Mongrel

by K. Z. Snow

  Will had seen them gathering as he’d jogged toward his stand just minutes before the gates opened. Scavengers, street urchins, picnickers. They were likely too poor to enjoy Hunzinger’s Mechanical Circus from inside, so they contented themselves with being near it. At least they could hear occasional strains of music, watch the arrival of trains at Jubilation Depot, glimpse the acrobats in the sky, the rise and fall of cars on the Rolling Surf Trackway.

  Will could barely keep up with his trade as the noon hour approached. During the brief breaks he took between his demonstrations, he invariably had to haul more Bloodroot Elixir from the storage closet tucked between two alcoves in the Cave of the Seers. Soon his strongbox was heavy with coins, and there was a good possibility he’d run out of stock before day’s end. Will had four crates of medicine stashed in the storage cabinet beneath his bed, but getting them to his sales platform would take too long and, in this crowd, be too much bother.

  If the Circus was this busy on an ordinary Saturday, what would it be like next season when Hunzinger’s new Demimen attractions opened? The old man had special festivities planned for that entire week. Barring the most inclement weather, this place would be bursting at the seams.

  Will was moving about so much, he finally had to take off his jacket lest he melt into a puddle of plaid. He’d never before had so many customers. But once in a while, at the oddest moments, an image from his unexpected tryst with Fanule Perfidor would flash through his mind.

  Amid all the wholesome hubbub of the Circus, the six hours he’d spent in City Center last night seemed like a dream. He’d eagerly given himself to a Mongrel. He’d started having tender feelings for that Mongrel. Fantastic as it all seemed, and even as Will handed out bottles of elixir beneath the bright sun that shone on Hunzinger’s manufactured world, he thrilled at the thought of his dark, scarred lover.

  “I want to help you, Fan. Whatever it is you’re trying to learn about the Circus, I’ll help you however I can.”

  Most surprising of all, he still wanted to. His determination hadn’t waned by a sliver.

  BY MONDAY, Fanule had managed to wipe away his dreaminess, sharpen his focus, and mentally gird himself for a very important confrontation.

  As soon as he stepped through the door of that finely appointed office, his gaze fixed on the man who stiffly greeted him. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

  Horace Pushbin, the Lord High Mayor of Purinton, was a foot shorter than Fanule and as big around as he was tall. With ill-concealed trepidation, he eyed the Eminence of Taintwell from head to foot. Perspiration glimmered in his rather conservative mustache, which didn’t extend far beyond the line of his cherry-red lips.

  “Well,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk and slapping the chair arms as he did so, “it’s simply a courtesy extended from one civic leader to another.”

  Fanule knew courtesy had nothing to do with his presence here. His call to Pushbin’s office that morning had likely sent the mayor scurrying to consult his advisers. They’d certainly urged him to go ahead with the requested meeting. How else could they satisfy their curiosity? Government officials in Purinton would do everything in their power to figure out what Taintwellians were up to—even if it meant welcoming the Dog King into City Hall.

  Besides, they probably feared the Eminence would darken their entire Civic Plaza if they denied him access to the Lord High Mayor.

  “The reason I’m here,” said Fanule, “has to do with the inordinate number of arrests of Branded Mongrels. I’ve been contacted by many Taintwellians who believe their neighbors and loved ones were convicted of crimes they didn’t commit.”

  Pushbin laughed, although the pair of staccato sounds he uttered bore little resemblance to laughter. He spread his hands. “Surely you realize, Mr. Perfidor, that the vast majority of criminals swear they’re innocent.”

  “In many of these cases,” Fanule said calmly, “the evidence suggests they are.”

  “Perhaps you should forgo governance and practice law, Mr. Perfidor.”

