Étienne touched her arm, and Rian saw that the line of visitors was dispersing into a string of side rooms whenever an opening appeared. Very interested in how doorways would simply appear in the curving wall, Rian followed Étienne when one opened near them, and found within one of the Court, seated cross-legged on a padded block in the centre of an otherwise empty chamber.
People with wings. A simple thing to say, but it involved quite a complication to the skeletal frame and musculature around the shoulders and back. It gave the upper torso an elongated appearance. This Court member’s wings were tightly furled, and rose like folded umbrellas well above head height, the light brown skin of the wing shafts glittering with a series of fine chains attached much like earrings.
Masked and veiled and yet wholly expressive of unceasing boredom, the woman held out a long-fingered hand, and Étienne placed their gold-rimmed tickets on her palm. Rian, troubled by a sensation that her weight had increased, stepped carefully forward in response to an impatient gesture, and was smacked on her nose by the thick card.
"Breathe in," the woman ordered.
Rian inhaled, and her veil shifted under the new weight of milky droplets attached to the lower hem. She touched one, and it detached from the veil, hanging from her finger as if glued. Not a single Tear, but ten, formed into a single droplet for convenience’s sake.
"Thank you," she said, as the woman repeated the conjuration for Étienne.
The woman glanced back at Rian, and briefly mantled her folded wings, revealing connective membrane resembling a shower of golden coins. A member of the Gilded Tower.
With a sketch of a nod, the woman gestured at the wall behind them. The doorway, which had vanished without Rian’s notice, reappeared obediently, and they stepped through to the lip of a vast drop.
The dislocation was jarring. They were no longer on the entry floor, but instead a third of a way up the long shaft of the Tower. The balcony railing was low and, while the gentle gravity and the shaft’s forty-five degree angle meant she could probably skip unharmed down to the foyer, Rian still had to take firm hold of herself against the sensation that she was about to plummet and fall.
"Turns the stomach, doesn’t it?" Étienne said cheerfully, and led her along to a broad bridge across the gap, and then into the lower assembly halls of the Gilded Court.
While the whole place was constructed inside the hollow filigree of vast domes, the halls were less disconcerting than the main shaft. True, the ceiling was a good fifty feet above, and curved to conform to the shape of the dome, but the floor was a series of broad, step-like balconies, with nothing like the immense drop of the shaft. It was a little like a gently terraced hillside, with a glowing white sky.
No trees, however. As with the brief airship ride to France, she was above the Forest here.
"I see finding Henri is going to be the hardest part of this venture," Rian said, eyeing the dancers, the drinkers, the clusters of revellers – and uncomfortably aware of those who viewed her with interest in return. "I’m glad I brought you along."
"It’s not finding him that’s difficult," Étienne said. "He’ll be at the card tables. Do you have some plan for once we’re there?"
"You go away before he recognises you," Rian said. "Even with that mask on you somehow exude an aura of Étienne."
"And you, who have never visited this place before, will sit down with a habitual gambler and somehow come away with whatever Martine has lost? I always thought you a woman of sense, Rian."
"I am a woman with a precious friend," Rian said steadily, but then smiled behind her veil. "And not quite a vampire. I can hear heartbeats. That will give me the tiniest edge, at least against Henri."
Étienne shook his head in disgust.
"The thing you must understand is that, unless you are a fool like Henri, Forfeit is a game you play to lose. That is how it is structured, because it is the uncertainty, the loss of control, which is delicious. What are you, my most esteemed cousin, to expect to play Forfeit and win?"
(iii)
Henri Duchamps was not strictly wearing the current fashion. His coat was cut in a shorter style, expensive, but just a touch shiny at the seams. His veil was mulberry-red. He wore no mask.
"Now what will you do?" Étienne asked. "It was the Mask of Léon he made off with, was it not?"
Rian let out her breath in a long hiss, more exasperated than she cared to admit, but then she shrugged. "I suppose, if nothing else, I can force him to tell me what he’s done with it."
"Lost it to someone in here, almost certainly," Étienne said. "If you are determined to try to match him, I will look for it in the meantime."
"Thank you, Étienne," Rian said, and he chuckled.
"It is hours to midnight still, let alone dawn. There is plenty of time for me to enjoy myself. You won’t be able to join the game until the current sets have been played, so watch the exchange of Tears. It looks like Henri is doing well."
This was true. Although he was not wearing the most recognisable – and most-copied – piece in the Léon Bonnaire collection, Henri’s veil was decorated by at least fifteen of the ten-Tear drops. Not a good sign: it was important to regain the mask without the loss becoming public, but for Henri to be without the mask and yet in funds suggested he had lost it paying a forfeit.
Rian studied the tables around her hopefully, but although there were a few lions, two in the silver and black of the Mask of Léon, they all looked new. Copies based on the famous original. Resigned, she focused all her attention on Henri’s table.
The old actor was like a lion himself, though the swept-back blond mane was thick with pale streaks. Rian – and Martine – had first met him when he was in his early forties and at the height of his fame, celebrated and feted. Now…well, the skin around his eyes was crêpey, and removing the veil would expose a sagging about the jaw, but he was still a vital, charismatic man.
Rian watched Henri play, meanly – and pragmatically – pleased when his luck turned and he began to lose his little collection of Tears. She spared attention to the other players at the table – eight in all – marking the pulse of their blood and trying to capture informative changes when their cards were dealt, and when they made their bets. Her ability to detect emotion was far less reliable, particularly when she wasn’t touching the person, but she did catch flashes – usually when a good hand was dealt, or the player embarked upon a daring bluff.
At the close of the game, Henri had lost four of his fifteen ten-Tears. The dealer, wings folded to hide their colour, but almost certainly one of the Gilded Tower, called a half-hour break – for refreshments and any payments of forfeits.
Rian did not follow Henri when he left the table, merely moving to observe another table while tracking where he went in the room. Conveniences – in, out – then food, wine, before buttonholing a woman in a tiger’s mask. Not claiming a forfeit, merely seeing where charm could take him.
He had a beautiful voice, did Henri.
Arms slid around Rian’s waist. "Are you sure you will not give this up, and come enjoy yourself?"
Rian firmly removed Étienne’s hands, and, turning, caught a glimpse of widened eyes through his mask. Then he laughed.
"You always were rather dangerous, Rian. A touch of vampire only adds to the fascination." He held his hands up in surrender. "But I will behave. No sign of the mask?"
She shook her head. "There are very few of the Court here," she commented, gazing about. Members of the Court of the Moon grew taller and spindlier with age, so it was easy to spot them, even without their folded wings poking above their heads.