The Bones of Ruin

by Sarah Raughley

  Iris hid behind a wall of white-and-dark-green brick. Then, sucking in a breath, she peeked around the corner.

  The platform was a cold gray strip stretching into a dark domed tunnel. A train had already disappeared into it in a whirl of steam whistles. On the gray strip, two groups stood close to a wooden bench not far from Iris. On one side: three men in brown bowler hats and jackets. And with their back to the train tracks, another group of men flanked a beautiful brown woman.

  The woman had light brown skin with long black hair flowing loose down to her waist. Her navy-blue sari hugged her body tightly, sucked in at the waist by a black skeleton-like corset worn on the outside. Upon her head dangled bronze and silver headpieces, shaped like little suns chained together around her small skull. The silver nose ring piercing her right nostril looked like a cluster of gears to match those dangling from her ears. She returned the upset stares of the men in front of her with a confident puff of smoke from her long golden pipe, her heavy-lidded eyes watching them like a mocking cat.

  “Uma Malakar,” she introduced herself. “Head of Bosch Guns and Ammunitions’ Weapons Development Team. Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.”

  “This is absurd!” One man swiped away the smoke she’d breathed into his face. “Bosch’s man is supposed to be… a man. A genius weapons maker. An inventor. And you’re telling me this—” He could barely finish his words.

  “Watch what you say,” cried one of the men behind Uma. The rest of her followers nodded fervently until they stopped on the cue that was Uma’s black-gloved hand in the air.

  “Mr. Brightly, was it?” The woman had an English accent as proper as theirs, but hers was a barrel more confident. “You shouldn’t be so hostile, Mr. Brightly. We’ve come to share our research on an agreement Mr. Bosch made with your team. If you’re unhappy with what you see”—she motioned down her own body—“then you’re certainly free to explain to the Crown why the weapons we’ve been developing on their behalf will soon go to another willing customer. And trust me, there are always willing customers.”

  Bosch was making weapons for the Crown? Did the Committee know? Mr. Brightly’s chestnut mustache quivered from an angry exhale through his nose.

  “You’ve received the wares we sent seven days ago, I’m assuming?” Uma continued.

  “Yes,” Brightly answered stiffly.

  “And I’m also assuming that although your people have been studying it meticulously, you still have no idea how the weapon works.” She smoked her pipe.

  Mr. Brightly looked offended by the mere fact that a woman, especially one with her skin color, dared to speak down to him. But he couldn’t refute her. Brightly’s eyes lowered to the brown pouch strapped to her side. “John Temple’s research—his journal. You have it with you…”

  John Temple’s journal? How did she manage to get ahold of it?

  But the moment he reached for it, guns were in the air. Uma hadn’t moved, of course. Her men acted fast, ready to kill on her word as if they’d been baptized as her willing disciples.

  “It’s not polite to touch a woman’s body without permission.” The look in Uma’s eyes made it clear she knew as well as he did that she could order his death with a word, and he would be gone in the blink of an eye. As Brightly withdrew his hand, Uma’s men withdrew their guns.

  John Temple’s journal. Iris pressed her back against the wall. Was that what she had been sensing rather than the man himself? Adam thought it was in his father’s possession. The Committee ordered the man’s assassination because they feared he’d eventually give it to one of their enemies. Apparently those fears weren’t so unfounded. Unless… Did Temple really give away such a precious possession or was it taken from him?

  “Temple’s work still needs to be fully decoded,” Uma said. “But what I’ve discovered so far will help us learn more about the properties of the white crystal—and how to manipulate it.”

  The white crystal. Iris covered her mouth with her hands. John Temple’s secrets.

  “Either way, I’d like you to take me to your base of research and show me the progress you’ve made. I’m intrigued to see what you’ve done after decades of research.”

  “We haven’t found the Moon Skeleton yet,” said Brightly.

  “Not surprised.” Uma smirked as Iris frantically tried to commit their words to memory. “According to Bosch, John Temple had it when he supposedly died.”

  “Supposedly?”

