“Must you call me ‘Shrimp’?”

  “I certainly don’t intend to call you ‘Sir Squire’!”

  “My name’s Pedino. Now what does ‘metaspatial’ mean? Is that a magical space which encloses mundane space, though mundane space seems far bigger? Is it the seed of mundane space, the foundation?”

  Matyash gave a grudging grunt of approval. “You’re getting there, Shrimp.”

  “So, Mr Matyash, whenever we jump magically we touch upon those other zones. But because we’re adapted to the rules of our own world we always bounce back into our own domain.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “If our world happened to be destroyed while we were neither here nor there, might we cross into another world?”

  “If you could thrust yourself with sufficient conviction! If you could ignore all the rules you’ve ever lived by. If you could turn all your beliefs inside out in a revolutionary spirit. Fat chance of that, I’d say. Now look you: those seven stars up there form a perfect septagon.”

  “No they don’t.”

  “If you imagine them rotated about a line through the axis of the Quint. Metaspatially this indicates that there are seven prime dimensions in addition to the five we’re already familiar with, namely, length, breadth, height, time, and your own brand of magic. I imagine these represent seven other sets of magic rules. I’ve devised no definite names for these, since I’ve little idea of their nature. For temporary convenience we could label them: strangeness, colour, charm, flavour, mood, tone, and urine.”

  “Why urine?”

  “It pisses me off that I can’t discover more about them.”

  I was working on the idea that if Sara and I could somehow move together magically in the right sort of way then we might hit some zone where the rule no longer held true that she should remain hurt in the head forever. Otherwise this was all fairly ethereal stuff to me. Afterwards I was glad to head down into Seveno district for a few drinks.

  Thus I discovered that Boris Slad, my sister’s husband, had got himself a costly mistress and also was embezzling money to pay her gambling debts.

  You may recall how proud my parents were for Drina to marry into the Slad family, and how upset Drina had been at the thought that I might shamefully stain the alliance through nocturnal misconduct in Seveno. (Drina changed her tune after I killed Bishop Zorn.)

  The wedding had taken place two years previous; and splendidly so, at the Samostan, since Slad Senior was footing the bill. I had escorted the bride-to-be in my best palace uniform, brass buttons polished till they shone like suns. Drina seemed radiantly and childishly happy, while my parents were pleased as punch. I was in two minds about the value of this match, for which I felt responsible; as I’ve said.

  Drina and Boris took up marital abode in a self-contained flat on the third floor of the Slad house overlooking Vertovy Gardens. To all appearances Boris buckled down dutifully in his father’s counting house of which he was now, two years later, in nominal charge as junior partner.

  I hadn’t been to the Grand Salon de Chance in, oh, ages. Quite frankly the place made me feel uneasy; and for a long time I was hard put to work out exactly why.

  On account of the Physiognomist? Hardly. It didn’t matter a hoot if he knew who I was. Anyway, he was the soul of discretion.

  Because of the presence of Bellogard’s high society? How so, when I hobnobbed with the queen herself?

  I’d paid dutiful visits to the other, less salubrious casinos in the vicinity. These dens specialized in rowdy games of hazard. I persuaded myself that it amused me to kibitz-this was all I ever did -yet in those establishments I also felt awkward, though the sensation was less intense.

  It had taken me a good while to understand precisely why the Salon bothered me. The reason was: chance itself. That particular venue represented the acme, the quintessence of chance: chance raised to an art, and a style. In my guts I felt that there was something unnatural about games of chance, something discordant and awry. Games of chance were utterly at variance with my own view of the world and my sense of my own magic. To me, the world consisted of dynamic choices, not random events.

  However, after a glass of wine or three I decided to revisit the Grand Salon. In disguise.

  A word about the art of disguise, which I was attempting to master in preparation for Chorny.

