Casino Infernale

CHAPTER SEVEN Mind Games, and Others

The Scarlet Lady drove us back to the hotel. Molly and I sat slumped in our seats, getting our second wind back. A successful mission fills you with pride and adrenalin, and it’s champagne all round and party till dawn. A complete balls-up, on the other hand, takes all the energy out of you, until all you really want to do is go to sleep and forget all about it. Molly and I didn’t have that luxury. The overall mission wasn’t even half over, and we still had the Medium Games ahead of us. Still, even though breaking into Parris’ safe hadn’t provided us with anything useful, I was glad I’d done it. Because it proved I didn’t need Drood armour to act like a field agent. And, that I could still take calculated risks without my armour to protect me. I mentioned this to Molly but she wasn’t in the mood to see the funny side, just yet. She was still glaring at me. I was still pretending not to notice. Of such helpful compromises are successful marriages made. The Scarlet Lady dropped us off outside the main hotel entrance, and we left her to find her own way back to the underground car park.

“There’s enough of my denial field still clinging to you, that no one will notice your return,” said Molly. “In fact, they shouldn’t even have noticed you’ve been gone.”

“Like I care,” said the car. “Anyone down there even looks at me wrong, I’ll run them over and park on them.”

“I wish you were even a little bit joking,” I said. “The whole point of a secret agent, and their car, is not to be noticed.”

“I do not do the modesty thing,” said the car. “I prefer to intimidate people with my magnificence.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” said Molly.

“I heard that!” said the car. “See you later. If you should happen to get into trouble again . . . feel free not to call me. I shall be terribly busy, indulging in some serious me time.”

And she sped off, revving her engine unnecessarily. Molly and I looked at each other, considered saying many things, and then just gave up and headed for the main entrance. Before we could even venture inside the lobby, Frankie came running out the doors to intercept us. He looked flustered and alarmed and not at all happy. He slammed to a halt before us, paused a moment to get his breath back, and then glared accusingly from me to Molly and then back again.

“Where have you been?” he said, just a bit hysterically. “What have you been doing?”

“You don’t even want to know what we’ve just been through,” I said. “I was there, and I don’t want to know.”

“What are you so upset about, Frankie?” said Molly. “Did one of your bribes run out at an awkward moment?”

“All hell’s breaking loose in the Casino,” said Frankie. “Alarms going off everywhere, more sirens and flashing lights than the civilised mind can cope with, and a general security clampdown. You need to get back in the lobby before they seal off the hotel completely!”

“Then what are you doing keeping us hanging around here?” I said. “Holding us up with unnecessary explanations? Really, Frankie, you are letting the side down. . . .”

“Very unprofessional,” said Molly.

We strode past him, through the doors and into the lobby. Frankie followed close behind, growling under his breath. Inside, the lobby was packed full of all kinds of people, from legitimate players to obvious hangers-on, all of them milling around and chattering loudly, forming into small groups and then breaking up again, as they tried to find someone who knew what the hell was going on. Though with everyone clamouring at the top of their voices, it was a wonder any of them could hear what anyone was saying. There was a definite feeling of unease on the air, and more than a hint of hysteria.

Someone had misbehaved, that was clear, and punishments were in the offing. There was so much commotion no one even noticed Molly and me returning, along with a seething Frankie. But we’d barely got inside the door when the hotel manager, Jonathon Scott, came striding into the lobby, accompanied by half a dozen large and muscular gentlemen, carrying machine pistols at the ready. Scott looked coldly furious, and his muscle men looked coldly professional. And just like that, everyone in the lobby shut the hell up to watch Scott’s every move with wide, watchful eyes, like frightened children.

The men with Scott all looked exactly the same. Big black men in quasi-military uniforms. With exactly the same face. I didn’t have to be told who they were; that I was finally getting a clear look at living examples of the legendary Jackson Fifty-five. Their dark scowling faces all showed exactly the same expression of practised intimidation, and they all moved in the same way, with an eerie synchronicity. They spread out across the lobby, covering the crowd with their guns. Some people took one look at the infamous mercenary soldiers and ran, heading for the nearest exits, but still more Jacksons appeared, spilling out of every door and exit with guns at the ready, to herd everyone back again. They didn’t say anything; they didn’t have to. A sense of imminent danger hung heavily on the air—a feeling of blood and death ready to happen at any moment.

I looked carefully around me. All the ways out of the lobby were very thoroughly blocked off. If Scott should order the Jacksons to open fire, it would be a massacre.

“They don’t look that tough,” said Molly.

“But they are,” said Frankie. “Please don’t start anything.”

“Is there a null operating?” I said quietly to Molly.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she said. “Major null. I couldn’t produce a bunny out of a top hat.”

“Then let’s not start anything, just yet,” I said.

“What do we do if they open fire?” said Molly.

“Hit the floor first, and hide under the bodies,” I said.

“What if they fire through the bodies, to make sure?” said Frankie.

“Well, hopefully by then I will have thought of something else,” I said.

One of the Jacksons noticed we were still talking, and came forward to glare at us. Molly and I moved to stand close together, and regarded the Jackson thoughtfully. He stopped, and looked at us. He’d been a soldier for many years, you could see it in his movements and in the way he held himself, and he knew a real threat when he saw one. I could tell just from looking at him that he’d seen pretty much everything bad the world had to offer, and that he hadn’t got where he was today by taking unnecessary risks. He gave us his best scowl, checked we weren’t obviously armed, and decided he was as close to us as he needed to be.

“Pay attention!” said Scott, into the silence of the lobby. He didn’t sound like a manager, all calm and patient and dedicated to the comfort of his guests; he sounded like a man who served Casino Infernale. “I regret to say . . . that there has been a major breach in hotel security. Someone has betrayed the trust placed on you, as guests. Someone has broken into Franklyn Parris’ private office.”

A short anticipatory murmur ran through the crowd at the name of the man in charge of the Games, but it was quickly shut down by threatening looks and movements from the Jacksons. Everyone looked quickly at everyone else, in search of a culprit. But since everyone there looked equally suspicious, and equally guilty, that didn’t really help much. There was also a certain look of admiration on many faces—that anyone had dared take on the man in charge. Of such things are reputations made. Frankie looked at Molly with something very like horror.

“How close did you come to getting caught?” he said, very quietly.

“Shut up,” said Molly. And she stamped on his foot, hard.

“Mr. Parris is extremely annoyed at having his privacy invaded,” said Scott. “He has therefore authorised me to punish someone. Since we cannot know who the guilty party is, and it seems unlikely that they will do the decent thing and own up, I have decided that someone will be punished . . . right here. Right now. Someone chosen entirely at random. To make the point that no one defies the rules at Casino Infernale.”

Scott produced a gun from inside his jacket. A simple, brutal handgun. Another quick murmur rose and fell, as the crowd realised they were going to see someone die. That Scott was just going to pick one of them, and shoot them dead. Just to make a point. Some of those present looked quite excited at the prospect. Scott moved forward, and everyone fell back before him. The manager swept his gun back and forth, quite unhurriedly, his cold gaze moving almost impartially over the people packed together before him. Here and there, men and women tried to back away, but either the people behind them wouldn’t let them, or there were armed Jacksons in place to prevent them. Scott paused before one man, who made a high-pitched hysterical sound, and then dissolved immediately into a tower of water that splashed to the lobby floor and ran away.

“Now that’s what I call nerves,” said Molly. “He wet himself.”

There was a sudden burst of nervous laughter, but it didn’t last long, in the face of so much tension and a very real threat. Scott was still pressing forward, moving his gun back and forth, taking his time, savouring the moment. The Jacksons were still standing solidly in place, making sure no one got away. Men and women flinched and clutched at each other as the gun targeted them. Some cried out, involuntarily. A few begged and pleaded shamelessly until the gun moved on, and then they cried bitter tears of relief and self-disgust. Some tried to hide behind other people, who fought them savagely off. Scott looked at me. I stepped forward, to put myself between him and Molly. I didn’t think about it; just did it automatically. Molly quickly shouldered past me, to stand between me and the gun, shooting me an angry glance to remind me that I didn’t have my armour’s protection any more. That honestly hadn’t occurred to me. I glared at Scott. I didn’t know what I’d do if he settled on Molly, but I knew I’d do something. Frankie hid behind both of us. And Scott and the gun moved on, leaving us behind.

Someone was about to die, because of something Molly and I had done, but I didn’t even consider confessing. Partly because I still had a war to stop, and partly because just by being here, at Casino Infernale, all of these people were guilty of something. I’m not normally that cold, or at least I like to think not, but these people deserved everything that happened to them.

And then Scott suddenly raised his gun and shot a man in the head. Quite neatly and proficiently, straight between the eyes. The man’s head jerked back, as blood and brains spattered the faces of the people behind him. They cried out in shock, but they didn’t say anything. The man crumpled bonelessly to the floor, his face blank and empty. He hadn’t even had enough time to look surprised before he was dead. Silence lay heavily across the lobby. Some people looked angrily at Scott, some looked relieved, but nobody looked shocked. This was Casino Infernale, after all. You had to expect things like this. Sudden death. Unfair death. It was part of why people came. Scott nodded briefly, satisfied, and put his gun away. He gathered up the Jacksons with his eyes, and led them out of the lobby.

Everyone else relaxed, and started talking again. Chattering loudly and excitedly, laughing nervously, speculating wildly on what might have been behind what just happened. If anyone there knew the dead man, no one was admitting to it. They all stayed well back, giving the body plenty of room. Quiet uniformed staff came forward, bearing a stretcher, and removed the body with casual ease. They had clearly had to do it before.

