by Tom Becker
On they went, until the streetlamps came to an end and the road broadened and began to incline into the darkness. Judging by the juddering of the carriage, the surface was even more potholed and uneven. Up ahead lay the winding descent to Bleakmoor, and as Jonathan looked to the skyline, he caught sight of a large animal padding amongst twisted trees. The creature threw its head back and unleashed a howling lament; Carnegie raised his head in answer, his eyes glinting.
“We here! We here!”
At the front of the carriage, Verv bounced up and down and pointed over to a large field, on which a makeshift village of tents and booths had been erected. Spinoza’s Fairground was deserted and dark, save for the far end of the field, where a ring of burning braziers formed an honour guard around one of the large tents.
The bottom deck quickly disgorged the Troupe and a bewildered selection of passengers out on to the pavement. As Jonathan and Carnegie made their way gingerly down the steps, one with bruises on his neck, the other still nauseated, Correlli gave them a quizzical look.
“What happened to you two?”
“Don’t ask,” muttered Carnegie. The wereman pushed his hat up on to his forehead, and sized up the iron gates before him.
“So the magician’s hiding in here, is he? This looks likes a suitably nasty little hideaway. Anything we should know about before we go in? I hate surprises.”
Correlli shrugged. “The fair closed down years ago, and this place has been deserted ever since. I haven’t been here since Ariel died. There are . . . too many memories. Mountebank knows it like the back of his hand, though, and there’s no telling what he’s been up to. In fact, I’d be very surprised if he wasn’t watching us right now.”
Jonathan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He glanced around the fairground entrance, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of the treacherous albino.
“Very encouraging,” Carnegie growled sarcastically. “I guess I’d better take the lead then.”
He reached forward to push the gates open, but Correlli caught his hand. “Not this time,” he said softly. “Not with this man. I will lead.”
The fire-eater pulled a long, curved knife from his belt and prised the creaking gates open with his free hand. Then he led them inside the fairground.
Even in the half-light it was clear that it had been many years since anyone had entered the fair to ride one of the amusements or play a game. Overgrown grass and weeds grabbed imploringly at Jonathan’s feet, while the wind sliced through gaping holes in the canvas tents. Peering at a passing row of stalls, he could make out faded signs caked with mud advertising games of Hoopla, Bullseye and Try Your Luck. The tattoo parlour was empty, the sketches of possible designs faded beyond recognition.
The Troupe trampled along the wide grassy walkways, eyes straining into the darkness as they sought out the magician. But Mountebank was nowhere to be seen. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, Correlli called them all together.
“At this rate it’s going to take all night,” he reported. “We’re going to have to split up.”
“Is that a good idea?” Jonathan asked anxiously.
“No – but we haven’t got much choice. We’re running out of time. Look, you and Raquella stay with Carnegie. The rest of us’ll split up. If you see so much as a glimpse of Mountebank, shout out. We’ll come running. And remember who we’re dealing with here – keep your wits about you, and for Ripper’s sake, don’t get distracted.”
The rest of the Troupe nodded, and went their separate ways.
Verv tiptoed past a row of booths, making engine noises under his breath. Away from the wheel, without a rein to tug or an accelerator to press, he felt bored. On foot, everything just moved so slowly. Secretly, Verv didn’t really care whether they found the magician or not; he just wanted to get back to the omnibus and head out on the roads again.
“Psst! Verv!” a voice whispered. It sounded like Correlli.
The driver spun round, almost in a full circle. The voice had come from inside a small wooden hut with round eyeholes cut into the walls. A sign above the hut declared “Mistress Margherita’s Menagerie of Freaks – Look Inside At Your Own Peril!” Verv ambled closer.
“Hey, bossman, what you doing in there?”
“I’m trapped!” the voice replied. “Look!”
Verv scratched his head. Correlli had warned them all to be careful, and now here he was trapped in a freakshow booth! It was a good job Verv was here to get him out of a jam. The driver pressed his eye up against the wall and looked through. There was no sign of the fire-eater, only a figure cloaked in darkness. Verv was about to ask who he was when the figure produced a watch from his pocket and swung it from side to side.
“It’s a nice watch, isn’t it, Verv?” the figure said softly. “Look at the way it shines. It’s almost enough to make you forget about anything else, isn’t it?”
Verv would have nodded in agreement, but he was too busy staring at the watch, marvelling at its gleaming silver surface and the lazy, easy swings it made through the air. Other thoughts – those of magicians and hostages, even those of speed – drifted from his head like summer clouds as Verv’s world was swallowed up by a watch face.
Having fallen out over which direction to go in search of Mountebank, the twins went on in frosty silence, stepping lightly over tangled guy ropes. It was Fray who noticed the building near the fence with its open door banging in the breeze. She tapped her twin on the arm and pointed at it.
“I bet you he’s hiding in there. Looks exactly like the sort of rat trap he’d feel safe in.”
Nettle shrugged, which was the closest she came to agreeing. The discovery of Mountebank’s treachery had put her in a fouler mood than usual, and Fray hated to think what would happen if her twin caught up with the magician.