  It’s possible to fool the eidolons in a number of ways. Long ago Queen Dama had carried out experiments with the assistance of squires. She found that those spectral images, on which both Chorny and Bellogard alike could spy by magic, presented an idealized average of their subjects. You could dye your hair, and the eidolon would ignore this change. (My own hair was already as black as a Chornyman’s.) You could dress up in rags. For several weeks the eidolon would continue to show what you wore habitually, ceremonially. If you persevered in wearing rags the garb of your eidolon would in time grow tatty to match. A magical injury would show up immediately, being essential and intrinsic. Likewise if you shaved your moustache off. If you started to grow a beard your status was ambiguous for a week or so. During that time the eidolon would stay clean-shaven. Make-up would be ignored unless worn constantly.

  By quick, deft application of powder and grey charcoal I’d learned how to make my features seem narrower and longer-less open-and my eyes more deep-set. Margarita advised and assisted. She had shown me how to pencil round my eyes and mouth wrinkles which put ten years on my age. I’d let my neat moustache sprout bushily. One day I hacked it back to a tight black line along my upper lip. Duly fooled, my eidolon lost its whiskers. I applied black wax to the remaining bristles; anyone meeting me in the flesh perceived a genuine moustache. I also practised altering my hair-style with a few scoops of the comb, switching the parting from left to right.

  Trivialities! They still added up, till I looked more like a half-brother of my eidolon than its identical twin.

  When I left the inn on Gostion Street I ducked down an alley. I donned my make-up and changed my hair. I wanted to test my disguise on the Physiognomist at the Grand Salon, though I didn’t really expect to fool him of all people.

  I also felt an impulse to take part in a roulette game; which of course the Physiognomist wouldn’t permit, on account of my magic. Yet maybe, maybe he mightn’t recogdize me?

  I wasn’t interested in gambling in the salle privee, pitting magic against stacked odds. How silly to request the management to open up and staff the upstairs chamber just so that I could stake a few crowns. The salle privee was like the royal box at the comic opera: permanently reserved out of deference, rarely if ever tenanted.

  Nor did I wish to use magic downstairs in the salle blanche. I wanted to gamble ordinarily like anyone else, pitting hunches against chance. I wanted to experience the sovereignty of chance. I would take the advice of Matyash.

  Arriving at the Grand Salon, I purchased an entry ticket from the commissariat and strolled through into the salle blanche. No Physiognomist intercepted me. The white hall wasn’t unduly crowded yet nowhere could I spy that cadaverous, dapper figure. Had he taken to disguising himself? I buttonholed a valet.

  “I was hoping to speak to the Physiognomist.” “Alas, young sir! He has taken to his bed, with a gripe. No doubt he’ll be well by tomorrow.

  Meanwhile the croupiers are eagle-eyed.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  Up till now I could pretend that I had every intention of playing roulette, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be allowed. All of a sudden haphazard circumstance virtually obliged me to do so. Already I felt that I was in the thrall of chance.

  I studied one particular roulette table for half an hour to brush up my memories of the betting combinations. Then I purchased ten crowns’ worth of chips; no one prevented me.

  I began to bet modestly-merely on red-and very modestly to win. Emboldened, I switched my bets to blocks of numbers. I alternated between the high passe numbers and the low manque ones. Enjoying further modest success, I now dared place simultaneous bets en pleine on a single number, in tandem with passe or manque. I chose the number twelve, since that number hadn’t come up in a long while. I lost, and doubled my bet. I lost again, and redoubled. Each time the wheel spun I averted my eyes and recited the alphabet backwards silently to stop my mind fixing on numbers, and my magic interfering with the ball.

  On the very next spin the ball tumbled into the twelve slot.

  “Douze, rouge, pair, et manque,” the croupier chanted brusquely in the gambling language. He raked a pile of chips my way: fifty-two and a half crowns’ worth, to be precise. If only I’d staked more money on that damn twelve-say four crowns, instead of one and a half-I could have cleaned up handsomely. Oh, a hundred and twenty crowns! I was beginning to appreciate the intoxications of chance.

  I tried to imagine a world governed by chance, instead of by definite directions of magic. In such a world one’s magical powers might vary capriciously. Their nature might alter, so that one moment you were pawn, next king, and after that nobody. You might find yourself acting arbitrarily, at random.