“Who was that?” said Molly, to Frankie. “Who was it who just died?”

“No one important,” he said, coming out from behind us now the danger was over.

“How can you be sure?” I said.

“Because if it had been someone important,” Frankie said patiently, “I would have known them. Mr. Scott chose his target very carefully, and not at all at random. He couldn’t afford to kill a Major Player, or even a potential Major Player, because of all the money and prestige such people bring to the Games. And, because you can’t kill a Major Player that easily with just a gun, even inside a major null. They always have some hidden protections. No, Scott had to kill someone, for the pride of the hotel, and Franklyn Parris, so he chose a nobody. Someone whose death wouldn’t matter. He was just making a point, after all.”

“I really don’t like this place,” said Molly. “Such small evils, such petty malice. I’d expected something more . . . romantic, from a big operation like Casino Infernale. Tragic betrayals, major reverses, souls lost and won on the flip of a coin . . .”

“Please,” said Frankie, “it’s just a business.” He paused to look at us both accusingly. “Did you really . . . ?”

“Yes!” said Molly. “Of course we did! We told you we were going to!”

“I didn’t think you’d really do it!” said Frankie. “And I certainly didn’t believe you’d actually be able to get into his office!”

“Bit of a failure, there,” I said. “We cracked his safe, but there wasn’t anything useful in it. Parris knew we were coming. Just like before . . .”

“What?” said Frankie.

“Never you mind,” said Molly. “The point is, Parris knew someone was coming. I don’t think he suspects us, personally, especially since I dried us out from the sprinklers; because if he did he’d have had all fifty-five of the Jacksons open fire on us the moment we reappeared. Take us out while we weren’t expecting it.”

“That might even have worked,” I said.

“Please,” Frankie said pleadingly. “No more burglaries. They’re bad for my nerves.”

“Didn’t do mine any good,” I said.

“The Medium Games are already under way,” said Frankie. “You need to make yourselves known there, while there’s still time.”

“Why are they called the Medium Games?” Molly said innocently. “Is it because if you lose, you can only complain through a medium?”

“You worry me,” said Frankie.

He led us over to the elevators, nursing a grim silence like a reprimand. We rose slowly through the hotel, and stopped at the fiftieth floor. The doors opened onto a really long corridor, stretching away before us into the far distance. There were no doors leading off, no side turnings, just the corridor, heading far and far away. Frankie raised his head and squared his shoulders, and set off. Molly and I went after him. And it was only then that I realised both walls of the corridor were lined with faces.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of living faces staring out of simple wooden frames. Held in place behind polished glass, staring out at the world with knowing, horrified eyes. Their mouths moved with words I couldn’t hear. Young and old, all races; just faces now, trapped behind glass. No children. I don’t think I could have stood it, if there had been children. The faces watched us pass, with helpless eyes. Like so many insects pinned on a collector’s board, still endlessly suffering. So many trophies of Casino Infernale. I looked hard, but I didn’t recognise anyone. I think a few might have recognised me.

“Are these . . . ?” I said, finally.

“Yes,” said Frankie, striding along, staring carefully straight ahead. “These are the gamblers who lost their lives and their souls to Casino Infernale.”

“Are they in Hell?” said Molly.

“Might as well be,” said Frankie. “This is what happens when the Casino makes good its claim on your soul.”

“What does the Casino want all these souls for?” I said.

“There are a great many theories about that,” said Frankie. “Though of course the Casino, and the Shadow Bank, and whoever’s behind them, aren’t talking. The most common belief is that souls are currency, in the Great Game between Heaven and Hell. And that the Shadow Bank can trade in the souls it owns, to make deals with Above and Below. Don’t ask me what kind of deals; the general feeling is it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“I have seen similar faces, trapped under glass, in Crow Lee’s country house,” I said. “After he was dead, I set them free.”

“But they were still alive,” said Molly.

Frankie paused to look back at both of us. “You really did kill Crow Lee. The Most Evil Man In The World. Damn . . .”

“I am not leaving these people like this,” I said. There was a cold anger in my voice, and Frankie flinched away from it. “I will free all these people before I leave Casino Infernale. I don’t care who they were, or what they might have done, this is just wrong.”

“You didn’t mind standing by while Scott shot a man for something you did,” said Frankie.

“I couldn’t save him,” I said. “I couldn’t do anything, then. I can do something here. And I will.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Frankie. “You never know who might be listening. These souls . . . are spoken for.”

“Like yours?” said Molly.

“I’m not going to talk about that,” said Frankie. “Let’s just say I don’t think you need to worry about ever seeing my face here.”

“I will free these people,” I said. “Even if I have to bring my whole family here to help me do it.”

“Of course you will,” said Molly. “That’s what you do.”

“You worry me,” said Frankie.

We walked on down the corridor for some time, for a lot farther than should have been possible inside the hotel. More and more faces watched us pass, silently pleading. I didn’t make eye contact. It was the only way to cope. And finally a door loomed up before us, blocking off the end of the corridor. Molly leaned in close beside me.

“We’re being scanned,” she said quietly. “Act natural.”

“I wouldn’t know how,” I said.

The door was so big we could see it long before we got anywhere near. Just a huge steel slab, with no obvious handle or hinges, or details. As we finally drew near, two oversized thugs in formal clothes appeared out of nowhere to block our way. They stood before the steel door, looking us over, arms folded tightly across their massive chests, daring and defying us to get past them.

“Keep walking,” Frankie murmured, while falling casually back to allow Molly and me to take the lead. “Show no weakness; they can smell fear.”

I headed straight for them, smiling widely. I’d faced down club bouncers before, in parts of London that would have scared the crap out of all fifty-five Jacksons. I let my hands close slowly into fists. I was just in the mood to hit someone who needed hitting. And they looked like they qualified. Molly leaned forward, grinning nastily. The two Security thugs held their post till the very last moment and then stepped aside. The door slid sideways, disappearing into the left-hand wall, and Molly and Frankie and I strode straight through.

“It’s all about confidence,” said Frankie. “And brass nerve. If you haven’t got those, you don’t belong in the Medium Games anyway.”

“We’ve never been short of either,” I said, and Molly nodded solemnly.

As we actually passed through the open doorway, Molly’s head came up sharply.

“This is a dimensional door,” she said. “Like the one we used earlier today. It could be taking us anywhere. Anywhere at all.”

“Of course,” said Frankie. “The Medium Games are far too dangerous, and too private, to take place inside the hotel building.”

And then we all stopped walking as we realised we’d arrived somewhere new. I looked back, and there was no sign of the steel door, or the corridor, or the hotel. We were standing on the top of a small grassy hill, with wide grassy plains all around. Down below us lay an Arena—an open circle of stony ground, surrounded by row upon row of circular stone seating, in raked ranks. Like . . . a miniature Colosseum. The stone looked old and beaten and worn-down. As though it had been here, and much used, for some time. No seats, just low stone walls, so people could sit on them and watch what was happening in the Arena, right in front of them. There were already some people in place, in strikingly modern clothes, sitting and waiting patiently, while others wandered back and forth between the raked rows, talking animatedly. No one went anywhere near the open circle at the centre.

The dying ground.

“Okay,” said Molly, after a while. “I am thinking gladiators, and not in a good way. And, I’m picking up another major null operating here. Covering everywhere, except for the circle in the middle of the Arena.”

“Exactly,” said Frankie. “No magics or psychic influence possible anywhere, except on the fighting ground. So the audience can be sure no one can cheat or interfere in the Games.”

Molly gave me a hard look. “You are not Pit fighting again. I had a hard enough job putting you back together again last time.”

“I would rather avoid that, if possible,” I said. “I don’t like what that kind of Game brings out in me.” And then I stopped, as something caught my eye. “Hold everything, people, and look up.”

We all looked up. At a night sky full of unfamiliar constellations. Stars burned fiercely, in all the colours of the rainbow, and three huge moons glowed bitter yellow against the dark. It was actually disturbing, to suddenly see a night sky so different from the one I was used to. It felt as though someone had ripped the world out from under my feet, while I wasn’t looking. I glared about me. It all seemed bright as day. I looked down, at the ground. The grass beneath my feet had a definite purple tinge to it, among the dark green.

“Those aren’t our stars,” said Molly. “We’re not in Nantes any more, Toto.”

“Just how much power does the Casino have?” I said. “To power a dimensional door like that? To transport us to a whole new world just to play Games?”

“Why do you keep asking me questions, when you must know by now that I’m not going to be able to answer?” said Frankie. “No! I don’t know where we are! No, I don’t know how we got here, or how they do it. For all I know it’s all done with mirrors. The important thing for both of you to concentrate on is that the only way for us to get back is for you to win at the Games.”

“And win big,” said Molly.

“Well, obviously,” said Frankie. “That is why we’re here.”

He led us down the hill to the Arena, and the purple-green grass crunched dryly under our feet. Rows of stalls had been set up around the outer perimeter, offering complimentary champagne and mulled wine, along with the usual assortment of civilised nibbles. All taste and no substance, but absolutely guaranteed to be packed full of everything that was bad for you. I walked straight past the stalls, dragging Molly along with me when she showed signs of being tempted. My gaze was fixed on the Arena. There was something about the bare, brutal sensibilities of that open stone circle, surrounded by open stone seating, that made it seem just as brutal as the Pit. A very old game, and a very old spectacle, designed to appeal to our most basic emotions. To bring out the beast in us.

Frankie strayed towards one of the stalls, and I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back again.

