The Shattered City

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  ‘Only nearly.’

  ‘The whole idea is ridiculous. The priests of the city are barely speaking to me, we don’t have flowers or animals or performers …’

  Ashiol laughed hollowly. He sounded just short of despair. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can provide the animals.’

  Of all the things Ashiol had thought he would never do, taking Isangell to the Killing Ground was top of the list. He had to weigh up which was better — accompanying her through the streets of the city, or down through the Arches.

  Today, all of the Lords and Court were supposed to be on the same side. The idea was patently ridiculous, and yet Velody was in charge, and that made a difference. Today, this once, perhaps the Creature Court could be trusted to do what was necessary instead of what suited themselves.

  Ashiol had not taken a swallow of imperium all morning, and he was starting to feel the lack of it.

  He chose the Eyrie, to avoid them being recognised in the streets above, and led Isangell through the mess of tunnels that ran under the city until they came out in the Arches. His cousin was fascinated by this relic of history, and it was all he could do to draw her on through the maze of narrow, shabby streets in the Shambles, to the Killing Ground itself, without her stopping to ask a million questions about how the people of Aufleur had truly once lived here, underground.

  Isangell coped with the tunnels and the dirt, clambering about in her day dress through the darkness. But when they walked through the Smith’s forge and the harsh sunlight burst around them, Ashiol thought for a moment he might lose her.

  ‘Oh,’ Isangell said faintly. ‘Oh, Ash — is this what you meant? About things I couldn’t understand?’

  This was the least of it, but he knew better than to say that now. Baby steps.

  ‘We need you as witness,’ he said. ‘And to close the festival — since you opened the Sacred Games, before everything went to the seven hells. The daylight Duc, or Duchessa, has an essential role in the closing circus.’

  Isangell’s hand rested on his arm, clenching and unclenching against the cloth of his shirt. ‘Just let me know what I have to do, and I will do it,’ she said, every inch the cool and poised Duchessa.

  Ashiol had never been so proud of her, or so scared for her.

  The sandy arena was bright and gaudy for once, filled with flapping tent cloths and pavilions. Poet had called in every favour he could from every musette company in the city, and Ashiol had to admit, he had come through for them. If only the damned rat didn’t seem to be enjoying himself so much.

  Ashiol led Isangell to the tiered seats, and made her comfortable on the velvets and cushions that had been laid out for them. ‘Remind me again why I trust you,’ she said, her voice faltering though she looked so calm on the outside.

  ‘Because in your heart you know I speak only the truth, gosling,’ he said, settling her on the high tiered seats. ‘And I would never hurt you.’

  She gave him an exasperated look. ‘What do you need of me?’

  ‘What you would normally do at the circus. Take fright at the beasts, tap your foot to the songs, marvel at the saints and devils. Hide your face as they pretend to kill a dummy version of you, in the name of some saintsbegotten tradition no one really remembers. At the end, when they call for their patron’s ovation, give it to them. Then you can speak the song, I can wield the knife, and there’s a nice drugged lamb ready for the sacrifice. All as usual, only without the crowds.’

  ‘And this will save the city.’

  ‘We can hope.’

  It was the first time Ashiol had ever seen the Creature Court united in something other than battle. It could work. It had to work. If the city would not heal itself, they were all doomed.

  ‘I see we’re not the only audience,’ Isangell noted.

  Ashiol looked up and saw Heliora crossing the grounds, looking unlike herself in a borrowed dress, her shaven head thick with stubble. She had a sombre Rhian on one side of her, and a boldly dressed Delphine on the other. Ashiol frowned. He had not been aware Velody was bringing them here. It seemed like a bad idea.

  All three demoiselles bowed with due deference to the aristocratic visitor, and chose seats a few tiers below Ashiol and Isangell.

  The sunshine blazed over them with little actual heat. Isangell’s small hand lashed out and clutched at Ashiol’s knee. He resisted the urge to shake her off. It was the noxcrawl; she wants me no more than I want her, he reminded himself.

  ‘Is that a rat?’ she squeaked, sounding like the child he remembered, just for a moment.

