A Circus of Brass and Bone

by Abra SW

  Mrs. Guirard clapped her hands. “There you are! The commissioner has guests. As his aide, your responsibility now is to bring refreshment. Tea cake and lemonade, I think.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Mr. Akrill told Commissioner Guirard earnestly. “I was coming back from the file room with that casualty list and I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she was going up the stairs. I tried to catch her, really I did!”

  Commissioner Guirard massaged his temples. “I know you did, Peter. Thank you. Put the reports there—” he indicated a spot on his desk, “and—”

  “—and bring tea cake and lemonade!” Mrs. Guirard finished triumphantly.

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality, but there’s no need for that,” Lacey hurried to say.

  Mr. Akrill breathed a sigh of relief, mopped his reddening face, and stepped back to wait outside the door.

  “We were just leaving,” Lacey continued, addressing what was clearly the greatest threat in the room: Mrs. Guirard. “Your husband has kindly offered us a place to stay and perform, but we really must go and prepare our colleagues to move tomorrow.”

  “Perform?” Mrs. Guirard asked.

  A light of amusement dancing in his eyes, Ginger explained, “We are the Loyale Traveling Menagerie, Hippodrome, Circus, and Museum of Educational Novelties!”

  Mrs. Guirard uttered a squeal of delight. “A circus? How splendid! New York is so dreadfully tedious these days, all rations and rules and no fun at all! Even normal, everyday things are so difficult. Half the shops are just gone, and those that remain have such peculiar hours and they’re quite reluctant to work on credit the way they used to.” She turned to Commissioner Guirard. “That’s why I came to your office. The dressmaker is being frustratingly obstinate and I thought if you explained—”

  Commissioner Guirard shook his head. “I can’t, my dear. That would be an abuse of power.”

  “Oh, poo!” She pouted.

  “Perhaps this will cheer you up.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a gaily striped paper bag. Gold foil lettering on the bag read, “Hardy’s Candy Confections.”

  Mrs. Guirard pounced. “Chocolates! You darling!”

  “I was able to stop by the confectioner yesterday, but by the time I got home it was so late that I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “You’re working too late every day! All responsibility and no reward,” she grumbled through a mouthful of chocolate nougat. She swallowed. “Though I suppose that conscientiousness is part of why I adore you so.”

  Spots of red appeared high on Commissioner Guirard’s cheeks. “Don’t eat those too fast,” he warned her. “The confectioner warned me that New York is out of cacao beans. That’s the last chocolate we will see for some time.”

  “I’m sure you’ll fix it,” his wife assured him with a sweet, chocolate-smeared smile

  “I’m—working on it,” he said grimly.

  “You know he’s a very important person now,” Mrs. Guirard confided earnestly to Lacey. “Do tell me if there’s anything else he can do to help you.”

  Lacey nodded. She felt her eyes widen helplessly as she tried not to laugh. Once she’d recovered herself, she said, “There is one thing.”

  Commissioner Guirard’s bushy eyebrows lowered ominously.

  “Nothing onerous,” she hastened to add. “One of our circus members came to New York yesterday and hasn’t returned. Have any females new to the city been detained or—or found injured?”

  Commissioner Guirard leaned back. “Any fresh bodies reported matching that?” he asked Mr. Akrill. “Strange females?”

  Lacey was quite relieved that he didn’t press for a more complete description.

  Mr. Akrill shook his head. “No, Commissioner. Only rotters.”

  “Fresh injured?”

  Mr. Akrill shook his head again.

  “There you go,” Commissioner Guirard told Lacey. “We don’t have her. We’re not much for detaining people these days. If she committed a crime, she’d be free to go by now.” His eyes skittered to his wife, which Lacey interpreted as him choosing not to add, or dead and hanging from a lamppost.

  “Thank you kindly. And thank you for the suggestion of where we might set up.” She rose and nodded her head to Mrs. Guirard. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope you are able to attend our performance. Come, Ginger.”

  “Miss—” Some internal struggle showed on Commissioner Guirard’s face. Lacey awaited the outcome with interest. “Miss, Rumsey Port is not a good place for—for a lady.”

