by K. Z. Snow
Will already knew the outcome of that talk: he’d be going along.
“Now you must look at what else I found,” he said, reaching for his jacket. He pulled out the papers. “I snatched these from an exhibit building that’s slated to house one of the Demimen attractions. I haven’t had a chance to peruse them, so they might not reveal anything.”
He handed the papers to Fan as Simon and Marrowbone got up and walked to the back of the sofa. They peered over Fan’s shoulder. Will, too, leaned in to look.
The Pugilists was written at the top of the page. Below that centered phrase were shapes meticulously drawn in blue ink. Annotations and smaller drawings surrounded them.
They looked like anatomical illustrations. Here, a pair of arms; below them, a pair of arms laid open, as if in the process of dissection. Alongside these central pictures, nearly to the edges of the paper, an array of what looked like machine parts, from narrow pistons to bolts and rivets to lengths of fine cable. Lines extended from them to the arm drawings—lines, Will realized, that seemingly indicated placement.
The following page showed the same limbs with the machine parts inserted. Sometimes they seemed to replace muscles, nerves, and vessels; sometimes they seemed attached to existing anatomical structures.
Fan, his face increasingly drawn in horrified disbelief, slid aside one page after another. Depictions of hands. Then a mouth and jaw, front and profile views. Then a page of odd shapes—custom-made metal plates, from what Will could tell, in brass and nickel.
He stopped looking. The implications were too ghastly to contemplate.
“By all that’s hell-spawned…,” Simon murmured.
“Is this what you feared?” Will gently asked Fan.
“Yes. Only worse.” He continued sluggishly to flip through the pages.
“It helps explain why Mr. Hartshorn’s arm had been cut open,” said Marrowbone. He and Simon returned to their places.
Fan nodded. “It also helps explain how they get the staple ingredient of that odious potion.” After laying the pages aside, he propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his forehead. Will stroked his back.
“It’s my guess,” said Marrowbone, “Hunzinger alit on the elixir and Demimen ideas at roughly the same time.”
“Just before the increase in arrest warrants.” Simon continued his idle stroking of Clancy’s hair, a hank of which lay across his knee like corn silk. He looked uncharacteristically somber. “Gods, I can’t believe I was duped into furthering this scheme!”
“Or helping Hunzinger profit from it,” Will murmured. The coins in his strongbox were nothing but filthy lucre now. He actually hoped they’d been confiscated during the search of his wagon.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Fan said to him. “You didn’t know what you were selling. You worked for your portion of that profit and earned it honestly.”
“It’s all the money I have in the world,” Will said miserably, “but now I can’t stand the thought of touching it.”
“Still,” said Marrowbone, “I can’t believe the vermin involved in this operation have already butchered a sufficient number of Mongrels to produce that much elixir. My guess is, most Brandeds who’ve been arrested are still sitting in institutions, where their blood is regularly drawn.”
“That’s logical,” said Will, determined to counter his guilt with action. “I’ve sold an awful lot of Dr. Bolt’s. Even if each bottle mostly contains alcohol, maybe with some cocaine and herbs thrown in, that still leaves a good deal of… other substance to account for.”
“So our residents who are sitting in Dunwood and Cindermound and the ’Combs—”
“Are serving as a kind of reservoir,” said Marrowbone. “Probably while the overseers of this project determine which of them are suitable for reconstruction. I suspect fashioning a Demiman is a very delicate and time-consuming process.”
“And depending on what kind of exhibits Big Mister has in mind,” Simon added, “it could take even longer. Those diagrams looked mighty complicated.”
“Maybe no one’s been changed yet,” Fan murmured. He continued to sit forward, staring blankly at the rug, his hands hanging between his knees. “Maybe Twigby was to be the first.”
“We can go to Seagrass Lane tomorrow evening,” Will said to him. “That will give us all day to prepare.”
Fan regarded Will. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. He voiced no protest this time.
