The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files)

by Frank Tuttle

  I was glad we’d brought two wagons. Otherwise, we might have gotten separated in the crowd. Instead, we let the eager throngs surge around us. We stayed put until the plaza was navigable again.

  Still, people arrived. Some on foot. Some in cabs. Some in private carriages. Many bore picnic baskets or blankets. Swords hung from most belts. What better way to prove you were a veteran than to produce your own sword, with your unit insignia stamped right there on the blade?

  With the crowd down to manageable levels, I urged our ponies forward, and through the gates we went.

  The mob made a beeline for the ferry landing. We were too far back to hear the shouting, but close enough to see half a dozen ferry clowns tossed into the water when they tried to deny boarding to the first wave of eager freeloaders.

  Clowns floated past, cussing and thrashing as the current bore them away. I granted them a cheerful wave as they passed.

  “Free food and drink,” I offered, as the clowns vanished from sight. “At least you got the free drinks.”

  Darla tapped my shoulder. “Think fast,” she said. “Your new friend doesn’t look happy.”

  Captain Holder, mounted on an Army paint that managed to look as grumpy as her rider, rode up beside me.

  “I should have known,” he said. “Dammit, I should have known.”

  “You appear to have lost your cigar,” I said. “May I offer you one of mine?”

  “You can tell me what the hell it is you’re up to,” he said. “Got word of a near riot at the gate. Found this.” He held up a wadded ad, from the City Daily. “Now I’ve found you.”

  “I don’t own any newspapers,” I said. “I’m just here to enjoy a free meal.”

  “You and half of Rannit. Free meal my ass. Pardon my language, Mrs. Markhat.”

  I found a cigar in my jacket and offered it to him. He scowled at it, as though sizing it up for shackles, but he grunted and snatched it away and stuck it unlit in his mouth.

  “My men claim two thousand people have already gone through the gate,” he said. He pointed back toward the water, where a number of small fishing boats were converging and taking on passengers. “More are headed this way. No way can that carnival outfit hold them all, much less feed and entertain them.”

  “I agree, Captain. Offering free victuals to the thrifty, bargain-savvy people of Rannit would be a foolish move on the part of any business. Why, one will hardly be able to walk, amid the crowd. And most of them armed too! Tut-tut. Still, the carnival folk are outsiders, and know little of big city ways.”

  “You deny this is your doing?”

  “I deny it.”

  He muttered an unsavory word around the butt of my rather good cigar. I covered Darla’s ears with my hands.

  “Such language,” I said. “Desist thy hooliganism, I say, or I shall be forced to file an official complaint.”

  He repeated his word, spurred his clearly annoyed mare, and off he went, barking orders no one obeyed.

  Darla lowered my hands. “One day you’re going to put him in a bad temper,” she said.

  “Everyone needs a hobby.”

  The flotilla of tiny boats grew. People clambered aboard them, laughing and smiling. Coins fell into the hands of poor fishermen, who made room for as many as their ragged boats could bear.

  Someone on the carnival ferry found the horn and blew it. On the far bank, a mastodon trumpeted and hunched its shoulders as it hauled the ferry back across.

  We joined the growing crowd at the water’s edge, and awaited our turn.

  Mama pulled her cleaver out of her sack halfway down the forest road to the carnival.

  People saw, and some whispered, but no one dared challenge her.

  I said nothing myself. Mama hadn’t talked about whatever she’d seen in the woods last night. She’d returned weary and silent and with the hard look of murder boiling behind her bright Hog eyes.

  She’d put a fresh edge on her cleaver. She was rubbing the blade with a scrap of cloth, one end of which was tied off to form a wet ball. Whatever fluid was inside the rag left a thick yellow stain on her cleaver’s edge. I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell.

  Slim lay curled around the rotary guns. Both were concealed by a tarp. He’d grunt occasionally when our wagon struck an exposed root. He still stank, but not of whiskey, and when we’d spoken earlier his words had been neither slow nor slurred. I was glad of that. Even a runt Troll is still a Troll, and I knew we’d need him before the night was done.