  The conversation abruptly ended. A hush fell over the group. Iris narrowed her eyes, confused, wondering what happened, until she realized she could hear a wheezing sound coming from her open lips—her own breathing.

  “My,” said Uma. “I do think we’re being spied on.”

  Panic began to set in and Iris clumsily moved her feet toward the staircase, only to trip ungracefully and crash to the brick floor. But this was okay. This could still work. As the frenzied footsteps approached her, Iris quickly lowered the shawl over her face.

  “Please,” Iris said once the men were upon her, surrounding her at the foot of the staircase. “I… I b-beggar.” She spoke in broken English, hoping they’d believe she couldn’t quite understand them. She held out her cupped hands, bending over in supplication. “Spare please.”

  When she looked up, she saw Uma looming above her through her white shawl. Perhaps it was an odd turn of fate, but the woman’s deep brown eyes softened at the sight of her. Gone was the mischievous grin, replaced now by an inscrutable expression.

  “How much do you think she heard?” asked one of Uma’s men.

  “Miss Malakar, shall we get rid of her? She’s only a beggar. Doesn’t look like she even knows English. Still, it is better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?”

  Uma hesitated.

  “What’s wrong, Malakar?” Brightly laughed. “She’s just a colored girl squatting in a dirty corner of the train station. Or are you unwilling to kill someone like yourself?”

  At that, Uma’s shoulders relaxed and lowered, her chin rising in defiance. “There is no one like me, Mr. Brightly,” she said coldly, and raised her hand.

  On cue, one of Uma’s disciples aimed his gun at her.

  “Wait.”

  Iris was prepared for a bullet in the head. Then she’d escape once they were gone. That was her plan. What she received instead was Uma’s mercy.

  “This girl is just a beggar,” Uma said. “Leave her be.”

  Brightly smirked. “You truly are soft toward your kind, aren’t you—?”

  A gunshot rang, loud and violent, shaking Iris’s eardrums. This time it was from the pistol Uma had taken from inside her sari. Brightly’s hat clattered to the ground with a brand-new hole smoking through the brim.

  “I’m an impatient woman, Mr. Brightly,” said Uma, handing the gun off to one of her men before taking another puff from her pipe. “You’d do well to keep your mouth shut from this point forward. Come.”

  Uma spared Iris one last piteous glance before she flicked her head. Her disciples followed her dutifully out of the train station. A lucky break, maybe. But if Uma was an employee of an Enlightener, Iris would have to tread more carefully from now on.

  She waited a few more moments before escaping the empty train station.

  * * *

  The white crystal, initially discovered in the mining site in the Oil Rivers Protectorate. Stolen by the Dahomey and taken over by the Crown, each for their own experiments.

  The Crystal Palace: the Crown’s research base.

  The Moon Skeleton: out there somewhere in John Temple’s possession.

  And Iris. The Fanciful Freaks. Iris thought of them battling in this tournament, none of them knowing exactly where they’d come from or why they existed. It felt like everyone else had more information than they did about their own selves.

  After what felt like hours of walking and thinking, she found herself at Wilton’s Music Hall. The Fanciful Freaks of London. Their lives turned into a show. Their misery
entertainment for others. She stared at the poster for some time before entering. She found Fool once again sitting in the back row, his head against his seat. Resting.

  Iris scoffed. “For all the work you do for them, they don’t let you sleep at the club?”

  “The theater has always been a comfort to me, dear Iris.”

  Fool turned his head to the side, and the sight of his harlequin mask suddenly sparked a sense of panic. She looked up to the rafters. Empty. There was only one Fool here today.

  “Tell me.” She hovered above him, body still cold from her time outside. “What do you get out of this tournament? Do you like being the Committee’s dog? Adam’s little messenger?”

  “Lord Temple understands me,” said Fool, tilting his head too far for a normal man. “And the Committee feeds me.” At this he giggled.

  “They feed you?” Iris cocked her head to the side. “Feed you what?”

  She couldn’t tell whether Fool was staring at her or not, not with that blasted mask covering his face. He was an enigma she wanted nothing to do with.