“I’ll have to leave before daybreak,” Simon informed them. “I’m already pushing my luck by tarrying here. I was supposed to have delivered Will to T and J by now.”
“I hope you don’t plan on following through,” Fan said acerbically.
“Of course not. But I will have to make an appearance to explain his absence. I’ll have to say he escaped from my custody near Civic Center Plaza and I spent the night looking for him. Hunzinger said he wasn’t going to call T and J until tomorrow morning anyway. So as of now, nobody there is expecting Will.”
“That means Hunzinger doesn’t know I’m missing,” Will said.
“Not yet.”
“And that means there’s a good chance Worley can get my wagon out of Caravan Park at dawn. Hunzinger wouldn’t be likely to impound it unless he considered me a fugitive. I mean, it’s already been searched, so they probably just locked it up.”
Fan sat up. “Did you say Worley?”
“Yes, Worley the Wagoner. That’s how he’s known at the Circus.”
“What’s his first name?”
“I’m not sure,” Will said. “I might’ve heard it, but I can’t remember.”
“Could it be Emfel? And is he a thin young fellow who always wears odd-looking boots and wide gloves with the fingertips cut off?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Do you know him?”
For the first time since their embrace, Fan smiled. “Worley’s a Mongrel.”
“What?”
Fan nodded. “He left Taintwell before he had to report for inking. Said he wanted to live in the city because the pay is better there. Most of us didn’t think he’d make it. In fact, I figured he’d been arrested for not wearing a ratio and was languishing at Dunwood.”
“But why would he be arrested if he can pass for human?” Simon asked.
“He can’t pass for human. Not unless he’s wearing those gloves and boots.” Fan’s smile widened into a grin. “He has webbed hands and feet.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Will.
“Must be a hell of a swimmer,” Simon muttered.
Fan laughed. The sound lifted Will’s sunken spirits.
“The fact he’s a Mongrel should be good news,” said Marrowbone. “He can’t be an admirer of Alphonse Hunzinger, which means he isn’t likely to spout much information if he’s questioned.”
“He is very taciturn,” Will said, feeling more encouraged. “Keeps to himself, doesn’t gossip, doesn’t even fraternize with other workers.”
“Where on Whitesbain is he taking your caravan?” Fan asked. When Will told him, he said, “Good choice. Maybe I should call Mr. Tarbender at dawn and have Worley bring your wagon here.”
WHEN they all, except for Marrowbone, were too tired to talk any longer, Simon and Clancy left for whatever love nest they’d set up, and Fanule happily welcomed William into his bed. They fell asleep entwined; had fierce, joyful sex early the following morning. Being together seemed to revitalize them both.
Will fell soundly asleep afterward, but the sound of Bentcross firing up his aeropod roused Fanule. He got outside just in time to see the machine billowing steam. It lifted off the ground, the blades of its rotor spinning into a blur as they chopped through the lightless air.
After brewing a cup of tonic, Fanule went back to the parlor, opened his voxbox, and gave Tarbender’s name and location to Taintwell’s connector. He didn’t have the number, but the woman who worked in the connection office could find it and patch him through.
Tarbender, a Mongrel farmer, wa
s already awake. He and Fanule chatted for a bit, and then Fanule told him about the possible arrival of a living-wagon at his property. “When it gets there,” he said, “if it gets there, please have the driver proceed to my place. I’ll make sure he’s well compensated. Have him vox me if he has any questions.”
It was just after daybreak that Will awoke for the second time. As troubled as Fanule was by the hideous, organized assault on his people, he felt steeled with resolve. Marrowbone and Bentcross had proved staunch allies, but it was Will’s presence—his warmth, his youthful pluckiness and resilience, the mere sight of him here—that provided the extra fuel to fire Fanule’s determination. He felt focused. He felt invincible.
Over breakfast, Will fretted about his wagon. “I hope I get it back,” he said. “It means a great deal to me.”
“You know you can stay here,” Fanule assured him. “You can stay as long as you like.”