  He’d nearly balked when I insisted Alfreda remain at The Cat and Fiddle. He’d launched into a long rambling Troll narrative that seemed to indicate she was the key to his redemption from disgrace. “The innocent,” he called her. It was only when I pointed out that she’d most certainly be torn apart on sight by the carnival folk that he relented.

  Sara and Victor lurked somewhere in the trees. They’d returned from their reconnaissance of the previous night to report that the carnival was rebuilding, getting ready for another show as if nothing had happened.

  More troubling than that was the fate of the clowns and roustabouts we’d slain before the mastodons charged. Most had simply risen and gone back to work with the sunrise. The ones which remained dead were burned along with the trash.

  There was no rush to escape. No frenzied building of fortifications. The ruined balloons were folded and moved inside a tent, and Sara claimed no one was even working to repair them.

  The War taught me you may face one of two enemies—wise ones, or foolish ones. I’d never really decided which was more dangerous. Smart enemies left escape routes open, never got trapped, would stop fighting and run if they saw the day was lost. A wise enemy is more likely to gain the upper hand, but if they didn’t, the battle was likely to end quickly.

  Foolish enemies wound up with their backs to the wall, with no way out. Left with no options but to fight, they’d fight, to the death. Your death or theirs, the odds were nearly the same.

  The carnival’s ticket gates came into sight.

  All were toppled. Scraps of paper littered the ground, blew about in the early evening breeze. A few clowns wandered, flailing their big red gloves in vain, getting punched and kicked as they sought to turn back the tide that had already flooded the midway.

  “Let’s get this done,” I said.

  “Damn right,” said Mama. Her cleaver gleamed blood red in the setting sun. “I aims to put paid to a witch or two.”

  “Let’s get Buttercup first,” I said. I clambered down, set the brake, tied the ponies to a bush. “Slim, wait till dark. Gertriss. Get the guns set up.”

  “Won’t they see?” she asked.

  “I hope so.”

  She threw back the tarp and got to work.

  Within minutes, another trio of wagons pulled up. The first two pulled an honest-to-Angels cannon and a crew of four grinning Avalante day folk. The last wagon bore the single biggest rotary gun I’d ever seen.

  “Mr. Prestley sends his regards,” said one of the drivers, before leaping to the ground. “Where do we stage, and who do we shoot?”

  “Set up right over there,” I said, pointing to a spot ten yards away. “If you see a balloon go up, please shoot it down. Same for any broomsticks. Hell, anything that flies. You got enough ammunition for multiple targets?”

  The man’s grin widened. “Mister, we brought enough ammunition to light this place up all night. Broomsticks? As in fairytale witches?”

  “Believe it or not,” I said.

  “It flies, it dies,” he said. He saluted and turned on his heel, barking orders and stomping.

  “Is that smart, hon?” asked Darla.

  “Not sure,” I said. “My turn to be unpredictable, though. Mama. You got the banshee-hair rope and the hexed stump water?”

  She handed over both without a word of protest.

&
nbsp; A fresh crowd of revelers came hurrying down the forest road. The clowns that dared protest their arrival vanished beneath a wave of boots and hats. The sun wasn’t set, but the sky was as dim as a bank of old coals, and I looked across the packed carnival midway and decided we were close enough to dark.

  “Slim, get up. You’re with Mama.” The Troll rose. He hefted what appeared to be a section of railroad track. “And don’t say die well,” I added, before he could speak. “The idea is to live.”

  He chuckled, but leaped easily down from the wagon to tower over Mama’s squat frame.

  “Sara? Victor? I know you’re nearby. I assume you’re with Gertriss?”

  Two halfdead, each clothed in loose black hooded garments, appeared by the wagon. Each nodded their pale face in silent assent. “Good,” I said. “Remember the black tent. You can’t see it unless you know it’s there, but now you know. Find it, but don’t go in. Find me. You see Thorkel, find me.”