  “Do you know what the final round will be, my rabbit? Why you were given two rounds preceding it?” he asked, and when she couldn’t answer, he laughed. “One final contest between the remaining teams. A fight to the death.”

  Iris gaped at him in horror.

  “In front of the good gentlemen of Club Uriel. This battle will take place on the lowest floor of the building: a secret basement your Patrons have taken to calling Cerberus.”

  Iris flinched at the name. Cerberus: Uriel’s underworld.

  “Those who won the first round by receiving two pairs of keys and those who won the second round by receiving at least one card—they will be the ones to fight each other. The opening act of the show will be the slaughter of those remaining who did not win either round.”

  Names and faces flashed through Iris’s mind in a frenzy as she thought of who was doomed to die before the third round even began.

  Rin. Iris’s whole body seized. She didn’t get a card in the second round. Iris was the one who’d taken her key in the first round. She grasped her blouse over her heart, stumbling back. What kind of nonsense was this? What kind of…

  “From this point forward, only one team of Fanciful Freaks will survive. The team that does will win the tournament. And so you see, Iris? I am well fed.” Fool turned his head sharply to the other side. “With merriment!”

  Iris had had enough. She’d had enough of the Committee and their secrets. She’d had enough of Club Uriel watching their pain. She’d had enough of killing and death. She grabbed Fool by his white collar, dragged him out of his seat, and tackled him to the ground.

  Fool’s top hat fell from his head, revealing a small patch of brown hair clinging to his scalp. She glared at his false face.

  “There won’t be a fight to the death,” Iris hissed, pinning his arms to the ground. “Not if I can help it.” She could feel his blood pumping fast in his veins. “You can let your masters know if you want; it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Once you agreed to enter this tournament, you entered a pact of sorts,” said Fool. “Those who try to escape the final round will meet with certain death.”

  He flicked his sleeve. Out came one of the tarot cards.

  “Judgment,” whispered Fool as Iris stared at its surface: the naked men, women, and children reaching out in desperation from their graves toward an archangel whose apocalyptic trumpet blew nonetheless. “The sound that blows in the final days. How very suitable.”

  Iris wouldn’t let it come to that. She swore upon her immortal bones.

  Enough was enough.

  PART THREE Enlightenment

  The forces which are working out the great scheme of perfect happiness, taking no account of incidental suffering, exterminate such sections of mankind as stand in their way, with the same sternness that they exterminate beasts of prey and herds of useless ruminants.

  —HERBERT SPENCER, Social Statics

  She had been disassembled into her relevant parts. She was “fetishized”—turned into an object. This substitution of a part for the whole, of a thing—an object, an organ, a portion of the body—for a subject…

  —STUART HALL, Representation

  40

  SHE SPREAD THE WORD SECRETLY within the walls of Club Uriel: “Meet me at Wilton’s. Midnight. Champions only. This is a truce. I have what this tournament can’t give you.” To stop the madness of the Tournament of Freaks before they all ended up dead. That was her goal.

  Everyone had agreed to participate in the tournament knowing that their lives would be on the line. Everyone wanted their winnings. In that case, Iris would have to offer them something she hoped would be far more tantalizing: the truth.

  It was a gamble she prayed would pay off.

  When it came to a truce, not everyone was interested. Rin strode through the doors of Wilton’s in her beaded blouse and sunlit skirt, her sword in her hands. Iris bit her lip, relieved to see her. This affected the young warrior too, after all. But Bately didn’t follow. Max, who sat on the arm of a chair, didn’t look relieved or disappointed.

  Hawkins’s team came several minutes later. After what she’d seen and heard in the train station last night, Iris would need to know everything they did about their Patron, Bosch.

  Finally, in walked Henry, Mary, and a woman she assumed was Lucille. She had on the unremarkable face of a middle-aged woman you could find anywhere on the streets of London, her black hair parted down the middle and tied to the bottom of her neck in a bun. That frumpy black dress and white apron were definitely not Lucille’s style. Then again, even Rin had her sword. Even during this parley, everyone was on guard.