  The Prophetess was watching me: she who supposedly advised on betting systems and arranged discreet amours for gentlemen. That night her plump body was swathed in billows of white tulle; and she wore the usual domino mask. Lowering her opera-glasses, she ambled closer.

  “Normally,” she murmured, “gamblers don’t look away from the wheel as it spins. They try to will their number to come up.”

  “Since the result’s a matter of sheer luck, why waste one’s energy?”

  “Now you should bet on three, or thirty-three.”

  “Why?”

  “You won with twelve. The factors of twelve are one, two, and three. Twelve already includes the numbers one and two. That leaves three. Twice three is thirty-three. Don’t run away with the idea that roulette is all luck! Mysterious patterns operate.”

  Did she, I wondered, receive a percentage from the house for encouraging winners to persevere?

  Her silky muslins sought to envelop me in a cloud. She purred, “We don’t witness disorder here, do we? On the contrary, we observe order. We discover a rigid framework of rules, combinations, and conventions! The very shape of the game imposes a structure upon luck and chaos. Consequently there’s a tendency for subtle patterns to occur. Not obvious ones, but arcane ones. Why don’t you join me on the sofa after your next win?” She withdrew her white, perfumed, powdery cloud.

  I observed play for another few spins, then placed a three-crown chip on number thirty-three. I lost, though I recouped a crown on even numbers.

  I staked six crowns on thirty-three. And lost.

  It was then that I noticed my brother-in-law Boris Slad enter the salle blanche. He was accompanied by an extremely beautiful young woman: dusky, sultry, sexy. Boris hastened to the sofa and whispered urgently to the Prophetess. She frowned, shook her head. Boris redoubled his pleas. This time she relented. She signalled subtly to the supervisor. The supervisor, and a ruefully smiling Boris, converged at the grille of the “bank”. Boris scribbled on a chit of paper and received a stack of chips.

  “Trente-trois, noir, impair, etpasse,” announced my croupier.

  Thirty-three had come up! Distracted by seeing Boris, I’d neglected to place a bet for the last few spins. What a fool I was.

  The factors of thirty-three were eleven and three. Three was already included. That left eleven. What the hell was the system? I bet on eleven minus three: on eight.

  I lost, and doubled my stake.

  “Huit, noir, pair, et manque.”

  I’d won!

  Boris assisted his young lady to sit, further along. He slipped into the adjoining seat and stacked all his chips before her.

  Boris looked at me. I gave no sign of knowing him. Puzzlement crossed his face. Frowning, he occupied himself with his inamorata. Whenever she lost his money she giggled frivolously. Whenever she won (which wasn’t so often) she panted orgasmically-but in a trivial, phoney way. Boris ordered champagne from a valet.

  I pocketed my winnings, rose, and went to sit by my plump adviser on the sofa.

  “You prospered,” she said. “Were you using my system?”

  “Incorrectly, no doubt. Nevertheless, please accept a token of gratitude.” I pressed a twenty-crown chip into her palm, whence it slid swiftly into a purse.

  “You require more of me, I think?”

  “Yes. That fellow over there; name of B. Slad. Banker’s son.”

  She was ever so reluctant to breach a confidence. She even tried to hand back my gift. In the end we compromised: I made certain suggestions, and she either nodded or shrugged. Thus I discovered that the young lady was Boris’s mistress, whom the Prophetess had introduced to him, and that Boris had run up substantial debts. I returned to the roulette table, but didn’t sit.

  The young woman had soon used up all Boris’s chips, and demanded more. He demurred; she looked as peeved as a child forbidden a chocolate. They exchanged momentarily angry words. His anger was cut short by his own pleading infatuation. A kind of sensual pang, an animal thrill seemed to shoot through her nerves for no precise reason. She clutched Boris’s arm and stared into his eyes.

  I dumped the remainder of my chips in front of her.

  “A loan,” I said. “Till you recoup.”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed, darting me a glad glance. Only a glance; already I was of no further interest to her.