  Ah. That one. It was not the first time she’d confused gentlemen by acting as a lady, instead of as the coarse, wanton creature that they expected a female circus performer to be.

  “The docks were rough even when our men patrolled them regularly,” he continued. “Without us to keep order, it’s only gotten worse. A certain criminal element has shifted to that area since the city is no longer friendly to their kind. Why, it’s—it’s a regular hive of scum and villainy!”

  “Oh!” Lacey carefully did not smile. “Thank you for the warning, but I believe we will do well enough.”

  Later, as they walked down the wide stone steps of the Central Police Department, Lacey said to Ginger, “Didn’t there used to be a group of commissioners who ran the police board?”

  “You saw the Mayor. Don’t ask about the other commissioners. It’s pretty clear who’s in charge here.”

  “Except the sailors and the forts aren’t letting him boss them around. Did you catch when he said that the criminals had left the city for the docks? He doesn’t consider that part of his territory. It will be interesting to see what the sailors have to say about the state of things.”

  ~ * ~

  Michael Hunter, the Animal Handler

  Port Rumsey, New York City

  Stacks of packing crates blocked the street leading to the port. “That’s not exactly welcoming,” Michael said doubtfully to Christopher.

  “As long as we act like we know what we’re doing, we’ll be fine.”

  Michael hoped Christopher was right. He felt eyes on them as they wound their way through the maze.

  When they emerged on the other side, he stopped short, blinking.

  “What the—hell?” Christopher said, almost reverently.

  It was as if they’d stepped back in time to before the hell-storm struck. Sailors, merchants, and more dubious characters bustled across the pier. Compared to the devastated population of new New York, Rumsey Port seemed almost overfull. Michael’s shoulders unknotted and his stride lengthened.

  Colored globes gleamed in the sailing ships’ rigging and along the rails of the steamships. And instead of dim lamplight, ships’ cabins and the port authority offices were brilliantly illuminated.

  “They’ve got aether lights,” Michael exclaimed.

  Christopher nodded. “Like us. Ships out to sea when the aether storm struck wouldn’t have been as damaged.”

  It could have been a scene from months ago, except—the port buildings didn’t serve functions quite so official anymore. Above the doors, newly painted planks advertised, “Nancy’s,” “Fair Trade Winds,” and “The Soiled Dove.”

  Sailors carried small parcels or bags into Fair Trade Winds, but the ships rode low in the water and nobody unloaded them. Each laden cargo ship had a contingent of armed sailors pacing the decks. Unlike the portside crowd, they looked quite sober.

  Three large steamships had cast anchor farther out in the harbor, instead of docking at the port. Odd, but Michael didn’t dwell on it. There was plenty to keep his attention on the ships that were docked. Yellow, green, and blue globes dangled from a sailing ship’s rigging, waiting to be kindled to light. On the steamship beside it, a man leaned against the chimney stack and peered through a spyglass at new New York. As Michael stared along the long line of docked ships, he saw sailors moving in the rigging, tightening ropes or checking sailcloth, and—

  Michael stared hard at a sailin
g ship with Beauty’s Reward written along its side. It had a muscular male Triton for a figurehead instead of a buxom mermaid, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. Something skittered along the mizzen mast, something too small and too quick to be a human.

  “Did you see that? There!” Michael grabbed Christopher’s sleeve and pointed to the Beauty’s Reward.

  “What?”

  “I saw him. I think. Come on!”

  Without waiting for a response, Michael trotted across the dock to where he’d seen—something. When he reached the Beauty’s Reward, he stopped in front of the lowered gangplank and shouted, “Ahoy, the ship!”

  Then he waited.

  And waited.

  Something moved in the ship’s rigging. The sails blocked it from view, but it cast a monstrous and distorted shadow—one in which four legs and a tail were discernable.

  “Doom!” Michael hollered as he bolted up the gangplank.

  “Shit!” Christopher swore.

