Behind them, Curvis and the twins were busy being amusing. Their hands darted and turned, hiding and disclosing, their teeth flashing, they made jokes, people laughed, though warily. By the time the two groups had worked their way around half the tables, many of the High Houm were calling them by name and jesting with them, as were the Murrey folk.
The mood of enjoyment did not last long. From some distance outside came a wavering howl that was taken up by the chimi-hounds at the gates and built into a screaming wail. The assembled diners fell silent in one breath, and into that anxious quiet the clamor of a monstrous drum toppled like an avalanche of stones. Reverberations echoed and died slowly as dust fell from the rafters in spiraling clouds. It was the end of any jollity. The Houm pressed in upon their tables, faces blank, voices stilled, faceless as flowers in a garden. The sideshow members strolled casually back to the corner where Jory and Asner awaited them, managing to get settled into anonymity just as Houdum-Bah’s entourage came through the gates.
A dozen drummers first, thundering on balks of hollowed timber, each carried by four men. Armed men second, big men all, laden with weapons, eyes white all the way around, like panicked animals, sleeveless shirts open to the navel, arms and chests tattooed in patterns of red and violet and black, each finger a different color, those fingers weaving an intricate pattern of signs as the hounds spoke to one another in their secret hand language.
The translator in Danivon’s bonnet saw the signs and whispered into his ear what the fingers said. “Who put the damned table up there. Houdum-Bah’s table? Of course, Houdum-Bah’s table! Whaddoyoumean, who?” Then more quick signals. “Are they here? There they are. Well, well, won’t they be surprised!”
Danivon, intercepting hostile or amused glances, believed this last interchange referred to the members of the sideshow, and his wariness deepened.
Houdum-Bah himself seemed to find nothing suspicious about the high table. He waved his drummers into a line at the foot of the platform as he heaved his huge bulk upon it and sprawled into the central chair. Murrey ran at once with meat, with drink, with bread. Half a dozen of Houdum-Bah’s men mounted the platform and seated themselves on either side of him while Houm got up from the nearest tables on the floor and moved slowly away as the remaining members of the retinue took their places. Within moments, all the entourage was seated and the displaced Houm were edging toward the gates, smiling vacantly as they went, attracting as little notice as possible, leaking through the open gates in twos and threes, vanishing without a word.
Tentatively, the orchestra began to tootle and bang once more, very softly.
“What now?” asked Bertran. “Back to the tables?”
“Not yet,” said Jory. “Let them start eating. Then start where you left off. Stay away from the boss chief’s men unless they ask you to come over.” She sounded very crisp, very young. Danivon peered at her curiously, and she returned the look, winking at him. “I’ve been in similar situations before,” she said. “It’s important to look unruffled. Show fear, and they’ll be on you in an instant.”
“Enforcers know that,” said Fringe stiffly. “We’re taught that.”
“Well, of course you are, dear,” Jory murmured. “Of course you are.”
More fortunes, more coins from behind ears, more scarves from unlikely places, more transport of pocket munks from one place to another. Now, however, the Houm were not entertained, though they very quietly pretended to be, clearly eager to do nothing or say nothing that might attract the attention of Houdum-Bah or his men. Meaningless smiles. Meaningless nods. Words spoken too quietly to be heard. The orchestra went on tootling, plucking, drumming, but even that sound was subdued, attracting little notice.
“Here, boy,” called one of the entourage to Danivon. “Over here.”
Danivon bridled.
“Hush,” hissed Fringe. “Go, bow, be a sideshow, Danivon.”
“I wan’ my des-tin-ee,” demanded a tattooed giant, a man almost as big as Curvis. “Bring the girlie to tell my for-toon.”
“She cannot tell fortunes,” Danivon intoned. “But the Destiny Machine may, if it chooses. She does not control it. It does as it will.”
Fringe bowed, chanted, lifted her hands, then stood away from the machine, pointing at the levers, saying, “The machine is in your hands. Pick what levers you will.”
A bright orange finger flicked at the levers, two, three. The machine began to whir. Fringe went on chanting, standing well away. She wanted no allegations of interference. At last the capsules fell into the bin, and she gestured for the man to pick them up.
“Read it,” he cried, his eyes fast upon her face. “You read it.”
She picked them up at arm’s length and ostentatiously laid them upon the table so they could be seen. Perhaps this animal couldn’t read, but someone at the table probably did.
“Great … Dragon … Comes,” she read to her own amazement.
“Wha’s that mean?” the man asked between dirty teeth.
She bowed, spreading her arms wide. “I do not know, sir. Only the machine knows, and it will not tell me. Something or someone like a dragon approaches, so I would say.”
“Bring her here!” trumpeted a voice. Houdum-Bah himself, beckoning to Fringe. “Here, come give me my destiny, woman! Be sure it is a good one.”
Danivon helped her onto the platform and leapt up behind her. Together they moved the machine close to Houdum-Bah. Again Fringe chanted and stood aside.
The man leaned forward, finicky, picking this lever and that. The machine began, lights moving, bells sounding. Silence fell in the great room. There was only the sound of the bells and the tap of the capsules that fell, one, two, three, four.
He read them himself. “Comes … Now … Great … Dragon …”
Fringe could not keep the astonishment from her face. “Wha’?” the boss chief cried, seizing her by the shoulder. “Wha’?”
“It doesn’t … it