  Boris scowled furiously. He had been on the point of teasing her away from the table, away from the Salon.

  I said, “I want a word with you.”

  He followed me, leaving his lady friend intent on roulette.

  “I can’t repay you,” he growled. “You’d better understand that! And don’t imagine you can snatch her away from me so simply.”

  “I have no desire to, Brother-in-law.”

  “Brother. Why, you are Pedino! My, how you’ve changed. You must have been sick.”

  “And I imagine that Drina might feel sick if she could see this scene.”

  “Do you? Let me tell you this: when a man’s bed is cold he seeks ardour elsewhere.”

  I understood immediately. Here was another result of my own unwitting emotional oppression of my sister. I had thought I was free of some of that burden when Boris wed Drina. He married her on account of me; because I was a squire at the royal palace. She married him to escape from the need to be her own woman. But even so-surely Drina might have bloomed thereafter? Instead, apparently, I still lay between them in bed like a chilly bolster separating them even as I united them.

  Oh repetitions. How long could a victim continue to punish her victimizer? In Drina’s case the answer seemed to be: forever. Until the world ended.

  Was there some hidden blessing in the world coming to an end? Namely, that all wrong moves in life would then be eradicated, swept away so that a whole new existence could commence?

  A blessing for whom?

  “I see,” I said.

  “I shan’t give Maxime up,” Boris said. “You’d be a fool to sneak on me to Drina. You would only hurt her.”

  “I agree. If you want some heat, though, surely there are houses down Groody Lane? Your behaviour seems rash. How would your father regard these mounting debts?”

  “What debts?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Your friend Maxime gambles so improvidently. It’s plain to see.”

  “What does it matter if I pledge all my father’s assets?” Boris retorted. “Nothing that I do counts for anything. What you lot in the palace get up to may sweep us away at any time. Let me amuse myself!”

  “Is the banker’s son becoming a revolutionary? Does revolution take the shape of bankruptcy, courtesy of the Grand Salon?”

  “Revolutionaries? Huh! They’re right about one thing: this regime is coming to an end. I can afford to run up debts.”

  “What do you know about revolutionaries, Boris?”

  “You mentioned those, not I. You raised the subject.”

  True. I brooded.

  So we were coming to the end of an era of history? The long struggle between Bellogard and Chorny was entering a final phase? And all citizens were growing vaguely aware of this in their underminds. Thus agitators and malcontents emerged, weakening the kingdom in petty ways, sapping confidence further

  Was Sir Brant’s bold scheme actually a last desperate fling?

  Disaster might arrive with shocking suddenness; but premonitions preceded it.

  “I can assure you that I’m no threat to Their Majesties, Pedino! If I regard myself as anything, it is as a nihilist. I believe in nil; in nothing.”

  “That doesn’t sound very.”

  “Very what? Are you genuinely concerned with Drina’s welfare?” he challenged me. “Or are you just snooping for the palace? Seeing how the puppets dance?”

  I said nothing to this cruelly accurate cut. My conscience pricked me once again. I left him to his own self-destruction. And the destruction of my sister’s happiness. Perhaps the greater destruction-of everything that existed-would occur before Drina or my parents ever found out about Boris’s “nihilism”, and broke their hearts.

  A few days later a bomb exploded in Bellogard. The Spomenik Monument was badly damaged.

  Nobody was injured, and the target hardly seemed vital to the well-being of the kingdom, although it was in the centre of town. To my mind the fact that the monument wasn’t totally demolished hinted at amateurism rather than an act of Chorny sabotage. Whoever placed the infernal device had been too virginal at violence to position it to best effect, and had scampered off quickly.

  The explosion caused a disproportionate fit of jitters among the citizenry, culminating a couple of days later in an unprecedented demonstration in Terga Square.

  Crudely printed posters had appeared mysteriously all over town to herald this protest. I observed it at first hand. Most of the cafes in Terga Square had taken in their chairs and tables, and fastened their shutters. I stood outside one which had stayed open.