“Listen,” she whispered. “There’s no telling what’s in there. We need to come up with some sort of plan.”
“Here’s a plan – how about you stay out of my way?”
“Wait. . .!”
Nettle roughly shook off her sister’s arm and bounded up to the building and through the door. Stunned, it took Fray a couple of seconds to run after her. She found herself in a darkened passageway with smooth walls. Stumbling onward, she found that the passage twisted and turned like a maze. Her twin was nowhere to be seen.
“Nettle?”
The lights clicked on. Fray gasped. A hundred Frays gasped back. Everywhere she looked there were Frays. She took a small step forward into what looked like the passageway, only to bump up against glass. Where she had come from and where she needed to go to was a mystery. She was utterly disoriented.
There was a movement in the mirror in front of her, and she saw Nettle staring back at her.
“It’s a Hall of Mirrors!” Fray cried out.
Nettle clicked her tongue with disapproval. “I thought I told you to wait for me?” she said peevishly. “You have to follow me everywhere, don’t you?”
Fray went pale.
“Oh, what is it now?” her twin snapped. “Do you want me to come and rescue you?”
From nowhere, Mountebank was leaning idly alongside Nettle. The magician grinned.
“Nettle!” Fray screamed. “He’s behind you!”
Nettle turned, but it was too late: Mountebank roughly clamped a rag over her face. As her twin began kicking and screaming furiously, Fray raced forward to help her, only to crash headlong into another mirror. Dazed, she wiped a hand across a forehead; it came away wet with blood.
Across the Hall of Mirrors, Nettle had slumped to the floor. The magician was standing over her body, openly laughing at Fray’s desperate attempts to reach them. She would wipe the smile from his face when she got her hands on him. Fray crashed into another mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces. She was bleeding heavily now, but she didn’t care. She would break
all the mirrors in the damn hall if necessary. Nettle was in touching distance now. With a high-pitched scream, Fray launched herself over her twin and towards Mountebank.
An arm stretched out from behind her and grabbed her by the hair, bringing her down to the ground with a savage thump. Immediately Mountebank’s arm was fastened around her neck, choking her.
“First rule of magic, little bird,” he hissed in her ear. “Nothing is what it seems. Now let’s see if we can’t clip your wings a little.”
Fray felt a damp cloth pressed over her mouth and an acrid smell burning her nostrils, and with a sickening sensation she realized that Mountebank had got them both.
As he wandered through the dormant attractions, Antonio Correlli felt eerily calm, peaceful even. It felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had spent so many years questioning what had happened between Ariel and Mountebank that fateful night. There had been times, bitter moments alone in bars, when he had almost believed the magician, that the woman he loved had double-crossed them. But now he knew the truth: Ariel had been murdered, and it was time to take his revenge.
It was primarily for this reason Correlli had split up the search party. He knew that Mountebank would come for him, and he didn’t want anybody else interfering. So the fire-eater made no effort to creep about unseen – he strode down the middle of the walkways, a flaming brand held high above his head. Finally, as he was passing the tall, red-and-white-striped tower that housed the helter-skelter, he heard someone whistling high above his head. It was a familiar tune – the funeral march.
Correlli craned his neck and saw Mountebank leaning over the platform at the top of the tower, next to the opening of the slide, which was coiled around the tower like a snake. Having discarded his mask of civility, the albino’s face was now twisted with hatred, and his red eyes burned with malice.
“How very typical,” he called down. “Antonio Correlli, striding around like a baboon.”
“Hello, Mountebank,” Correlli nodded calmly. “Are you coming down or am I coming up?”
“I’d stay on the ground if I were you. It’s awfully high up here, and I wouldn’t want you to have an accident like your girlfriend.”
The fire-eater grimaced. For that, he was going to make the magician suffer. Dark, violent thoughts racing through his mind, Correlli strode over to the ladder at the base of the tower and began hauling himself up towards the top. At the back of his mind he wondered whether any missiles would come raining down, but there were none. There was complete silence. Correlli emerged out on a rickety platform rocking in the wind, and was surprised to see that he was alone. The magician was gone. Looking out over the fair, he could see Carnegie, Jonathan and Raquella down by the big top, but there was no one else in sight.
The only way off the platform apart from the ladder was the helter-skelter itself. Correlli peered inside the black tube. Surely the magician hadn’t gone down here?
A hand planted squarely in the small of his back sent him toppling forward into the slide. He landed heavily on his chest. The floor of the tube was coated with grease, and before he could stop himself Correlli was hurtling headfirst down the slide, every curve sending him barrelling into the walls. As he continued his descent, picking up speed all the while, the fire-eater dimly realized that the pipe had not stopped at the surface but burrowed deep down into the ground. Then he exploded out of the slide, and into an underground pit filled with dank water.
Spluttering wildly, Correlli battled to the surface. As he wiped slime from his face, he caught sight of Mountebank sneering through a small grille high above him.
“I’ll be back for you when I’ve taken care of the others. Even you should have trouble starting a fire down there.”
Then the magician was gone, and all Correlli could see through the grille was the night sky. He dashed his forearm against the surface of the water in frustration.
“Jonathan!” he roared. “He’s coming for you!”
