by Laura Powell
“The player was attempting to cheat. Involving a bystander is an invalid move,” said one of the two women. She turned to gesture at the TV screen and its impenetrable flicker. “Wands should pay the forfeit.” She was in early middle age and darkly glamorous, wearing an evening dress of burgundy velvet. Her companions were a stern-faced black man, his hair just beginning to gray, and a blonde in a white pantsuit and dark glasses. Cat thought she looked stupid, wearing sunglasses in a lamp-lit room.
“I disagree with Lucrezia,” said the black man heavily. “The bystander intervened of her own accord. And since her actions were to the disadvantage of Wands, my player has already paid for his error.”
“Come now, Ahab!” chided the younger man. “It’s clear the intervention would never have occurred if Wands hadn’t broken the rules in the first place.”
The dark-haired woman turned to the blonde. “Odile? What’s your call?”
“There is only one rule of significance here,” she replied, sipping daintily from a cup of pale tea. “And that is, a bystander whose intervention has changed the course of the Game is no longer a bystander. We must issue the usual invitation and await further play.”
“What is this about?” Frustration and nervousness combined to make Cat aggressive. She took another step toward the table and saw that the cards they were playing with were not from a normal deck, but in the same style as the one she had found in the street. Strange images and symbols in rich, harsh colors. Tarot cards, maybe. So what were they doing—fortune-telling? Or had she stumbled into some creepy occult society? She shivered, and looked to the door. The room must be soundproofed, she decided, because there was no sound from the street or the bar below.
“Please don’t be alarmed,” said the young man charmingly. “It’s only a game.”
The older woman, Lucrezia, flashed Cat a roguish smile. “We are perfectly in order, I assure you!”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Who are you people?”
“Me? I’m Alastor, King of Swords,” said the young man, cocking his eyebrow at her and laughing. “And these are my companions: Ahab, King of Wands; Odile, Queen of Cups; and Lucrezia, Queen of Pentacles.”
Kings and queens and mystic cards—they were one of those dorky role-playing groups! For all their glamorous clothes and enigmatic airs, they were really just a bunch of nerds huddled above a pub to act out some fantasy quest.
Cat suppressed a smirk. “I s’pose the royal titles mean you’re team leaders in this game of yours.”
“We rule the players in our court,” the black man, Ahab, replied seriously. “The man you met is one of the knights of the Court of Wands. I am his king, and he plays for me.”
“Right … so chasing after him is part of a competition you’ve set up? With rules and prizes and stuff?”
“There are rules, and also principles.” The blonde took another sip of tea, its steam perfuming the air with the scent of jasmine. “The knight in question has flouted both.”
“Admittedly, he was dealt a difficult card. The Ten of Swords’ formal title is Reign of Ruin,” Lucrezia explained in a conversational tone, lighting a cigarette. “It is a card that traditionally pits a knight against knaves. Alastor gave it in challenge to Ahab’s knight.”
“Knaves? Are they your henchmen, or something?”
“A king must have his servants,” Alastor said smoothly. “These do our bidding, both in and out of the Arcanum.”
“Arc-what?”
“It is the board on which our Game is played. However, this Knight of Wands fled his move without even attempting to engage in play.” He looked slyly at Ahab. “All things considered, I can’t imagine his failure would be much of a loss for your court, Ahab. Hardly champion material, is he?”
Ahab frowned.
“Of course, we could have imposed a forfeit on him as punishment,” Alastor continued. “Or even canceled his round. But I was merciful. I gave the knight the chance to complete his move outside of the Arcanum, and ordered my knaves to go after him.”
Cat was getting interested in spite of herself. “So what’s the knight have to do to win?”
“Oh, merely escape his pursuers in the time period set.” He gave a sigh of mock regret. “Alas for Wands, though, his rule breaking has come to no good, and now my knaves have the advantage.… Furthermore, another card has entered the Game.”
The King of Swords slid a card over to her. It showed a figure dressed in patchwork rags, poised at the brink of a precipice.
