by Jules Hedger
"How did you know where we were?" Lucan shouted ahead to Leof at one point.
"It was the only dream around for miles," he answered, pulling out a compass from his brown suede jacket and analyzing the landscape. "And when we saw you had vacated your post, well . . ." He started to stroke the pistol up and down my spine and I heard Timothy giggle. "We assumed you had teamed up. Everyone is looking out for you. We were just lucky enough to find you first. Your brother is going to be so pleased to see you."
It wasn't long before we climbed over a dune and spotted a blotch of red on the sand, some half mile away.
"Home sweet home," Leof declared. Timothy clapped his hands excitedly. "I thought that we would wander through this heat for eternity."
"I would like think that wasn't a possibility," I said.
"You would, wouldn't you?" Leof cooed and nudged me forward down the other side of the dune.
It didn't take long to reach the dream. As we got closer the red blotch materialized as a large circus tent swirled in azure blue. A flag waved in the breeze and every so often the wind would hit the tent hard enough to make the tarp material fold in on itself, sending a loud crack into the air.
Stepping into the entryway, I had a few moments to allow my eyes to adjust as the other three trooped in. The inside of the tent was wreathed in shadows and the air was mercifully cooler. The small circle of sky at the top threw a beam of sun across the pounded sand floor, illuminating the ring of seats circling the performance area. They had an empty, lonely feeling, like the sounds and memories of happier, more colorful times haunted the shadows around them. Mounted on the sides of the ring were torches, unlit now but meant to pierce the darkness for the night showings. By all appearances, someone kept up this circus. But at this moment, there was no one there.
On the other side of the dimly lit chamber, another entrance was open. It didn't lead outside, but to a darker room where, presumably, the performers sat to wait for their entrances. That, or the place where I would be taken to die; either or.
"Now what, Leof?" Lucan said as we all turned to him. Leof smoothed a comb through his hair and lowered his pistol to the sandy floor.
"We've been told to wait out here," Leof said, pulling out a stick of licorice. He threw one to Timothy, who was bouncing up and down on his heels like a kid in line at the amusement park. He caught it clumsily and stuffed the whole string happily into his mouth. "Maggie, on the other hand, should keep going into the next room," Leof continued, tearing off a bite and chewing through a small smile.
Lucan moved to join me in front of the dark entrance, but didn't get very far before Leof pulled him roughly back. "Not you, white knight," Leof drawled. "You and that backpack can stay right here. If you're good I might even give you some candy."
Timothy laughed, sending spittles of black slime down the front of his shirt, and I felt the backpack slide off my shoulders. Hot, licorice breath wafted over my bare neck as Leof pushed me sharply forward with two fingers.
I chanced one more look behind my back at Lucan. He stared right back at me, his eyes searing and angry. I could tell he hated being bullied. He probably wasn't used to it. But he didn't flinch when more drops of gummed licorice hit his cheek as Timothy joyfully and ignorantly laughed in his face.
Lucan nodded subtly and I tried to smile. Daughter of Palet. Next in line to the throne. Drawing a deep breath, I took a step into the murky black and bit back a startled squeak as the tarp cover snapped down behind me like a thunder clap. And scared of the fucking dark.
I was suddenly pitched into total and complete disorientation. I could hear my inner voice willing me to stay quiet, to breathe lightly and not move, and fumbled at my neck for the dreamcatcher, which at this point was the bane of my life yet the only comfort left to me on my own.
A moment later, I caught the distinct sound of boots coming across to me in the dark. The footsteps thumped hard in the sand and stopped only a few feet away from where I stood. From which direction they had come, I had no idea; I had become so turned around. A match snapped itself into life, a spark of fire that lit up a man's face with a long nose lighting a brown cigarette. The man breathed in deeply and let the smoke curl out of his mouth like a twisting snake.
"What are you doing in here in the dark?" The man suddenly smiled. "Come into the light."
Chapter 16
The small, handheld radio beeped and fizzled in the corner of Marty's dark house. The channel it was tuned to was nothing in particular; certainly not one that played the latest chintzy folk or trumpet jazz, as was all the rage at that moment. No music came through at all. It was only white noise and static coming in over the air waves.
In another dark corner of the small, nondescript cottage on the edge of Sinthinian, a small town near the capital city of Grekegoria, Marty was mending the hole in his large bomber jacket. It would be winter in the Middle Canvas soon, although the temperature in New York would be a scorching stupid degrees Fahrenheit for the next year or so, at least according to his time sphere.
Not that I need to worry about that anymore, Marty thought grimly.
But every piece of clothing he had seemed to have had been decimated by moths or cigarette burns. And if it wasn't enough this stupid cottage had cracks in the plaster that welcomed in every passing draught . . .
"Ow!" Marty's flinched and instinctively stuck a finger in his mouth. He frowned at the tinny taste of blood and gave the needle his most disappointed look. It winked at him in the candlelight.
"What, the Caretaker is even darning his own socks? Painter, I don't get paid enough," he muttered under his breath.