  Perhaps I should blind you, pig. “I don’t govern, so I can hardly give it up. And I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for practicing law.” Fanule wondered if he’d taken enough of his medicine that morning or if Pushbin’s smugness was getting under his skin. In either case, his nerves were beginning to tighten and hum. “By the way, I recently had an encounter with one of your bounty hunters. It only strengthened my conviction that—”

  “Which one?” Pushbin snapped, sitting forward.

  Fanule chided himself for not thinking before he spoke, another bad sign. He wasn’t an admirer of Simon Bentcross, but he didn’t want the man to suffer just for having talked with him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Purinton has so many hunters, it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other.” He opened the old leather envelope-portfolio he carried and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Furthermore, Mr. Mayor, our citizens are thoroughly dissatisfied with your policy of limited access to court proceedings and to the jail, prison, and asylum.”

  Pushbin looked disgruntled. “You know damned well we instituted the closed-court system with good reason. There were too many violent outbursts by members of the public. The same types of behavior forced us to ban visitors from Dunwood Gate and Cindermound. Relatives fueled the inmates’ agitation and vice versa. The staff at each institution was overwhelmed.”

  “Can money or influence buy visits, Mr. Mayor? Or buy amenities? Or early release?”

  Stupidly, Pushbin blinked at Fanule. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking straightforward questions. And I expect forthright answers.”

  Pushbin’s jowls quivered. “Every detainee, regardless of race or status, receives legal representation. And, if need be, a medical evaluation.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, sir.” Fanule’s voice had gone flat.

  Don’t lose control. You want to help your people, don’t you? You want to see William again, don’t you?

  “I’m under no obligation to answer any of your questions, Mr. Perfidor.”

  Fanule lowered his eyelids to avert a catastrophic turn. Two gray-uniformed Redboots flanked the office door at his back. There were more within shouting distance. If Fanule didn’t contain his growing frustration and anger, those guards would kill him without a second thought.

  He fully closed his eyes for a moment, then looked beneath his lashes at the papers he’d pulled from his portfolio.

  Focus. You can reward yourself by seeing William again.

  “Taintwellians,” he said carefully, “are convinced they’re being treated unfairly by Purinton’s justice system. And they want more contact with their incarcerated loved ones than the letters they sporadically receive. Letters they’re convinced were written by strangers—institution staff, most likely.” When Fanule felt more in control of himself, he looked up as he lifted the papers to show to Pushbin. “I have a petition bearing 3,861 names. It calls for a thorough investigation into all aspects of—”

  “Investigation by whom?” Pushbin asked with sneering disdain.

  Fanule leaned forward and murmured, “Sir, I suggest you treat me and my mission with a bit more respect.” After Pushbin, clearly discomfited, rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, Fanule sat back and continued. “An investigation by a committee solicited from a nearby province and also seated with two residents of Purinton and two residents of Taintwell. They would monitor court proceedings, visit institutions and speak with inmates, interview law enforcement officials as well as bounty hunters, and study all records relating to the arrest, detention, trial, and disposition of criminal suspects for the past year.”

  Pushbin seemed stymied. His initial impulse was probably to scoff, but after Fanule’s subtle warning, he surely realized that wouldn’t have been the most prudent reaction.

  “Who mounted this”—he peevishly waved a hand at the papers—“petition driv
e?”

  “I did. After listening for months to my neighbors’ concerns and complaints, I realized we had to start somewhere to change the status quo.”

  Pushbin cleared his throat and rose from his chair. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Fanule steadily held the mayor’s gaze. “You do that. I expect to hear from you within a fortnight.” He placed the petition in the center of Pushbin’s desk. “By the way, might you know why Alphonse Hunzinger bans Mongrels from his Circus?”

  Immediately, Pushbin’s face reddened. “That’s his business. The Mechanical Circus is a private enterprise. And it’s been a boon to this city.”

  “Is this office or any division of Truth and Justice involved with Mr. Hunzinger’s operation? In any way?”

  “I must ask you to go now, Mr. Perfidor. I have other appointments.”

