The Gameshouse Read online

  He does not reply.

  Oh, fluent silence!

  Her eyes narrow behind the mask and she gazes now into his blank, white face. Does she see? Does she see?

  She cannot know but at once she guesses, for is there not a small Roman coin in her pouch that she has not yet played, and are there not cards in the field, pieces still to be moved, and could all not yet be thrown into doubt?

  A recollection hits her now, her own wisdom, wisely given: one day the balance must break.

  Faliere and Seluda stand almost perfectly balanced in this fight, the last pieces standing on the board.

  What was the beginning of her advice that preceded this thought?

  Assassination is a crude move. Let other players expend cards on battling each other, the strong tearing each other down, until they are weak enough that I may strike.

  She looks at Faliere’s player, and it seems to her that he smiles.

  She turns and runs.

  Chapter 39

  The Gamesmaster always had a sense of humour.

  We loved her for that, once upon a time.

  She found her inspiration for this game in a pack of tarot cards, matching the meaning to the piece, the human to the name. The Priestess—intuition, knowledge, secrets, that is her meaning. Yet sometimes she is also Isis, the mother of magic, and how disdainful would our Priestess be to hear herself painted with such a pagan brush, whatever the truth may be.

  The Fool, full of hope in his journey. Galliard Viole, do you find hope as you wander through the courts of Europe? We do not think so. Sorrow haunts you, behind your smile, and yours is always the loneliness of the road.

  The Sun. You burn more than you heal. Your light is fire, not fertility.

  The Queen of Cups. They will burn you at the stake someday, not because you are a prostitute, but because you dared to write of heaven as a place where male and female have no name, and souls are equal, and love may be expressed in touch and silence, and without reserve.

  The Gamesmaster chose you all, named you all, played you all, as she plays even now, and she was most apt when she named this final card and called him Death, and put him in the hand of Faliere.

  Chapter 40

  Thene runs.

  She runs through the streets of Venice, a madwoman in a mask, and people stare and scatter before her.

  She runs, and is not a woman used to running but still she runs, distance irrelevant, time of no import, for she looked into the eyes of the man who plays Faliere, and she saw death there, and knew that the game was not yet done, and so she runs, and runs, and runs! It is a blessing that she knows this city, for in Venice the sun can be hard to find, the streets twist and tangle in on themselves, the canals bend in and out, forming slow sweeps that deceive any innocent traveller. Too many bridges are private, too many guarded by hungry men; you think you have found a landmark, but no, the alleys curl inwards, and when you emerge again you have lost all sense of place, all bearings, and you look for the sun and cannot see it between the high rooftops but do not panic.

  Do not panic.

  These are you streets, Thene, they are yours, you made them yours, you took them because no one was willing to give, you grabbed at a future and made it yours, you have the courage, you have the strength, do not fear, do not fear, and run!

  The house of Seluda.

  Suddenly, dozens of dignitaries are interested in him, men in dark robes and little caps flock to explain that, really, they were always on his side, always supported him in his bid, of course they did—of course! His role as Tribune would be so good for the city and for just a little consideration his support is theirs, just a quick shaking of the hand and a bargain…

  She pushes through the crowd, which mutters at her rudeness: a woman, and a stinking, breathless one at that, what does she think she’s doing?

  Boys with letters, men with money, they have all come now, too many, too many, smiling, laughing, embracing, the best of friends—we in Venice are all the best of friends, and why would we not be, we are Venetian!—and at last comes to Seluda’s side.

  —You have to go! she hisses.

  —Go?

  He is smiling now, enjoying the attention, the accolades; it is easy for him to forget that not five days ago he was unregarded, unimportant, the people of Venice expected little of him and so paid him even less attention.

  —I believe your life is in danger!

  —I am with my friends! he replies expansively, gesturing through the crowd of faces.

  She nearly shrieks with rage, at the vanity of the man.—This is why men need to be played, she wants to scream,—for I do not possess such a great ego as you do; I have not invested my heart and my self-esteem in the flattery of other men, only in victory, in victory which now you threaten to squander!

  These words are not for now, not for Seluda, so firmly she grips his arm and whispers,—I think Faliere may send a killer!

  —Let him come! My men can deal with it!

  —Can they? Will you bet your life?

  Now Seluda turns, and she sees the man beneath the jollity, the mind beneath the pride.—In Venice, he breathes,—death will always find you, wherever you hide. You cannot live your life waiting for it, for then you will not live.

  —Nor will you win, she hisses.

  He shrugs.—Victory is not life.

  So saying, he turns away, spreading his arms wide to another man, a cry of—Paolo! My dear friend!

  A moment she stands, bewildered and alone.

  Her breathing has slowed, though her shoulders are high, her back bent, her feet burning from her run.

  The crowd surges and pulls around Seluda. One of them hides a blade, or poison, or a pistol, or a rope. She watches the faces, and they all smile, smile and smile, and for a moment she despises them, despises the city, Seluda, and maybe even herself.