“And what’s that one called?” Cat asked.
“The Fool,” said Ahab impassively. The blonde waited, motionless as a mannequin. In the sudden silence, Cat noticed the other two staring at her intently, eagerly even, and her misgivings returned. It was just so odd. They were odd, all of them.
“I’d best be off,” she said abruptly. “Goodbye.”
Alastor moved ahead to open the door for her. “I do hope you won’t intervene in play again. Second time round, we’d have to impose a forfeit. And then where would you be?” He winked conspiratorially as she brushed past, her heart jumping, anxious for fresh air, for crowds and noise again.
Once she was out in the street, however, her nerves seemed ridiculous. Those people were strange, sure, but it was nothing to her how they chose to spend their time. King of Swords! Mr. Boring Banker, more like. Or one of those super-smooth lawyer types, playing at world domination on his days off.
ON SATURDAY, CAT WOKE to find Bel cooking breakfast. Greg was there too, and the flat was filled with an eye-watering smell of burned toast and cigarettes and bacon frying. Bel’s shift usually ended at four, and it didn’t look like she’d been to bed in the meantime—her makeup had that lopsided, end-of-the-night look, and she was still wearing stockings under her bathrobe. Her throaty laughter raised itself above the radio to rattle the windowpanes.
“Check it out, puss-cat!” she called. “You’re looking at the Palais Luxe’s new senior croupier! Bacon sandwiches and bubbles to celebrate!” She was flourishing a bottle of cava, courtesy of Greg, presumably, who had gone a bashful pink around the ears. Greg had a long, rather drooping face and small delicate hands, like a girl’s. Cat had always thought he looked more like a small-town librarian than the pit boss at a seedy casino.
She eyed Bel thoughtfully over a juice glass of slightly warm fizz. London had gone to Bel’s head like the bubbles in her wine. “Told you this city was going to work for me!” she exclaimed as she sashayed off to the bathroom.
“Bumped into some real weirdos last night,” Cat said casually.
“Weirdos like what? Perverts?” Greg lowered his voice, with an anxious glance at the bathroom door.
“Nah, these weren’t the kinky kind. Bunch of bankers playing this card game where you had to run around acting things out. Quests and chases and stuff.”
“Sounds like those Dungeons and Dragons fans.”
“Dungeons! Now that sounds kinky.”
“Ah, but these are the imaginary kind.” Greg looked knowledgeable. “For imaginary adventures. You’re given tasks or puzzles, and you build a story round them. Some people really get into it: write scripts, make costumes.… Though I’ve heard it can turn nasty, mind.”
“Nasty?”
“Ooh yes. There was a murder. Some kid killed another one, or got his friend to kill somebody else—I can’t remember which—and they said it was all part of this fantasy role-play business. It was in the papers a while back, and I don’t reckon it was a one-off, neither.… I’d steer well clear, dungeons or no.”
“Fine by me,” said Cat, reaching for another slice of bacon.
The day was cold but clear, and after breakfast Cat went out to mingle with the Christmas shoppers and sightseers. After her days of drifting, it was almost disconcerting to have a destination in mind. Her route crossed paths with the one she’d taken last night, the scene of the chase, or game, or whatever it was, but the streets were bright and the crowds unthreatening.<
br />
Dark Portal was a sci-fi and fantasy shop on the Charing Cross Road that sold an assortment of books, DVDs and comics, together with film and TV memorabilia. The window display had a signed poster of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a collection of model dragons holding crystals in their claws and a “limited edition” Luke Skywalker doll. Cat went inside with the same furtive air as customers at the local porno store.
Inside, the shop was orderly and well lit, and she was relieved to see her fellow browsers didn’t look too odd—only a couple of beards between them. She went up to the register, where a bored-looking student type was reading Sartre.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you deal in, er, role-playing games?”
He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “What’re you into?”
“I’m not sure.…”
“Space opera, Western, Wicca, detective … or maybe you’re more the post-Apocalyptic type?”
