Read Online The Master of Misrule by Laura Powell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Powell
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shrug. But soon their reactions grew more extreme. Winners punched the air in triumph. Losers recoiled, grew pale. Banner posters and billboards proclaimed:
And it was the image of the cards that flashed around the mirrors now: reproduced in newsprint, beamed through airwaves, projected onto screens.
A burning wheel towered over a city skyline. This was the chancers’ own London, free of the transformations and exaggerations of the Arcanum—except for that circle of azure flame. Beneath it, a crowd swelled. Every age, every profession, every kind of person was there. Some looked merely curious, but many bore the flush of desperation or greed.
The wheel spun to the sound of fairground jingles. Once again a wild wind blew, sending sparks and cards flying. These had no lettering or silver coins on them: their illustrations belonged to the Game of Triumphs deck. Nevertheless, the crowd surged to catch them, leaping and stumbling, trampling over each other in their lust to win.
The scene changed.
A gray morning. Quiet streets, tense faces.
The Day of the Lottery.
Let me be lucky.…
Be lucky
, people murmured to themselves, whether fearful or excited or resigned, as they waited to receive their fate. Thick, gilt-trimmed cards that appeared out of nowhere to lie on doormats and desks, in handbags and briefcases, the folds of a newspaper or coat.
Many of the cards were blank except for a single line.
Others bore pictures that the chancers recognized: illustrations of violence and transformation, fantasy and horror. But these cards did not need to be taken into the Arcanum for the experiences they depicted to come true.
Justice. Two of Swords.
Six of Wands. Love.
Death.
Their images came thicker and faster in the mirrors. Sometimes they were the flat illustrations from the cards; sometimes it was like looking into the Arcanum itself. Soon the glass was a kaleidoscope of moving color: rainbows and starbursts and shivers of light, all breaking, sliding, slithering into one another.
Until the mirrors returned to Misrule and his wheel.
The sun shone cold and black in a crimson sky, and skeleton trees grew root-first from rocks that writhed and squirmed. A ruined city sprawled around. The river that ran through it did not flow with water, but with yellow sand.Snakes swam through the air, and birds dragged themselves across the ground with leaden wings.
Dead leaves twirled in the wind that whipped around the wheel and out of the mirrors, tangling the chancers’ hair and tugging at their clothes. The leaves blew around them also—except they were not leaves, but the charred remains of triumph cards.
The Master of Misrule looked straight into their eyes. This time, they could hear his laughter. The wheel’s blue flames burned cold as ice, and its reflection whirled on every side, so that they seemed locked in a prism of freezing fire. The light grew fiercer, whiter, spitting and hissing from each frosted shard of glass, until at last there was a mind-shattering crash as the mirrors fell to the floor, and the room plunged into darkness.
In the sudden silence, the four chancers could hear the laboring of their breath. The High Priest, meanwhile, was swaying with exhaustion. When he spoke again, they could see the effort it took to hold himself upright.
“Your city is the first to come under Misrule’s spell, but it will not be the last. Already, you have seen his calling cards appear on your streets. Soon he will enslave chance to his will, corrupting its powers so that it is no longer one force among the many in men’s lives, but the
only one
. Do you see, now, what you have done?”
All around them were scraps of burned cards and jagged heaps of glass. Cat’s face swam out at her from one of the bigger pieces.
“Nobody wants a load of flying snakes and skeleton trees,” Cat said, more aggressively than she felt. “But I don’t see how all that doomsday stuff can come out of a few scratchcards.”
“Then
And it was the image of the cards that flashed around the mirrors now: reproduced in newsprint, beamed through airwaves, projected onto screens.
A burning wheel towered over a city skyline. This was the chancers’ own London, free of the transformations and exaggerations of the Arcanum—except for that circle of azure flame. Beneath it, a crowd swelled. Every age, every profession, every kind of person was there. Some looked merely curious, but many bore the flush of desperation or greed.
The wheel spun to the sound of fairground jingles. Once again a wild wind blew, sending sparks and cards flying. These had no lettering or silver coins on them: their illustrations belonged to the Game of Triumphs deck. Nevertheless, the crowd surged to catch them, leaping and stumbling, trampling over each other in their lust to win.
The scene changed.
A gray morning. Quiet streets, tense faces.
The Day of the Lottery.
Let me be lucky.…
Be lucky
, people murmured to themselves, whether fearful or excited or resigned, as they waited to receive their fate. Thick, gilt-trimmed cards that appeared out of nowhere to lie on doormats and desks, in handbags and briefcases, the folds of a newspaper or coat.
Many of the cards were blank except for a single line.
Others bore pictures that the chancers recognized: illustrations of violence and transformation, fantasy and horror. But these cards did not need to be taken into the Arcanum for the experiences they depicted to come true.
Justice. Two of Swords.
Six of Wands. Love.
Death.
Their images came thicker and faster in the mirrors. Sometimes they were the flat illustrations from the cards; sometimes it was like looking into the Arcanum itself. Soon the glass was a kaleidoscope of moving color: rainbows and starbursts and shivers of light, all breaking, sliding, slithering into one another.
Until the mirrors returned to Misrule and his wheel.
The sun shone cold and black in a crimson sky, and skeleton trees grew root-first from rocks that writhed and squirmed. A ruined city sprawled around. The river that ran through it did not flow with water, but with yellow sand.Snakes swam through the air, and birds dragged themselves across the ground with leaden wings.
Dead leaves twirled in the wind that whipped around the wheel and out of the mirrors, tangling the chancers’ hair and tugging at their clothes. The leaves blew around them also—except they were not leaves, but the charred remains of triumph cards.
The Master of Misrule looked straight into their eyes. This time, they could hear his laughter. The wheel’s blue flames burned cold as ice, and its reflection whirled on every side, so that they seemed locked in a prism of freezing fire. The light grew fiercer, whiter, spitting and hissing from each frosted shard of glass, until at last there was a mind-shattering crash as the mirrors fell to the floor, and the room plunged into darkness.
In the sudden silence, the four chancers could hear the laboring of their breath. The High Priest, meanwhile, was swaying with exhaustion. When he spoke again, they could see the effort it took to hold himself upright.
“Your city is the first to come under Misrule’s spell, but it will not be the last. Already, you have seen his calling cards appear on your streets. Soon he will enslave chance to his will, corrupting its powers so that it is no longer one force among the many in men’s lives, but the
only one
. Do you see, now, what you have done?”
All around them were scraps of burned cards and jagged heaps of glass. Cat’s face swam out at her from one of the bigger pieces.
“Nobody wants a load of flying snakes and skeleton trees,” Cat said, more aggressively than she felt. “But I don’t see how all that doomsday stuff can come out of a few scratchcards.”
“Then
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