VII
Rima carried her clock within her breast. Inside her rigid cocoon, she counted her heartbeats.
The gentle, arrhythmic drumming – and the other pulses of her body – were like the small, living sounds of the jungle. In her mind, all was green and warm and wet and dangerous.
She had no concept of regret, and so did not miss her native land. Bad things had happened there. Fire, death, pain. Others thought her dead. She knew not whether they were wrong. She might be a ghost. The cruel people had always called her spirit, demon, daughter of the Didi.
How she came here, to these new jungles, did not matter.
She thought of what she must do now, not what was gone.
Rima would do anything for Erik. If she were a ghost, he was Lord of Ghost-Kind. The others were the same, though they might not know it. Eliza and Gigi, from different jungles, were Rima's heart-sisters. Mirror-selves, summoned up from still, reflecting pools.
When the Phantom played music for Rima, it was like a thunderstorm, a waterfall, a thousand birds singing in joy and terror. It was worth the crossing of a great ocean, wider than any bird could fly, to hear him play. The cruel people made thin songs, with flutes like twigs. Erik poured music through pipes tall as trees.
Twenty-five thousand heartbeats. Enough time had passed.
She stopped counting and opened her eyes. Through slits in the mask-piece she saw the room. A crowd of other statues. Paintings piled against the walls.
She flexed thin, strong shoulders and arms, straining against her second skin of wire, plaster and paint. Seams split, the shell sundered. She hatched like a chick. Her arms broke free. She pulled the plates over her chest and face apart. Wriggling out of the statue, she found the room empty of people.
Careful to make no noise, she stepped off her plinth. Her former shell was exploded and hollow.
Rima, free after confinement, danced, rejoicing as feeling returned to her limbs. She wore only her shift and a leather belt. In its pouches were tools. She had been instructed in the use of some items by the Persian. Other implements she was skilled with of old.
A thick carpet was folded away from a closed metal hatch. A heavy padlock sealed it shut. This too held a volunteer prisoner. She set to work with lock-picks. Her fingers were deft. Soon, the padlock was sprung and set to one side. Silently, she lifted the trapdoor.
She found what she expected. A thin perpendicular shaft like the inside of a hollow tree, with rungs set in its side. Twenty feet down, another hatch. Beyond that, the Bad Little Man.
Rima had experience with his kind. Cruel people, who set cunning snares that broke necks. Birds knew to fly away when they were near.
She twisted her hair out of her face and tied it in a knot, then crawled into the hole. She made her way downwards, rung by rung, gripping fast with supple toes. If needs be, she could hang by her feet. About halfway down, she heard noise. Voices, the clatter of many small objects, distorted music. She had passed through the floor, and was in a branch dangling into the great room. At the end of it was the Bad Little Man's nest.
Stout chains hung taut around her, taking the nest's weight. Thick, rubber-coated vines carried the magic lightning.
Rima eased through the narrowing space.
Her face hung over the second hatch, which had a glass window.
She saw the top of the Bad Little Man's head. His thinning black hair was oiled, but white stripes of his scalp showed through. His face was pressed to one of many sets of eyepieces. His hairy hands rested on an array of keys, stops, wheels and levers. The contraption was as intricate as the Phantom's pipe organ.
Hooking her feet on a rung, she took a bundle from her belt, and laid it quietly by the hatch.
The Bad Little Man pulled his face away from the eyepieces. He crooked an ear like a cat, but did not look up.
Rima's breath misted the pane inches above his head.
The Bad Little Man twisted on his chair, and pulled himself to another set of eyepieces. His chair was on wheels which fit to rails within his nest. He could turn like an owl and see in any direction.
Rima unrolled her bundle, which contained a cigarette holder. She fitted it into her mouth and got a grip with her teeth. The holder was stoppered with a tiny cork. The sliver inside rattled slightly.
This time, the Bad Little Man definitely heard her.
Rima reached for the hatch-handle and aimed her holder.
The Bad Little Man looked up. His face was young but withered, eyes black like caves.
