by Ben Galley
‘You asleep or somethin’, lad?’ Itch Magrey was staring at him beneath his hat. His calloused fingers rasped against his black stubble as he fulfilled his namesake.
‘Yes, I mean, no, Sir,’ Merion smiled politely, shaking himself from his introspection. ‘What was that?’
‘I asked if you was enjoyin’ the ride? And there ain’t no need to call me “sir”,’ he grunted, in a voice as tortured as his skin.
Merion couldn’t avoid looking at Itch’s hand, at the whorl of brown scarring that was his skin. ‘It beats walking,’ he replied, remembering his manners. ‘Hands down.’
‘Well I should hope so,’ Yara said, piping up over Itch’s shoulder. ‘Mister Magrey, why not get some exercise and walk Rizl. Let Merion sit up here so he can learn about my circus.’ She waved her hand at him.
‘Who’s Rizl?’ Merion asked.
‘The pony you’re ridin’, lad,’ Itch informed him, a fraction on the stern side, as the man hopped down from the wagon and reached for the pony’s reins. Merion preferred the name Berk.
‘Hop down then.’
Merion did so as gracefully as he could, slipping only once. Itch tutted. ‘I’m not good with ponies,’ Merion told him bluntly, before chasing after the wagon.
The driver’s bench was definitely far more comfortable than the hot leather saddle that had been starting to grate on his buttocks. Yara handed him a flask. ‘What is it?’ Merion asked. He had developed a natural distrust of other peoples’ drinks since meeting the Serpeds.
‘Water. Nice and cold,’ she replied, her Rosiyan accent sharp, hollow in the vowels.
Merion sipped it and found she was right. It felt as though waves were crashing inside his parched mouth. He hadn’t had a drink since breakfast and now the sun was high, as fierce as ever. Yara drummed on her knees while he took a few more gulps, and then drank some herself. After wiping her lips, she hummed. ‘Do you know what I have learnt over the years, Master Harlequin, travelling with this circus and the many before it?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Merion, with a smile. He could get used to sitting on a wagon.
‘I have learnt it is always easier to ask questions than to try and guess the answers.’
Merion looked out over the rocks and swaying yellow grasses. The desert was once again giving way to prairie. This time it seemed to be more permanent. ‘I don’t follow.’
Yara chuckled. ‘How about this: you ask me what you want to know, and I shall tell you, instead of me spinning you a long story that you may not want to hear?’
That certainly appealed to Merion’s curiosity. ‘Alright,’ he replied, daring to rub his hands. ‘That sounds fair.’ He bit his lip as he thought. The first question is always the toughest to choose. ‘How did you know I was a rusher? We could have been thieves, murderers even, on the run?’ That was of course true in many ways, but Yara did not need to know that.
The circus master tapped her nose. ‘A good question, and in truth, I did not, but that is where our handshake comes in. You might have just thought me strange, and wandered on your way, thinking nothing more. I had an inkling. Nobody stares at animals like rushers do. Like the look you had in your eye, when I took you back to the Shohari.’
Merion mulled that over. He had found himself staring at the beasts a little longer than perhaps necessary, wondering what their blood could hold for him.
‘Alright then, what brings you all the way out here to the frontiers?’ he asked next.
‘That is easy. This circus was born in a place like this,’ she began, waving her hand out over the desert. ‘In little towns where no day is ever the same, and people have to rely on their innate talents to survive. All it takes is a few performers or tricksters forming a troupe here and there. They cross paths, start talking,’ Yara put her fingers together. ‘An idea is formed. It was the same for Cirque Kadabra, born out of the ashes of campfires and the swilling of whisky, out of the life and love of the greatest circus master that ever lived, Kon Kadabra, magician and bloodrusher. He had a plan to protect us, others like him with a taste and a knack for blood and stages. He wanted to keep us together, safe, and make sure our dying art did not die so quickly. It will outlive him at least. He died in January. Cancer of the lungs, they said. Before the Mother took him into her arms, he had planned for us to come back west, and tour the old towns, to show wild America how far we had come.’
Merion nodded, taking it all in, trying to manhandle it into place in his head. ‘So where do you fit in? You weren’t born here, so how did you come to know this Kadabra fellow?’
