The Master of Misrule (27 page)

Flora pulled Toby aside. “Slow down,” she said. “There’s no point making demands until we’re sure of what we want. Remember the words of the prophecy: ‘the
fledgling
of
empire.’ That means a chick. A baby bird.” She turned back to the Emperor. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but … does Juno have a nest?”

The old man feebly pointed upward. “She roosts on the mountain’s peak and guards its flame.”

“There,” Flora said to Toby with only a trace of smugness. “You see? We don’t need Juno, but Juno’s fledgling. So we have to find her nest.”

“Mmm-hmm. Onward and upward,” the Emperor mumbled. “Onward, upward …”

Toby followed Flora to the left side of the terrace, where a rough path wound farther up the mountain. Of course she was right about the wording of the prophecy; he was annoyed he hadn’t thought of it himself. And yet … He cast a final glance back at the throne: the doddering old man, the eagle preening its feathers, the scepter and orb lying in the dust like discarded toys. Something was niggling at him. But whatever the thought was, it remained tantalizingly out of reach.

The palace had been built on a wide spur of rock that jutted over the plain. Behind its ruined walls, the mountainside towered implacably upward, its summit shrouded in cloud. A dim glow smoldered within the vapor.

“Mount Doom, I presume.”

Flora pursed her lips. “If your next remark involves hobbits, you’re on your own.”

“OK. Last one to the top’s an Orc!” Toby retorted cheerfully as he started on the path.

It didn’t last long, meandering into a rough track that
petered out among a scrubby patch of bushes. Soon the steepness of the slope forced them to climb at a sideways tilt, one hand clutching at the ground for balance, their skidding feet sending a scurry of loose stones rattling in their wake. Flora, who had wrenched her ankle before Christmas, found it particularly hard going. And it got worse. The rocks became more jagged and the bushes more spiny, and the thin soil was replaced with grit and ash. In spite of the cold wind and clouded sky, it was hot work. The higher they climbed, the warmer the ground felt beneath their feet, and a smell of sulfur began to taint the air.

When they finally clambered, breathless, to the summit, they found a scorched wasteland from which twists of vapor writhed and hissed upward. The air was thick with sulfurous heat; the cindery ground within was cracked with rivulets of molten red. Outcrops of rocks pierced the surface.

In the center of this wilderness was a tall tree, as jagged and black as the rock it grew from. One bough, however, right at the top, gleamed with gold. There was a thorny tangle perched on its tip; high above that, a shadow wheeled through the sky. Juno was circling.

To get to the tree would mean a deadly game of stepping-stones across the smoldering embers; to reach the nest would mean a dizzying climb through spiky branches, up to where Juno’s beak and talons would be waiting.

“This is hopeless,” said Flora.

“But not
impossible
.”

Crouching down on the farthermost edge of solid ground, Toby stretched out a leg to the nearest rocky foothold,
testing the distance. “It’s not actual lava, you know. There’s a sort of ash crust keeping most of the heat in. And, look, I’m sure we could reach this bit of rock all right.”

“And where would we go from there? We’ll either get boiled alive or torn up for bird food.”

Toby was ready to dispute this but somehow couldn’t find the words, let alone the energy. His feebleness was more than just physical tiredness: the tainted air and stifling heat were making it hard to think. Instead, he got up to join Flora at the lip of the summit, looking out over the Emperor’s dominion.

Seen from this height, it was vaster than either of them could have imagined. Apart from the mountain on which they were standing, the entire view was flat and featureless: barren rock curving away to the horizon, as far as the eye could see. Toby raised his hand to the sky, spreading his fingers and then clenching them, as if to grasp the world—a globe of gray in the palm of his hand.

And at this thought another one came to him: beautiful, shining, perfectly formed. He laughed out loud.

“Flora! We’re looking in the wrong place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our baby bird isn’t nesting on Mount Doom. It’s been in the palace the whole time.”

“But the Emperor said—”

“He said where Juno’s nest was. He didn’t say anything about what we’d find in it.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’ll see,” he said maddeningly.

Before Flora could interrogate him further, he launched
into a helter-skelter descent from the summit. She called after him angrily, but he ignored her and she had no option but to scramble behind him, and save her breath for the long climb down. It was quicker than their hike up, but not easier. Down they went, sliding and slithering among the dust and rocks and thorns, with grazed hands and bruised knees, grit in their eyes and stones in their shoes.

By now the sun was up, though it cast a poor, weak sort of light. When they finally reached the terrace, the ruined building looked less imposing than it had in the glimmers of dawn: its classical portico was municipal rather than palatial in style. Flora remembered the red rope around the treasure heap. On the other side of the threshold, she thought, there must be a museum where the relics of empire were more respectfully housed.

“Back so soon?” said the Emperor.

He was sitting up straighter, so that his chin was no longer slumped into his beard. For the first time, the remnants of strength could be traced in his profile, his proud hooked nose and fierce brows.

“We’ve come for that trib—tribute—you promised,” Toby panted before having to pause to get his breath back. “Our eagle. This time, though, we know what we’re looking for.” He pointed to the stone block on which the throne was raised, and the emblems of power at its side.

the Emperor quoted in a voice of surprising firmness,

He bowed his head.

“A fitting tribute and wise choice. I shall be honored to make the offering to Your Majesty.”

Slowly and stiffly, the old man bent to pick up the golden bauble that lay next to his scepter. He put it into Toby’s hands as Juno swooped back to perch at his side.

The imperial orb was much lighter than one might expect, and oval-shaped rather than spherical. Not a globe, but an egg.

Toby cupped it in his palms, feeling the cool sheen of metal. Juno gave a gentle caw. Toby dashed the egg against the floor.