She hauled open the hatch.
The Bad Little Man reached for a magazine pistol, but could not lift it in time.
With her thumb, Rima flipped the cork stopper. She spat out a quick breath.
The dart stuck into the Bad Little Man's neck.
Angry eyes fixed on her, but he could not move. Rima knew he was awake in his skull, but his body would not respond. The dart was tipped in venom derived from the poison frog. She had brought a supply from the jungle.
She reached down and twisted the pistol out of his nerveless grip. The gun dropped to the bottom of the nest, clattering into a chamber-pot.
The Bad Little Man's eyes glowed with hatred. His locked teeth ground.
Now came the most difficult stretch. She had to extract the Bad Little Man from his nest and take his place on the wheeled seat. There was scarcely room for one person in this space, let alone two.
Rima hauled the Bad Little Man up by his shoulders. They were closer in the shaft than seeds in a pod. She wriggled, a new-born cuckoo tipping a heavy egg out of a nest or an ant juggling a weight many times its own with its legs. She forced the Bad Little Man's body up as hers inched down. When he was completely above her and out of his nest, he was still a weight. She lifted him into the shaft, crooking his withered legs over a rung. She took off her belt and used it to tie him there, a fly left in a spider's web for a later snack.
The Bad Little Man was strong-willed. He fought the frog-venom, face crimson, spittle on his lips. Inside, he roared with fury. But he was helpless. If he built another nest, it would be less pregnable. With traps for unwary ghost-girls, cuckoos or daughters of Didi.
Rima left him be and settled in his seat. She rolled it this way and that, enjoying the smooth motion. It was a comfortable nest, just her size.
She flexed her fingers and touched the keys. Now, with this building as an organ, she would play her own music.
She looked through a set of eyepieces. A distant view suddenly leaped up at her, close and vivid. She had used binoculars, and knew how they worked. She was seeing down into the big room below.
The Bad Fat Man stood by a long green table. Every other gentleman in the room wore black, but he shone in white.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'place your bets…'
Piles of tokens were assembled on a baize grid. The Bad Fat Man elbowed aside a thin croupier. He would personally start off the evening's play. He bent over a miniature carousel. Rima knew this was a roulette wheel. The Bad Fat Man set the wheel spinning. An ivory ball jumped on the whirring carousel like an insect on fire.
Pinned to the giant keyboard in the nest was a chart. It listed numbers, odds, hands of cards and precise times. Beside the chart was a large white-faced clock. As the wheel spun in the casino below, the second hand shuddered.
Rima checked the numbers and times against those she had learned. She imagined her own chart laid over this one. She would play a different tune.
The roulette wheel slowed. The insect tired, close to death.
Rima's hand darted out over a particular key, hovered for a few ticks, then pressed down.
The ball stopped in a compartment within the wheel.
'Trente rouge,' said the croupier. 'Thirteen red. La maison gagne. The house wins…'
'THE HOUSE WINS!…'
Gilberte had never seen a man more unhappy with a streak of good luck than Charles Foster Kane. Only Elizabeth – and perhaps a few croupiers – shared her insight. The casino staff continued to obey orders from the Eye-Ball, though.
Everyone else in the know remembered his plan – 'early losses to build up the pot'. The pot was swollen, and growing. A lake of money pooled in the counting cellars beneath the main salon.
Many of the Most High Order favoured the roulette wheel. Dr Quartz, Madame Sara and had laid fortunes on the baize, and seen their chips swept away. Several initiates had gone to the foyer when their initial outlay was seemingly – indeed, actually – squandered, and returned with freshly purchased boards.
'The house wins again,' said the chief croupier. Chips clattered in a chute, disappearing below. Monies poured down a plughole.
Natasha, Sir Dunston and Senator Paine, preferring baccarat, sat together. An expressionless, wired-up dealer spun cards from the shoe. Gilberte understood that, in addition to the Terrorists' funds, Natasha was gambling with the Face's money. He could hardly be expected to show his, ahem, mask in such company, but would not want to miss out on the evening's profit.
