curly black hair, and a long, bony face dominated by a beak of a nose and a big, toothy grin. His occasional sudden gestures were surprisingly graceful. There was a certain otherworldly, almost fey quality to him, like a woodland creature, only superficially civilised.
Tarot Jones looked wildly out of place in the Cathedral setting, with his patchwork outfit and almost feral presence, but then, I would have been hard-pressed to name anywhere the Tatterdemalion would have seemed at home that didn’t involve a whole lot of trees. I put forward a hand for him to shake, but he declined, studying me thoughtfully.
“I am the Totem of the Travelling Tribes,” he said finally. “Their protector and spiritual leader. I stand between them and the violence of the town people. I sold my soul, repeatedly, to gain the power I needed to look after my people. So I could hide them away in isolated natural settings, far from anywhere civilised. Where no one could find or reach them to punish them for being different. And for enough power to defend them from any threat. You probably don’t remember the bad old days, when Thatcher sent her stormtroopers against us. The blood, and the horror . . . I swore then: Never again.”
“But to sell your soul . . . ,” I said.
“Over and over again,” said Tarot Jones, suddenly grinning broadly. “What’s a soul or two between friends, eh? I knew what I was doing. I did it of my own free will. It is the old way, after all. The King sacrifices himself; for the good of the Tribe. But it seems none of the power I bought so dearly is enough to get me out of here. Out of this awful, unnatural place. I have to get home, to look after my people! They need me!” He glared at Walker. “Why did your Powers choose me?”
“They don’t tell me things like that,” said Walker. “But I have heard it suggested that just possibly, the players of the Game choose themselves. Because they’re so desperate to avoid the fate awaiting them.”
Tarot Jones looked at Walker for a long moment, and then looked away.
Next we were introduced to Chandarru, Lord of the Abyss and Seeker After Truth. Chandarru made a point of adding these titles themselves, stressing the capital letters. He bowed to me, rather than taking my hand. He was a robust, comfortably padded Oriental gentleman, wearing a smart formal tuxedo, with top hat and swirling opera cloak. He also had the traditional long moustaches, painted-on devilish eyebrows, and a tarred pigtail. When he spoke, it was in considered formal phrases, as though English wasn’t necessarily his first language. He gave the impression of a man holding everything within, giving nothing away.
“I used to be big on the stage,” he said. “One of the last authentic Oriental conjurers to tread the boards. London, Paris, New York. Such days! But as I grew older I decided I’d had enough of tricks, and went in search of the real thing. And I was never the same after that. I have made many deals in my time; and many promises, to Powers and Principalities, in return for secrets. And power, of course, because once you have secrets, other people want to take them from you. I never really believed I’d have to pay the many debts I amassed, because I was always careful to play my various debtors against each other. But eventually I ran out of tricks. I was actually on the run when I was contacted.”
“So you weren’t kidnapped?” I said.
He gave me a quick, meaningless smile. “No. I was offered a chance to earn my salvation, through participation in the Big Game. And I jumped at the chance.”
I gave him a meaningless smile of my own. With a sudden insight, I realised that Chandarru was a performer. What he was showing us was just a role he played. No more him than the man he was onstage. He hadn’t told us a single real thing about himself.
The Sin Eater was a large black American with a big round face, close-cropped white hair, and a gaze so direct and unblinking it was a challenge to meet it. He wore the blindingly white suit of a Southern preacher, complete with a dog collar, and held himself as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. And was more than ready to give as good as he got. He refused to shake my