‘Kon was a master salesman as well as a master showman. You see, bloodrushers are born to perform. A perfect little swindle, as he used to call it. We show them true magick, and they dismiss it as tricks. And because of that little lie, we can stun their minds with the truth. That is what he used to say. On stage we got to be ourselves, and the crowds flooded in. Kon toured the east, up and down the coast, and then jumped the ocean and toured Francia, Prussia, even your Empire. When he came to Rosiya, I was there. I had heard the rumours of a circus coming to Siyat, my hometown. It was a special one, my parents had told my friend Spetzig and I, as they walked us towards the lights. They knew what we were, and they wanted us gone. Rushing is unlucky, in the old country. It is a curse, the sort that brings pitchforks and torches to your door. We were brought to Kon, and he welcomed us in. I followed him for nine years.’
‘May I ask what his shade was?’
‘Kelpie, have you ever heard of it?’ Yara asked.
Merion shook his head.
‘It was how he did his greatest trick. The shade of the water-horse lets you breathe underwater for as long as the rushing lasts. He would lock himself up in chains and padlocks and throw himself into a glass tank, full to the brim. He would wait just long enough for the people to start screaming before he burst out, chains in one hand, hat in the other.’ Yara sighed wistfully, gazing at nothing in particular, a smile frozen on her lips.
‘That sounds fun,’ Merion replied. He was swiftly beginning to like this idea. All he had ever done with his shades was fight or survive. It might be fun to be able to show off with it.
‘And what is your shade?’ Merion asked.
Yara tutted mockingly. ‘Do you not know it is rude to ask outright?’
‘I didn’t, no. My apologies.’
‘No harm done, but I would caution you to remember that when you are speaking to the others. They might not be so as understanding as I am. It can be exciting, when you realise you are not alone in the world. But us rushers have a strange etiquette,’ Yara advised.
‘I am a dustkicker. I drink roadrunner blood out here. Kon was the one who honed my shade down, taught me how to use it well. In Rosiya, it rushed swift, which had almost the same effect. Reflexes and speed—perfect for a knife-thrower.
Merion half-expected her to pull out another dagger from her sleeve, or a knife from her tangled hair, but she refrained.
‘And what of you, Master Harlequin, if I may also be rude?’ Yara asked.
The boy took a breath. ‘I, er …’ he began. ‘I’ve got a few shades. And please, call me Merion.’
‘Lucky boy. Luckier than I, at most. There are only a few in my circus that can rush more than one shade.’
‘I’m a crackler, for a start.’
‘Electric eel, of course.’
‘And I’ve used armadillo before.’ Merion was quickly running out of things to suggest. ‘And I think I can use bat as well.’
‘Three shades, my my! The others will like you. Especially with the festival coming up.’
Merion’s ears pricked up. ‘What festival is that?’
Yara looked back along the wagon line, peering past Merion. ‘You mean your aunt has not told you?’
Merion frowned, befuddled. ‘No, I don’t believe she has.’
‘The Bloodmoon festival.’
Merion shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid you’ve lost me again, Ms Mizar.’
>
It was Yara’s turn to rub her hands together. ‘ “On the first day of the sacred hunt, vigilance keep. Blood will paint the moon, and run the magick deep,” ’ she recited. ‘Once a year, the moon turns red as it rises in the night sky. In the east, it would mark the start of the summer hunt, in the days of the First Empire. An ancient rushing tradition. It turns it red, Merion, blood-red, and for one night, we rushers come together, and let our magick feel its old roots. To feel what we have forgotten.’
‘So it’s a party?’ he asked, eyebrows rising. Merion wondered if there would be cake. He could not remember the last time he had cake.
Yara raised her chin proudly. ‘It is more than just a party, Master Harlequin. It is the one night a year when our powers flourish, as they did centuries ago when the magick was stronger, and the shades less diluted. As I said, it is a dying art, and dying in more than one way.’
‘When is it?’
‘A little over a month away now, drawing close. With each passing of the moon, we feel it. You might have felt it yourself, but not even known.’
Merion cast a look back at his aunt. ‘It would help if somebody gave me all the information first.’