“Hey!” said Frankie, not actually fighting me. “I could use a little something for the inner man! I have been on the go all day. . . .”

“Never trust goblin food,” I said.

Frankie looked at Molly. “What?”

“You can never tell where goblin fruit has its roots,” Molly said briskly. “He’s being paranoid and so should you. I don’t like this place. It doesn’t feel like a place where people come to play games. This is where people come to fight and kill and die, while other people watch and bet on the outcome, and have a good time.”

Frankie shrugged. “That’s what Casino Infernale is all about. That’s what all casinos and all gambling is about. They’re just a little bit more honest about it here.”

“Talk to me, Frankie,” I said. “Tell me things I need to know. What kind of Games do they play in this place?”

“Just a handful of actual Games, really,” Frankie said quickly. “It’s more about the side bets. And remember, from now on, it’s all about the souls. The Casino makes all such transfers possible, and enforces the outcome, and of course the house always takes its more than generous cut along the way. Cheaters really don’t prosper here.”

“But what Games are there?” I said. “What should we choose?”

“I don’t know,” said Frankie, looking interestedly about him. “I never made it this far before.”

He broke off abruptly, as both Molly and I grabbed him by the arms and swung him round to face us.

“Then what use are you to us?” Molly said bluntly.

“I know the general rules!” Frankie said quickly. “And I have talked to a lot of the staff about the Medium Games. They hear all kinds of things. . . . Look, I know how the Games work, and I know how they do things here. Basically, you have to challenge someone, before someone challenges you.”

I looked back at the Arena. Stone seats, surrounding a stone circle of death. More and more people arriving, presumably from other dimensional doors. They filled the rows, usually in small chattering groups, eating and drinking and laughing, ready for the spectacle to come. Like so many predators with their nasty smiles and hungry eyes. And part of me wanted to kill every single one of them just on general principle.

I was right, this kind of Game really did bring out the worst in me.

A uniformed flunky approached us, and we all turned to face him. He stopped a respectful distance away, and bowed courteously. The uniform was basic; the person inside it even more so. Average height, average weight, all within acceptable parameters. It was the face that gave everything away. He had no hair on his head, no eyebrows, no trace there had ever been any hair on his face. And his features were strangely blank, utterly lacking in character. Almost a generic face. A generic uniformed flunky. Except, the clothes looked somehow wrong, on something that wasn’t actually human. Like dressing up a dog. He started speaking, in a calm uninflected voice, and I paid careful attention.

“Mr. Shaman Bond, I regret to inform you, sir, that if you are contemplating wagering your soul in any of the Medium Games, that cannot be allowed. Our records show that the Casino already has a claim on your soul. It was used as collateral, some time earlier, by another player in another Game. It was lost to the Casino.”

“I know,” I said. “I have already been told that and I would like the Casino to know that I am not at all happy about it. I would, in fact, very much like to see the Casino try to collect. But, that’s a matter for another time. I’m not betting my soul. I’m betting hers.”

And I nodded at Molly, who smiled brightly at the flunky.

“Hi there!” she said sweetly. “I’m Molly Metcalf!”

The flunky bowed again, briefly. “We know who you are, miss. Your arrival here set off all kinds of alarms. Including a few we didn’t even know we had, until you woke them up. Our records indicate that there are already a number of claims in place on your soul.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “But not by the Casino!”

“True,” said the flunky. “Very well. There are . . . precedents. You may continue in the Games, sir and miss.”

“You didn’t mention Frankie’s soul,” I said.

“We wouldn’t accept anything that soiled, sir,” said the flunky.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But, I have to ask . . . are you human?”

“I am a generic human template, sir,” said the flunky. “Grown here at the factory farms, on behalf of Casino Infernale. I live to serve.”

“This isn’t planet Earth, is it?” said Molly.

“I do not know the name, no, sir and miss,” said the generic flunky.

“Then where are we?” I said. “Exactly?”

“Sector Seventeen, sir. Home to the Medium Games. I have not been programmed with any further information on these matters.”

“Doesn’t the Casino have a . . . representative here, to run things?” I said.

“No, sir. This is our place, given over to us. We run things here in return for being left alone.”

“And, when there are no Games?” said Molly.

“There are always Games, miss. We are made to serve.”

“Can’t you say no?” I said.

“We are not allowed that privilege, sir,” said the flunky. “It is not a part of our programming. The best we can hope for is that while some of us run the Games, some of us are left alone.”

“I will not stand for this,” I said. “I will do something about this.”

“Many people have said that, sir,” said the generic flunky. “But we are still here.”

“You never met anyone like me,” I said.

“That’s enough, Shaman,” Molly said quickly. “You do like to promise things, don’t you?”

“People manufactured to be slaves?” I said. “I’m not having it!”

“The Games,” Frankie said urgently. “You have to make a start, get your challenge in, before you’re noticed by some of the sharks operating here.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir and miss,” said the flunky, “I have my business to be about.”

He bowed, and left. There wasn’t even any character in the way he walked, or held himself. More like a toy that had been wound up and left to run.

“The more I learn about this place, the less I like,” I said. “I don’t think my family knows nearly enough, about the Casino, or the Shadow Bank, or the people behind them . . . if they are even people. Dimensional doors, people factories . . . Once this mission is over, I will get some answers. . . .”

“First things first,” said Molly, soothingly. “We have to win here, and win big enough to get us into the Big Game, if we’re to break the bank. And get your soul back. That is why we came here, remember?”

“If you survive the Medium Games,” said Frankie.

Molly tapped me urgently on the arm, and pointed out a familiar figure moving casually through the stone seating, meeting and greeting with professional ease. Earnest Schmidt, current leader of the reformed Brotherhood of the Vril. He seemed in no hurry; happy to talk his poison to anyone.

“Maybe I should challenge him,” I said. “Nothing like kicking the crap out of a Nazi to brighten up your day.”

“Don’t aim so high,” Frankie said immediately. “He has many souls, and he knows his way around the Medium Games. You want someone who’s as unfamiliar with everything as you are. Someone like the individual currently heading our way.”

A somewhat less than medium height, very slender, and very striking figure was striding confidently towards us. Dressed in full formal attire, complete with top hat, gloves, and spats, and a monocle screwed tightly into the left eye. He stopped before us, nodded jerkily, and then had to pause to stuff his monocle back into its eye socket again. He struck a haughty pose, and did his best to look down on me. Which is not easy, when you’re at least a head shorter.

“I say!” he said, in a high breathy voice. “You’re that Shaman Bond chappie, aren’t you? I’m told you did frightfully well in the Introductory Games, even if you were mostly saved from your own folly by the assistance of others. You do understand that won’t happen here.”

“And you are?” I said.

“I am the Little Lord!” snapped the aristocratic figure. Somewhat taken aback and even affronted at not being immediately recognised. “Aristocrat of the Nightside and Gambler Supreme! Winner of many Games, and my soul is still my own! Not a mark on it . . .”

“Do you know which planet we’re on?” I said.

He sniffed, dismissively. “As though that matters. I’m a gambler, not a tourist!”

Molly leaned forward suddenly, to get a really close look at the Little Lord, and then crowed triumphantly. “I knew it! You’re a woman!”

“What?” I said.

“Shut up!” said the Little Lord.

“You’re a woman!” said Molly. She put both her hands on the Little Lord’s chest, and had a good feel. “You’ve got breasts! You’re female!”

“Not officially!” said the Little Lord, backing away several steps. She glared at me. “And I challenge you, Shaman Bond, to a game of Change War!”

Molly gave every indication of going after the Little Lord again, possibly to pull her clothes open for a fuller investigation. I grabbed Molly by the arm and pulled her back.

“Behave, Molly!” I said sternly. “You’re not at home now.”

Frankie murmured urgently in my ear.

“Accept the challenge. It’s a simple, basic Game, one on one, win a soul or lose one. A good introduction to the Medium Games, and a chance to make a good impression in front of the crowds.”

“Very well,” I said to the Little Lord. “I accept your challenge.”

“Wait a minute,” said Molly. “We don’t even know what the Game involves yet!”

“Too late, old dear,” said the Little Lord, smiling frostily. “Mr. Bond, I shall make you pay for these indignities, sir!”

And she hurried away, heading for the Arena.

“Little Bitch,” said Molly.

The Little Lord’s back stiffened, but she pretended not to hear and kept going. Striding down through the stone seats, heading for the circle at the heart of the Arena. Top-hatted head held high. I considered blowing a raspberry after her, but decided against it. I had my dignity to consider. I looked at Frankie.

“All right,” I said. “What have I just agreed to, on your advice?”

“Change War,” said Frankie. “You both take a potion, provided by the Casino, a mixture of classic Hyde formula and Chimera Venom. Gives you both the short-term ability to transform your body into absolutely anything your mind can conceive of. You both change shape repeatedly, trying to outmanoeuvre and overwhelm each other, until one of you turns into something the other can’t match. Basically, you just keep fighting in one form after another until there’s a clear winner. And a loser, of course.”

“Didn’t I see this in a Disney film once?” said Molly.

“The thought of you watching a Disney film feels frankly unnatural,” said Frankie.

I thought about it. “Is there any way I can get out of this Game?”

“No!” said Frankie. “No, really, you don’t want to do that! This is a good deal! You’re a trained fighter, and a Drood, so you’re bound to have encountered far weirder and more dangerous things than the Little Lord! You can outclass and outfight her and . . . and walk all over her!”

“If it’s such a good deal, why are you getting so loud?” said Molly.

