and feel of a place that had been derelict for years. The windows were imprisoned behind heavy shutters, the rooms smelled of mold and much of the furniture was either missing or covered in dusty sheets. Yet neither these scenes of abandonment nor Blaine’s warnings prepared her for the wreckage that awaited them.

As they approached the building, their feet crunched on crumbs of glass. All the ground-floor windows had been smashed. The shutters had been torn from their hinges, and the missing panes boarded up with cheap plasterboard. There were signs that someone had attempted to kick the front door in, too; its solid oak bulk had survived the attempt, although the bolt to lock it had been wrenched out of place. When Blaine shoved his shoulder against the door, it scraped open with a protesting groan.

“Welcome to the House of Horror,” Toby said in sepulchral tones.

Once inside, they had to sidestep a huge iron candelabra that had crashed onto the black-and-white marble that checkered the floor. Entangled in the wreck of iron were the remnants of the gold brocade curtain that usually hung between the doorway and the hall. All surfaces were covered in a litter of smashed glasses, empty bottles and torn-up books.

Even though Blaine had told her what to expect, Cat was surprised by how shaken she was. Temple House was the heart of the Game—the place where the Lotteries were held, prizes given, forfeits allocated and judgments made. It was where the knights sweated as the wheel spun and the kings and queens flaunted their power. And yet it was also the threshold of all thresholds, the axis of the Arcanum. It should have been sacred ground.

“Who would
do
this?” Flora asked.

Nobody answered, but all were thinking of the man who now called himself Master of Misrule.

“Come on,” said Toby. “We might as well have a poke around upstairs.”

The four of them trudged up the grand sweep of the staircase and along the first-floor landing. The crimson silk lining the walls of the music room was ripped and stained; someone had taken an ax to the grand piano. The library next door was no better. Somberly, they contemplated the rows of wrecked bookshelves.

“What was that?” Cat asked suddenly.

“What?” said Blaine.

“I heard a noise from outside.”

The door across the hallway led to a picture gallery that ran the length of the building, and had been closed when they’d climbed the stairs. Now it was propped open by a stack of broken chairs, to allow the person inside the room to sweep a heap of rubbish out onto the landing.

As soon as they saw the stiff, elderly figure, they relaxed slightly. It was the doorkeeper who supervised admittance to Temple House and presided over its ceremonies. His old-fashioned black-and-gold uniform—like those worn by concierges at hotels—was as crisp as ever, and he wielded the broom vigorously, his mouth puckered with distaste.

The distaste increased when he looked up and saw the huddle of chancers staring at him. With a jab of his broom, he thrust the pile of rubbish in the direction of their feet, and went back into the gallery, shaking his head.

There was no other lead, so they shuffled along behind him. Even after the destruction they’d already witnessed, it was a shock to see the pictures on the wall. The centuries-old
paintings of the triumphs had been slashed and spattered with red paint.

The doorkeeper surveyed their stunned faces. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he remarked, his voice heavy with contempt.

“No!” Toby protested. “Of course we didn’t. None of us ever imagined anything like this.”

“You wanted your prizes, though. You wanted to win at whatever cost.”

“The Game charges a high price,” said Flora quietly.

He turned to look at her. His face was shrunken and lined, with colorless, cloudy eyes. “So do all things worth having. Everyone who plays for a triumph does so by choice.”

“We’ve heard that argument before,” Cat said. “All those sermons about how the Game helps us change fate, find a fortune …”

“Yeah,” Blaine put in. “Funny how there’re never any speeches about the losers. It seems like even mentioning failure’s against your rules.”

“And it seems that you would rather live with no rules than with rules you dislike,” the man replied. “You would choose anarchy over authority.”

“Every time,” Blaine answered defiantly.

The doorkeeper let his broom fall with a clatter. “But you are not the only ones who must live with that choice. You had
no right
to make it.” Gently, he placed his hand on the torn canvas of Fortune’s Wheel, as if soothing a human hurt. “The man you set loose was imprisoned for a purpose.
Misrule is anchored at the heart of the Game, but it must not be unleashed on it. You have seen the damage he has wreaked on my temple, and the Arcanum will fare no better.”