  “I sees that witch, I’m gonna kill her dead on sight,” said Mama. “Then I’ll come find ye.”

  “Fair enough. One more thing. Thorkel isn’t behind all this. Neither is the witch. We need to find the heart of the carnival and stick a blade in it.”

  Mama frowned. “What the hell does that mean, boy?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Keep it in mind, though. Good luck. You, on the cannons. Anything big and ugly shows its face, open fire. Got it?”

  “Yessir!”

  Slim looked down at Mama. “Live well,” he said to her. She guffawed and stomped off toward the midway.

  Gertriss turned to face me. “Good luck, boss,” she said. Flanked by Sara and Victor, she melted into the crowd.

  “Just you and me,” I said to Darla. “Fancy a candied apple?”

  She took my arm, and we waded in while the cannon crews banged and hammered.

  The midway was at a near standstill.

  People milled about, yes, but only at a shuffle. Food carts were surrounded. A few had been commandeered by civic-minded Rannites, who were handing out free hot dogs and sticky buns over the protests of carny clowns.

  Every sideshow tent was surrounded. Every one sported a line. If the tent had a stage, the seats were full.

  A few carnival barkers shouted and waved, exhorting the masses in their usual fashion. I saw one try to hold back the crowd, only to be laughed aside and pushed to the ground for his trouble.

  The noise was impressive. So far, the crowd sounded happy. I hoped that would last as long as the hot dogs and beer held out.

  “What now?” asked Darla, close by my ear.

  “Look for a black tent,” I said. “Don’t let it tell you it isn’t there. It is, and now that you know that, you can see it.”

  She nodded and looked about.

  So did I. I recognized several tents. Malus was struggling to put on a show, despite the catcalls and debris hurled his way by the crowd. He held forth his hat, turned it upside down to prove it was empty, and a man leaped onto the stage, grabbed the hat, and ran off with it. When Malus’s veiled young assistant tripped the hat-thief and jumped on him, the crowd roared in applause.

  The Man of Bones peeked out of his tent just in time to see the crowd surge inside, probably bowling him over in the process.

  Only Vallata the swamp witch remained nonplused by the fray. Her handful of water moccasin snakes kept the mob at bay. Vallata spat at the crowd, laughing in their faces as she lunged, wielding the fat black snakes like weapons.

  “Won’t do her much good when Mama finds her,” I said.

  “What?” shouted Darla.

  I mouthed the words ‘never mind’ and we forced our way through the crowd.

  Darla spotted the black tent first.

  “I see it,” she said, squeezing my hand.

  “Don’t point,” I replied. “Keep your eyes on it.”

  I followed the direction of her gaze. At first I saw nothing but the puppet master Brin’s tent and a row of outhouses. I blinked, and the black tent appeared.

  “Got you,” I muttered.

  “So we just walk in?”

  I shoved my way through the crowd, keeping Darla close. I was a little less genteel than I’d usually be with my pushing, because I was determined not to take my eyes off the tent. A few of the shoved cussed or offered colorful speculation regarding my parentage and upbringing, but we made it to the tent-flap before the black tent could vanish.

  People passed right by us, not seeing us, not quite touching us. I wondered briefly what would happen if I started knocking off hats from within the tent’s area of invisibility.

  Darla crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

  “I don’t like this place,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” I said. “But we won’t be staying long.” I pulled my knife out of my boot.

  “There’s the flap,” said Darla.

  I started at the ground and cut a slit as tall as I am in the side of the tent. “Going to make my own door,” I said. “Safer this way.”

  She pulled a pistol, checked the cylinder. “Whoah there,” I said. “This is as far as you go.” Before she could protest, I shoved my knife back in my boot and fished Mama’s banshee-hair rope out of my belt. “Your job is to stay here and hold one end of this.”

  She spoke a word I’m sure she learned from Captain Holder.

  “Hon. Love of my life. Buyer of lovely boats. I’m not trying to trick you into staying safe. One, because nowhere in this carnival is safe. Two, holding on to this rope might be the only thing that keeps Mr. Tent here from messing with my space and time. Three, because if I yank hard, it means pull me out in a hurry.”