“I don’t want to kill the Little Lord,” I said to Frankie.

“You won’t have to,” he said quickly. “Just . . . overpower her. We can get really good odds on you, in the side betting!”

I looked at Molly, and she nodded reluctantly. “Do what you have to do, Shaman.”

“Good thing Jacqueline’s not here,” I said. “To see what they’ve done with Hyde formula.”

“Don’t be naive,” said Frankie. “Who do you think sold the details of the formula to the Casino in the first place? In return for an invitation, and enough money to play with?”

I took my time walking down through the stone seating, towards the circle. I really didn’t want to fight anyone, after what I’d been through in the Pit, but there was no denying the idea of Change War intrigued me. I had some experience in changing the shape of my armour, but to actually change my body . . . into someone or even something else . . . I made myself smile and nod easily to everyone I passed. The crowds were really gathering now, filling the stone seating, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Many were already discussing Shaman Bond and the Little Lord with cold familiarity, like two racehorses. Bets were being placed. It all seemed very sporting and civilised, until you remembered they were wagering other people’s souls. I stopped, right at the edge of the circle. The Arena. Nothing could happen, nothing could begin, until I stepped into the Arena. The Little Lord was already there, strutting up and down, waving to the crowd in a haughty, affected manner. As though they were privileged to be watching her. I suppose, if you’re going to play a part, play it all the way.

Another uniformed flunky appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He stepped into the circle, bearing a silver salver with two champagne flutes on it. No point in putting it off any further. I strode out into the circle, and the crowd cheered me in a mostly good-natured way. The Little Lord came forward, and we both stood together before the Casino’s generic flunky.

“Have we met?” I said, peering into the familiar characterless face.

“No, sir,” said the flunky. “An easy mistake to make. I am told we all look alike to you. Please, drink. So that Change War can begin.”

The Little Lord snatched one of the champagne flutes from the tray, and tossed the clear liquid back. She slammed the glass back onto the tray and walked quickly away. I picked up the remaining glass and studied the contents carefully.

“How long will this stuff last?” I said, to the flunky.

“As long as it needs to, sir. The act of winning, or losing, acts as a psychic trigger to shut down the potion’s effects. It’s all been very carefully worked out, sir. We have done this before. Win, and the Little Lord’s soul is yours. Lose, and your opponent takes control of Miss Molly’s soul. I am not permitted to take anyone’s side, but I believe I am allowed to say ‘Good luck, sir.’”

He bowed, and stepped back. Not a trace of emotion anywhere, in his face or voice. Just waiting for me to drink so the Game could get under way. I looked out into the crowd and there was Frankie, moving quickly back and forth, nailing down those important side bets. I hoped he was getting good odds. I looked round and there was Molly, standing right at the front of the crowd, in the first row. I moved over to stand before her, still holding my champagne glass. We stood and looked at each other for a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“You don’t have to do this,” said Molly. “I could do this for you. I’ve as much experience as you, and I can hold my own in a fight. You know that.”

“I have to do this,” I said steadily. “If the horse throws you . . .”

“Then you shoot the bloody thing in the head and move on!” said Molly. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Shaman.”

“Perhaps I have something to prove to myself,” I said. “You don’t know how close I came to losing against the Dancing Fool. I had to descend to his level to win. I don’t like how that made me feel. I need to win this, Molly, and I need to win it . . . in a good way. To be myself again.”

“Oh, hell,” said Molly. “Just . . . don’t get chivalrous. Kick the crap out of the Little Tranny, and come home safely.”

“Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day,” I said.

I smiled at Molly, and she smiled at me. And then I turned away from her and strode out into the stone circle, to where the generic flunky was waiting patiently for me. The Little Lord was standing stiffly in place now, impatient to get started. I toasted her with my champagne flute, and gulped the clear liquid down. After my horrid experience with the Armourer’s potion, I didn’t want the stuff lingering in my mouth any longer than necessary. I braced myself, ready for some really horrible taste, some open assault on my taste buds . . . and was surprised to discover that the potion had no taste at all. I might as well have been drinking tap water.

I looked suspiciously at my empty glass, wondering whether someone might have cheated, and slipped me water instead of the potion, but no, I could already feel the stuff working within me. Feel the potential opening up of all the things I could be. The generic flunky took the empty glass away from me and left the circle, but I barely noticed. I felt like I could be anything, anything at all. That I could rise up into the sky like a giant and drag down one of the moons, or dissipate into a deadly mist that would poison everyone who breathed it in. Turn myself into anyone or anything I’ve ever met. And I’ve been around. All the possibilities jostling within me, just bursting to get out . . .

I looked across at the Little Lord as she carefully removed the monocle from her left eye and tucked the glass safely away in an inside pocket. And then she looked at me and smiled, coldly and dismissively. As though she’d already worked out every possibility in her mind, and won every time. And all that was left now was the formality of playing it out. I had to smile at that. I had been places, and seen things, and done things, far beyond her imagination. The Little Lord wasn’t going to know what hit her. Except, I didn’t want to play the Game that way. The Casino’s bloody, brutal way.

So I just sauntered around the perimeter of the circle, bouncing along full of life and energy, ignoring my opponent to wave and smile at the crowd, who didn’t quite know how to take that. It sure as hell wasn’t We who are about to die, salute you. Fighting in the Arena was supposed to be a grim, deadly affair. That’s why they came. You weren’t supposed to have a good time in the Arena. . . . My actions seemed to actually incense the Little Lord, who had to keep turning just to face me.

“You’re not taking this seriously!” she said, accusingly.

“I’ve had enough of serious,” I said brightly. “Not really my thing. It’s supposed to be a Game, isn’t it? Then let’s play! Let’s enjoy ourselves; have some fun!”

“This isn’t a game,” said the Little Lord. “It was never meant to be a game! Just a contest of skill, with souls on the line!”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t still have a good time,” I said, reasonably. I slammed to a halt and looked steadily at her, my hands thrust casually in my pockets. “Why did you challenge me, rather than anyone else? Did you see me fight in the Pit?”

“You fought in the Pit?” said the Little Lord. “And won?”

“Well, obviously,” I said. “If I hadn’t won, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“I chose you at random,” said the Little Lord. “Because I didn’t know anything about you. Therefore, you weren’t a Major Player. I couldn’t risk that. Not after I sacrificed so much to get this far. I will beat you!”

“Why?” I said. “Why is winning so important to you?”

“Because it’s my only way to get home again!” said the Little Lord, harshly. “I want to go home!”

“You’d take my soul to do that?” I said.

“I’d take a thousand souls!” said the Little Lord. “And that’s the other reason why I chose to challenge someone I didn’t know. So that whatever happens to you, it won’t bother me so much.”

The Little Lord stamped her foot hard, and her formal clothes burst apart as her body exploded into tightly stretched flesh and muscle. She rose up before me, a huge and powerful figure, a living engine of destruction. The Little Lord had gone for the most obvious choice: a Hyde. But not a female Hyde, not just an evil version of herself. Like Jacqueline before her, the Little Lord had taken the formula at face value. She had become the legendary bogeyman; the biggest, strongest, most deadly man she could think of. A real man, at last. I could see the proof hanging down, between the dark tatters of what had been her exquisitely tailored trousers. And I couldn’t help but grin. The Little Lord might be living her dream, right now, being all a man could be . . . but I was ready to bet that she hadn’t thought it through. That there was one part of being a man that she hadn’t considered, because she’d never had to.

So I didn’t even bother to change into anything else. I just walked right up to the Hyde, smiling sweetly. The Hyde reared up before me, his huge hands opening and closing, smiling his own harsh smile as he got ready to tear me into little pieces. He reached out to me and I lunged quickly forward, inside his reach, and kicked him good and hard in the nuts.

The Hyde tried to cry out in pain, but he couldn’t force a sound through his closed-off throat. He’d never felt anything like it before, as the Little Lord. Never knew there could be a pain like it. His eyes bulged, tears coursing down his stricken face, hurting so bad he couldn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even have the sense to fall down. So I lined up and kicked him in the groin again, putting all my strength behind it. A large part of the crowd cried out in sympathy. The Hyde finally fell down, as all the strength went out of his legs, hitting the hard stone of the circle floor with a crash, and then curling up into a foetal ball. And in the end all he could do, to get away from the pain, was turn back into the Little Lord again.

Round One to me. If I had to fight, I’d fight my way.

I did a lap of honour around the Arena, smiling and waving, acknowledging the cheers and laughter from the crowd. And then that broke off, as loud voices cried out a warning. I turned around, to find the Little Lord had changed shape again. And once again, she’d gone for size and strength.

If anything, she was even bigger than before. A good ten feet tall, her lithe body covered with dark grey fur. Her great head rose up, her face lengthening into a muzzle full of blocky teeth and savage canines. Great pointed ears, eyes yellow as urine. Her back hunched, bending her half over with great ridges of muscle under the grey fur. Her feet were paws, her hands viciously clawed. She’d made herself into a werewolf. Or at least, her idea of one. A huge shaggy figure towering over me, her mouth stretched in a wide hungry smile. The thick doggy scent of her, rich with blood and musk, was almost overpowering. The Hyde had been threatening; the werewolf was actually dangerous.

So I just stood my ground, nodded casually to her, and thought about it. I could have turned into something equally monstrous; God knows I’ve seen worse things in my travels. But I was still determined not to play the Casino’s Game in the Casino’s way, rending and tearing and spilling blood, for the amusement of the crowd. No head-to-head brutality . . . I would win this one with a little lateral thinking.