Carne, Gurn and General Sternwood played five-card stud with Potter – who was gloatingly raking in chips he was supposed to lose later.
In an antechamber, Perry Bennett was bent over a hazard table, rattling dice. His peculiar hand was adapted to crapauds-shooting, but the bones were not falling his way. His friend Owen was betting heavily on the losing run coming to an end, playing the Martingale System – which, under the circumstances, was a sure way to wind up broke.
All around, takers were being took.
Elizabeth, calm again after the Freddy incident, steered Gilberte around the room. They were themselves this evening – Edda Van Heemstra and Irma Vep were mysteriously detained. At the moment, none of their co-conspirators minded the absences – more in the pot for everyone else. Later, when smoke cleared, their no-show act would be remembered. By then, the real Edda would be loose and likely in trouble. As for Irma, Gilberte assumed she'd dance away from blame as she had slipped out of every other trap set for her.
The influx of big money was, as Kane had said, 'blood in the water'.
The salon stank with a hubbub of greed, fear, excitement and desperation. Usually, a casino came alive when a lucky or ingenious soul began to beat the house. Tonight was contrary. Gamblers rarely considered or cared about streaks if the house benefited. After all, odds were always with the house. But, tonight, a record might be set – the biggest single haul in a casino in an evening's play.
Next year, revues and songs would commemorate 'The Bank Who Broke the Men at Royale-les-Eaux'.
Elizabeth and Gilberte repaired to a side bar, to drink champagne and take the edge off all the excitement. This was where the professional gamblers, who knew by instinct that something was more amiss than usual, had retreated. Thomas Carnacki of London and India, and Bret Maverick, of Natchez and New Orleans, debated the presently standing record for a house win, and whether it was about to fall. The inveterate gaming fiends also remembered a macabre record for the number of casino-related suicides in a single night. The cynical Carnacki was willing to bet the death toll set at Mother Gin Sling's in Shanghai on Chinese New Year's in '98 would be exceeded by dawn. The more optimistic Maverick considered taking the wager. Both were probably thinking of ways to put a 'fix' in.
Maverick caught Gilberte looking at them and raised a glass to her. She turned away from his alarmingly appealing smile, and thought of cool green beds of money.
Engineer Hattison, inventor of the cheating machine, was also at the bar, nursing ginger ale and radiating smugness. He also overheard Maverick and Carnacki, and offered stakes against the professional gamblers, claiming that at the end of the evening the house would be the loser, rattling off spurious mathematical piffle to justify his position. Gilberte saw Hattison was making a novice mistake by offering an apparent sucker bet. A more experienced confidence man set out bait and let the mark raise the notion of a wager. Carnacki withdrew from the conversation and returned to play. If there was a setup, he was determined to get in on the game and snare a portion of the free money he now believed was on offer. Maverick, however, had an acute sense of the way things were going and mildly took the engineer's bet. Somehow, the Western gambler tumbled that a fix was supposed to be in but was actually off. Hattison threw a sheaf of his patents in to bulk up his meagre cash roll.
Elizabeth and Gilberte finished their drinks and returned to the salon.
Kane, on his podium with the small orchestra, was perspiring badly, and trying to catch Boltyn's attention. His fellow millionaire wasn't supposed to be in this phase of the game, but couldn't resist trying to get one up. He sat by Natasha, matching the Queen of Terror's bets and often laying a meaty hand over her delicate fingers in a manner which might well earn him a cut throat before the end of the night. Unless the girl was one of those queer ducks who rattle about revolution all day but secretly wish to spend the night being grossly pleasured by a bloated plutocrat on silk sheets.
Gilberte looked up at the Eye-Ball. She tapped Elizabeth's shoulder.
Faint cracks appeared in the plaster, damaging a 14th-century cathedral ceiling Kane had stuck up to add class to his gaming hell. Fine dust sifted through the cracks. The Eye-Ball's moorings were precisely calibrated. Adding even Riolama's meagre weight was a stress not calculated for in Hattison's plans.
