Burning Bright

“If that doesn’t take all the awards,” Roscha began, and her voice trailed off into nothing.

Gelsomina nodded, but her expression was less certain. “Everything for puppetry, certainly.”

The barge that followed Soresin’s dancing satyr carried another female puppet, this one tall and very slim, dressed in a short, one-shouldered tunic and carrying a spear nearly as tall as the puppet itself. Light flared from the fingers of her free hand; she touched the spear’s point, and fire ran up and down the shaft. It was impressive, but after the dancing satyr anything would have been an anticlimax.

The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood—“Imbriac,” Gelsomina said, “one of the Five Points Families”—that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of one of the Game’s grand villains, the Baron’s henchman Ettanin Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face. The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man’s face without deformity; the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur, approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character.

“That,” Gelsomina said, “was Chrestil-Brisch.”

“That takes guts,” Roscha said. “Considering that’s what most people think of them anyway.”

Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. “They’ve got a reputation for being, well, chancy. You’re never really sure where you stand with them—or so they say.”

Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless sky. There were only three more—a female shape with a fan, from a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best, neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles. It barely moved—“too fragile to move much,” Gelsomina said—but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to release the mooring.

They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route, up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of Shadows. The streets were quieter here—most people were still on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks—and Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security drone sail past overhead.

“I appreciate your help,” Gelsomina said. “It’s nice to see the parade from a decent viewpoint.” She had pushed the Viverina’s mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other.

“Thank you,” Lioe said. “I didn’t—I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was just incredible.”

Gelsomina smiled. “And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you want Cor-Clar?”

“Yes, and thank you,” Roscha answered, and reached with unerring speed for the rich brown-skinned mask.

“And you, Na Lioe?” Gelsomina asked.

Lioe shook her head. “I can’t decide. They’re all gorgeous, and I don’t know who I want to be.”

“Well, you’re not leaving empty-handed,” Gelsomina declared. “We had a bargain.” She turned slowly, leaning on the Viverina’s stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then, and reached out with her staff. “Take that one.”

“If you’re sure, Na Gelsomina,” Lioe began, and the woman nodded.

“Take it. I insist.”

“Thank you,” Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace, roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single six-millimeter stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked almost transparent in the light. “Thanks,” she said again, and let Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to see Gelsomina—the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into place and staff in hand—standing beside the row of masks that looked almost alive in the amber light.

“We’ve got some time,” Roscha said. “Do you want to stop for coffee, or something?”