  TOO many people were queued up at the voxbox Will passed as he made his way back to the Gutter. Since he couldn’t bear the thought of standing there, for his feet felt like oven bricks, he detoured to the courier station located near the food concessions. He’d considered going to the telegraph office in the train depot, but that would’ve taken considerably more time and overtaxed his tired feet.

  It wasn’t yet five o’clock, but he’d exhausted his supply of Bloodroot Elixir. The weekend’s crowds had taken a toll on his stock.

  “Do you carry messages as far as Taintwell?” he asked the teenaged boy behind the counter.

  The young man, who was chewing tobacco, turned his head and spat. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “We’ll carry ’em to the bottom of the sea if the money’s good enough.”

  “I need this to get to Taintwell as soon as possible.”

  The young man turned to address a coworker toward the back of the spacious booth. “Orv, you goin’ up soon?”

  “Yep,” said Orv. “’Bout ten minutes.”

  “We can aeropod it over there,” the first boy told Will. “If you hurry.”

  There was a typewriter on the counter, as well as boxes of paper and envelopes, inkwells, and a pottery porcupine in which writing instruments were thrust. A rack of pretty postcards advertised “Hunzinger’s Marvelous Mechanical Circus” through fanciful pictures and photographic views.

  Will chose paper and pen and began to compose his message.

  Dear Fan,

  I trust your weekend went well. I have been busier than a fly in a bowl of sugar, as the Circus was overrun with people both Saturday and Sunday, and my trade remained brisk even today.

  I have been thinking about you most fondly and would very much like to see you again. Would you care to meet me at my wagon this evening? It should not be difficult for you to enter the Gutter unnoticed. We could later go out for a moonlight swim. There are good enough sand beaches beyond the bounds of the Circus, as you may know.

  My living wagon is easy to find. It is yellow with blue trim and a mollycroft roof. There are carved painted panels with nymphs and satyrs around the door. My name is on the doorplate. I’ll keep one lamp lit.

  I do hope I’m not being too forward. My warm thoughts of Friday night have spurred me to make this invitation, as I find you quite an enchanting man and would like to spend more time in your company.

  Please come, Fan. My neighbors generally mind their own business.

  Yours truly,

  Wm. Marchman

  Will folded the note into an envelope and carefully wrote Perfidor’s name and address on the outside. The price he paid for delivery was steep, but he’d made a good deal of money since Saturday morning and could think of no better way to spend it.

  He got his receipt, then bought a grease-stained box of chicken, roasted corn, and apple pie from a nearby food vendor.

  The phrase please come, Fan reverberated through his mind like an incantation.

  Chapter Seven

  PLEASE come, Fan. The humble plea sang through Fanule’s heart.

  Smiling, he hurried through the cool dimness of his house. The sun was just setting. As soon as he entered the kitchen, he lit a lamp. Before he washed up, he had to make a decoction of Lizabetta’s powder. He wanted to feel his best when he met William.

  “I have been thinking of you fondly….”

  Fanule hummed a favorite tune from his youth as he prepared the medicine. Honey would have made the brew more palatable, but he had none on hand. With a slight grimace, he drank it all.

  “So, that’s why you’re not rotting away in Cindermound Asylum.”

  Startled, Fanule spun around. A pale, elegant man with hair like floss—long and straight and pinkish-white—stepped from a shadowed corner of the room.

  Fanule gaped at him. “What in all deities’ names are you doing here?”

  “Whatever I end up doing, my sweet, I doubt it will be in any deity’s name.” The vampire Marrowbone lazily regarded Fanule. “You’ve matured into a very striking man. I found you quite fetching at twenty-one, but now you’re positively”—his long fingers moved through the air, tracing Fanule’s form—“seething with animal magnetism.” He pulled a slender cigarette from within his cloak, lit it, and slowly inhaled. “Sucked any light lately?” The question drifted out on a veil of smoke and a smirk.

  Fanule chuckled and shook his head. “Why do I find it so difficult to dislike you?”

