"Go over the rules for me properly," she said, as the train began to slow. At least France’s latest obsession came with explanations.
"First, always remain veiled," Étienne said, fingering the dark cloth that covered his face below the headpiece. "The veil – and your name – cannot be wagered, removed, or lost."
"To preserve appearances?" Rian asked dryly. She already felt naked.
"To add a feather’s breadth of deniability."
Rian shook her head. France under the Towers was a mass of contradictions. The Court of the Moon played games almost purpose-built for erotic entanglements – and welcomed the offspring this produced into their ranks – but married women whose children developed wings often saw their marriages founder as a result, while unmarried mothers, no matter what kind of children they bore, were, as Étienne had put it, disgraced. Even with a human father, Rian had all too often heard Milo referred to as Martine’s shame.
"Second," Étienne continued. "You are never obliged to join any game, but nor are you permitted to leave one midway. Most of them have several rounds, and once you start one you must see it out. And that is where your stakes are most important."
"Tears of the Moon."
"Exactly."
The train’s slow deceleration ended in a series of judders as the chain tightened. Étienne snatched at a strap to keep himself upright, while Rian maintained a firm hold of the handle set near the compartment door, and still only barely kept her seat. In the near-weightlessness beneath the Towers it could be very difficult to maintain your footing, and even the relatively slow speed of the chain-drawn train could send the unwary tumbling as it stopped.
Once everything was still, Étienne opened the compartment door onto the very end of a softly-lit platform. The bulk of the other passengers were already out and moving away: a crowd swathed in shadows and drifts of moonlight, wearing the faces of beautiful animals.
With absent-minded courtesy Étienne handed Rian across the gap before continuing.
"Your goal is to win the Tears of others and spend them on a Forfeit – or exchange them for money, if you are particularly dull and boring. But the Forfeits are what make this interesting – they can be anything you have with you, except you name and their veil." Étienne swirled the long skirts of his coat, then executed a languorous twirl that sent him several feet into the air. "You bring into play all of yourself, all that you know, all that you might do."
"Up to a point."
"Yes, yes. A single Tear won’t get you very much at all. But ten for a chaste sort of kiss. Twenty for a minor secret. With all hundred of my Tears, most estimable of cousins, you could ask for a forfeit of my time, and take me into a little side room to enjoy in any way that does not cause me pain or humiliation. Though you would have only half an hour at most, which really is not enough."
"Don’t get your hopes up," Rian said as they approached the exit ramp, and he paused to pantomime mock desolation, before moving on with the swift, swimming step of someone well-adapted to nights beneath the Towers.
He told her of other complexities – most particularly the consequences of betting beyond your limits – as they emerged from the winding ramp onto the Island of Balance: a teardrop in the Seine. Ahead and above, the vista was dominated by three vast domes of snowflake filigree, the layers making criss-cross patterns against the night sky. Shivering in a light breeze, Rian turned to face the Towers and the dimpled central building that sheltered the entrances to the whole enormous glowing construct: the Hall of Balance.
Over the years Rian had walked to the island many times, craning her neck to try to take it all in. The five supporting Towers drove at precise angles from the island: one directly to the sky, and four marking the cardinal points at forty-five degree angles. The domes, held up entirely by the Towers, covered most of the centre of Lutèce. No other structure in all the world was so large.
Even the Hall of Balance, which was not strictly a building, dwarfed human construction. Like the domes, it did not touch the ground, but was suspended from the towers in an echo of the layers above: a semi-transparent shell that sheltered the tower entrances like a fantasy of spun sugar.
The train had delivered them to the western point of the island, nearest to the entrance of the current reigning Tower. Rian, grimacing as the breeze flirted with a dress designed to play peek-a-boo, followed Étienne beneath the curving outer rim of the Hall. She had no coat or wrap, since the Towers lacked cloak rooms. At least the fragile-looking material was durable, perhaps even harder to tear than Étienne’s thicker clothing.
They entered a place of fountains and garden beds, where a cloud of miniature flying people swirled in chiming cacophony overhead.
Unlike most countries, France had not been Answered by its gods. The Court of the Moon had been completely unknown in the region before it invaded, and the Court did not claim to be gods at all, or even god-touched. They were, they said, not interested in gaining the spiritual allegiance of humans, but were simply annexing territory. It had been proven long ago, however, that the souls of those who died in France went on to the Otherworld that the Court ruled, to be reborn into the vast shoals of flying creatures that swirled across its skies.
La clochettes were the most common: tiny winged humanoids with bell voices. They served the Court of the Moon, but were almost a separate society beneath the Towers. Swift mischief was another name for them, and Rian watched a handful make a darting sortie through the crowds of visitors, paying particular attention to those wearing fountain garb. Coat skirts billowed, veils lifted, and a brief demonstration was made of who was gauche.
"Any other rules?" Rian asked, as they joined the end of the line being funnelled into the Gilded Tower. The sun had been down – and the Court in the living world – for nearly two hours, but the line was still long, for Forfeit was played only once a week.
"Hm. Yes, there is a rule of exchange. If you have won someone’s Tears, but they hold yours, before any forfeit can be claimed you must trade back their Tears for yours – to whatever amount is held. You exchange your own Tears first, but then you can claim a particular opponent’s Tears if you wish, if they’re held by someone else. And if more than one person is chasing that person’s Tears, the arbiter will settle the dispute with a roll of dice or a coin toss."
Since this was very relevant to Rian’s intentions, she asked for more detail, and he set out minor formalities while the line moved briskly forward. The Tower entrance was a massive arch with a gargouille – an immense snake-dog creature with a flat face – draped over it. But the Otherworldly creature merely watched impassively as Étienne held up their tickets and whisked Rian underneath its coils. And then they were inside.
Rian had of course seen paintings and photographs of the Tower interiors. The main shafts were echoing hollow tubes, occasionally crossed by bracing bridges. An encrustation of balconies marked the entry point to the lowest of the domes, where several Court members were drifting across or down, while one lone flyer rose to meet them with strong strokes of dapple-gold wings.