  Her hand has slipped into her pouch, and though she cannot say when the habit was formed, she feels the little coin between her fingers, familiar and warm from where she has been touching it, pressing it into her skin like a lucky talisman.

  And in that moment she thinks she sees the man called Silver, watching through a crack in a door, and knows that she imagines this, for there is not enough space to see him there.

  Then she thinks perhaps she sees a woman all in white, moving behind the crowd, but she ducks down low between two traders in Egyptian wheat, and though Thene cranes her neck, she sees the woman no more.

  The coin rolls between her fingers, warm and old.

  For an instant, her eyes roll through the gaze of a man, whose eyes were ocean-green, whose hair is straight, skin the colour of walnut, but reddish too about the cheeks and forehead, as if burned by too much sun and sea. He is a mighty figure, dressed in strange barbaric robes, fur about his neck, rings of bone about his fingers, but blink, and he is only another supplicant come to pay tribute to the honour of Seluda, civilised men in a civilised time, who smile and smile, and look always for the kill.

  And in that second, we, who have so long stood and watched, feel a shudder as her gaze sweeps the room, and know that she sees us too. She sees us, impossible though it is, and she knows. She knows who we are, and what we desire, and in that moment when we fear that she will destroy us all, instead it seems to us that she smiles.

  Then her gaze lights upon a man, and she knows his face, and can name him both for himself and for what he is, for he is Death as surely as he was once Jacamo, her husband. He is looking straight at her, his mouth a little ajar, but that will not deflect him from his purpose. One hand hangs by his side, the other is buried within his cloak and we can feel now almost as if it was our skin itself on the handle that it is a pistol he hides there.

  How did this happen?

  How did Jacamo de Orcelo become the card that is Death? How did this fate befall?

  (He lost too much gambling at the Gameshouse, too many creditors were howling at his door. The debt, was indeed so much more than his wife had ever
understood for the shame, the shame of the gambler who has lost his home, it eats you up, has eaten Jacamo whole. He considered suicide for a while, and with the pistol against his jaw ready to end his days, a woman in white came before him and said:

  —I can wipe your debts.

  —I know you, he replied.—I have seen you in the Gameshouse.

  —You have seen my umpires, she answered.—You have seen my ladies in white. I am their mistress. I control the board.

  —What are you doing here?

  —A game is about to be played for the control of this city. I am looking for pieces to fill the board. You are about to lose it all; I will give it back to you for a bargain.

  —What bargain?

  —You will kill a man, at a player’s command.

  —I, a killer?

  —You would kill yourself. I assure you, killing another is easier.

  —Why would you do this?

  —I enjoy the game. Games are made to be enjoyed.

  —How is murder a game?

  —Life is lived through things which are not true. We pretend ourselves foolish in order to show our wisdom. We find things funny, which are sad. We smile at those who we would destroy, make alliances with those we do not respect, admire ourselves for our intellect and always look for the ultimate prize. We would be great, every one of us, and to achieve greatness do not bother to look at those we have destroyed in our path. A game is all of this and more, and nobler, for those who play at last transcend themselves, and see both the consequences of their choices, and the board as a whole. I do not think there is a nobler calling than the game, and I would have you a part of it.)

  Jacamo de Orcelo.

  His gaze meets his wife’s.

  She wears a mask, but he knows her as surely as she knows him.

  He does not smile.

  Perhaps even he looks sad, a man she can pity, though she has never pitied him before.

  They have their parts to play.

  He pulls out his pistol. He is almost at point-blank range to Seluda; he cannot fail but to hit, to kill, and she too far away.

  Her fingers close around the coin; she pulls it from her pouch.

  His finger tightens about the trigger.

  She closes her eyes and throws the coin.

  Chapter 41

  The coin turns, the coin turns.

  I loved the Gamesmaster once, but she loved the game more than she loved me, and the coin turns, and she is gone.

  A pistol fires.

  Chapter 42

  It is the last night.

  The night before the election.

  The last night before the end.

  Orio Faliere paces in his study as he has paced so much, for so long, the floor worn down by his striding.

  His player sits behind, mask still covering his face, legs crossed, arms folded.

  Thene stands before them.

  Silence, save for the stomping of Faliere across the floor.

  We wait.

  At last Thene says:

  —You will withdraw your candidacy for Tribune.

  Faliere’s player laughs; Faliere does not, but paces—still paces.

  —A man attempted to kill Angelo Seluda, she continues,—but his pistol misfired. He lost three fingers on his right hand, and was taken into custody. In custody he died.

  Walking, walking, Faliere is walking. Angelo Seluda lives and Jacamo de Orcelo dies, and no one knows who gave him the poison that ended his days.

  —You will withdraw your candidacy, Thene repeats.—You will end this race.

  The player laughs again, but it is a sound cut short by the silence of his piece, Orio Faliere, pacing still. They wait for the old man, who makes another cross, and another, and finally stops directly before Thene, some seven inches taller than she, and says,—Why?

  —Because I know about your wife, Thene replies.

  Silence.

  The other player leans in, legs unfolding, hands clasped in front of him.