Will reached for Fanule’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.” He smiled but still looked troubled. “That isn’t the point, though. That little caravan isn’t just a showman’s wagon. For nine years, it’s been the only home I’ve had. It represents my past. My mother’s shawl is in it. My father’s pipe. Their wedding rings and favorite books. Other small mementos. They’re important to me, Fan. And the whole wagon is saturated with my uncle’s presence. That’s important to me too.”
Fanule was moved beyond words. When he saw the sentiment in Will’s eyes, those eyes that reminded him of warm, turquoise seas, he felt a new surge of determination. “You’ll get it back,” he said fervidly. “One way or another, I promise you’ll get it back.”
As they bathed together, the promise became a reality. Rumbling and creaking, Will’s caravan, pulled by Worley’s team of well-cared-for draft horses, found a new place to stay.
Fanule and Will bolted out of the tin tub, threw on their clothing, and rushed outside. Will’s grin was brighter than the shining sun. After thanking Worley and clapping him on the back, he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, climbed onto the hitch, and got the door open.
“Gods,” Worley said with a smaller smile, “Fanule Perfidor.” He removed one of his gloves and extended a webbed hand, which Fanule gladly grasped. “I almost fell over when Tarbender told me to bring the wagon here.”
“Did you have any difficulty getting it out of the Circus?” Fanule asked.
“Not too much. Easing it out of the owner’s space was a bit tricky, but several Gutter residents helped me. Once I got it on the main pathway, it was a straight shot to the gate.”
His mention of other Gutter residents alarmed Fanule. “Those people who helped you,” he said, “did they ask a lot of questions?”
“Not many. I just told them Mr. Marchman was frantic to get to an ill relative in another province. I said nothing about where I was taking the wagon.”
“Good man,” Fanule said with a smile. “Did any of Hunzinger’s lackeys see you?”
Worley removed his other glove and shoved them both in his jacket pockets. “No, not a one. He and his staff don’t show up until maybe eight o’clock, sometimes later.”
“Do you think there’ll be repercussions when you go back?” It was a possibility and a source of concern to Fanule, even though Worley had no knowledge of Will’s motives.
Again, Worley smiled. “I’m not going back. I despise that place, and I’m sick of living a lie. Taintwell is my home. I figure I can eke out some kind of living around here. Besides, I’ve been thinking about someone since I left. I’d like to see her again.”
Fanule was so delighted he could’ve grabbed Worley’s arms and swung into a dance. “Gods, Em, that’s wonderful to hear. Whoever the girl is, I hope she welcomes you with open arms.”
“So do I.” Worley went over to his team and began unhitching it.
“I imagine you’re curious about why Will Marchman and his wagon are here.”
Worley shrugged. “A little. I just assumed you’d come to be friends somehow. But really, it’s none of my business.”
“Where will you be staying?”
Worley nodded toward the horses. “I have everything I own in those saddlebags, including a tent. I think I’ll set up at the park until I find lodging. At least money isn’t a problem at the moment. I’ve been saving like a miser.” He crawled beneath Will’s wagon and disengaged its hinged front steps, which he’d obviously folded back and secured before moving the structure.
“Please, go feed and water your team,” Fanule said. “There’s a trough alongside the barn and some bales of alfalfa hay in a lean-to beside it.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
“And if you’d like to know what’s been happening around here lately, I’d be glad to fill you in over breakfast.”
Worley cast a look over his shoulder. “I think I know what’s been going on. And I’m willing to bet it has everything to do with Hunzinger’s Mechanical Circus.” His expression grew more solemn. “That’s another reason I’m not going back.”
FANULE was happy to find out that Will’s optimistic assumption had been correct. After yesterday’s search of his wagon, and confident the young salesman was securely in a bounty hunter’s custody, Hunzinger and his Strongarms had locked it up and walked away. If there had been plans to impound it, the conscientious Em Worley had foiled those plans.
All that was missing from Will’s home were the crates of Dr. Bolt’s elixir. For that, Will seemed profoundly grateful.