The werewolf padded forward, yellow eyes gleaming fiercely, clawed hands reaching out to tear my flesh. And I just stood there and smiled, with my hands behind my back. The Little Lord should have had enough sense to be suspicious, but she was all wolf now, driven by the beast’s needs and instincts.

I remembered when Ethel first gifted the Droods with her own strange matter armour, and how we learned to change its shape to suit our needs. I had, on occasion, extended the armour of my golden hands into long golden sword-blades. So, as the werewolf lunged forward, I concentrated on my hands. I could change any part of my body now, into anything I could think of, and right then . . . I was thinking of silver. I waited till the werewolf was almost upon me, lunging for my throat, and once again I stepped forward inside her reach, brought my hands out from behind my back, and showed her the silver blades where my hands had been.

She knew them immediately for what they were, but there was no time for her to stop. She just kept coming, and I thrust both silver blades deep into her heart.

The impact as we closed drove me backwards, but I was expecting that, and kept my balance. The werewolf cried out horribly. I ground both blades deeper into her chest, into her heart, and we skidded to a halt. I pulled both blades out, and jammed them both into her gut. The werewolf cried out again, and collapsed onto the unforgiving ground. Her dark blood pumped thickly on the stone floor. She was dying, and she knew it, so she did the only thing she could. She turned back into the Little Lord, shrinking away from my silver blades, away from the things that were killing her.

I let her do it. She scrambled away from me on all fours, holding the tatters of her clothing to her. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look, now, that the Little Lord was a woman . . . but no one in the audience cared. They were all leaning forward, smiling eagerly, to see what would happen next. They’d never seen a Game like this.

The Little Lord changed again, quickly, desperate to regain the advantage. The stone floor of the circle blew apart as she made contact with the ground beneath, and turned herself into a huge archetypal female figure. A Gaia woman, an earth goddess, rising up and up, growing huge and powerful as she drew on more earth for her body from under the Arena. She towered over me, vast and potent, an overwhelmingly female figure. Big enough to stamp me into a bloody mess on the stone floor, or grab me up and hug me to her earthy bosom, and smother me in dirt. But I . . . was thinking about the man I’d seen earlier, in the hotel lobby. Who’d been so scared of what the manager Jonathon Scott might do that he dissolved into water and ran away. I thought I could do better than that.

So I turned myself into a great spring of water, pumping up out of the ground, rising up into a massive boiling fountain with all the pressure of a fire hose behind it. I hit the earth goddess in the face, with enough force to blow her features off. And then I hit her with so much water, I just washed her away. She fell apart, running like thick mud, collapsing in on herself, until there was nothing left of her but mud, spattered across the Arena.

It took us both a while to come back from that. Remembering what a human shape was, and why it was important. Re-forming our human bodies from the elemental forms we’d taken. But I still remembered duty and honour, because I was never free of them, and so I was the first to pull myself together. I stumbled forward to stand over the Little Lord as she took her original shape again. I still had my clothes, intact, because I didn’t think as literally as she did. This time, I didn’t wait for her to change first; I just bent down and slipped one arm round her neck as her head came up, and tightened my hold. Cutting off the air to the throat, and the blood flow to the brain.

Chokehold.

She turned into a horse, and I clung grimly to her neck as she reared up, kicking out her front legs and shaking her great head, trying to throw me off. When she found she couldn’t, she changed again, becoming a massive grizzly bear. I pushed my face deep into her dark fur, tightening my hold. She clawed at my back with her great paws, and I cried out as they raked my flesh to the bone; but I just healed myself and hung on. She became a huge snake, bucking and coiling and writhing, slamming me against the stone floor, over and over. But I wouldn’t let go. I grabbed my arm with my other hand, tightening the hold still further, holding on with all my strength. Until she couldn’t breathe any more, or the blood couldn’t reach her brain, and she passed out.

I lay on the cold stone floor, breathing hard and shaking, my arm locked so tight around the returned Little Lord’s neck that I could barely feel it. I could have maintained the hold until she died, but I couldn’t see the point. I let go of her and stood up, and a generic flunky was quickly there, to raise one arm above my head, as the winner.

The crowd cheered and applauded, happily enough. There hadn’t been much blood, and no death, but they’d been entertained. I jerked my arm away from the flunky, and looked down at the unconscious Little Lord. Such a small, pathetic figure, in the tatters of her suit. The top hat long gone. She could have won if she’d just thought to turn into something that didn’t need to breathe, or require blood flowing to the brain. But she’d never encountered anything like that.

I walked steadily out of the Arena. The crowd had already stopped applauding. They’d hoped for more, from me and the Little Lord, but I was glad to have disappointed them. As I reached the front row of the stone seats, I could feel the change potion vanish within me, all the possibilities dropping away, until I was just me again. I was glad to feel them go. It’s hard enough just being me.

Molly was there, in the front row, waiting for me. She threw her arms around me as I left the circle and hugged me tight, as though she’d never let me go. I held on to her. The only thing in my life that always made sense in my ever-changing world. We finally let go, and stood back, and I grinned at her.

“The old legends are always the best. Did you get good odds on me?”

“Hell, yes!” said Frankie, joining us. “Mostly from people who’d never heard of Shaman Bond.”

“We won over three hundred souls betting on you!” said Molly.

“Three hundred and twenty-two,” said Frankie.

Molly glared at him. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“What are you planning on doing with all these souls?” I said.

“Use them as collateral for future bets,” said Molly. “We’re here to break the bank, remember? Can’t do that, if we haven’t got the souls.”

“I’m still concerned about what happens to these souls afterwards,” I said.

“Well, of course you are, because that’s you,” said Molly.

“Don’t think about it,” said Frankie, quite seriously. “You can worry about all that later, if there is a later. For now, please concentrate on the Games before you. Because from now on any lack of concentration will almost certainly get you killed. Change War was an easy Game against a relatively unskilled opponent. It gets harder, and more complicated, from now on.”

Another generic flunky approached me. I didn’t bother asking if we’d met before. He bowed briefly, and presented me with a single small coin. I hefted it in the palm of my hand, and could barely feel the weight of the dull metal.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll bite. What is this?”

“An obol, sir. A chit from Casino Infernale representing one soul. The soul of the Little Lord, won in the Change War.”

I looked at the coin again. Small, roughly milled edge, the markings almost worn away. “This is a human soul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not very big, is it?” said Molly, leaning over for a closer look. “Rather humbling, I suppose, when you think about it.”

“The obol represents the soul,” said the flunky. “Your receipt, sir, if you like. Don’t lose it. Casino Infernale is not obliged to offer a replacement.”

“We didn’t get any coins from our side bets,” said Molly.

“The Casino keeps a record of all such exchanges and transactions at the Games, miss,” said the generic flunky. “Even if it’s not immediately obvious. The Casino sees all, knows all. The record is all you need, to make further wagers. The obol is . . . ceremonial. A prize, to the winner of the Game. Apparently, humans value such things. I am told I wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do,” I said. I put the obol away, carefully, in an inner pocket.

The flunky bowed, turned, and departed. I looked out into the stone circle, where two other uniformed generic flunkies were dumping the still unconscious Little Lord on a stretcher. They carried her out. Some of the crowd laughed at her, and booed, for letting the side down. I hoped the flunkies found her top hat.

“She would have taken your soul, if she’d won,” said Frankie, trying to be kind.

“An obol,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the coin the ancient Greeks used to put on the eyes of their dead to pay Charon the Boatman to ferry their souls across the river to the land of the dead? Maybe you’re not the only one here who’s thinking about the old legends.”

“You’ve been watching the History Channel again,” I said. “Because you have to say something at moments like that.”

I looked back into the stone circle. The Little Lord was gone.

“What will happen to her?” I said to Frankie.

“She has nothing left to bet with,” he said. “She lost her soul to you, so she can’t play in any more Games, or wager on them. The Casino will hold on to her until the Games are over and her final fate can be decided.”

“Don’t get sentimental,” said Molly, sternly. “She would have been quite happy to see that happen to you.”

“She just wanted to go home,” I said. “Where will they put her, Frankie?”

“There’s a place in the hotel,” Frankie said carefully. “Somewhere safe and secure, for all the losers.”

“As a face, in the corridor?” said Molly.

“No,” said Frankie, immediately. “Those are the souls the Casino owns. They don’t own the Little Lord’s soul. You do, Shaman.”

“Liking the Medium Games less and less all the time,” I said.

“You have to play, to win,” said Frankie. “If you really are going to break the bank.”

“My turn now!” Molly said briskly. “Come on, Frankie, we need to escalate things. What’s a good Game for winning big?”

Frankie pointed across the rows of seating at a short cheerfullooking black man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He had close-cropped white hair, a hard-worn face, and an easy smile. And yet the people all around him still seemed to be going out of their way to give him plenty of room.

“That,” said Frankie, in a surprisingly respectful tone of voice, “is the Bones Man. Got his name from old triumphs with the dominos, which were always known as bones in the Caribbean community of old London. Do I really need to tell you he’s a voodoo practitioner?”

“I don’t know the name,” I said, frowning. “Not really my territory. . . . Is he dangerous?”

“Of course he’s dangerous!” said Frankie. “Or he wouldn’t be here. He’s not a good man to play Games with; he has a reputation for needless cruelty. Likes to play with his victims before finishing them off. A bit too nasty, even for this crowd. I think they’d like to see him take a fall, but they’d still bet on him. Which is something we could take advantage of . . . You have a pretty bad reputation yourself, Molly, enough to perk the interest of the crowd. Challenge the Bones Man and win, and we could be talking serious souls.”