"We keep telling you that you won't need that jacket once the troops move in. Your life as a civilian will be over and you can jump back into the fire." A young, blond-haired young man entered the small room, head almost brushing the slanted ceiling, and put down a cup of hot coffee. Marty grinned sheepishly and wrapped his hands around the clay handle.
"Nah, it gives my fingers something to do. If I didn't keep busy my mind would go crazy."
"Does it still hurt?" the young man said softly. Marty only shrugged and pulled the cup closer to his face.
"Niles, if it weren't for you I probably wouldn't have gotten through it."
"What are your comrades here for if not to help fight demons, personal or otherwise?" Niles took a dainty taste of his own drink and watched Marty breathe in the steam with an amused look in his eye. "And of course, you would have been no use to us at all clawing off your own skin. Draws too much attention."
Of course, thought Marty. Wouldn't want their cover blown by just one sloppy man in the throes of withdrawal. He closed his eyes and let the wet heat plaster the lids together. The static was still poking around the edge of his hearing, punctuated only by Niles's sips of the thick, spicy coffee.
"Well, if you need a distraction why don't you tell me a story?" He heard Niles say. Marty opened one eye and regarded him curiously.
It was all an ugly blur, muddled blues and screams leaving behind a lingering phantom pain in his gut. Or maybe it was just the remains of so much stomach acid sloshing around in there for so long. But coming down from heroin . . . was no walk in the park. Fuck, it wasn't even a drag by your thumbs through the park over a scattering of broken glass and hot asphalt. It was enough to send him over the edge – end it all to stop the fever dipping his body into the burning agony of a deep fat fryer.
And then the Riders sent Niles: blond, blue-eyed, incredibly smart and tucked into the coat pocket of General Hoyt, the head of the rebellion and the leader of the Riders. And despite his political advantages, for the past four days he had enjoyed mopping up Marty's vomit, wiping the sweat off his brow and holding his arms behind his back as he threatened to blow his brains out with the pistol he kept hidden under his mattress.
Painter forbid the undercover agent commit suicide before he got clean enough to be of any real use.
"You're asking me for a story?" Marty repeated incre
dulously. Niles nodded and looked back towards the radio.
"Yeah, something true. Something – hey! I know." He put down his mug and leaned forward on his elbows. His bangs flopped over charmingly and he fluttered those long eyelashes. "Tell me about the Daughter of Palet."
Painter, this guy . . . no wonder the General finds him so useful.
"Niles, don't use your wiles on me. I'm a grown man who has seen more than his fair share of stoplight seduction. If you want to know about a woman, just ask about her tits like any normal male."
Niles threw back his head and howled. The sound made Marty's head hurt but he couldn't help the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth. It felt good to make someone laugh again. He chuckled and shrugged, sticking the thick needle back in the tough leather of his jacket.
"Martin, you have about as much charm as the wrong end of a mule. But I like you very much."
"Thank you, Niles."
"And my boss likes you, too."
"Or else he wouldn't have sacrificed you for the sake of my increasing track marks," Marty added as he pulled through a long piece of thread. Niles's eyes followed the up and up, up and down of the movement; long, steady pulls and hands that only shook a little if one looked close enough.
"So then tell me straight. As a normal guy." Niles scooted his chair in closer to Niles. "Tits aside, tell me about Maggie."
Marty sighed at the lump in his throat. Emotions were obviously running heavy in his vulnerable state. But just the thought of his little stead raised a swelling of shame and possessiveness in his chest. He shot Niles a tense smile and sat back, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut out of habit.
"She's a good girl. Stable, and can take care of herself. More strength in her little finger than I have in my entire body."
"Well, she's blood of the Painter," Niles said expectantly, but stopped at the slow shake of Marty's head. "What, you're telling me she's a normal girl?"
"She's exceptional, Niles. But she's not magic. Want an example? She was strapped down to a table in one of Cirrus's worst nightmares. About to be gutted and stuffed like a life-size kewpie doll." Marty held up his needle and passed it back and forth through the wavering candle flame. "And somehow, some way, she escaped. She broke that dream apart. Literally."
Marty drew the needle out and they both watched the metal cool from a glowing orange back to dull silver.
"But it's smarts, not power. And she would see straight through your bullshit," Marty added as he punched the needle back through his jacket and tied off the knot. He bit the thread apart with a sharp snap.
"I consider myself warned," Niles murmured and Marty nodded.
At that moment the white fuzz of the radio in the next room screeched and squealed. Niles was on his feet in a moment, disappearing quickly out the door. Marty stood up painfully and, with a grimace, walked as steadily as he could after him.
The small, aerial radio was going absolutely crazy. Niles swept a stack of books and papers off the window seat and drew up so close to the sound he could swallow it. He didn't even notice Marty enter, roll his eyes at the scattered mess on the floor, and ease himself down again on the other end of the bench.
The darkness around them was split only by the small crack in the curtains of the back window. The glow shone through and lit up Niles's eyes: intent and silver in the moonlight.
The radio continued to squeal for a few more seconds before calming down to an even quiet. And then silence. But neither Niles nor Marty moved. Or spoke. Or even dared breathe.