The shining shell split cleanly across, and rang against the stone. Inside, there was a miniature gold eagle, as motionless as metal should be, but otherwise a perfect replica of the living one.

Toby reached for the figurine, and the world changed. Everything had turned to black and white. He was standing alone at the edge of a marble floor that was also a chessboard. Through its squares he thought he could see the model battleground from his bedroom, come to shadowy life. Or maybe it was the board Mia had shown him in the Chariot, the landscape and its inhabitants shaken into yet more disarray. It was as if the entire world of the Arcanum was contained on these checkers of black and white.

How had the oracle put it?

You must renew their first offerings on the Game’s board.…

Unsteadily, Toby bent to place the gold eagle on the black corner-square. As he did so, the board seemed to shudder.

And when he straightened up, he was back in the Emperor’s move. His hand was empty, but otherwise it was as if he had never left.

T
HE
M
INOTAUR WAS TOO
quick for Cat.

Without even turning around, let alone breaking his stride, he jabbed his elbow into her chest with enough force to send her flying. Cat lay winded on the sandy floor of the arena, dark spirals floating at the edge of her vision. The roar of the spectators seemed very far away, and small, like the buzz of flies. Dimly, she was aware that something, or someone, was coming for her and she should probably try to get up. But her limbs were limp as string.

Meanwhile, yelling and cursing, Blaine jabbed electric shock after shock at the Minotaur. It succeeded in getting the Minotaur’s attention back to him. Suddenly, a huge, brawny arm shot out and grabbed the cattle prod, twisting hard. As a tug-of-war, there was no contest: Blaine had to choose between being pulled into the beast’s crushing
embrace or giving up his one defense. He could only watch as the Minotaur snatched the slim metal wand and snapped it contemptuously in two. By now he had been backed toward a corner. The Minotaur planted his feet squarely, and then—snorting and steaming, his eyes flaring red—he lowered his head for the charge.

Blaine had little space, and less time. There was just enough room for a run and a leap. Before he could think through what he was doing, Blaine raced forward and grasped the bull’s horns, then half hauled, half flung his body upward, so that his legs scrambled and kicked over the Minotaur’s head. His feet found a ledge on the creature’s shoulders, and he took advantage of the bull’s temporary confusion to scrabble around so that he was riding on the Minotaur’s back. For several long, hideous moments Blaine hung there like a monkey, his legs crossed under the bull’s dewlap, hands grasping the horns, as the beast tossed his head and bellowed with fury. The crowd groaned.

Blaine’s grip was slippery, his hands blistered. He could smell a hot animal stink and his face was flecked with foam from the beast’s muzzle. Vast, calloused hands clawed at his legs, which felt absurdly thin and snappable. He leaned all his weight forward on the bull’s head, hoping to topple him over before the bucking of his body could throw Blaine off. It felt as if his bones were humming, his teeth rattling in his jaw. At any second Blaine would be sent tumbling through the air.… Any moment now he and Cat would both be lying on the sand, their guts gored out in bloody heaps for flies to feast on.… Until suddenly Cat was there, too, flinging
her arms around the Minotaur’s knees, dragging the creature down.

All three of them crashed to the earth. Somehow Blaine was still on top, still clinging to the horns. As the monster thrashed and roared below him, he and Cat, swaying, breathless, scarlet-faced, looped the collar over the bull’s horns and around his thick neck.

Instantly, the Minotaur’s body went limp. There was an electrified silence: no movement or sound from the people in the arena or the surrounding streets. Blaine and Cat began to back away, breathing hard. They didn’t have the energy to run.

With the wrenching, tormented groan Cat remembered from before, the Minotaur dragged himself up to his knees, putting his hands down on the ground for balance. Although the collar was only a thin loop of leather, the creature seemed to stagger under its weight. On all fours, he roared and heaved, and beat his animal head up and down, grunting, as the colossal body began to thicken and grow dark fur.

The crowd murmured.

Even as the bull-form grew more distinct, the shadow of a human body was still there, thinly visible both around and within the creature that—just—anchored it. Like a snake casting its skin, and groaning all the while, the animal stretched and twisted and rubbed himself against the ground, so that the shadow-flesh rippled into new substance and solidity. Until at last the beast was neither man-bull nor bull-man, but two separate beings entirely.

The bull was thick-bodied and short-legged, with a coarse black pelt and sharp, curved horns.

The man was dark and curly-haired. When Cat had last seen him, he had been convulsed with the savagery of his metamorphosis. This time his face showed liveliness as well as strength, and was lit by the dazzle of his smile.

For the marching band had begun to play again, and the arena was once more ringing with cheers.

Meanwhile, the bull blinked sleepily in the sun. Its tail twitched at the flies.

The man turned to Cat and Blaine. “I am Asterion,” he said, “and I owe you thanks for my deliverance. Now and for always, I shall be whole again.”

“Marvelous show! Splendidly played! Well done, well done.”

The mayor had bustled up, grinning from ear to ear. The girl in the pink fairy dress pranced after him, holding the ax. With a flourish, the mayor took it from her and presented it to Blaine.

“The animal will go consenting to its sacrifice. An offering fit for a king!”

The iron blade of the ax shone dully in the sun. Blaine tested its weight, frowning.

“Perhaps,” said Asterion, “you will allow me.…” He looked at their doubtful faces. “Do not fear,” he said quietly. “I know what you seek.”

Trying not to look too obviously relieved, Blaine passed him the ax. The man stood beside the beast and placed a hand on his curly brow, murmuring something no one else
could hear. The bull snuffled softly. Asterion braced his feet apart.

He swung up the ax, and struck it boldly down. The bull did not cry out, but choked a little, as scarlet spurted from the cleft in his neck and his great head lolled. The carcass twitched, and was still. So, too, was the crowd.