Lights on the globe flashed on and off.
Gilberte whistled silently in admiration. Riolama had mastered the system and was playing it like a virtuoso.
All around the room were cries of exasperation, complaint, despair.
Some of the Most High Order grew irritable, feeling they had fed the pot a little too much. It was time for the great Kane's munificence to be made manifest. Others simply ached for their money back, and their promised money on top of it.
Kane could not make a scene without it becoming generally known that this whole casino was a giant trick. But he knew, even before Bret Maverick, that his crooked path had twisted against him. Finally, he slipped from the podium and waddled with an unaccustomed hurry towards the foyer. The staircase which led to the secure gallery above the Eye-Ball was still guarded. Voltaire stood at his position, suitably resolute, invisibly well-armed. Ironically, Riolama could not have got upstairs without his strength.
Casually, Gilberte and Elizabeth followed the magnate.
In the foyer, just as Kane was about to call out to Voltaire, they caught up with him and, with practised ease, took an arm apiece.
'Oh, Mr Kane…' said Elizabeth, musically.
'Ladies,' he said, not recognising them but not too far gone in panic to miss their appeal, 'ordinarily, I'd be happy to escort you, but…'
'We shan't take refusal kindly,' purred Gilberte. 'This is a special occasion, and we claim you as our prize.'
'We could dance all night,' said Elizabeth, tugging on one arm.
'Or drink champagne as if it had just been invented,' said Gilberte, tugging on the other.
Kane tried to break free, but – for all his meat and money – was not a strong man.
In the salon, general fury erupted at another huge loss. The chutes to the counting cellar were choked with boards like clogged-up drains. As usual in such situations, a stink was rising. Kane turned to look, but Gilberte and Elizabeth insisted on his attention, patting his damp cheeks, smoothing his sticky moustache. If pricked with one of Riolama's darts, he would not be more deftly immobilised.
Bennett and Owen, black-faced and broke, stalked out of the salon, towards the main doors.
'Gentlemen… friends,' cried out Kane as they passed by.
Bennett gave Kane the evil eye and made a vulgar gesture with his malformed hand. Owen drew his thumb across his throat in an equally eloquent sign.
'Don't mind them,' purred Elizabeth. 'They're bankrupt. They haven't got two pennies to hire a cosh-boy, let alone funds enough to have you killed.'
Kane really saw Gilberte and Elizabeth for the first time.
'Do I know you?' he asked.
A commotion exploded in the salon, and spread through the building.
William Boltyn was on the floor, clothes torn, expertly pinned by the dainty boot-heel of Natasha Natasaevna. She cursed him as every variety of capitalist exploiter and blood-sucking oppressor of the people. She took a croupier's gathering-stick and knouted the millionaire as if he were a Russian peasant and she a Cossack. His face was striped with red weals. So, he wouldn't be conquering the Princess of the Revolution in his suite this evening. Others of the Most High Order were with her, getting in kicks and blows. Their pockets were empty, Gilberte supposed. Dr Quartz had actually pulled out his trouser pockets in a caricature of pennilessness. He had gambled away his custom-made surgical instruments.
'The house wins,' announced another croupier, blandly.
A shot rang out and the man was down, wounded in the shoulder. Two hefty guards threw themselves on General Sternwood, who had brought his revolver. Voltaire left his post to see what the trouble was.
Kane was pliable now. It was important he see what was happening, so they steered him back into the salon.
It was pandemonium!
Boards flew like shrapnel on a battlefield. Patrons smashed the furniture. Voltaire and the apes went into action, endeavouring to suppress rowdy behaviour. Madame Sara tried to splash a bottle of vitriol into a croupier's face, and was instantly trussed and thrown onto a table. Acid burned the baize. The Inner Circle of the Most High Order of Xanadu, assuming treachery on the part of their Grand Master, took to quarrelling with each other, flinging accusations and daggers. They had no common cause before Kane gathered them. Old rivalries and enmities bubbled up like marsh gas. Simon Carne and Sir Dunston Greene fenced with swords, leaping from tier to tier. They fetched up on the podium, cutting through the orchestra. Musicians fled diplomatically, grasping their more valuable instruments. Senator Paine brutally kicked Henry F. Potter, who kicked General Sternwood, as if determined to put him into a wheelchair.