“What game?” said Molly. “Change War?”

“He wouldn’t lower himself,” said Frankie. “Far too entry-level, for someone like him. No, I recommend you challenge him to a Game of World War.”

“Hold everything, go previous,” I said. “That sounds . . . excessive.”

“Not that kind of World War,” said Frankie. “This is all about creating worlds, right there in the Arena. Whoever creates the realest world, with the most dangerous and most threatening inhabitants, wins. By overwhelming your opponent’s world.”

“I can do that,” said Molly. “I’ve been around.”

“That’s true,” I said. “You have. But are we talking about real worlds here, or imaginary creations?”

“Little bit of both,” Frankie said cheerfully. “It’s all about what you bring to the circle. That’s what makes the Game so exciting.”

“One world overwhelming another,” I said. “To the death?”

“Can be,” said Frankie. “Usually . . . but you can always submit. Yield to a greater player.”

I looked at Molly. “Don’t be proud. If you’re losing, quit. We can always play another Game.”

“You never did have the knack for pep talks,” said Molly.

And before I could say anything to stop her, or even slow her down, Molly strode off through the stone seats to confront the Bones Man. He knew she was coming, even though he had his back to her, and stood up to turn and face her at the very last moment. Still smiling his calm, implacable smile. I was already hurrying after her, determined not to be left out, with Frankie in my wake, but I stopped far enough short that she wouldn’t think I was fussing over her. Molly could get very upset if she thought that.

“Molly Metcalf,” said the Bones Man, smiling almost fondly on her. His voice was rich and dark, almost avuncular. “Your reputation precedes you, me girl. What is it you want with me, now? You think to challenge me, little witch?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “To a game of World War. You up for it?”

“Well, well,” said the Bones Man. “I think that might be fun. And an honour, to take on one of your many accomplishments. I shall enjoy beating you. I shall enjoy making you bleed, and scream, and beg for mercy. Before you die. And your soul shall make such a fine addition to my collection.” He looked past her, at me. “You understand, of course, that your companion cannot aid you in the circle. No matter what happens to you.”

“Now, then, you had to go and spoil it,” said Molly. “You were doing so well, all old-time villain with a sadistic streak . . . and then you let yourself down by showing how scared you are of Shaman and me. I don’t need any help to walk all over you, conjure man. I have had dealings with the loa; they know me and I know them. I don’t think you’ve got any surprises for me, old man.”

The Bones Man was still smiling, even though it must have been a long time since anyone spoke to him that sharply. “Perhaps, me child. But you’d be surprised how many Games are won here in the audience before the Games even start. It’s all in the mind, me girl. After you . . .”

“I don’t think so,” said Molly. “After you.”

He laughed, and made his way unhurriedly down through the stone seats and into the Arena. Molly took the time to kiss me quickly, and then hurried out into the circle after him. She smiled and waved cheerfully to the crowd, as a generic uniformed flunky came forward to announce the Game, and the names of the competitors, to the crowd. There was general good-natured applause, and even a few cheers for Molly. The crowd might respect the Bones Man, but it was clear he wasn’t . . . popular. I sat down in the front row, while Frankie went off to work the crowd, for the best odds. I let him do it. I had eyes only for Molly and the Bones Man. More and more people were arriving, filling up the seats and talking excitedly, looking forward to a really good match. A good game, and a good death. That’s what they were there for. You could almost smell the anticipation in the air.

And all I could do was sit there and watch.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Molly to win. I had absolute faith in her abilities, and I would back her against anyone and anything, up to and including Elder Gods and Ancient Ones. But I didn’t trust the Games, or the Casino, or the Bones Man, to play fair and by the rules. I had already decided that if I saw anything that looked like cheating, or even if she just looked like she was losing, I would set this whole world afire to protect her. She’d be mad as hell at me for interfering, but I’d rather have her alive and shouting at me than dead and silent.

Frankie sat down on the seat beside me, just for a moment, out of breath from running back and forth in the crowd, pushing the odds as far as they would go.

“Just checking in,” he said. “How many of the souls we’ve won do you want me to wager?”

“All of them,” I said.

“Are you sure? You don’t want me to hold some back, just in case . . . ?”

“All of them,” I said.

“You’re the boss!” And he was gone, flitting through the crowd, making instant new friends and jollying them into betting more than was sensible.

A large thug in tailored combat fatigues suddenly loomed over me. I looked up, and he scowled at me. A very thorough scowl. Probably practised it in front of a mirror.

“You’re in my seat,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” I said.

“That’s the best seat, so it’s my seat,” said the thug. “So move. Or I’ll move you.”

I sighed, quietly. There’s always one. I stood up, kneed him in the groin, waited for him to bend over, and then rabbit-punched him on the back of his exposed neck. He fell to the ground. I sat down again and put my feet up on his unconscious body. Everyone else left me alone, after that. They could tell I didn’t want to be bothered.

The generic flunky, or one very like him, gestured for Molly and the Bones Man to retreat to the far ends of the circle. They did so; Molly still waving to the crowd, the Bones Man walking slowly and calmly, as though in a deep concentration. The flunky then left the Arena with more than usual speed, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, watching intently, not wanting to miss anything. I leaned forward in my seat. I’d seen Molly do many amazing things with her magic, but I’d never seen her create a world.

The Bones Man started first, while the flunky was still leaving the Arena. He gestured, quite calmly, and a huge dark jungle immediately filled his half of the circle. Tall trees bowed down with heavy luxuriant foliage, interlocking branches high above forming a giant canopy, blocking out the light. A menacing place, full of moist sweaty heat that spilled out across the first few rows of the audience. An oppressive jungle, with closely packed vegetation, and fat pulpy flowers, burning with phosphorescent fire like unhealthy ghosts. Things moved in the jungle the Bones Man had made. Horrible things.

Dead birds crawled across the jungle floor, broken wings drooping as they hauled themselves along. Crippled animals, warped and twisted by unnatural forces, lurched out of the shadows, burning pus dripping from their empty eye-sockets. Great swarms of insects buzzed loudly on the hot still air, sounding mindlessly vicious and hungry. Even the great trees moved slowly under the Bones Man’s will, creaking loudly in sudden jerks. Everything seemed rotten and diseased, and even the light seemed poisoned. And then, the final touch, as dead men came walking through the jungle, heading straight for Molly, in her half of the circle.

She didn’t budge an inch. “Zombies?” she said loudly. “How very . . . traditional!”

She stamped her foot once, and winter fell upon her half of the circle. A terrible winter, of snow and ice and blazing sunlight. It hit the jungle dead on, and stopped it in its tracks. The freezing cold laid its powerful touch on everything at the jungle’s edge, painting it white with frost and ice. Freezing it in place. Vegetation shattered, and fell apart. The cold surged on, freezing everything it touched. Even the trees cracked, and fell apart, invaded by the awful cold. The vegetation died, the animals froze to death, and the insects fell lifeless from the bitter air. And the walking dead men slowed and stopped, frozen in place, and fell on their faces on the frozen ground. All of the jungle was winter now, white shapes in snow drifts. Except for the Bones Man himself, standing in his own small circle of unaffected ground.

He dismissed the frozen jungle with a wave of his hand, and the circle was empty again. He frowned, and surrounded himself with a new world, or perhaps more properly an old one. The familiar dimly lit back streets and alleyways, the Caribbean territory of his childhood, when new immigrants were packed into substandard tenements and left to make their own world. He stood in the darkest streets of old London, heavy with shadows because half the street lights had been smashed. The shadows were everywhere—deep and dark and full of menace. Not real things, these streets, probably, but how the Bones Man remembered them.

Shadows seemed to move with a life of their own. The few remaining street lights hummed loudly and then exploded in showers of sparks, one at a time. Making more shadows. Dead rats with broken backs heaved themselves forward into the light, dragging lengths of pink intestines behind them, followed by cats that had been turned inside out. Just because someone in those streets had a taste for suffering. Windows in the surrounding buildings glowed unnaturally bright, and foul, and dark shadows moved like demons glimpsed in Hell’s light. The Bones Man looked just as at home in this new hell as in his jungle.

And once again, dead men came shambling forward, heading straight for Molly, with old appetites stamped deep in their rotting faces.

Molly snapped her fingers, and a great sandstorm rose up out of nowhere and swept forward, slamming into the dark streets. Brick red dust, from a red planet. More appeared around her, filling her half of the circle. The ancient overwhelming sands of the Martian plains, older by far than this world, and far less forgiving. The red sandstorm blasted through the dark streets the Bones Man made, scouring through the open spaces and blowing the zombies apart. The sands smashed the windows and the foul lights went out, and nothing moved there any more. And for the first time, the Bones Man took a step backwards. Because he’d never encountered anything like old Mars.

He braced himself, surrounded by one small area of his own darkness, untouched by the sandstorm. And Molly smiled at him. She snapped her fingers, and Mars was gone. Replaced in a moment by the one place she knew best. The wild woods.

Tall trees surrounded her, old trees and ancient, even primordial. From when we all lived in the forest, because there was nowhere else. Green grass and green leaves, and living things everywhere. All the triumphant vegetation of old England, untouched by human hand. Bright sunlight, full of life, shining down through the trees in great golden shafts. Birds singing, filling the air with joyous noise. And all the old creatures of England’s past: the wolf and the boar, the bear and the stag, the lion and the unicorn.

England’s Dreaming.