Yara put a hand on his shoulder as she took another sip of her flask. ‘You aunt is not to blame. A lot of rushers are protected with secrecy. As my parents tried to help me, so your aunt tries to help you.’
‘A lot of the time it feels as though she is hindering me,’ Merion admitted.
‘I am sure that is not her intention,’ Yara mused. ‘She is your aunt, after all.’
‘That she is,’ Merion muttered, deciding he needed a word in Lilain’s ear.
‘Now,’ Yara deftly switched the subject. ‘What of you and yours? How did you come to be all the way out here, so far from your Empire?’
Merion took a deep breath. ‘Now that is a long story, Yara, one I think best left for another day on the road,’ he said, smiling. ‘We shouldn’t use up all our stories too quickly.’ And he still couldn’t figure out how much he could say to these people. Rushers or no rushers, they were all still strangers, and he had been bitten by those before.
Yara nodded. ‘A wise decision. Though, one thing you will learn about my circus, Master Harlequin, is that there are always more stories.’
*
Yara was not wrong on that account. Over the course of the afternoon, Merion hopped from wagon to pony a dozen times, swapping tales with the folk of the circus. It was a merry afternoon, finding out all the intricacies of the strange herd, delving deeper into the odd ways of its inner circle. A feeling of belonging was gradually spun around him with every wagon he visited. It was the way they talked about their shades, their skills and tricks, telling him ever so swiftly, with beaming grins and a light in the eyes. Even those he passed by smiled and waved back, bidding him a series of hearty welcomes.
The only one who ignored him was Itch, still apparently feeling jilted over the loss of his seat, but Merion paid him no heed, and skipped him to chat to Big Jud, who was lounging in an open-top wagon at the back of the circus train, baking like a pale slug in the sun. He waved a handful of biscuits at the boy as Merion clambered aboard.
‘Hello, Sir.’ Merion extended a hand.
‘What? Has my dead father come to haunt me?’ chuckled the huge man, looking around, though his thick neck impeded him somewhat. ‘Oh, me? No, I ain’t no “sir”, Master Harlequin. Just call me Jud, or big Jud if it pleases yer.’ His accent was the thick drawl of southern America.
‘Well, hello, Jud,’ Merion smiled, and shook the man’s enormous, and preposterously sweaty, paw.
‘What brings you to the back of the train?’ Jud asked, as he stuffed another biscuit into his mouth. ‘Come to stare at the fat man?’ Big Jud Jepson was encased in a nut-brown suit many times adjusted and repaired, from the ripping of a seam, to the leap of a suicidal button. It still strained at the edges, looking as if it would pop at any moment and leave him naked for the sun to roast. There was an nut-coloured top hat on his balding scalp, to keep his face covered and his head cool. He lounged against his pillows like a king, swigging from a flask that, from his breath, Merion judged held more than cold water.
The boy couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No, absolutely not. I was simply dropping by to say hello. I’ve chatted to all the others already.’
‘Savin’ the best to last. Wise lad.’ There was a wink and a grin. Jud appeared to be laid-back in more than just his current posture. Though fat has a tendency to smother wrinkles, and steal away the years, Merion could see the creases of frequent smiles in the man’s wide face. He instantly liked him.
‘Where’s home, Master Harlequin?’
‘London. A place called Harker Sheer.’
‘Some sort of castle, I take it?’
Merion flinched. He had not told any of them he was a lord, and nor did he plan to. His father’s reputation was something he didn’t want to cast soil on. Enough of that had gone onto his grave. ‘Er …’
‘All you Empire folk sleep in castles, or so I’ve been told.’
‘Aha,’ Merion laughed. ‘No, you’ve heard wrong. Harker Sheer is no castle.’ That was a dreadful lie. It had turrets, after all.
‘Then what brings you out here?’
Merion stared at the rocks that had begun to enclose the wagon train, reaching up high around them. They were baked golden and prickly with grass and hardy trees, wind-cut and sheer. ‘My father was sick, so he sent me to live with my aunt, out here on the edges of the world, for some unknown reason. It’s been a tough few months, with the war and everything—a lot of it regretful, but we are heading east, and that is what matters,’ Merion told the man. It was the same story he had been telling all afternoon. Nice and vague, just for now.