Then, all the croupiers started screaming.
This had the effect of stopping fights and destructive rampages. All the staff were rooted to the carpets, juddering and fizzing, hair standing on end and smoking. Cards spewed from sleeves. Trouser-cuffs caught fire. Crackles of lightning ringed the croupiers' bodies. Riolama had cranked up the electrical devices to their highest setting and thrown all the switches at once. There was a peculiar, tart, burned smell. This extraordinary phenomenon lasted only a few seconds, then shut off – along with all the electric lights.
Maverick strolled out of the side bar, with a fistful of Hattison's paper. He tipped his black hat at the ladies, and his appalled host, and calmly walked out of the building. Back in the bar, Hattison had abjured ginger ale and was thirstily swigging whisky from a bottle.
The hall was dim, but infernal – lit only by a few fires. Yelping staff patted at burning patches of their evening attire. With dreadful curses, they helped each other tear wires out of their shoes.
'Gigi, cover your ears,' said Elizabeth. 'This is not language you should learn.'
Kane was limp now, mumbling about 'roses' buds'.
There was a great rending sound, as if Plan Thunderbolt were torn in half by the Gods, and the Eye-Ball detached from the ceiling. Wires and chains tore through plaster as the globe crashed fifty feet to the floor. It smashed, throwing broken glass all around.
It was a miracle no one had been underneath it.
Gilberte's heart clutched, but Riolama wasn't in the wreckage. Looking up, she saw the bird-girl dangling from a cluster of wires stuck out of the ceiling. With the agility of a born acrobat, she swung from chandelier to chandelier, then found a column she could climb down as if it were a tree-trunk.
Gilberte and Elizabeth abandoned Kane to his ruin, and made a cradle of their hands. Riolama leaped into their grip. They helped her out of the salon, deftly moving through panicking, rioting, complaining crowds.
Heaps of boards were scattered across the floor. Mr. Potter, on his knees, filled his pockets. Most folks were too afraid the building would collapse to bother with scavenging.
They tried to leave the building in an orderly fashion, along with many less cool heads who were fighting and clawing to get out into the relative safety of the street.
Voltaire stood by the main doors, waiting for them, teeth shining like the family silver. Kane must have summoned him with a silent whistle.
'My good man,' began Elizabeth, 'if you would be so kind as to step aside. This poor girl has had a trying evening and is on the point of fainting…'
The giant's eyes glittered, like his gnashers. He was sceptical.
'Move your bloomin' arse!' shouted Elizabeth, in her original voice.
Dishevelled folks streamed past Voltaire, but he stood firm, arms extended.
Now was the time for one of the stratagems they had practised, under the tutelage of the Persian, in the gymnasium beneath the Opéra. It was Gilberte's call.
'Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo!' she trilled.
Riolama flew as if on wires, taking 'Hi Lily' and jamming her toughened heels into Voltaire's metal grin. Elizabeth, the other 'Hi Lily', took a discarded parasol and jabbed its point into the giant's midriff. Gilberte, performing 'Hi Lo', fell to the floor like the dying swan, braced herself against marble, and swept stiff legs against his stout ankles.
Voltaire shuddered but didn't fall.
The Angels recoiled and landed on points, adopting poses of aggression and flirtation. Elizabeth twirled the parasol for distraction. Gilberte opened and closed invisible fans, trying to ignore the pain in her shins. Riolama's arms rose in a crane stance and she stood on one leg.
Even the fleeing guests knew enough to clear a circle.
'Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo' was brute force. For all their delicacy, the trio could fell a tree with it. But Voltaire still stood.