The sunlight blazed forward, into what was left of the Bones Man’s darkness. Throwing back the dark and dispersing the shadows. And where the clean light touched the broken creatures, it healed them. The rats and cats ran away, into the woods; turning their backs on the dark in favour of a new wild freedom. The last buildings disappeared, replaced by trees, and the Bones Man backed away, bewildered, as his world was destroyed.

In Molly’s woods, birds came flying down to dart and circle around her. The beasts bowed down to her, and she patted their faithful heads. My heart ached to see the world she’d given up, for me. A single squirrel hopped forward to stare at the Bones Man. He glared down at it, and raised a foot to stamp on it. The squirrel fixed him with a cold eye.

“Don’t even think about it, rube.”

It hopped back into the woods. The sunlight blasted forward, and the dark was gone. Leaving the Bones Man standing alone, blinking dazedly, in his half of the circle.

He tried to call up one world after another, but they all failed and fell apart, in the face of the wild woods. He had nothing half so strong or half so vital. He had nothing to offer, in the face of the woods we all came from. So he just gave up. He bowed to Molly, and sank down on one knee. Molly looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded briefly. The birds and the beasts left her, and the wild woods faded slowly away. Nothing left but an empty stone circle, with a beaten man and a triumphant woman. The audience made a soft sound, as though they hadn’t wanted Molly’s woods to go.

She strode forward to face the Bones Man, who rose smoothly to his feet again to face her.

“So,” said Molly. “I own your soul now.”

“Hardly, me child,” said the Bones Man. “I would not be so foolish as to risk my own spirit on a game of chance. You have merely won the souls I won in earlier games. And much good may they do you, being the small and pitiful things they are. Be careful, little witch; some of them are . . . restless. And watch your back, for I will revenge myself upon you for this humiliation.”

“Go for it,” said Molly. “I mean it; right now. You’ll never have a better chance.”

“In a time of my choosing,” said the Bones Man. “The lords of the loa will tear your soul apart.”

“Oh, piss off!” Molly said loudly. “Sore loser!”

The Bones Man gathered up what little of his dignity remained, turned, and strode away. The crowd booed him and cheered Molly. A uniformed flunky came forward and presented Molly with her obol, her symbol as winner of the Game. And while she was distracted with that, the Bones Man attacked. The crowd cried out a warning, and Molly spun round to see the Bones Man transform himself as he took on the aspect of the voodoo loa he served: Damballah, the snake god. He rose up, growing larger, becoming huge and swaying, a massive serpent . . . and Molly braced herself, stray magics discharging around her raised hands. I was already up and running forward, my Colt Repeater in hand. But before either of us could do anything, a dozen flunkies appeared out of nowhere, surrounding the massive serpent in a great circle. They didn’t speak, or move, but the snake collapsed, falling in upon itself, becoming just a man again.

The Bones Man stood alone, surrounded by things not wholly men.

“We have been given power in this place,” said one of the flunkies, “to enforce the rules of the Games. Such behaviour as this cannot go unpunished.”

“You think you can hurt me?” said the Bones Man. “You small, stupid, artificial things?”

“We can do more than that,” said the generic flunky.

And just like that, the Bones Man lost his shape. His face melted away, replaced by simple, characterless features. His hair fell out, his name disappeared, his existence reworked. Made over, into just another generic flunky. He stood there helplessly, not knowing what he should do yet. The flunky who’d spoken turned to Molly and me.

“We will take care of him until he is ready to take on his duties here. The rules of the Games must be followed.”

He looked at the gun in my hand, and I put it away. The flunkies left the circle. I hugged Molly tightly, and she hugged me back, and we left the circle arm in arm.

“You weren’t worried, were you?” Molly said cheerfully. “He never stood a chance.”

I looked at her thoughtfully. “What was all that about I know the loa, and they know me? Is there anyone you didn’t make a pact with to gain power when you were starting out?”

“I don’t think I missed anyone,” said Molly. “I was very thorough, and very motivated.”

“Some day your past is going to catch up with you,” I said. “And all those pacts will have to be honoured. And on that day, I don’t know if even I will be able to protect you.”

“Worry about that when it happens,” Molly said briskly. “Ah, Frankie’s here. How did we do in the betting?”

“One thousand, four hundred and thirteen souls!” Frankie said proudly. “Can’t speak for the quality, of course, but . . .”

“Do we have enough to get us into the Big Game?” said Molly.

“Not yet,” said Frankie. “But one more really big win should do it.”

“So, what next?” I said. “Who do I have to challenge, and what do I have to play?”

“I think everyone here knows enough now to be wary of both of you,” Frankie said carefully. “So you’ll have a hard time getting anyone to go up against you, one on one, in any game. And that affects the odds I can get. . . . But, there is a Game, a group Game, where we could still get really good odds. It’s a bit risky, but . . .”

“The Games we just took part in weren’t risky?” said Molly.

“Not compared to this,” said Frankie. “Because the Game I’m thinking of is a free-for-all. Anyone can enter, and it all comes down to Last Man Standing. Or at least, last person still alive.”

“Okay,” said Molly. “That doesn’t sound too bad; what makes it so specially risky?”

“Most people who participate in this Game are lucky to get out alive,” said Frankie. “You can’t take any weapons in with you, but anything else goes. It’s all about survival. But outside, you can bet on any number of things! How long you’ll last, what kind of damage you’ll take, as well as whether you last long enough to win. This isn’t a Game I’d recommend to most people, because with so many participating, anything can happen. But you do seem to have that certain lucky something going for you. . . .”

“How do I get into this Game?” I said.

“Just apply to one of the flunkies,” said Frankie. “And then make out your will.”

“If this is a free-for-all, then why don’t we both enter?” said Molly. “Should help the odds on us winning, if we’re in there together to watch each other’s back.”

“You could both enter,” said Frankie, “but the rules say there can only be one winner. You’d have to kill, or at least seriously maim, the other to be declared winner.”

“Then we won’t do that,” said Molly.

“It’s down to me,” I said firmly. “You’re an excellent fighter, Molly, but I’m the one trained on how to survive against all the odds.”

“This is the Pit, all over again,” said Molly. “I had a hard enough time bringing you back from the brink after you fought the Dancing Fool! And now you want to take on a whole bunch of people just like him? Are you crazy?”

“There is no one like the Dancing Fool,” I said. “And I promise you, I have absolutely no intention of fighting fairly this time. I plan to use lateral thinking and a hell of a lot of ducking and weaving.”

“Well,” said Molly. “That’s more like it.”

We went in search of a generic flunky, and I told him I wanted to take part in Last Man Standing. He just nodded, and led us out of the Arena, and out across the grassy plain, to a tall round stone Tower standing on its own. Not very tall, and not very large, three or four stories at most, but with a great many windows in the curving exterior wall. Lots of other flunkies were leading even more people towards the Tower. As we drew nearer, I could see there were open doorways at the base of the Tower, and a great many viewscreens floating in mid-air, giving views of the interior. A large audience was assembling around the circular base of the Tower, from every direction. Just sitting there in the grass, staring eagerly at the viewscreens. Our flunky stopped us just short of the doorways, and looked at me pointedly.

“The rules of the Game are quite clear, sir. You can only take in whatever is yours, and you must enter the Tower naked.”

I glared at Frankie. “You didn’t mention that part.”

“Didn’t I?” Frankie said innocently. “Must have slipped my mind.”

“Don’t worry,” said Molly. “I’ll mind your clothes.”

“Strangely enough, that isn’t what’s worrying me,” I said. “There’s all these people . . . I don’t like to.”

“Oh, get on with it!” said Molly.

I looked around and saw that everyone else was stripping off. And since they didn’t seem too bothered, and no one was making a fuss about it, I did so too. The wind felt very cold, and I felt very vulnerable, as I finally stood naked and shivering before an open doorway. No one else seemed to be paying me any attention; they all had their gaze fixed on the Tower, their minds set on the Game.

“See?” Molly said brightly, hugging my clothes to her chest. “Not a scar to be seen, anywhere. I do good work!”

“Not bad,” said Frankie. “Though I have seen better . . .”

“Hey!” said Molly. “You keep your eyes off my property!”

The generic flunkies began ushering everyone through the open doorways, and into the Tower. By now there was a whole crowd of players, dozens of us. All types and sizes, most of them in pretty good shape. And watching us, all around the base of the Tower, an audience of hundreds gathered to watch us fight and hopefully die, entertainingly, on the floating viewscreens. Frankie waved a quick good-bye, and moved off into the crowd to do what he did best. Molly waved, and then the generic flunky pushed me politely but firmly through the open doorway.

The inside of the Tower was just a great empty hollow, surrounded by a curving stone interior wall. People were filling up the empty space from all sides, hurrying in through the doorways. Some smiling, some serious, no one saying anything. And every one of us naked as the day we were born. Some it bothered, some it didn’t; a few stared openly. I looked up, to the top of the Tower. A single stone step protruded, at the very top. According to Frankie, just before the Game began a flunky would appear there, holding the sacred staff. He would drop it, and one of us would catch it. And then, we would all fight it out to see who could hold on to the staff. While everyone else tried to take it away, by any and all means necessary. Last Man Standing. And that, Frankie had assured me, was all there was to the Game. Be the last man, with the staff. No other rules.

The hollow interior filled up pretty quickly, but the flunkies kept pushing in more and more competitors. Even after we were all packed uncomfortably close together, still the competitors kept arriving. Forced through the doorways by firm, implacable flunkies. Until finally we were all packed so closely together, we could hardly move. No room left for modesty when we were all back to back, belly to belly, face to face. The heat inside the Tower, generated by so many bodies in such a confined space, quickly became intolerable. And then got worse. We were all of us sweating like fury, but the perspiration running down our bodies was the only lubrication we had, to allow us to move. And it didn’t take me long to realise that not everyone else in the Tower was entirely human.