26
Carnegie’s head snapped up as he heard the cry ring out over the fairground. Beside him, Jonathan and Raquella exchanged worried glances.
“That didn’t sound good.”
The wereman shook his head. “Knew we should have stayed together. Come on.”
Carnegie began loping in the direction of the cry, the two teenagers hurrying to keep stride with him. The wereman’s movements were becoming more feral, his eyes filming over, and Jonathan knew that Carnegie was teetering on the brink of another transformation. It was the last thing he wanted. There was no telling what Carnegie might do in his beast form, and right now Jonathan needed him thinking clearly. He looked around, hoping to catch sight of another member of the Troupe, but the only movement was a tatty flag blowing in the breeze.
They came out on a large expanse of grass by the entrance to the Big Top. To one side was a giant carousel consisting of a circular wooden platform with a cylindrical core of rusty cogs and gears rising out of its centre. Like other carousels, there were model animals hanging down from the ceiling on steel poles, but instead of brightly painted horses, the creatures were imps and goblins with bared teeth and drawn weapons.
“What’s that?” asked Jonathan.
“The Melee-Go-Round,” answered Carnegie. “It’s a pretty vicious ride, even by Darkside standards. By the time it stops, only one of the mounts is safe. You’d have to have a screw loose to go on it.”
As they drew nearer the carousel there was a hiss of steam and the lights flickered into life, casting a tawdry red hue over the ride, and a scratchy record of screams and shouts crackled out over the loudspeakers. There was a bang and a puff of smoke, and suddenly Mountebank was standing before them. At his feet was a large blue box with silver stars painted on it.
“Welcome to my fairground.” He smiled thinly. “So glad you could make it.”
“Pleasure’s all ours,” Carnegie growled.
Mountebank tapped the box with one of his feet. “You got here just in time to watch me hand a rather special object over to Vendetta. I took the liberty of taking the Stone out of its casket and putting it in something rather more suitable.” His pink eyes filled with wonder. “It really is a most unusual item – not at all what I was expecting. I had half a mind not to sell it to Vendetta after all, but then he is making a most attractive offer. One that will allow me to live in the luxury I deserve.”
“That’s it?” Jonathan said bitterly. “All of this is just about money?”
Mountebank snorted. “This isn’t about money, Jonathan. It’s about magic. Don’t you see? Don’t you realize what you witnessed in Xavier’s mansion? The most dangerous, most dazzling Exploding Death ever performed! Mountebank the Magnificent needs no stage to prove that he is the greatest magician in Darkside!”
As the albino’s voice rose to a crescendo, Jonathan saw the only way he could get to Mountebank; the only hope he had of regaining the Stone. He laughed loudly.
“You?” he said mockingly. “The greatest magician in Darkside? That’s a laugh. You should be a comedian instead.”
Mountebank’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you know about the mysteries and intricacies of the magical arts, young man?”
“Enough to know that Carnegie found you in a fleapit playing to three people. Not very magnificent, if you ask me. I bet I’m a better magician than you. And I bet I can prove it.”
“You presumptuous imbecile,” Mountebank said, through clenched teeth. “How dare you mock me?”
“Surely the greatest magician in Darkside would accept my challenge. Unless he was scared, of course.”
With that, the magician snapped. “Mountebank the Magnificent fears nothing!” he screamed. “I’ll reduce you to a snivelling wreck, a messy pulp! What is your challenge?”
Jonathan flung his arms aloft in a flourishing theatrical gesture. “I challenge you to take part in
my most death-defying magic trick: Jonathan Versus the Melee-Go-Round!”
Raquella gasped. The magician tried to laugh, but his eyes were suddenly uneasy.
“Forget it, boy,” Carnegie rapped.
Jonathan ignored the wereman, and stepped forward to eyeball Mountebank. “Whoever wins gets to keep the Stone, and can truly call himself the greatest magician in Darkside. After all, that’s what it’s all about, remember?”
The magician pointed at Carnegie and Raquella.
“Those two have to wait in the Big Top. I don’t want them trying to save you.”
Carnegie growled ominously. “Why don’t you take me on instead of the boy?”
“It’s all right, Carnegie,” Jonathan said. “It’s up to me now.”
The wereman grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “This is beyond foolish, boy. This will kill you.”
“Don’t worry,” Jonathan replied. “I’ve got a trick up my sleeve too, you know.”
“It’s Jonathan’s choice, Carnegie,” Raquella spoke up. “He knows what he’s doing. Come on.”
She latched on to the wereman’s arm and dragged him reluctantly over to the Big Top. Trying to look braver than he felt, Jonathan strode past the magician and up on to the wooden platform. Though he had tried to reassure Carnegie, the truth was he didn’t have the faintest idea what to expect, or how he was going to survive. In the red glow of the lights, the mounts looked even more demonic. As he walked round trying to select one, Jonathan noted that not all of them were facing the same direction. Eventually he settled upon a glaring hellhound in the middle of a row of beasts, its neck twisting up and its jaws snapping at the sky. He pulled himself on to the back of the hound and wrapped his sweat-slippery palms around the metal pole.
