Read Online The Master of Misrule by Laura Powell - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Powell
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“The thing is, how do we know you’re telling us the truth? Any bunch of thugs could have got in here and trashed the place. And even if Mr. Misrule is responsible, I’m not sure that’s proof he’s any worse a Game Master than the others. Maybe nobody ever wins this Game of yours. Maybe it’s always going to be a con, whoever’s in charge.”
This time, the man spoke calmly. “The Game has its traps, and the Arcanum its deceits. That is the gamble. Yet the principle behind our gamble is that a prize won fairly does not fail. Until now, every knight who has been awarded a triumph has been granted his wish.
“As for our new master of revels … The Arcanum grows too small for him, and his gambling lust has spread beyond the thresholds’ bounds. I will show you Misrule’s work, and where his Lottery will lead. Perhaps then you will begin to understand the ruin you have caused.”
They followed the doorkeeper—or High Priest, as they were learning to think of him—to the stairs at the end of the hall, which led up to a pair of doors inlaid with a design of interlocking wheels in black and gold. Behind the doors was a mirrored ballroom that took up the entire second floor.
It seemed the marauders’ energy had flagged by the time they reached this final room, for the place was not as wrecked as the rest of the house. Most of the mirrors, although badly cracked, still lined the walls; the sparkle of light on their webs of shattered glass was oddly beautiful. Fists or weapons of some kind had left silvery starbursts at the point of impact, from which the fissures rippled outward like the rings after a stone is thrown into water.
For a few moments, the four chancers just stood, blinking. The disorientating effect of standing among so many mirrors was intensified by the fretwork of glimmering scars, in which things were both reflected and fragmented. The High Priest stood within the doorway, his hands clasped tight, murmuring nameless words under his breath and watching the chancers watch the walls.
Theirs were not the only images in the glass. As they looked, they began to see other figures moving across the gleaming surfaces, in a shifting reflection of scenes and people who were not there.
Gradually, they realized that they were watching the destruction of Temple House.
They saw a bearded man take an ax to the piano in the music room. A woman gleefully put her cigarette lighter toa silk wall hanging. A pack of youths rampaged through the bookshelves in the library. Another group hurled crystal champagne flutes down the stairs.
And in every splintered view, every jigsaw glimpse, there was a man with flowing white hair and hot blue eyes, whose face was neither old nor young, and whose smile was at one moment innocently bright and the next a crooked grin. There was no sound at first, but his head was thrown back in laughter as he urged the mob on.
Finally, the view of Temple House fractured and slid apart until there was only one image, everywhere. The Master of Misrule.
He had cast off the plain, dark clothes they had first seen him in for motley-colored robes, and he stood, arms outstretched, in the center of a wheel of blue fire. As the wheel spun and sparked, cards flew out from its axis and into the wind its whirling raised.
Before long the cascade of cards grew so frenzied it was as if the mirrors were filled with static. Yet when the fuzz and crackle cleared, the scenes revealed were remarkable only in their ordinariness. Pubs and offices, supermarkets and railway stations. There were cards there, too, though—glinting silvery blue on black, rich with possibility.… An allure that only grew stronger as people picked them up from pavements and doormats, or shook them out from magazines.
The chancers watched as a series of silver coins was scratched away and a sequence of laughing heads and forkedtails was revealed. At first, the recipients responded with nothing stronger than a baffled smile or
This time, the man spoke calmly. “The Game has its traps, and the Arcanum its deceits. That is the gamble. Yet the principle behind our gamble is that a prize won fairly does not fail. Until now, every knight who has been awarded a triumph has been granted his wish.
“As for our new master of revels … The Arcanum grows too small for him, and his gambling lust has spread beyond the thresholds’ bounds. I will show you Misrule’s work, and where his Lottery will lead. Perhaps then you will begin to understand the ruin you have caused.”
They followed the doorkeeper—or High Priest, as they were learning to think of him—to the stairs at the end of the hall, which led up to a pair of doors inlaid with a design of interlocking wheels in black and gold. Behind the doors was a mirrored ballroom that took up the entire second floor.
It seemed the marauders’ energy had flagged by the time they reached this final room, for the place was not as wrecked as the rest of the house. Most of the mirrors, although badly cracked, still lined the walls; the sparkle of light on their webs of shattered glass was oddly beautiful. Fists or weapons of some kind had left silvery starbursts at the point of impact, from which the fissures rippled outward like the rings after a stone is thrown into water.
For a few moments, the four chancers just stood, blinking. The disorientating effect of standing among so many mirrors was intensified by the fretwork of glimmering scars, in which things were both reflected and fragmented. The High Priest stood within the doorway, his hands clasped tight, murmuring nameless words under his breath and watching the chancers watch the walls.
Theirs were not the only images in the glass. As they looked, they began to see other figures moving across the gleaming surfaces, in a shifting reflection of scenes and people who were not there.
Gradually, they realized that they were watching the destruction of Temple House.
They saw a bearded man take an ax to the piano in the music room. A woman gleefully put her cigarette lighter toa silk wall hanging. A pack of youths rampaged through the bookshelves in the library. Another group hurled crystal champagne flutes down the stairs.
And in every splintered view, every jigsaw glimpse, there was a man with flowing white hair and hot blue eyes, whose face was neither old nor young, and whose smile was at one moment innocently bright and the next a crooked grin. There was no sound at first, but his head was thrown back in laughter as he urged the mob on.
Finally, the view of Temple House fractured and slid apart until there was only one image, everywhere. The Master of Misrule.
He had cast off the plain, dark clothes they had first seen him in for motley-colored robes, and he stood, arms outstretched, in the center of a wheel of blue fire. As the wheel spun and sparked, cards flew out from its axis and into the wind its whirling raised.
Before long the cascade of cards grew so frenzied it was as if the mirrors were filled with static. Yet when the fuzz and crackle cleared, the scenes revealed were remarkable only in their ordinariness. Pubs and offices, supermarkets and railway stations. There were cards there, too, though—glinting silvery blue on black, rich with possibility.… An allure that only grew stronger as people picked them up from pavements and doormats, or shook them out from magazines.
The chancers watched as a series of silver coins was scratched away and a sequence of laughing heads and forkedtails was revealed. At first, the recipients responded with nothing stronger than a baffled smile or
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