Fur brushed up against bare skin, as werewolves and werebears and other furred halflings insisted on their presence. Unnaturally pale people with sharp teeth and crimson eyes—vampires, hiding their true walking corpse status behind flickering glamours. And from the smell of it, several ghouls, too. And on top of that, several only vaguely human shapes that might have been aliens or demons, or anything in between. Some had scales, some had bony carapaces, or vicious bone spurs protruding from their elbows, and some had too many arms. It would appear that invitations to Casino Infernale went really far and wide. I couldn’t help feeling at something of a disadvantage, in being only human. Except, that I had one very special ace, not at all up my sleeve.

We finally reached a point where the generic flunkies couldn’t force another body through the doorways and that was when the flunky appeared on the top step high above us, holding out the sacred staff. He called out once, to get our attention, and then just dropped the staff.

It seemed to float almost tantalisingly on the air above us, turning end over end as it fell. A hundred hands thrust up, eager to grab it, mine among them. The staff fell and fell, and finally one hand grabbed it out of the air. I turned towards it and someone kicked my feet right out from under me. I fell, slipping through the greased bodies around me, and hit the floor hard. And straight away everyone else trampled all over me, as the crowd surged back and forth in pursuit of the sacred staff. All kinds of feet slammed into me from every direction, knocking the breath right out of me. It didn’t take me long to realise that if I stayed down, I would be trampled to death.

So, I delivered short vicious punches, and back-elbows, in every direction; cracking bones and breaking ankles, until enough people crashed to the floor to allow me enough space to fight my way back onto my feet again. Bruised, and bloodied, but intact. Some more applied viciousness opened up a little more space around me, but there were any number of punches and back-elbows coming my way too, as we all surged this way and that, a hundred and more naked bodies fighting it out for one wooden staff.

Please don’t let me get a hard-on, I thought. People are watching. It would be so hard to explain, afterwards.

I could hear the crowd outside, enjoying the fighting. Watching it all on the floating viewscreens, laughing and cheering and applauding. They cheered especially loudly when they saw someone die. I couldn’t see the bodies on the floor, but I could feel them when my feet slammed into something hard and unyielding.

I could see the staff, held above our heads, being snatched from hand to hand. It didn’t look like much, just a length of wood covered with engraved runic symbols. Most people used it as a club to beat other people about the head with. It quickly became covered in gore and hair, dripping blood. Someone waved it back and forth triumphantly, and drips of blood flew into everyone’s faces. Until the holder was beaten down by everyone around him.

Fists were flying everywhere. Knees came up, and feet kicked. We were all shouting and screaming at the top of our lungs, till the sound was actually painful. All of us caught up in the fighting frenzy, everyone against everyone else. Someone head-butted me in the face, but by the time I lashed out in return, my attacker was already gone, carried away by the movements of the crowd, and I punched out someone else instead. It didn’t matter. I had no friends here, only enemies. Blood dripped from my nose, but it didn’t feel like it was broken. I spat a mouthful of blood into someone’s face, and their returning fist shot past my head and punched out someone behind me. That was the Game.

More and more space was opening up, as more and more bodies crashed unconscious or dying to the floor. Just because no actual weapons could be brought in, didn’t mean you couldn’t get killed. Some people were weapons. I threw enough punches to keep everyone else at bay, while letting the Brownian movements of the crowd carry me away from the centre and all the way back to the interior wall. I felt definitely relieved as I pressed my back against the solid stone, because it meant that was one direction no attack could come from now. And then, finally, I could take time out from defending myself, and allow the effects of the Armourer’s potion to kick in. Finally, I could see the patterns in the crowd, and anticipate which attacks were coming my way, even before they happened. I ducked and dodged, and pulled other people in front of me to soak up the blows. I shoved people this way and that, so they would fight each other and not me. For the first time, I felt I was in some control of the situation.

Looking out across the heaving mob, it was quickly clear to me that the non-human fighters were targeting each other as the most dangerous players in the Game. Just as well, or we poor humans wouldn’t have stood a chance.

A vampire sank its fangs into the shoulder of a werewolf, worrying blood from the wound. A group of ghouls dragged down an alien and ate it alive. There was a sudden stink of guts on the air near me, as a group of things with too many arms turned a werebear inside out. Fangs and claws, blood and gore, and above it all, the sacred wooden staff moving jerkily back and forth, snatched from hand to hand. And I couldn’t help noticing . . . that the more dangerous players were actually cancelling each other out, by picking on each other. Until finally there were only humans left fighting for the prize. I stayed back by the wall and just let them get on with it. And they were all so taken up in their quest for the staff, and beating the hell out of anyone who got in their way, that they didn’t even notice me. They slammed into each other, hitting and kicking, gouging and tearing, until finally, eventually, there was only one man left, standing surrounded by a pile of bodies, covered in blood that mostly wasn’t his. Clutching at his gore-covered prize, and smiling. Last man standing—apart from me.

I coughed politely, to draw his attention. His head snapped round to stare at me. He glared at me with a cold, focused, murderous gaze. He really was very big, very muscular, and he’d soaked up a hell of a lot of punishment to get his hands on the staff. He kicked at a few of the bodies around him, moving them back to give him room to fight. One moaned, showing it was still alive. The big man stamped on the fallen man’s head, and the sound stopped. The big man brandished the sacred staff at me, daring me to take it from him. I barely recognised the thing, it was so crusted in blood and gore.

“Come here,” said the big man, the bloody man. “Come here, and I’ll kill you. I’ve killed so many to win this Game, one more won’t matter. Come here and let me kill you and I’ll make it quick. Make me work for it, and I will make you scream and beg and bleed before I finish you.” He smiled suddenly. “That is why I come to the Game, after all. Where else can you get to kill so many people, in the name of sport? I always have the best time here, every year!”

I reached into the pocket dimension at my hip, brought out my Colt Repeater, and shot him neatly between the eyes. His head snapped back, and he was dead before he hit the bodies piled up around him. The pocket dimension isn’t actually in the pocket of my trousers, or I’d never be able to wear another pair. It just hovers at my hip, and goes everywhere with me. Most useful thing the Armourer ever made for me. I slipped the Colt back into the pocket dimension, and it disappeared again. I clambered carefully over the fallen competitors, heading for the man I’d killed. Some of them made feeble sounds of protest, which meant some of them were still alive. I was glad about that. I didn’t want to think so many people had actually died for a stupid stick. I prised the sacred staff out of the dead man’s hand, wiped some of the mess away on his body, and then turned and headed for the nearest open doorway.

It felt wonderfully cool, out in the open air again. The crowd went wild, laughing and cheering and applauding. They did love a good surprise ending. Some of them came rushing forward, wanting to shake my hand or clap me on the shoulder. I let them do it, though I drew the line at being embraced. At least until I was dressed again. Apparently a lot of people had won a lot of souls, betting on me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Molly pushed her way through the crowd, holding my clothes, and a towel she’d acquired from somewhere. She glared at everyone else until they fell back enough to give us room. And then she towelled me down carefully, removing as much of the caked-on blood as she could. I hadn’t realised how much had ended up on me from other people. Molly bit her lip, as she saw the bruises under the blood, but said nothing. She helped me get dressed again.

A generic flunky approached me, and I looked him in the eye.

“Nothing in the rules against it,” I said.

“You are allowed whatever you carry in with you, sir,” said the flunky. “Though you did push it, a bit.”

I looked around, as Frankie came rushing up. “Tell me I won big,” I said. “Because I have had enough of these Games.”

“Of course we won big!” said Frankie, beaming all over his flushed face. “You wouldn’t believe how many souls we won!”

“We won?” I said.

“Oh, all right, you won,” said Frankie. “The point is, you now possess more than enough souls to get yourself a place in the Big Game!”

“About time,” said Molly. “Really don’t like this place.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” I said.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the flunky, politely but firmly. “You have to hand back the sacred staff.”

I looked at the soiled object I was still hanging on to. I honestly hadn’t realised I still had the thing.

“I don’t get to keep it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what did I win? What’s the point of the Game?”

“The honour of playing, sir.”

I handed him the sacred staff. “So, I don’t get anything?”

“Of course you do, sir. You get your obol.”

He pressed the small coin into my hand.

“And this represents . . . ?” I said.

“The soul of everyone who fell, living or dead, in the Game, sir. Please follow me now, and I will lead you back to your dimensional door.”

“I will come back,” I said to him. “I will come back here, to help you.”

The generic flunky looked at me for a long moment. “Then I will look forward to seeing you again, sir.”

He led us back across the purple-tinged grass, back to the door, and our world. Molly slipped her arm through mine.

“First you want to free all the faces in the corridor, now you want to free all the flunkies in this world. You just can’t look away, can you?”

“The word over-ambitious does come to mind,” said Frankie, behind us.

“That’s my Shaman,” said Molly. “Can’t see a wrong without wanting to put it right.” She smiled at me fondly. “Just remember, we still have a war to stop. And you promised me you’d help track down the Regent so I can get the truth out of him.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” I said.

“I’m actually beginning to believe it,” said Frankie. “Maybe you really can break the bank at Casino Infernale, after all.”

Molly looked at him. “If you didn’t believe it before, why have you been helping us all this time?”

Frankie looked at her as though she was crazy. “For the money, of course!”