As Will straightened up the caravan’s torn-up interior, Fanule paid a visit to Ape Chiggeree. Old Ape was enthusiastic about lending Fanule his Portable Flash Illumination Duo-Charge Camera, a name Fanule suggested he try to shorten since it was far more cumbersome than the invention itself.
“I’m thinking on it,” Ape said, his silver hair gleaming in the steam- and dust-clouded confines of his cluttered workshop. Strange sounds nagged at the men from every corner—chugs and hisses, clicks and clacks. Fanule was afraid to move lest he break something or lose a finger.
Ape showed Fanule how to use the camera, then gave him a packet of photographic plates in a reinforced box. The box was small enough to fit in a jacket pocket.
“Choose your pictures wisely,” said Ape. “Remember, you only have a limited number of plates. And exercise care in removing each one from the box and sliding it into the camera. If you push this button”—he pointed to one at the back of the unit—“the insertion slot will be illuminated for a couple of seconds.”
Fanule nodded and thanked Ape. He now wished Will had come with him, since Will would serve as the photographer that night.
“Pamper the PFIDCC. It’s my prototype, you know. But if it helps change the Monkey, it’s being put to good use.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Fanule told him.
Back at home, he sat down with Will to demonstrate the camera and to work out that evening’s spy mission to the warehouse cluster on Seagrass Lane. They’d wear dark clothing, snug, wide-brimmed hats, and kerchiefs around their necks. If need be, they could use the kerchiefs to cover their faces. They’d carry small lanterns. Will would have the camera and plates, and Fanule would bring a sack.
Fanule’s horse, hitched to a small wagon, would be their transportation.
“If there are too many people around,” Fanule said, “we’ll have to leave. So the first thing we do is scan the area—see how many lights are on in the buildings, how much activity there is outside.”
“We can’t leave,” Will countered. “We’ll just have to be stealthy. Keep to the shadows. Look for darkened rooms. Whoever is there can’t work all night.”
“The night watchmen can. So we should probably bring lengths of twine and blindfolds, too. I can’t disable them through light-sucking; the authorities would know I’d been there.”
They tried to work out every detail and cover any contingency, although they knew there were bound to be situations they couldn’t possibly foresee.
Ar
ound dinnertime, Bentcross returned. The sound of his aeropod had made the conspirators tense. How odd, Fanule thought, that just planning an illicit activity can make you think you’ve already been caught. He and Will had to guard against such edginess. Being vigilant was necessary and desirable, but getting jumpy would impair their judgment.
Bentcross looked a little hangdog, so Fanule poured him a glass of wine. The three men sat at the kitchen table.
“How did things go at the Truth and Justice Building?” Will asked.
Simon heaved a sigh. “I got fired.” He took a drink and shrugged. “I was thinking of quitting anyway, since I’ve lost my taste for bounty hunting, but it’s still unnerving to be out of a job.”
“You’ll find something else,” Fanule said. “You must have other talents.”
Bentcross gave him a weary but nevertheless impish half-smile.
Will rolled his eyes.
“Actually, I’ve become a decent aeropod mechanic. I know my way around other kinds of machinery too. Maybe I’ll open a shop somewhere.” Simon scrubbed at his short hair and heavily dropped his hands to the table. “I don’t know. I have to reorient my thinking.”
“Are they still looking for me?” Will asked.
“Just enough to placate the old man, I’m guessing. It seems Hunzinger was in a royal snit when he found out you’d slipped the hook and your caravan had been hauled away. But I got the impression you’re considered a small fish, so any effort to find you won’t be very vigorous or last very long.” Simon chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” Will asked.
“While the sergeant was talking with Hunzinger over the vox, he asked if you might be with Perfidor. You know, because of Fan’s card being in your wagon. The old man actually laughed. ‘You couldn’t find two people less suited for one another,’ he said. ‘Marchman isn’t only a Pure; he’s little more than a boy. And I don’t think he’s a twor, either. The Dog King would terrify him.’”