  In the middle of the theater, everyone found a place to sit or stand. The tension between them was palpable, but it was Henry’s team that was largely on the outs. They stayed closer to the stage while Rin had her back to the exit. Ten past midnight.

  “Belgium’s boars are a no-show, then,” said Max from his chair. “Right. So we can cross cannibalism off tonight’s event.”

  His confirmation gave everyone permission to relax. One by one, they began speaking.

  Hawkins hung his head in relief, releasing an audible sigh. “Good to know.”

  “You’ve faced them before?” Though Henry’s arms were crossed confidently over his chest, the trauma of their last battle was clearly etched in his sallow face.

  Jacob sat on the arm of a chair next to Hawkins, who’d chosen to stand. The two glanced at each other. “We’ve been lucky enough to escape every time we ran into them.”

  “But we heard about all that nasty business a few nights ago,” added Cherice, her pumpkin hair brighter under the music hall lights. “Sorry ’bout your back, mate.”

  Henry straightened it uncomfortably, as if making sure it still worked. It did, thanks to Mary, who stood next him, wringing her hands shyly.

  “Just what in the hell are those monsters anyway?” Lucille may have been wearing another face, but her real, haughty voice was as strong as ever. “I’m still having nightmares.”

  “You sure you wanna know?” Cherice swung her legs from the arm of the chair she was sitting on. “Gram’s story’s pretty damn grisly.”

  “Gram? That’s the one who ate my face, right?” Lucille scoffed. “Yeah, I think I have the right to know.”

  The tip of Rin’s sword scraped the wooden floor. “One must always know their enemy.”

  That was probably the only reason she agreed to come. But only Iris understood her.

  “What’d she say?” Cherice’s legs froze in the air. “She making fun of us? Hey!” She leaned over. “Plotting something, girly?”

  “Cherice, calm down,” Jacob scolded, but she only pouted like a child in response.

  “Y-yes. I agree.” Mary clung to Lucille’s arm. “We mustn’t fight among ourselves. This is a neutral zone, after all.”

  “If it’s so neutral,” said Henry, “then why’s
that girl carrying her sword in plain sight?”

  “Perhaps for the same reason you’ve got a few marbles hidden in the back pocket of your jacket.” Max pointed at him, causing Henry to stiffen. Iris hadn’t even seen. “Planning to set them off if things get rough?”

  “Always ready.” Hawkins laughed. “I like this brat.”

  Cherice slapped him in the back of his golden head. “Like what? Getting a limb blown off? Not me. Iris, you should have left those punks out of this. How’re you gonna trust someone who doesn’t even show their real face?”

  Lucille sighed rather theatrically. “I don’t like rude little girls. I dealt with far too many of them during my vaudeville days, though I suspect that was largely due to jealousy.”

  “It’s okay,” chimed Hawkins without bothering to look at her. “You’re probably secretly ugly anyway. I get it.”

  “Excuse me—”

  “Everyone, please!” Iris cried over the arguing that suddenly erupted. Beside her, Jinn lowered his forehead into his palm. “Everyone!” She looked to Max, who shrugged. “Quiet!”

  Her voice echoed in the rafters. Silence. Iris began rubbing her temples.

  Rin considered her with interest. “Why did you call us here, Isoke?”

  The Fon that only Iris could understand reminded her of something Max had brought up minutes before the meeting. How did they know that Fool wasn’t also present, somewhere behind the curtains, perhaps, listening and waiting to tell Club Uriel of their discussions? She, Max, and Jinn had checked backstage before everyone had arrived, but it still didn’t give her confidence. However, Max had come up with a plan—a plan that required everyone’s cooperation.

  “I called you here because the third round is about to begin, and despite the money the Committee has promised, I doubt any of you are really eager to fight to the death for it.”

  Restless legs, fidgeting hands.

  “Has that been confirmed?” asked Henry.

  Iris nodded. “Fool told me himself last night. Round three is a fight to the death. And whoever hasn’t passed a round by now will be killed outright the second we all step onstage.”