After the Persian had tutored them black and blue, they had suffered under an even more exacting master. To become an Angel of Music, one had to pass muster with Monsieur Erik. Gilberte hadn't believed her throat could hurt so much, or that such sounds could be torn out of her.
Now, they would put their lessons into practice.
Elizabeth began to tap out a tempo with her parasol.
Gilberte found a discarded croupier's scoop. Riolama, alarmingly, picked up a bloody sword.
They tapped in synchronised time. Voltaire's eyes swivelled between them.
The repertoire for three female voices was limited. 'Three Little Maids From School' was too trivial, though perhaps effective in a back-alley brawl. Bizet's 'Les Tringles des Sistres Tintaient' was too coarse, and they all thought Carmen a stupid slut. So, it must be Mendelssohn. 'Lift Thine Eyes To The Mountains'. The 'Angels' Trio' from Elijah.
Elizabeth, the most naturally skilled, took the lead. Gilberte had counterpoint, and Riolama – whose high notes turned to bird screeches – fluttered around. Song came from their hearts and lungs. Sound rolled from their larynxes in waves. If Voltaire could hear a dog-whistle, this would hurt.
All around, folks were struck by the beauty, then pricked by the pain. Crystal shattered, and another chandelier fell.
They focused the song on the giant in their way.
Blood trickled from his ears, his nose, his eyes. But he was transfixed.
Riolama took the lead from Elizabeth, and improvised – cockatoo sounds, bird-calls from her jungles. Voltaire felt it in his steel teeth, and clutched his mouth as the sharpened false choppers vibrated.
Gilberte became the dominant voice, and ended the song.
The giant fell to his knees, eyes and mouth red.
Without taking a bow, the trio slipped round him into the street.
A few stunned patrons tried to applaud, then thought better of lingering. More chandeliers would fall tonight.
In song, the Angels of Music had conquered.
Europa-Xanadu was in ruins. A mob was tearing down the façades of every Burgher Kane in sight. Fellows with sledge-hammers smashed gaming machines. Liberated cattle charged down the street, trailing bruised cowboys by their lassos. A circle of small boys filled up a lost ten-gallon hat with piddle. The bandstand was seized. An impromptu barber-shop quartet sang 'Go Home, Yankees' to the tune of 'Good Night, Ladies'.
The European War of the Future was finished before it was begun. The false plans would not be drawn up and passed on, the Terrorists' air-destroyer would not strike, the armies would not march. The Most High Order of Xanadu was set against itself. Some of the most dangerous, vindictive and resourceful people in the world believed Charles Foster Kane had set out to fleece them. The magnate would be lucky to get out of France with his skin. He would have to fortify his Florida fastness against the creatures sure to be set against him by those who felt he owed debts no gold mine could service.
The Persian was waiting with a black motor-carriage and chauffeur.
The three women got into the vehicle. The Persian had champagne on ice for Gilberte and Elizabeth, and chocolate-covered insects for Riolama – her favourite delicacy.
Envelopes were handed to them. In Gilberte's was a notice of a bank account opened in her name in Switzerland, and a generous initial deposit.
'Against a rainy day,' Elizabeth explained.
Their commission concluded, expression drained from the Englishwoman's face – as if she were Galatea turned back into a statue, waiting for someone to vivify her again.
Then, briefly, she was animated as she gasped, 'Freddy!'
Mr Eynsford Hill was tied to a lamppost. Children painted as wild Indians danced around this totem, giving out war-whoops.
'I suppose he'll be all right,' Elizabeth said as they drove by. 'Fickle fortune frequently favours the foolish.'
Riolama happily crunched her chocolate bugs.
Elizabeth needed a strong teacher of music and diction to set her course, while Riolama was happy in an eternal present surrounded by winged friends. Gilberte recognised them both as her sisters.
They took the road from Royale-les-Eaux, leaving Kane's colossal schemes behind in irreparable shambles. Gilberte knew they would be in Paris by sunrise, to sleep away the day and emerge fresh the next evening – ready again to take flight.