The Towers, the Moon

by Andrea K Höst

  "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.

  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 f
rom 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.

  "Yes, mostly only the young and poor, or those carrying out duty service. They're issued a certain number of Tears each month, because of course the reigning Towers are always competing. We're just spice, wild cards in their games." He paused, looking around. "Well, on the lower tiers I expect we're mostly profit for the city coffers, or wherever all that money goes."

  Rian wondered, watching a pair of Court members flying overhead. White wings. The Snow Tower valued a kind of spiritual asceticism, and the competitions of their reigns revolved around rather remote expressions of aesthetic balance. Did a requirement to gamble and pay forfeits excite or bore them?

  "He's heading back. I will be a few tables away. Good luck, dangerous cousin."

  Rian nodded absently, and then – once she was certain Henri intended to return to the same table – chose a seat that would not be in his direct line of view.

  Almost immediately after she sat down the table began to fill. Rian was faintly surprised, because there had not been so very many uncommitted players in the area, but then noticed the folded wings jutting over the head of the woman opposite. To much of this crowd, excluding the inveterate gamblers, the greatest excitement would be found in winning forfeit from one of the Court.

  The slender, brown-skinned woman, perhaps six feet in height, had her wings tightly tucked together, but the red-gold feathers of a firebird mask suggested she belonged to the Tower of the Drum. Twelve Tears hung from her golden veil.

  A convenient development, for the winged woman would draw attention from Rian.

  When eight players were seated, the dealer began to explain the rules of the game. Nothing surprising. The standa
rd French deck of a hundred, divided into ten suits of ten. Pay one Tear to be dealt a hand, and then choose to either fold or pay two, then five, ten, twenty, forty to play on. Among timid players, only those who had a good hand would ever do anything but fold. For the daring, the trick was to read the table, and, if you judged that no-one had a truly outstanding hand, pay the increasingly high cost of staying in play until the rest folded, or the fifth payment round was reached. The game was a long one, divided into five sets of five hands, with forfeits to be paid only after the final two sets.

  Rian spent the first set establishing herself as mildly adventurous: staying in play for a round or two even when she had an indifferent hand, but then dropping out when the cost to stay in rose past five. On the fourth hand, she bluffed to a small victory when everyone else folded early.

  Her attention was all for the pulse in the rivers of blood around her, sorting the lift of a near-certain win from the heady rush of a dangerous bluff. Occasional flashes of emotion added to her store. Henri, on a good winning hand, was lazily self-satisfied. The pair who sat on either side of Rian were eager, titillated by possibility, as was one of those opposite, and the man next to Henri. The Court member seemed relaxed, while the man who sat directly across from Rian, hidden by a fox's mask and a green veil, discomforted Rian with a heavy hunger directed at herself.

  In the past few weeks, since Rian had survived vampiric bonding, she'd more than once encountered that hunger. It was an interest that seemed to revolve around her apparent youth, which her mask and veil for some reason emphasised. When she truly had been seventeen she had not attracted such interest…or perhaps had simply not noticed it.

  In any case, Rian doubted she would enjoy paying any kind of forfeit to this man, and was glad to remember the limits Étienne had described, and doubly glad at the end of the first five hands when everyone, as a matter of course, traded back as many of their own Tears as they were able. Thanks to her single win, Rian was only down two of her hundred. Now, with some idea of the invisible 'tells' that should let her know bluff from true confidence, all she could do was pay attention and hope for an opening.