  Michael ignored that, as he ignored the sound of Christopher pursuing him as he galloped onto the ship, across its deck, past the center mast, and—

  A lady stepped out from behind the mizzenmast and aimed a revolver at his heart.

  Michael froze. Behind him, the thump of Christopher’s footsteps also halted abruptly.

  She wore a tight pair of men’s trousers, a red-and-gold embroidered waistcoat, a red sash at her waist, and a second gun tucked into it. Her sun-streaked brown hair was bound back in a tight, practical braid. Michael hardly knew where to look, but he settled on her face.

  Once she had Michael’s full attention, she smiled.

  Michael revised his first impression from “lady” to “female.” He didn’t know of any ladies who filed their teeth like that!

  “If there’s doom to be found here today,” she said, her tongue slithering a little around the points of her teeth, “it’s yours. Now, you have one chance to tell me why you boarded the ship crying my doom.”

  Michael’s world narrowed down to the dark, hungry mouth of the Colt Navy revolver, and the hand that held it.

  “Last chance,” she said pleasantly. She cocked the hammer on the gun.

  Michael’s breath rasped loud in his ears. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything but stare down the barrel of that revolver.

  “No!” Christopher shouted from behind him.

  The noise jerked Michael out of his paralysis. Reflexively, he lurched forward.

  A thunderclap split the day, and something hit Michael hard enough to knock him to the deck. Fluffy white clouds floated through the bright blue sky above him. Where did the thunderbolt come from? His head spun, but he tried to sit up. He put his arm out to brace himself. It folded under him.

  Then he felt the pain burning through him. He collapsed. His cheek crashed to the polished wooden deck. A red slick oozed across the deck in front of him.

  Oh, he thought. She shot me.

  It seemed like the right time to pass out, so he did.

  Chapter 12

  ~* * *~

  Monkey Business

  Not Far From New York City

  It was late afternoon, and nobody had returned yet from New York. The circus sat idle.

  Nobody else had noticed that the fortune teller was missing. That excitement was still to come. I could have told everyone that she hadn’t returned after her walk into the woods—but I still wanted a way to persuade the Indian mahout to be on my side, even if I didn’t know yet how useful he would be. I needed to figure out what he wanted. The fortune teller had walked into the woods. He had followed her. He had returned. She had not. Why? I thought if I could only ask just the right question, I would learn the key to everything. Of course, I would have to be careful, or he might “take me for a walk in the woods.”

  That afternoon, he never came over to the same side of the circus camp as me, leaving me frustrated. Betty and Roxane were chattering about fashionable dresses or some such tedious subject.

  Maybe, I thought, I’ll make Betty and Roxane go into the woods with me tonight. I might learn what happened to the fortune teller. And that would give them something more interesting to talk about!

  In retrospect, I’m very grateful that I did no such thing. If I had, our bones would be moldering in that forest, a freak show curiosity for anyone who found them.

  ~ * ~

  Michael Hunter, the Animal Handler

  Port Rumsey, New York City

  Michael opened his eyes. It felt like he’d just closed them, but the sky above him was a darkening, cloudless blue and the shadows of the ship’s rigging had shifted around him. Why was he lying on his back, anyway? Christopher, the new ringmaster-in-training, sat nearby. Maybe he knew why. Michael tried to speak, but it came out as a harsh croak.

  Christopher jumped. “He’s awake!” he called.

  A woman’s head intruded into Michael’s field of view. She smiled broadly, showing rows of sharpened teeth that a shark would be proud of. “How are you feeling?”

  “Gah!” Michael pushed himself upright and backpedaled away from her. Memory returned. “You shot me!” he accused her. Then, “Hey, why doesn’t my arm hurt anymore?”

  He lifted his arm and moved it back and forth. It wasn’t entirely true that it didn’t hurt anymore, but the searing pain had muted to a dull ache. He studied himself. A scorched hole decorated the right side of his shirt, just below his collarbone. He poked his finger in the hole.

  “Yowch!” he yelped, jerking his hand away. His head swam.