  Her glare softened, but not by much.

  “We both go in, it might keep us both lost,” I said.

  “You got out before.”

  “I did,” I said. “I tricked it. I don’t want to bet my life on that same trick working twice. I need you to do this, hon. Please.”

  She took the end of the banshee-hair rope. “All right. I’m not happy, but all right. Kiss me.”

  I kissed her.

  Then I tied the rope through a belt-loop and stepped through the tear into the dark.

  The same eerie silence and sense of vast emptiness greeted me. The floating candles, though, were gone.

  I’d anticipated that. A new box of Red Cat matches waited in my right coat pocket.

  I lit one, held the match up, let it burn.

  The black tent was empty.

  No candles. No ranks of mirrors. No rows of monsters. There weren’t even any cobwebs. The place appeared to have been scrubbed clean.

  The match burned out. I cussed and lit another.

  “This changes nothing,” I said. “I will find her. If it means burning as I go, so be it. I brought lots of matches.”

  I laid the burning match against the dry burlap, let the eager flame have a taste.

  Thorkel appeared ten long strides away. He looked as he did the last time we’d met, right before I killed him.

  “Thought that might get your attention,” I said. “Now we either have some light, or I’ll provide my own.”

  Candles appeared, here and there. I blew out my match.

  “You are foolish to return,” said Thorkel.

  “You’re foolish for not leaving,” I said. “So we’re both fools. Thing is, you’ll soon be a dead fool, and I’ll be a live one.” I took a single stride forward, glad the banshee-hair rope stayed taut. “Where is she?”

  “You’ll never find her,” he said. “Burn what you will. She is ours now. Forever.”

  “See, that’s foolish, thinking you have forever. You don’t even have tomorrow.”

  Thorkel walked toward me, tapping his shiny cane on the ground. I let him come, though the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and tried
to march away.

  “We are ageless,” he said. Tap tap tap went that damned cane. “Older than your Kingdom. Older than the land itself. And you think to cut us down with your crude iron weapon?”

  “It worked once,” I said. “Worked well, as I recall.”

  “I will not fall again.”

  “Suit yourself, sport,” I said. “Not that it matters. You’re nothing but a puppet. Not much different that the ones old Brin out there makes. It’s not you I’m after. The carnival’s heart. That’s what I’ll kill. The heart dies and you all fall down. Nothing left but wigs and sawdust.”

  “I will free the mirror-folk,” he said. His painted eyes shone dull in the dim candlelight. “Set them upon you.”

  “You would if you could,” I said. “But you can’t do that for hours yet, can you? Until then, you’re stuck with a mob of drunk roustabouts, a few dozen clowns, and Malus the Magnificent. He might be able to confound me with handkerchief tricks, and he might not. So either tell me where the girl is, or I start setting fires.”

  He raised his foppish cane. The head of it shone red.

  “I have the Hall of Horrors,” he said.

  “Indeed you do,” I replied. I struck another match, dropped the open box of matches at the base of the tent, let the lit match fall atop its brethren. “Here’s some light to read by.”

  Matches flared. Flames rose up.

  Thorkel brought down his cane like a club. I raised Toadsticker, shoved his cane aside, whacked Thorkel’s right cheek with the flat of my blade.

  He seemed surprised.

  “Saving my crude iron gun for later,” I said with a wink. “Meet Toadsticker, slayer of badly-dressed puppets.”

  He swung his cane sideways. The end glowed so bright it cast wild shadows.

  I batted the cane aside, snatched his top hat, hurled it away.

  He roared. The sound he made wasn’t a scream, wasn’t a growl, wasn’t anything a human throat ever made. He roared and his cane blazed a pure snow white and he loosed that light upon me in a bolt of silent lightning.

  Toadsticker caught it up, pulled it from the air. Coils of blinding light wrapped around the blade, and the hilt grew cold as ice, and there was a soundless flash.