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 Persipone?”

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 i 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-meArw? 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?” Tor 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.