‘Lemme ask you this, are you happy at this moment?’ asked Jud.
‘Well.’ Merion found no words queuing up after that one, and so he thought about it for a moment. His frowning face cracked into a wry smile, and he felt himself nodding. ‘Things do seem to be looking up.’
‘Then have no regrets. What you did got you here, and if here is all good, then why do you want to change it?’ Big Jud was not just full of biscuits, it seemed, but also of sense.
‘I think you’re right.’
‘This is why you come to me last. I’m the best one.’ Another wink. Another grin. ‘Biscuit?’
Merion raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so? And no, thank you.’
Jud nodded, skin flapping. ‘That it is, young Merion. There ain’t nobody as dedicated to their art as I am,’ he said, devouring another biscuit with relish. ‘How long will you be with us, then, Master Harlequin?’
‘Hopefully a while. We’re headed to Boston, or New York, and a ship to London.’
‘The same as us! What a coincidence. Say, have you heard about the festival yet?’
It had been on everybody’s lips, and Merion said as much.
‘My boy, it’s a fine evening of laughter and wine and fighting and rushing. All sorts of mischief, there is, even for a fat old man like me,’ Jud chortled, tipping his hat.
‘Sounds like my sort of party,’ Merion replied. ‘Not the sort that my father used to take me to, with so much talking and standing around.’
Jud patted his ample belly. ‘Don’t do much of that. Bad for the back.’
‘I agree.’ Merion took a seat on the side of the wagon, next to Jud’s swollen ankle, which was poking out between his socks and his trousers. ‘So do you enjoy working for Yara?’ That was his test, a curious finger in the water.
‘Do I enjoy it? What’s not to like? I get fed. I get to sit around. People come to see how handsome I am, and I even get to scare little children by pretendin’ to have a violent heart attack. On top of all that, I get paid to do it. What do you think of that, Master Harlequin?’
‘I think it sounds pretty easy. I think a lot of people would be jealous of such a position.’ It did appeal, on a certain level, though Merion wasn’t sure he w
as quite ready to gain a tonne or two.
‘You’re darn right. So what are you going to do on stage?’
‘Er, what am I …? No, nothing. I’ve never been on stage before.’
Jud cackled. ‘Then you’ll have to learn quick. All us rushers got to earn their keep, sing for their supper, make their fortune. You’ll like it.’
Merion bit his lip. I’ll rush in circuses … ‘If I have to,’ he answered with a grin, ‘then I will. I just don’t know what I would do, as an act. Or if Yara wants …’
Jud waved a hand. ‘Reel ’em off, I know you got more than one. I can tell these sorts of things.’
‘I heard it’s rude to ask.’
Jud belched loudly and proudly, right on cue. ‘And it’s rude to do that, so who cares? I’m a feathercoat, what’re you?’
Merion sat up a little straighter. ‘Crackler, apparently a clinker, and I can also rush the bat shade.’
‘Impressive: an electric armadillo with super hearing. That’ll go down well,’ Jud smirked. ‘Which one are you best at? Most comfortable with?’
It was obvious. ‘Electric eel,’ Merion replied.
‘Then go with that. Just got to think up an act now, Master Harlequin, and Yara will tell you whether it’s worth shit or not … if she wants you,’ Jud said, pausing to smirk a little wider. ‘Me? I am the act. I was born with it. You can’t teach it.’
Merion tipped his hat and got to his feet. ‘Then I’ll just have to get thinking then, won’t I?’ Perhaps Mr Jud Jepson was having him on. He decided to play along, just in case. Stages weren’t high on his list of favourite things, nor were the crowds that came with them, but he was already teasing out the edges of an idea.
Merion hopped down from the wagon and called over his shoulder: ‘I’ll bid you a good afternoon, Big Jud, and hopefully see you at the campfire later.’
‘You can’t miss me,’ Jud sniggered, turning back to his biscuits.
Merion walked up the wagon train and found Lilain and Lurker riding behind Yara’s wagon. His pony, Berk, or Rizl, whatever it was called, was still being led, though not by Itch this time. It was Devan, the huge strongman from Texa. He halted the pony so Merion could clamber on, and then waved a salute before wandering back to somebody else’s wagon.