“I don’t th—”
“Of course, sword ’n’ sorcery is always popular.” He waved his hand toward a display cabinet full of little figurines. “I’m told we have a particularly fine selection of hobbits.” Now he was smirking and she stared at him coldly. Weren’t these places supposed to be run by geeky enthusiasts?
“Can I help you?” A little man came bustling over.
“I was asking about role-playing games,” she said, turning her back firmly on Mr. Too Cool for Tolkien.
The man beamed, practically twitching with enthusiasm. This was more like it. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not exactly. I wondered … do you know of any role-play games based on, like, Tarot cards?” she asked.
“Well, some game masters use them, but usually as a basis for building up a wider fantasy scenario. People either create their own game from scratch, you see, or else they buy ready-made packs and plot guides to get them going. If you’re interested, I could get you our catalogue.”
Was this how those people on Friday night had got started: chatting over the miniature hobbits? Cat was suddenly embarrassed by her questions. She didn’t belong in a place like this. “Uh, thanks—maybe I’ll look into it.” She was already backing out the door.
Over the next week, Cat stopped riding the Tube and spent her after-school hours walking around instead. For the most part, the West End had a holiday feel, its lights garish but cheerful. Cat wasn’t stupid, though; she never loitered in the dead hours after the pubs and coffee shops had emptied, the office workers and tourists had melted away, and the older, darker city came to claim its own. Besides, at ten-thirty sharp, Bel would telephone the flat, and all hell would break loose if Cat wasn’t there to answer.
Sometimes Cat would pass a group of girls giggling in the window of a café, or a couple entwined outside a bar, and feel a fleeting restlessness. Once, when Cat was about eight, she’d had a friend at school, a best friend, Tara, and when she’d heard they were moving again, she’d cried for a day. Bel had been kind but tough. “You meet the same people wherever you go and whatever you do. Truth is, most people are replaceable, if you look hard enough.” As she got older, Cat decided Bel was right. The Taras and Gregs of the world were nice enough, useful even, but they didn’t last. Whereas Bel and Cat were forever. That was their pact.
Meanwhile, all schools had become alike to Cat—even if this latest one was more chaotic than most—and by now she was adept at putting in just the right amount of effort not to draw attention to herself. It was the same with the in-groups and alliances outside of class.
On the last Friday before Christmas break, she went to hang out in a coffee shop with a bunch of girls from her class; they were going on to a party afterward, but by then she’d had enough. Once she got back to the flat, however, she had time to regret it. After half an hour listening to the thump of drum ’n’ bass from the place next door, Cat gave in. Just because she’d missed her chance with the party didn’t mean she had to be stuck at home all night.
Almost without noticing it, she had begun to form an internal map of the neighborhood, the ebb and flow of its streets. As Cat neared the entrance to the strip joint at the end of her road, she automatically noted that it was the Saturday blonde at the door, not the black girl who usually took the Friday-night shift. The girl gave a brief nod of greeting as Cat walked past, the fan heater by her bare legs blowing sudden warmth across the pavement. Cat shivered, and hunched farther into her coat.
Thrusting her hands deep into the pockets, she felt something poking out of the inner lining of the left one. It was a card: thick, gilt-edged, and with a familiar illustration. No swords or blood at least, but the happy Fool, poised between the light and the dark, the open sky and the abyss.
What the …? Cat stared at it for a moment, before remembering that this was the coat she’d been wearing a week ago, the night of her encounter with the cardplayers above the pub. The King of Whatsit must have slipped it into her pocket on her way out, and it had somehow worked its way into the torn lining.
Cat walked over to a brightly lit shop window to take a closer look. The reverse of the card was printed with a curly black script.
There was a little icon of a four-spoked wheel, but no date or RSVP, no real information about what it was inviting her to. Hadn’t the cardplayers said the Arcanum was a kind of board game? But what did it mean about throwing coins?
“Got a light, miss?”
Cat started: she had been too absorbed in her discovery to pay attention to what was going on around her. An older Asian boy, face half-hidden by a baseball cap, was leaning toward her expectantly.