  It was beginning, then. As Ashiol watched, one white rat skittered across the dry sandy stage. Then another, and another. A small horde of them converged upon the simple cloth of blue silk and silver stars that lay in the centre of the arena.

  Poet did love to play the showman, and today was no exception. The rats shaped into the man with a flash of light that had to be one of his stage tricks, and when he stood before them in Lord form, it was with the blue and silver cloth neatly draped around him like a toga. ‘Demmes and seigneurs, dames and boys, milady sweet,’ and with that he nodded graciously at the Duchessa with a scorching look that put a little colour in her cheeks. Oh, hells no. Ashiol found himself growling under his breath. Poet was getting no closer to Isangell, that was for damned sure.

  ‘Welcome to the circus of the nox, a cabaret of bloody battles and daring adventure such as you have never seen before. Believe your eyes if you must, but listen to your heart. It beats to the rhythm of our song.’ Poet grinned toothily. ‘The song of the monsters of Aufleur.’

  There were more fireworks and sparks after that, and then a parade of animals. An odd mix of creatures to be sure — panthers and stripecats were hardly out of place in the arena of an Aufleur circus, but it was rare to see domestic cats, with birds and mice alongside them, weaving together as if they were not natural enemies, predators and prey. Ashiol remembered that their grandfather the old Duc had been trying to get wolves to perfom in his own circuses for years, but no one could tame them to any satisfactory results. The old Duc had not had Livilla on his side.

  ‘Why are there no beast-handlers?’ Isangell asked in a whisper.

  Delphine, overhearing her, giggled.

  ‘Demmes and seigneurs,’ Poet announced with great flair as the animals cleared the arena once more. ‘May I present our first bout of the evening — the gladius and the slashcats!’

  Ashiol wondered if Mars was up to a sword fight with his own courteso, then almost swallowed his own tongue when he saw Crane stride out in the leathers of a gladius, steel sword bared. How had Velody talked him into this indignity?

  ‘He’s pretty,’ Isangell said approvingly.

  Rhian turned in her seat and presented the Duchessa with a basket of fresh flowers. ‘For your favours, milady,’ she said clearly.

  ‘Oh, thank you, demoiselle.’ Isangell took the basket with pleasure and selected a crimson camellia, tapping it thoughtfully back and forth. ‘The favours are the best part,’ she confided to Ashiol. ‘I was rather sorry to miss out on it this year. At least, I think I was. If only I could remember.’ She blew a kiss to Crane and waved the camellia at him. ‘Someday you’ll have to show me what kind of show you can put on when not working at the last minute, Ashiol.’

  ‘Oh, it would be a marvel to behold,’ he muttered sourly.

  The fight was to be staged, of course. The steel sword made Crane’s part in that easy — it simply would not leave a mark in the bodies of the three silver slashcats currently pacing back and forth on the sands. It would be harder for Farrier who would have to rely on actual restraint, never an easy thing in Court form. If he could resist the urge to bite Crane’s throat out, all would be well.

  The fight was swift and dramatic, with plenty of over-telegraphed moves. The cats snapped and slashed at Crane, playing with him.

  Ashiol was swiftly bored, his attention drawn instead to the audience, and their reactions. Delphine was watching the sword, h
er head tilting imperceptibly with every flash of the blade. Saints, was Macready right about her? It seemed impossible that a little wench like that could make the transition into sentinel, especially at her age.

  Isangell made a small noise and hid her face in Ashiol’s shoulder when Crane ‘dispatched’ the slashcats, one after the other, with dramatic thrusts of the sword. A moment later her nails dug fiercely into his arm as the slain slashcats shimmered and shaped themselves into a fit naked man, the sword still lodged beneath his ribs. He rose, and he and Crane bowed to the audience.

  Delphine and Rhian cheered and threw rose petals. Isangell looked faintly stunned, and then hurled a camellia to each of the young men. ‘Will it all be like that?’ she asked Ashiol quietly. ‘This is not like any circus I have ever attended.’

  ‘This is just the beginning,’ he promised her.