Because softly, like the faraway voices of a ghost behind the grave, an announcement began. It started off on the weather and the most recent sightings of the Daughter of Palet on her Reign Walk. Marty shifted uncomfortably. Most radio stations were reporting on her, every hour on the hour. It was worse than the fucking World Cup.
And then casually, almost imperceptibly, the announcer began to mention the things they actually wanted to hear, mixed in with the news so smoothly anyone who happened to be flipping the channels would never have noticed. Niles stared at the brown whirls and swirls in the wood of the table, concentrating so hard it seemed his temples would burst out like overinflated balloons.
Three days left until the Reign Walk comes to an exhilarating close!
She is with the brother and they are nearing the edge.
Rumors have it Cirrus is already picking out the ring!
Families, friends and red kite are all readying themselves to meet their new Queen.
Keep all eyes peeled! Your help might be needed if they pass close by.
And from all of us here, we wish the Daughter of Palet luck, speed and iron blue strength!
The radio fizzled one last time and let out an ear-splitting screech. Marty reached forward quickly and switched it off before the sound woke the neighbors. The quiet pounded in their ears.
"So." Niles sat up and stared at the radio, as if he expected it to start talking again.
"Yes, so," Marty replied. Niles's deep eyes flickered over to him.
"Do you know what this means?" Niles whispered.
Marty did not. Of course he didn't! What insane person would deduce anything useful from that shitting news bulletin. It said nothing.
"It means, Marty," Niles continued after Marty's silence went on for too long, "that Maggie is close to entering the Middle Canvas. She's on the edge of the horizon with Lucan."
"Off the edge? They were that literal?!" Marty blew a breath out that tasted of bile. The Riders really needed to get a better cryptologist on their payroll.
"Yes, well they could have been a bit more discreet about it. But they are calling for urgent action. News like this can't wait for the slow minds to catch up."
Marty looked through his fingers at Niles resentfully.
"So who's catching her?" he asked. Niles gestured towards the radio, as if it was written there.
"Red Kite, obviously. They will be the closest to where she eventually falls." Niles rose swiftly and grabbed his jacket from where he had thrown it on the table the day he arrived. It was the gray, ironed official garb of high-ranking Riders and clinked with the weight of buttons along the arm. Pulling it on smartly, he looked down at Marty still sitting tiredly at the table. Marty knew what he was thinking.
He looks pathetic, but whole. Job done. He's alive.
"You have a choice, Martin. Time is almost up. You can go back in, report for duty and disappear back into the dark. We could use inside information now more than ever."
It all seemed so ridiculous and cloak and dagger, listening to the gray shadow of Niles talk about duty as he checked the ammunition in his pistol and peeked through the curtains at the desolate, cobbled street.
"Or what? Sit here and wait for the shakes to go away?" Marty asked. The distinct click of Niles's safety catch made Marty jump.
"Exactly. Keep your head low, be ready for the takeover. When we need you, we'll come. And we need you able to fight. Do you hear me, Martin?" Niles's stern face swooped out of the shadows, suddenly not so boyish and charming but intense and calculating. "Sword of iron blue, yes?"
Marty looked back at him as steadily as the twitch in his eye would allow.
"Yes. Sword of iron blue." Niles gripped his shoulder, giving him a squeeze more condescending than Marty was comfortable with, and then slipped quietly out the door and through the small front hall. Marty waited until he heard the front door close quietly, the metal door knocker clicking despite the light touch, before releasing his breath and stretching his neck backwards to the ceiling in relief.
He couldn't have even thought it to himself before, not with that poster-boy for the revolution bringing him water and rubbing his back – Niles seemed to know everything, before he even spoke it aloud – but he hated that guy. Just couldn't trust him.
And Marty was the first one to admit his judgment was a bit . . . iffy. But he asked himself, as he moved into the next room to blow out the candle and curl up in his crumpled bed, if Maggie w
ould trust him.
And the answer was no.
"I need to get out of this game," Marty whispered to himself.
Chapter 17
Across the sand, there floated a buzzing noise. The dreams heard it and disappeared for a while, hiding their faces in the sand and in the sky until the sound faded away. Then they peeked their heads out and looked around at each other. Something altogether new and different, much more dangerous and clever than any of them, had entered the Wilds and was flying towards something else with a fearsome determination. They went back to their paths, flitting in and out of the Wilds, but with a new caution.
They were no longer the most frightening nightmares in Palet.
***
And when she was bad, she was horrid . . .
The man took a moment to light a torch. The flame flared up to lick the dark air and in the light I saw that we were in the middle of a cluster of cages, many of them containing animals that must have been performers in the circus. It nearly broke my heart to look around at the menagerie of pure mourning that surrounded me.
A sad lion paced up and down, licking at the broken skin around his ankle chains. A group of bears sat in a circle and looked resolutely into the middle; their backs were stripped with candy-cane red welts. There was even a little monkey on his own who held his head between his hands like a lost child. I wanted to sweep them all to me and cover them.
A breath of smoke and my attention turned to what could only be described as the Ringmaster of them all.