  Marrowbone touched one fingertip to a fleck of tobacco on his lip. “Perhaps because I drained you for six months running… in a way that didn’t kill you.”

  “Ah, but it did, Clancy. I suffered a small death at your hands time and time again.”

  If it was possible for Marrowbone to exhibit affection, he did so at that moment, through his smile. “I don’t think suffered is the appropriate word, Fan.” He stepped over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat.

  The memories trickled back. They’d been lovers then, and shamelessly wanton. Fanule, his cropped ears finally healed, had gorged himself on physical pleasure. Compensation for his pain, he supposed. Marrowbone had been more than happy to keep feeding him that pleasure. Vampires had the most incredible stamina. Better yet, they didn’t drink from Mongrels because they had no way of knowing what kind of blood they’d be ingesting. Fanule never had to fear Marrowbone’s bite.

  How strange to see him and remember. Clancy, still twenty-nine, was now two years younger than Fanule… yet far older.

  “Why are you here?” Fanule repeated. He slid a saucer onto the table to catch the vampire’s cigarette ashes and sat across from him.

  “Because I make a point of returning every ten years, just to see how the Mongrels of Taintwell are faring. Didn’t I ever tell you that? I’m quite fond of the lot of you.” Marrowbone made a flourish with one arm. “Outcasts all. I feel at home.”

  “Have you found a place to stay?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t elaborate. Marrowbone had always been secretive about his sleeping arrangements. “How have you been, Fan? Thriving? Simply enjoying a degree of normalcy in your life?”

  “That depends on the day.”

  Marrowbone grew reflective. He tapped the edge of the saucer. “I’ve thought of you often. Please, tell me how the past decade has treated you.”

  Fanule gave him a condensed version: how he’d wasted the money his mother had left him when she’d fled Taintwell; how, year by year, he’d grown increasingly tired of being dissolute and directionless; how he’d returned to the stonemason trade and simultaneously reconstructed his life. He received a small stipend for being a civil servant, and it had allowed him to forgo the construction projects that normally earned him a living.

  “So the culmination of your efforts was election to a nonexistent office?” Marrowbone asked as he stubbed out his cigarette.

  Fanule didn’t take offense. He was familiar enough with the vampire’s dry wit. “Maybe I’ve yet to see the culmination of my efforts. But the election was still an honor, Clancy.”

  “Especially since it made you the Eminence of Taintwell,” Marrowbone said with a sm
ile.

  Fanule laughed. “I realize how silly it sounds. Actually, nobody knew what to call me, since I’m only the titular head of this settlement. I have no power and don’t want any.”

  “So how did you get so august a designation?”

  “A precocious little girl we call Tulip came up with it. After the public vote-count, when all sorts of titles were being bandied about, she piped up and said, ‘Mr. Perfidor is quite the tallest person here. That makes him an eminence.’ So the Eminence of Taintwell I became.”

  Marrowbone chuckled quietly. “What is it you do, exactly?”

  “Listen to complaints. Mediate disputes. Head committees. I suppose that makes me the village’s problem solver.” Fanule told Marrowbone about the petition and what had led up to it.

  Eyes lowered, the vampire listened without interrupting. His expression was somber.

  “Your Purintonian overlords are taking liberties again,” he said when Fanule was finished.

  “Yes. And I have a feeling Alphonse Hunzinger is somehow involved in this little reign of terror. I believe he’s pulling strings behind the scenes for his own benefit, but I haven’t yet been able to prove it. Mongrels are no longer allowed on his grounds.”

  Brows knit, Marrowbone finally looked up. His eyes were midnight blue, much darker than most people expected because most people assumed he was an albino. He wasn’t. White hair at an early age was simply a family trait.

  “I never did trust that man,” he said.

  “Which reminds me….” Fanule glanced at his kitchen chronometer and immediately rose. “I have to meet somebody at the Circus. At its little caravan community, actually.”