“Sorry,” she said, moving off. The area always had an assortment of young men with pinched, unhealthy faces loitering on corners and outside doorways, doing furtive business of one sort or another. Up till now, she had managed to steer clear of them.
“Spare some change for the bus, then?”
“No.”
Cat moved more quickly into the crowds, and he began to follow her. She remembered the businessman fleeing down the alley, the set faces of those in pursuit, though she immediately shook the thought off. That whole thing had been a misunderstanding. She was perfectly safe. There were people everywhere.… Even so, she walked briskly, away from her original direction. She glanced back to see if he was still following her. Yes. She turned another corner and looked back again.
He had stopped, was standing, staring, on the curb. The light of a taxi swung round, and for a moment he was illuminated in its beam: a dark face and glittering eyes. Then he tugged his cap down low again, turned his back on her and melted away.
Cat was embarrassed to find she was breathing hard, her palms clammy. She must have come farther than she had realized; she was out of the warren of streets around Soho and in one of the grand old squares that lie in the heart of the city. At this time of year, many squares had trees decked in ropes of lights, but not here. Shadows rustled behind the park railings. It looked as if most of the houses around the square had been converted into offices, since the buildings were dark and silent. Except for one, that is, where the windows glowed richly and the faint hum of talk and laughter spilled into the air.
Cat drew nearer to the pools of light, as if standing in them could make her warmer. The front door was invitingly ajar, and a discreet bronze plaque to one side of it said:
TEMPLE HOUSE
She half laughed and felt for the card in her pocket. The Arcanum, Temple House, Mercury Square. A sudden wind gusted; the drizzle had turned to sleet and stung her face. Talk about good timing! From the sound of it, there was some sort of party going on. Cat didn’t mind large, anonymous crowds; slipping around the edge of things was her specialty. She might as well give it a go: maybe get something to eat, wait until the sleet had eased.…
The door opened onto a hallway with a marble floor checkered in black and white. A man was seated at a desk immediately inside the door, while the rest of the hall behind him was shut off by a heavy curtai
n of gold brocade. The sounds that came from the other side were oddly muffled, though Cat could hear laughter and the chink of glasses.
The doorkeeper was dressed in black-and-gold livery, the kind that concierges wear at expensive hotels. He had a withered face and clouded eyes. “You’re just in time,” he said. “May I see your card?”
Cat produced the invitation, half expecting to be turned away. It was possible she’d got things wrong, and she didn’t exactly blend in with the fittings. Her damp hair straggled around her face and she was wearing an old blue V-neck and jeans under her coat. If there was a dress code, she was screwed.
She waited as the doorkeeper studied the card and then her face. Finally, he took out a dark coin from his pocket, and laid it on the table. “Do you choose to enter the Arcanum and play the Game?” he asked.
“There’s no membership fee, is there?”
“Anyone can join,” he said gravely, “who accepts the invitation.”
“OK, then.”
“Catch.”
In a sudden movement, the man threw her the coin. Startled, she put her hand up. She could have sworn she’d caught it—she felt the cool hardness of metal in her fist—but when she opened her hand, it was empty.
She looked around the floor. “Where’d it go?”
“You will find it later,” the doorkeeper replied. Then he reached for the stamp and ink pad beside him. “If I may?”
Cat proffered her right hand, and he turned it over, pressing the stamp onto her palm. The ink burned on contact, but the sensation was so brief she thought she must have imagined it. All that showed on her skin was the smudgy black outline of a wheel.
“Cool. Do I get a plastic wristband as well?”
He stared back at her, unsmiling.
“Welcome to the Game.”
Before she could change her mind, Cat went past the desk, drew back the heavy brocade drapes and stepped through. The building was even larger and grander than it appeared from the outside; the entrance hall was enormous and swarming with people. It was lit by an elaborate chandelier. At the back of the hall, a flight of stairs swept up to a second-floor gallery. There were rooms that opened on either side of the hall, and somewhere a piano was being played—a complicated modern piece with little obvious melody.