  Silence.

  —You can prove nothing, Faliere says at last.

  —What is this? asks his player, low and earnest.—What is this about your wife?

  —I have the sworn testimony of the gondolier who carries her to her assignations. I have the witness of three ladies of the town who have observed her activities. I have the testimony of the servants who clean the beds, the men who bring the food and most importantly, I have the testimony of her lover.

  Faliere’s player is on his feet now, but Faliere is still, so still.

  —My wife’s activities mean nothing, he says at last.—I have always known her a whore. The city will forget.

  —The city will forget that she sleeps with prostitutes, it is true, though the scandal will always haunt you. Whether it will forgive her lying with other men’s wives, I am less certain. Even if it does, that is not the reason why you will withdraw your candidacy.

  —He is not withdrawing—we are not withdrawing! blurts the player, but Faliere is ignoring him now, watching Thene still.

  —You will withdraw, Thene continues,—because you love your wife.

  At this, Faliere smiles.—I am told that I love no one.

  —You put it about that you love no one. But the truth is you love her. You knew what she was when you married her, and you married for wealth. She does not love you, and you did not love her, but sir, I have had her watched these long weeks and I have concluded that it is not apathy which keeps you away from the touch of other flesh, it is love. You love her. You know about her activities and you seek to protect her. This distance, this coldness—it is not for you, but for her. You love her and you know that this proof which I have will not only destroy your campaign, but it will end her life.

  —No, wait, this is… begins the player, but Faliere silences him with a gesture.

  His eyes are fixed on Thene’s.

  Silence.

  —Sir, the player tries again.—Sir, this is a trick, a lie; she is nothing, she is…

  Again Faliere silences him, and the player steps back, reaches out to the wall for support, as if uncertain of his own weight. How hot his belly feels, how strongly pulses the veins in his neck; we watch him and we think—yes, we are certain of it!—we think it is good that he is so afraid. This player was destined to win, and there is great satisfaction when the strong are shattered by the weak.

  What would you do to win?

  Anything, he might reply, gasping for air. Please! Anything!

  But now this player is destroyed by his own piece, for he makes some sounds, some little begging noises, but Faliere is not listening. The piece is human after all! Faliere is more than a symbol on a board.

  —May I have time to think? he asks.

  —You have until dawn, Thene replies.—You know where to find me when you wish to answer.

  Chapter 43

  Thene walks through the city at night.

  These are her streets.

  She does not fear a soul.

  The sound of fabric nearby.

  A sense of eyes on her face.

  Dawn will come soon and she is ready for it, though she knows already what Faliere’s reply will be.

  She is not even certain if she needs to destroy him for victory, having defeated so much to come to this point, but it is false, she concludes, to say that victory is the sweeter when it is snatched from the jaws of defeat. She will win a great many battles in times to come—let her first be triumphant.

  Footsteps on the cobbles of Venice.

  Water laps against old, smooth stones.

  A woman’s voice.

  —May I join you?

  We look, though it hurts so much to see her now. Dressed in white, her face hidden by the veil, even in these grubby paths she is so clean, so bright, so perfect, her voice soft and thunderous, her step gentle and long, we loved you once, we loved you, and you left us.

  The Gamesmaster steps up to Thene at the other’s gentle nod, and walks beside her.

&nbs
p; A while they walk in silence, as dawn begins to reflect off the skies above Venice.

  Then:

  —This is a game which has been played before and will be played again, says the Gamesmaster.

  —I thought as much.

  —You have played it beautifully, my lady.

  —Thank you. It has been an honour to participate.

  —I have watched your progress and enjoyed the manner of your moves. You will be a fine addition to the Gameshouse.

  —Addition?

  —A fine player.

  —Thank you.

  They keep on walking. Then:

  —A man spoke to you, did he not?

  —You shall have to be more precise, my lady.

  —A man known to some as Silver.

  —I partially know the name. We played chess a couple of time, and cards. Is that wrong?

  —Not at all. The Gameshouse welcomes all games, even the lesser ones. There are no rules against this. Tell me: did this man make you an offer?

  —What manner of offer?

  —That you must tell me.

  They walk a while, silent still, as Thene considers her answer. Dawn spreads, the grey light flecking with colour in the thin shutter of sky overhead. The Gamesmaster walks in silence, a ghost in the shadows, an anonymity all in white.

  —Before I answer, she says,—may I ask a question?

  —Certainly; outside the house we are but two women discussing mutual friends.

  —Then tell me this: was the game evenly weighed?

  —Of course! she replies, high and indignant.—Of course it was!

  Then,—No, Thene says at last.—The man you are referring to made me no offers.

  —Very well, the Gamesmaster replies.—That is all I wished to know.

  And like the passing of the night, she is gone.

  Chapter 44

  Later—centuries later—a stranger asked Thene what the first game was she ever played.

  He meant it in the Gameshouse manner. Not a question of backgammon, checkers or chess, but the game that won her admittance to the higher league, where the currency is life, time and the soul, and the game is played in worlds and kings.