The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood–“Imbriac,” Gelsomina said, “one of the Five Points Families”–that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of one of the Game’s grand villains, the Baron’s henchman Ettanin Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face. The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man’s face without deformity; the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur, approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character.

“That,” Gelsomina said, “was Chrestil‑Brisch.”

“That takes guts,” Roscha said. “Considering that’s what most people think of them anyway.”

Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. “They’ve got a reputation for being, well, chancy. You’re never really sure where you stand with them–or so they say.”

Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless sky. There were only three more–a female shape with a fan, from a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best, neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles. It barely moved–“too fragile to move much,” Gelsomina said–but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to release the mooring.

They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route, up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of Shadows. The streets were quieter here–most people were still on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks–and Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security drone sail past overhead.

“I appreciate your help,” Gelsomina said. “It’s nice to see the parade from a decent viewpoint.” She had pushed the Viverina’s mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other.

“Thank you,” Lioe said. “I didn’t–I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was just incredible.”

Gelsomina smiled. “And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you want Cor‑Clar?”

“Yes, and thank you,” Roscha answered, and reached with unerring speed for the rich brown‑skinned mask.

“And you, Na Lioe?” Gelsomina asked.

Lioe shook her head. “I can’t decide. They’re all gorgeous, and I don’t know who I want to be.”

“Well, you’re not leaving empty‑handed,” Gelsomina declared. “We had a bargain.” She turned slowly, leaning on the Viverina’s stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then, and reached out with her staff. “Take that one.”

“If you’re sure, Na Gelsomina,” Lioe began, and the woman nodded.

“Take it. I insist.”

“Thank you,” Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace, roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single six‑millimeter stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked almost transparent in the light. “Thanks,” she said again, and let Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to see Gelsomina–the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into place and staff in hand–standing beside the row of masks that looked almost alive in the amber light.

“We’ve got some time,” Roscha said. “Do you want to stop for coffee, or something?”

Lioe looked sideways, found a patch of grey stone that would let her see the chronometer’s numbers. In a little more than an hour she would have to start the night’s session, and she shook her head decisively. “No. I want to get back to Shadows.” She was aware suddenly that Roscha was frowning, added a belated, “Thanks anyway.”

Roscha shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

“Some other time,” Lioe said, and got no answer. They kept walking through the patches of light and shadow that filled the streets, pools of light puddling in the intersections, shadow creeping back at the middle of the blocks, where the streetlights did not overlap. Distant music wound through the darkness, fits and snatches that she could almost weave into a tune. She tilted her head to one side to listen–she didn’t even quite recognize the instruments, except for the heavy bass and the thin whine of metal strings from a violo–and started when Roscha’s hand brushed her own.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Roscha said, in an affronted voice and Lioe shook her head.

“I’m sorry, you just startled me. That’s all.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Roscha looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said again, in an entirely different tone.

“It’s all right,” Lioe said, and did not move away when Roscha reached for her hand again. They walked on hand in hand, their footsteps echoing on the paving, and then Roscha pulled away again. Lioe bit back annoyance–she didn’t need this, not before a session–but said nothing. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’ll have to get over it on her own; I don’t have the time to nursemaid her. Then, in spite of herself, she gave a rueful smile. Why are my one‑night stands always more complicated than they should be?

Evening, Day 1

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch

Palazze, Five Points

Damian Chrestil stood on the wide balcony that ran along the base of the palazze’s roof, watching the fireworks that bloomed over the Wet Districts and the Inland Water. Each burst drew a murmur of appreciation from the other guests, watching from the open doorways farther down the roof, but he enjoyed the annual display too much to share it. The bursts of red and gold flared like flowers, drowning the stars and the starlike lights of the distant buildings. He would rather have been watching from the Water itself, where the sky rained golden fire with each explosion, but Chrestillio had asked– and we all agreed, in some perverse fit of compliance–that they all attend the family’s party as a show of solidarity. Customs‑and‑Intelligence was still asking questions about the Demeter shipment, and it was important that they look as though they trusted each other, and weren’t worrying about anything. The fireworks slackened, the breathing space before the finale, and Damian glanced over his shoulder toward the guests who lined the balcony. About half of them were masked, all from the Five Points Families: the Old City did not mask, preferred more refined pastimes, but the real power had never needed refinement. Damian smiled at the thought, nodded to a thin woman– she was something in the bank, he thought–who lifted her glass to him, and looked away.

The finale caught them all by surprise, and there was a collective gasp as the first burst flowered into an enormous spray of red that turned to gold and then fell in streamers of light toward the distant Water. Another shell burst into a flare of purple brightening to pink, and then another, and another, so that the balls of light hung for a moment on a trail of gold fire like flowers on a stem. Even as they fell, dissolving into a shower of sparks, four more shells flew up, trailing thin lines of flame, exploded into flat sheets of light. From the Water, Damian knew, it would be as though the world were frozen for an instant by that crack of light, and he sighed for what he was missing.