“There must be something we can do. To help reverse the damage to the Game, I mean,” Toby said.

“So this time you’re the Game’s champions? How noble spirited!” The doorkeeper snorted. “No, you have discovered that prizes won by crooked means are awarded crookedly also. And so your gamble has failed, and you wish to change your luck. That is why you came here, to pick over the ruin of my temple. For I know very well what you’re after.”

He leveled an accusing stare at each of them in turn.

He pointed to Flora. “The sleeping girl,” he pronounced. The finger moved to Blaine. “The man who made you bleed.” It swung round to Cat. “And the one who stole your family.” Last, he turned to Toby. “As for you … Hmm. You, perhaps, are a different case. Still, there are no desires that the Game hasn’t already uncovered, no needs that it hasn’t been asked to satisfy. And I have witnessed them all.”

“How come you know so much about us anyway?” Blaine asked grudgingly.

The old man looked offended. “It is the High Priest’s business to know about everyone who enters my temple,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height.

“No
way
! As in
the
High Priest? From the Greater Arcana cards?” Toby cut in.

The old man nodded curtly and continued. “I am the guardian of the Game’s most sacred ground, the celebrant of its rituals and the keeper of its thresholds. I have known every king and queen who has ruled the Game, every knight who has gambled on it and every knave who has served it. I have known every chancer, too, though I never thought I would—”

“Live to see the day when oiks like us managed to spoil everyone’s fun,” Blaine finished. “No wonder you’re peeved.” He broke into a cough, looking at the man through watering eyes. “The thing is, how do we know you’re telling us the truth? Any bunch of thugs could have got in here and trashed the place. And even if Mr. Misrule is responsible, I’m not sure that’s proof he’s any worse a Game Master than the others. Maybe nobody ever wins this Game of yours. Maybe it’s always going to be a con, whoever’s in charge.”

This time, the man spoke calmly. “The Game has its traps, and the Arcanum its deceits. That is the gamble. Yet the principle behind our gamble is that a prize won fairly does not fail. Until now, every knight who has been awarded a triumph has been granted his wish.

“As for our new master of revels … The Arcanum grows too small for him, and his gambling lust has spread beyond the thresholds’ bounds. I will show you Misrule’s work, and where his Lottery will lead. Perhaps then you will begin to understand the ruin you have caused.”

They followed the doorkeeper—or High Priest, as they were learning to think of him—to the stairs at the end of the hall, which led up to a pair of doors inlaid with a design of interlocking wheels in black and gold. Behind the doors was a mirrored ballroom that took up the entire second floor.

It seemed the marauders’ energy had flagged by the time they reached this final room, for the place was not as wrecked as the rest of the house. Most of the mirrors, although badly cracked, still lined the walls; the sparkle of light on their webs of shattered glass was oddly beautiful. Fists or weapons of some kind had left silvery starbursts at the point of impact, from which the fissures rippled outward like the rings after a stone is thrown into water.

For a few moments, the four chancers just stood, blinking. The disorientating effect of standing among so many mirrors was intensified by the fretwork of glimmering scars, in which things were both reflected and fragmented. The High Priest stood within the doorway, his hands clasped tight, murmuring nameless words under his breath and watching the chancers watch the walls.

Theirs were not the only images in the glass. As they looked, they began to see other figures moving across the gleaming surfaces, in a shifting reflection of scenes and people who were not there.

Gradually, they realized that they were watching the destruction of Temple House.

They saw a bearded man take an ax to the piano in the music room. A woman gleefully put her cigarette lighter to
a silk wall hanging. A pack of youths rampaged through the bookshelves in the library. Another group hurled crystal champagne flutes down the stairs.

And in every splintered view, every jigsaw glimpse, there was a man with flowing white hair and hot blue eyes, whose face was neither old nor young, and whose smile was at one moment innocently bright and the next a crooked grin. There was no sound at first, but his head was thrown back in laughter as he urged the mob on.

Finally, the view of Temple House fractured and slid apart until there was only one image, everywhere. The Master of Misrule.