  “I wouldn’t say your arm doesn’t hurt anymore,” Christopher said dryly, “but you won’t die. Captain Angie was kind enough to use some of her store of bone aether to knit you back together.”

  “Captain—?”

  “He’s muzzy-headed from blood loss,” the woman said. “I’ve seen it before.” She made a mock curtsey. “Angie Endo, Captain of the Beauty’s Reward.”

  The movement dizzied Michael. He shut his eyes. Then they sprang open again as what she’d said earlier penetrated. “You wasted bone aether on me?”

  Even before the storm, if he’d broken a bone or been careless around something with sharp teeth, he’d healed in his own time. Bone aether was too expensive to waste on anything less than a life-threatening wound. He shuddered to think how expensive it must be now, after the storm spoiled most of it.

  “You sprang a pretty good leak,” Captain Angie said. “I’d rather not kill somebody by mistake. Besides,” she grinned, “I want to go to the circus.”

  Michael shook his head. The world didn’t spin around him. His head must be clearing. How had he gotten here? He and Christopher had come into New York with the others and then split off to look for Mr. Ben Doom. A booze-addled bum had suggested they look for the monkey with the sailors. They’d gotten to the port—and boy was it different from the subdued, fearful city! He’d been looking at the ships and he’d seen—.

  “Doom!” he hollered.

  Captain Angie buried her face in her hand. “Not this again!”

  “At least you know not to shoot him this time,” Christopher said. “Hey!” He put his hand on Michael’s uninjured shoulder and shook him. “It wasn’t your monkey, okay? It wasn’t Mr. Ben Doom.”

  Michael stopped. “It wasn’t?”

  “No. It was hers.” He nodded to Captain Angie. “Go on.”

  She put her fingers to her mouth—the proximity to all those pointed teeth made Michael wince—and whistled. Something scuttled through the rigging above them. Michael looked up, just as a four-legged thing plummeted down to land on the deck.

  It had the size and shape of a monkey, but if Michael had seen more than its shadow, he never would have mistaken it for Mr. Ben Doom. Like the circus’ aether-powered elephant, this had been made from the bones of a living creature, but it was a far cruder creation than the elephant. Instead of the morbid elegance of bone and brass, a patchwork of dog hide covered it up to the skull. Underneath that
loose skin, gears and joints shifted awkwardly.

  The monkey-creature ran over to them with a weird, jerky scuttling motion and crouched beside Captain Angie. Naked bone grinned at Michael when it turned its head in his direction.

  Michael shuddered and looked away. “No,” he said. “That’s not Mr. Ben Doom.”

  Late afternoon sun sparkled on the waves in the harbor. A breeze ruffled the slack sails. Beside the powerful, towering modern steamships, Captain Angie’s sailing ship seemed quaintly old-fashioned.

  “You don’t know where our monkey is, do you?” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the other ships.

  “No.” She sounded sorry. “He’s not in the port, though. I would have heard. We’re all bored silly—word of something new would spread like syphilis.”

  He had nothing to say to that. Silence stretched.

  Eventually, she said, “I’m just glad I’m not captain of a steamship.”

  Startled, Michael glanced at her. She wasn’t looking in his direction. She’d followed his gaze to the modern ships berthed nearby. “What? Why?” he asked.

  “Why do you think so many of them are still sitting in port? They don’t want to waste their aether catalyst unless they have a damn good reason. Me, I’m free to travel wherever the wind blows.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  She smiled wryly. “I have a cargo to sell. Here seems as good a place as anywhere else—at least they haven’t stormed the dock. Yet. The military forts are on our side, and the commissioner is keeping a tight rein on his people. You might not think it—” she waved her hand at the licentiousness on display, “but this is one of the safest ports around. The dock might get a little rowdy—” on land, a shouted argument was resolved when one of the disputants smashed a bottle over the head of the other, “—and the commissioner might just be waiting for his chance, but there’s a lot worse out there.”

  She stared out over the sun-sparkling water, but she was seeing something else.

  “You were out to sea when the storm hit,” Christopher said softly. “This wasn’t the first port you tried, was it?”