The clavichord moved straight from Bach's Goldberg Variations into a Galuppi gavotte, the actors and dancers who had lounged around before, smoking, talking contracts, became graceful, dedicated beings intent only on the mindless elegance of their dance. A harlequin, pierrot, and columbine threaded their movements in a perfectly timed chase, and in the long room beyond the duel began. As they walked toward it figures in framed portraits got out and changed frames, altering the grouping of Veronese and Titian, turning elegance to obscenity, passion to eccentricity.
'After midnight they're all going to be Titian's
'Even Trottia?'
'Of course. It was his idea.'
Craig moved on toward the duel, past the pool where a chimpanzee poled a miniature gondola and a dog on its hind legs was dressed as a doge. Near by were a female Shylock and a male Portia, squabbling over the flesh of a Bassanio who seemed neither.
After that, the swordsmen were a relief. They fought as they should have done, in their stockinged feet, the florid elegance of their knee breeches and frilled shirts a baroque frame for the cold beauty of the weapons they held—and they fought with a neat and deadly precision at first, until Naxos rumbled: 'I paid these boys for fencing, not to work out chess problems.'
At once they began to ham it up, and the duel became an EitoIFlynn movie, with much leaping backward onto chairs, tables overturned, whistling sword blades severing candles.
'That's more like it,' said Naxos, and moved in closer, taking Philippa with him.
The duelist in the blue breeches parried a thrust in tierce, and his blade shot out in riposte. His opponent parried, the sword blades sang, blue breeches' point swerved toward Flip. Craig pushed her away, a flat-handed shove that moved her into Naxos's arms, and cursed as a needle point scored icy pain across his forearm, splitting the sleeve of his shirt to show a fine trickle of blood.
'You clumsy bloody fool,' said Naxos, and moved in on blue breeches, but Flip held on to him and yelled: 'No, Harry. No!' and somehow Craig was between them and blue breeches' sword was in his hand and he looked at the naked, deadly point, the needle-fine score of blood on his arm.
'I thought you had buttons on these things,' said Craig, and blue breeches turned pale as his shirt, stammered, scrabbled on the floor, and came up with a flat metal disk, then swore it should never have happened.
'But it did,' said Craig. 'Don't fight any more. I haven't got another shirt.'
Flip said: 'I'd better fix the arm,' and Naxos nodded, massively weary now, and sat heavily down to watch Trottia play a flute while four dwarfs in court dress danced.
'Thanks, John,' he said. 'I'm grateful.' His eyes searched for a sign behind Craig's mask. 'Some party, huh?'
'The greatest,' said Craig, and Naxos leaned back, but his eyes were on Trottia and he was not happy.
Flip led Craig down the corridor, and as they passed the pictures, she said in her brightest duchess voice: 'Gracious, it's after midnight. Aren't they scrumptious?' And Craig, grateful for his mask, saw Venus after rosy Venus, pink-tipped white, every one, except for the Negress in the middle, and each one waved to him as she passed. Flip swayed in front of him, hips and breasts showing a rhythmic compulsion, and the graceful dancers stepped aside as his blood dripped on the rosy marble floor.
He trudged on down the fine, hating Flip and Naxos, Trottia, the naked women, even himself, then acknowledged his embarrassment, turned at the end of the room, and stared, cold-gray eyes demanding a response, until the dancers looked away and the Venuses lay still. He thought then that he was fighting the whole party, all the wealth and power of Europe. But that meant he was fighting Naxos too. The idea was stupid. He followed Flip to her room, and waited while she bathed his arm, cleaned off the blood, and peeled a Band-Aid on to the fine red scar.
'It might have been me,' said Flip. Craig nodded. 'I wish it had been.'
'Your old man's playing king tonight,' Craig said. 'That makes you a queen. Queens can't die just to please themselves.'
She pressed the Band-Aid down.
'It was an accident, wasn't it?' she asked.
'Don't you know?' Craig asked. 'You were there.'
'Craig, look at me, please,' she said.
'The steward—Nikki—where is he?' Craig shook his
head.
'Craig, please. Oh darling, please.'
She was in his arms all ice and fire, her tongue a darting torment to his mouth, her body restless and yielding at once, her hands an eager stimulus until he pushed her away, held her by the elbows, and shook her till her head flopped.
'Are you crazy?' he said at last, and let her go. She fell on to a long, black sofa, a shoulder strap slipping to reveal a round and tender breast, and she was the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world.
'Cover yourself up,' he said harshly. 'Suppose the monkey came in?' Her hand went mechanically to the golden strap, and her breast was gold again.
'Crazy?' said Fhp. 'Did you say crazy? Of course I'm crazy. No heroin and no strong man to cling to.'
'Naxos,' said Craig. 'Isn't he strong enough?'
She looked at him, tried to speak, and could not. She began to shake again. 'Get out,' she said at last. 'Just get out.'
He went at once. Naxos sat where he had left him, looking down the gallery, seeing nothing. Above him was a great golden dome, but a section of it was now dark, night dark, and studded with stars. Craig cursed, and ran for the stairs that led to the roof.
The roof garden was dark and empty. Bar, tables, dance floor, aU deserted, and that segment of dome gleamed white from the lamps beneath. Craig moved warily toward it, stooped to feel the runners on which it had been pulled back, then froze, sensing movement to his right. He looked round, and the other houri stood facing him, cloudy as a dream in the darkness.
'Pia,' said Craig. 'What the hell—?'
Then the houri's eyes narrowed, her mouth opened to yell, and Craig turned, far too late, as the night sky fell on him and he dived deep into its blackness where there were no stars.
* Chapter 13 «
Grierson was worried about Craig. He'd been away too long, and so had Andrews, whom he'd sent to follow the giant headsman. He thought perhaps he'd better go upstairs, but on the way the three bravos jostled him, blocking his path, and two pretty girls grabbed his hands, whirling him into a long dancing chain of maskers as balloons drifted from the c«iling like the atoms of a rainbow and people grabbed and pushed to burst their prettiness. Grierson couldn't get to the stairs and found himself by the room Craig said they could use. He thought he'd better check on Nikki.
He went in, and it was very quiet, and Nikki would never again know anything but quiet. He lay on his back, in cheap and grubby underwear, an elaborate dagger, the kind called a poniard, deep in his chest. The dagger looked familiar. Its shaft was of silver, inlaid with red Venetian glass. The poniard belonged on his right thigh, in a soft leather sheath, but the sheath was empty. Grierson moved closer to Nikki, and the door opened behind him, the two pretty girls looked at the body and began to scream.
He should have moved then, but there was no point. The only way out led to the ballroom, and that was already blocked by people pushing in to enjoy the screaming. Grierson simply stood there, and said:
'Who is this man?' he asked.
'My name's Grierson,' Grierson said. 'Craig must have told you I was coming here.' 'Craig?'
