When the dance ended, they stood next to Naxos and the other golden dream girl. Naxos said at once, "Good for you, John. Flip's too much on her own."
Craig said: "My pleasure. Hello, Pia."
The houri nodded, her eyes lit in a smile. She seemed
shyer than Craig would have imagined, more conscious of her body. Craig moved towards her but Naxos's arms came round her smooth, unblemished shoulders, turned her away from him and drew her back into the dance. They danced awkwardly together, but Naxos was awkward as a charging rhino is awkward, and this was the effect of his dancing.
"She must have gone off you," Flip said. "I haven't. I may need you yet."
"How did you get your skin so brown?" Craig asked. "Suntan oil?"
The eyes behind the mask went wary.
"Body makeup," she said. "The sort strippers use. I used to be a stripper once. Did you know that?"
"Yes," said Craig.
"And a whore, and a drug addict." "And an actress," Craig said.
T made two pictures and seven cowboy films for TV. The cowboy always got the horse."
'That's a new twist," Craig said. "But I heard you were kind to your friends."
"It got to be a habit."
"I mean sincere, generous," Craig said. "Compassionate. So why hand out suntan lotion?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fhp said. "Let's go look at the happenings."
He shrugged and walked -towards the golden staircase. At once, Naxos steered the other houri towards them, butting his way through the dancers. By the time they reached the crowd at the foot of the stairs, Naxos and his girl were only a couple of yards behind them. The crowd opened to them, then suddenly held. The three masked bravos stood in front of them. Craig let Flip's arm go, and continued to walk, slow, unhurried. At the last possible moment, the middle bravo yielded. Craig stopped, looked first left then right, and the three fell back farther. Craig moved on as Fhp took his arm again. At the top of the stairs he waited until Naxos joined them. Pia had left him. The three pretty killers played round her like piranha fish, urging her to where the massive headman waited. A gallant in crimson velvet and a lieutenant in the uniform of the Navy of George III moved after her. Craig went to look at the happenings.
When Naxos approached, things happened all right.
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 Venus with a Dog," said Flip.
"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."
She began to shake.
"Craig, look at me, please," she said. "1 need a fix. I've , got to have one," and she held out a fine-boned, shapely hand, and as he watched it trembled to an ugly desperate claw.
"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."