But the words only deepened the mystery:
Lakestared at the message. A masquerade, but to what purpose? He suppressed an impulse to laugh and instead walked over to the balcony and opened the windows, letting in fresh air. The sudden chaos of voices from below, the rough sounds of street traffi c — on foot, on horses, or in motored vehicles — gaveLake a comforting sense of community, as if he were debating the mystery of the message with the world.
From his balcony window he could see, on the right, a green-tinged slice of the valley, while straight ahead the spires and domes of the Religious Quarter burned white, gold, and silver. To the left, the solid red brick and orange marble of more apartment buildings.
Lakeliked the view. It reminded him that he had survived three years in a city notorious for devouring innocents whole. Not famous, true, but not dead or defeated either. Indeed, he took a perverse pleasure from enduring and withstanding the city’s countless petty cruelties, for he believed it made him stronger.
One day he might rule the city, for certainly it had not ruled him.
And now this — this letter that seemed to have come from the city itself. Surely it was the work of one of his artist friends — Kinsky, Raffe, or that ruinous old scoundrel, Sonter? A practical joke, perhaps even Merrimount’s doing? “Invitation To A Beheading.” What could it mean? He vaguely remembered a book, a fiction, with that title, written by Sirin, wasn’t it? Sirin, whose pseudonyms spread through the pages of literary journals like some mad yet strangely wonderful disease.
But perhaps it meant nothing at all and “they” intended that he waste so much time studying it that he would be late finishing his commissions.
Lakewalked back to his chair and sat down. Gold ink was expensive, and the envelope, on closer inspection, was flecked with gold as well, while the paper for the invitation itself had gold threads. The paper even smelled of orange peel cologne.Lake frowned, his gaze lingering on the shimmery architecture of the Religious Quarter. The cost of such an invi tation came to a sum equal to a week’s commissions.
Would his friends spend so much on a joke?
His frown deepened. Perhaps, merriest joke of all, the letter had been misdelivered, the sender having used the wrong address. Only, it
A pebble sailed through the open window and fell onto his lap. He started, then smiled and rose, the pebble falling to the floor. At the window, he looked down. Raffe stared up at him from the street: daring Raffe in her sarcastic red-and-green jacket.
“Good shot,” he called down. He studied her face for any hint of complicity in a plot, found no mischief there, realized it meant nothing.
“We’re headed for the Calf for the evening,” Raffe shouted up at him. “Are you coming?”
Lakenodded. “Go on ahead. I’ll be there soon.”
Raffe smiled, waved, and continued on down the street.
Lake retreated into his room, put the letter back in its envelope, stuffed it all into an inner pocket, and retired to the bathroom down the hall, the better to freshen up for the night’s festivities. As he washed his face and looked into the moss-tinged mirror, he considered whether he should re main mum or share the invitation. He had still not decided when he walked out onto the street and into the harsh light of late afternoon.
By the time he reached the Cafe of the Ruby-Throated Calf,Lake found that his fellow artists had, aided by large quantities of alcohol, adopted a cavalier attitude toward the War of the Reds and the Greens. As a gang of Reds ran by, dressed in their patchwork crimson robes, his friends rose together, produced their red flags and cheered as boisterously as if at some sporting event.Lake had just taken a seat, generally ignored in the hub bub, when a gang of Greens trotted by in pursuit, and once again his friends rose, green flags in hand this time, and let out a roar of approval.
Lakesmiled, Raffe giving him a quick elbow to the ribs before she turned back to her conversation, and he let the smell of coffee and chocolate work its magic. His leg ached, as it did sometimes when he was under stress, but otherwise, he had no complaints. The weather had remained pleasant, neither too warm nor too cold, and a breeze ruffled the branches of the potted zindel trees with their jade leaves. The trees formed minia ture forests around groups of tables, effectively blocking out rival conversations without blocking the street from view. Artists lounged in their iron latticework chairs or slouched over the black-framed round glass tables while imbibing a succession of exotic drinks and coffees. The night lanterns had just been turned on and the glow lent a cozy warmth to their own group, cocooned as they were by the foliage and the soothing murmur of conversations.
The four sitting withLake he counted as his closest friends: Raffe, Sonter, Kinsky, and Merrimount. The rest had become as interchange able as the bricks of Hoegbotton & Sons’ many trading outposts, and about as interesting. At the moment, X, Y, and Z claimed the outer tables like petty island tyrants, their faces peering pale and glinty-eyed in atLake ’s group, one ear to the inner conversation while at the same time trying to maintain an uneasy autonomy.
Merrimount, a handsome man with long, dark lashes and wide blue eyes, combined elements of painting and performance art in his work, his life itself a kind of performance art. Merrimount was Lake’s on-again, off-again lover, andLake shot him a raffish grin to let him know that, surely, they would be on-again soon? Merrimount ignored him. Last time they had seen each other,Lake had made Merri cry.
“You want too much,” Merri had said. “No one can give you that much love, not and still be human. Or sane.” Raffe had told Lake to stay away from Merri but, painful as it was to admit,Lake knew Raffe meant
Raffe, who sat next to Merrimount — a buffer between him andLake — was a tall woman with long black hair and dark, expressive eyebrows that lent a needed intensity to her light green eyes. Raffe andLake had become friends the day he arrived in Ambergris. She had found him onAlbumuth Boulevard, watching the crowds, an overwhelmed, almost defeated, look on his face. Raffe had let him stay with her for the three months it had taken him to find his city legs. She painted huge, swirling, passionate city scapes in which the people all seemed caught in mid-step of some intricate and unbearably graceful dance. They sold well, and not just to tourists.
Lakesaid to Raffe, “Do you think it wise to be so… careless?”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Martin?” Raffe had a deep, distinctly feminine voice that he never tired of hearing.
The strong, gravely tones of Michael Kinsky, sitting on the other side of Merrimount, rumbled throughLake ’s answer: “He means, aren’t we afraid of the donkey asses known as the Reds and the monkey butts known as the Greens.”
Kinsky had a wiry frame and a sparse red beard. He made mosaics from discarded bits of stone, jewelry, and other gimcracks discovered on the city’s streets. Kinsky had been well-liked by Voss Bender andLake imagined the composer’s death had dealt Kinsky’s career a serious blow — although, as always, Kinsky’s laconic demeanor appeared unruffled by catastrophe.
“We’re not afraid of anything,” Raffe said, raising her chin and putting her hands on her sides in mock bravado.
Edward Sonter, to Kinsky’s right andLake ’s immediate left, giggled. He had a horrible tendency to produce a high-pitched squeal of amuse ment, in total contrast to the sensuality of his art. Sonter made abstract pottery and sculptures, vaguely obscene in nature. His gangly frame and his face, in which the eyes floated unsteadily, could often be seen in the Religious Quarter, where his work enjoyed unusually brisk sales.
As if Sonter’s giggle had been a signal, they began to talk careers, gauge the day’s fortunes and misfortunes.