  The traditional circus for the Ludi Sacris began with ‘the day of beasts and song’. Velody and Poet had taken this quite literally for the first half of their show. Poet sang two of his musette numbers, a comic and a tragic. Livilla sang too, her voice throaty and vulnerable, as her new courtesa performed a choreographed dance of sparrows across the arena.

  Warlord the panther took on Kelpie and won, pinning her to the sands and licking her face until she rebelled against the role she had been given, and kicked him in the balls. Ashiol held his breath at that point, waiting for him to savage her in retaliation but instead Mars shaped himself mortal and kissed her messily, half-carrying her off stage before his mouth left hers.

  Isangell fanned herself. ‘Can we hire these people for the next set of Sacred Games?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Ask me again after Cerialis,’ said Ashiol. ‘We’ll see how many are still alive.’

  The back of his neck prickled. The everlight of the Killing Ground made it timeless, but it should be late afternoon. They only had a couple of hours to make this work.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Ashiol,’ Isangell said quietly. ‘I know this isn’t just a circus.’

  ‘I hope it’s the best damned circus Aufleur has ever had,’ Ashiol said. ‘We need it to be.’

  Isangell’s head hurt from the bright sunshine. She was out of her depth. She did not know who any of these performers were, but she could not shake the feeling that she was the least important person here.

  The acts were beginning to blur into each other — men and beasts and swords and songs — and Ashiol was watching the whole thing so intently, as if it were about to fold up like a paper bird and fly away.

  ‘Is this what you’ve been doing all this time?’ she asked him. ‘When they all thought you were — drinking and carousing?’

  ‘Not this,’ said Ashiol after a long pause. ‘This is new to us. But the Creature Court, yes.’

  Creature Court. The words had an extra reality to them the way he spoke them aloud, as if there were a hundred layers of meaning that she could never comprehend. ‘So my mother was wrong all this time,’ Isangell said, rather pleased at the idea. ‘She keeps trying to tell me that you’re crazy, or broken, and that you can only bring misery to our family. But all this time, you’ve been fighting to protect us.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Ashiol said, his eyes on the grey sand. A beautiful demoiselle was dancing, so lightly that she seemed to walk on air, and her arms fluttered like the wings of a bird. ‘Aunt Eglantine had the right of it, all along. Broken. Crazy. Dangerous.’

  She did not like the chill tone of his voice. ‘But all this —’

  ‘It’s not usually a pretty play,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s death and power and rivalries, and …’ He broke off, as if the very sight before them was alien to him. Wasn’t Isangell supposed to be the one who felt out of place here? ‘Your mother fears me for good reason. You’d be better off if I kept away.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, determined to prove her loyalty to him.

  ‘You were too young to remember last time. Before I went away.’

  ‘I wasn’t a child!’ She had been fourteen. Ashiol was older and mysterious and the grown-ups were always worried about him, but he was charming and he danced with Isangell and her friends at parties, when he turned up. Then one day the grown-ups weren’t just worried about Ashiol any more, they were afraid for him, and he was locked away in his rooms. Then he was gone — back to Aunt Augusta and Diamagne — and Isangell didn’t see him again for five years. ‘You were sick,’ she said uncertainly. ‘And they sent you away.’

  He looked so bleak. ‘Is that what they told you?’

  Isangell was a demoiselle of the world now. She could absorb new information. ‘Was it the drink?’

  ‘It was the Creature Court.’ Ashiol was staring at the arena, but Isangell didn’t care what the latest act was. She was watching him. ‘I lost it all. Purpose, power, love. I tried to hang myself. Made a botch of trying to fall on a sword. I would have done anything to make it stop.’

  Isangell’s hands were curled so tightly into the basket that she could feel the wicker biting into her palms. It hurt, but she did not care. ‘But you didn’t succeed.’

  ‘No. I did not succeed.’

  ‘And now?’

  Ashiol turned to look at her, really look at her, and his smile lit up the world. ‘And now I have something to live for again.’

  19.

  Circus of Saints and Devils

  Eighth day of the Ludi Sacris

  The Ides of Felicitas

  Velody’s skin felt tight all over. Poet had raided the entire backstage of the Vittorina Royale to clothe the Court for this production. Her own role in the performance was to be mercifully brief, which was for the best considering she had to spend so much time getting everyone else in the right place.

  She wore a scarlet frock that smelled of cigar smoke and brandy and mothballs. She also wore a high crown made from bamboo and silver paint, and (against her better judgement) a long, fair wig made from silk and horsehair. It scratched horribly.

  Impersonating the Duchessa was a step too close to impertinence for Velody’s comfort, but Poet had insisted. The ‘sacrifice of the Duc’ was essential to any traditional circus, and if ever tradition had been important, it was today.

  As Poet rightly said, if anyone should play the Duchessa in this scenario, it should be Velody. She still felt uneasy about it.

  Readying herself, she rounded the billowing corner of the tents they were using as dressing rooms, and came upon Poet. He was sitting on a stool by himself, gazing into what looked like a small compact mirror. As Velody stepped closer, she saw that it was the broken glass of a pocket watch.

  How odd. She had never seen such an object in Aufleur — there was too much superstition about clockwork. The proctor of the Vittorine had once tried to replace the waterclock in the Piazza Nautilia with one made of clockwork, and the people had risen up against it, claiming it was ill-fortune.

  A pocket watch, though. Her grandfather in Tierce had owned one like that — on a gleaming brass chain. She had not remembered it until that moment. Sage, too — there was a memory about her brother Sage and clocks, but she could not hold on to it. ‘Poet,’ she said now. ‘I’m ready.’

  He flicked the watch closed and put it away in a pocket. That odd smile was back on his face — the one that said he had happy secrets. ‘Stage fright?’ he teased, pulling out the cosmetick pens to wipe a line of bright scarlet across Velody’s mouth.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said, which was not entirely true. ‘You seem to be having fun.’

  ‘Well, it’s inspiring, all this Creature Court camaraderie. It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for the new season of the Mermaid Revue.’

  ‘Glad it’s proved useful,’ she said dryly.

  There was a full-length mirror beside them, set up so that each performer could check their costume before they went out onto the stage. Velody looked at their shared reflection, and Poet’s eyes flicked over hers before he straightened her hem. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.

  She moved
away from the dressing tents. When she looked back, she saw that he was gazing into that mirror, as if he was expecting to see someone other than himself staring back.

  Crane passed Velody as he came off stage. ‘You look terrible as a blonde,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what they tell me,’ she replied, straightening her wig. Just a few more acts and it would be her turn to go on, and this whole sorry mess would be over.

  Ritual is important, she reminded herself every time she started to feel silly. Ritual is everything. After all, this had been her idea.

  It would be over soon.

  Ashiol could barely tell who was who beneath the masks — the arena was full of false saints and devils in bright costumes. There were not as many mimes, tumblers or dancers as usual at these events, but that was hardly surprising. The Creature Court had to play to its strengths.

  One particularly garish scarlet devil proved his identity by bursting into a flock of bats, his costume falling empty to the sands.

  Isangell said nothing, sitting there with her eyes on the arena and her hands folded tightly around the basket of flowers in her lap. The silence between them was palpable after his revelations. Still, it was best she knew. He should have told her long ago, back when she first asked him to come back to the city.

  Still. If he had never come back, he would not have his power again, would not have a place in the Court. They might not have Velody as Power and Majesty, and hope for the future. All those things.

  The sky over the Killing Ground was a paler blue than usual. That was wrong, so many kinds of wrong. It was always day in the Killing Ground; it never changed.

  Heliora, still seated below him with Rhian and Delphine, turned and looked directly at Ashiol. Her face was grim.

  Oh, fuck. It wasn’t going to work. They were wasting their time. The sky was going to throw everything it had at them this nox, and the city was not going to heal.

  Heliora wanted to scream. It had been almost fun at first, watching the Creature Court perform an elaborate pantomime of costumes and morbid humour. She could feel how much they were enjoying themselves. They spent their whole lives in the shadows and the nox; how could they not relish a chance to play themselves in front of an audience, however select?