by Ben Galley
It was Yara who walked forwards first. She crept across the dust, hesitant, hand held up against the flames. ‘Is that …’ she breathed, noticing the wings.
Rhin blinked at her, flashing his lavender eyes. He held his tongue for the moment. The speaking part always drove them crazy, so he would bide his time.
‘Is that a fairy?’
‘Not your usual fairy, Miss Mizar,’ Merion explained. His arm was aching from the effort, but the act wasn’t over just yet. Not until the penny had dropped for all of them. ‘This is Rhin Rehn’ar. He is one of the Fae. A faerie.’ Merion sketched out the letters in the air.
‘And what, pray, is he doin’ here?’ Nelle Neams had removed his hat and placed it to his breast, and was creeping up as if he were approaching an altar.
Merion stared at him straight. ‘He is my friend of many years. An outcast from his own kind. I took him in and saved his life. He has saved my life many times since.’
Nelle leant closer to Rhin. The faerie chose his moment.
‘I wouldn’t get too close, if I were you,’ he said, with a smirk. Nelle flinched backwards and Rhin chuckled. ‘Every time.’
‘He speaks,’ Nelle whispered. It was easy to tell the ones that had seen a faerie from the ones who hadn’t. They had trouble finding their voices.
‘I speak, I eat, I write, I swing a sword. I do lots of things, Mr Neams.’
‘He knows my name,’ hissed Nelle, looking at Merion. The boy just nodded and shrugged his aching arm.
‘I’ve also got a name.’
‘Rhin Rehn’ar,’ announced Yara, in that silky voice of hers. She stepped forwards and extended a hand towards the faerie. Rhin shook one her fingers solemnly.
‘Miss Mizar,’ he replied, and then bowed as low as only a faerie can.
Yara turned to the others who had come to test their eyes. They looked on in disbelief, delight, and a smattering of utter confusion here and there. ‘If you know Nelle, I imagine you know the rest of my family as well?’ There was something of a squint in her eye, though it could have been the light.
Rhin looked around, nodding. ‘I do indeed,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard your names.’
There was some whispering, as Yara paused to think. When at long last she clapped her hands, Merion felt himself taut with anticipation. Was it back to the road for them, or onwards east?
‘Well, what is there to say apart from well done. I can see why you hid him, Merion. And I will not treat it as deceitful, something we do not normally take kindly to in Cirque Kadabra. We shall call it shrewdness, and care. So, I believe this means welcome to our circus, Rhin Rehn’ar.’
Rhin grinned, showing off his sharp teeth, and let his wings buzz. Some of the crowd laughed, and as they gathered around to formally introduce themselves, Merion’s heart danced. It had worked, after all.
Chapter XII
OF ENTANGLEMENT
3rd July, 1867
‘They say a lion always runs faster when it’s hungry,’ Gavisham snorted, watching the girl quicken her trot. Cheyenne was breaking over the rolling, rocky horizon, and it seemed she thirsted to reach it, striding faster than she had all day.
‘Do they now?’ Asha shot him a sardonic look. ‘Never heard that one before,’ she replied, half-muttering. ‘I just want water and rest. Is that a crime?’
Gavisham shrugged. He was only making conversation. It had been an hour since the last word had passed between them. Gavisham was fond of silence. It allowed him to stew his thoughts, of which he had many lately, and he had savoured it every step between the London docks and Fell Falls. But now here was the girl, and something about her made him itch. It was a scratch he could not quite reach, and he was having a hard time pinning it down. No amount of stewing was helping relieve it. The itching was the sort that only questions can appease, as any good interrogator will proudly tell you.
‘What town is that?’ Asha asked hoarsely. The dust and dry heat had got to her throat.
Gavisham cast another glance at her. There was dust on her sweat-slick cheek, where the twisted skin was now healing into puckered scar. She had taken to wearing her blonde hair to the side, so it covered most of the baldness. That fire had kissed her with all its passion, so its mark would never fade. He had seen far too many wars to know different.
‘Why does it matter?’
‘It matters because I asked,’ Asha retorted. There it was again, that inner fire, as though it had settled into her bones. Few maids would have dared to speak to him like that. Not Dizali’s man. But this was not London, and she did not know him from the next dust-kicking stranger in this sweltering desert. He would have ignored her tone had it not stank of privilege. The suspicion was like strong liquor, seeping in, taking over.
Gavisham cracked a smile, his gold tooth flashing in the afternoon sun. ‘Well then, young Madam, this is the town of Cheyenne.’
‘We’re still not out of Wyoming.’ More of a statement than a fact.
‘Not yet, though if I get my way, that won’t be true for long.’
Gavisham’s feet were getting tired and hot. He could already feel the prickle of several blisters on his heels. His hand momentarily lifted to his coat, but he caught himself. He had already put far too much red in his belly today, and any more might sour his ability for more, should the evening hold any trouble. This wild west sun was beginning to beat him, and Gavisham didn’t like that one bit. How did Suffrous do it? he wondered, for the hundredth time since putting boot to desert.
‘Oh?’ Asha looked up, one half of her forehead wrinkling.
‘I think it may be time to find ourselves a couple of horses.’
‘You don’t sound so convinced,’ Asha commented.
Gavisham adjusted his scarlet tie. ‘A horse is a bad mood gifted with legs, in my eyes.’
Asha snorted. ‘Kicked, I assume? Or bitten? Thrown, even?’
‘Never met a single one that liked me.’
Asha hummed. ‘Maybe it’s your smell, or your face. They can smell fear, you know.’
All Gavisham did was laugh, long and hard, as if Asha had delivered a witty joke. As if fear was nothing but a punchline to him.
Silence reigned once more, for an hour or so, until they reached a creaking sign with “Cheyenne” painted on it in hunched and ridged letters, the ones the people of the Endless Land were so fond of.
Gavisham took a moment to stretch and stare down the main street running through the town, bustling as it was. These desert towns all looked the same to him, each a bold sprawl of something in a world primarily ruled by nothing. They sat like dark bruises on pale skin, erupting abruptly out of the dust so that with one step you could go from the wilds to the streets of so-called civilisation. Blink, and you would have missed it. No preamble. No boundaries.
Gavisham stared at the box-like buildings, jumbled and wind-warped: an array of wooden slats painted sun-faded greens, browns, and reds. Each had a sign nailed to its forehead and flat roof, sporting all sorts of names and colours, and sloped roofs sticking out into the street to offer a scrap of shade. Horses stood tethered in the sun in clumps at their swinging doors, snuffling between each other. Their owners stood by the railings and water butts, swapping gossip, or dawdled about their business. Carriages and carts rattled up and down the wide street. Here and there stood sheriffsmen, wearing low hats and dark uniforms, keeping close to the noise-drenched saloons. Every other alleyway or so a cactus had been allowed to remain, as if the residents of Cheyenne were hoping that keeping such a thing would appease the dangers of the wild.
Gavisham led Asha forward. She cast her eyes about beneath her tangled fringe, meeting the eyes of curious onlookers. Gavisham ignored their idle stares. There were strangers aplenty in this town. A couple more offered them no trouble.
They weaved through the crowds as they ebbed and flowed. There seemed to be a commotion over at the railroad station. Gavisham could hear the hissing and howling of locomotives above the crowd-noise.
/> Asha kept her head down, trailing behind him so that he had to keep checking over his shoulder. She said not a word about the town, but his keen ears heard a rumble in her stomach. He felt a sympathetic gurgling in his own. They had not eaten since morning.
‘I’m headed to the postal office. Need to send a letter to my employer.’
‘And who is that again?’ Asha enquired, barely a mumbled over the bustle.
‘Nice try, girl,’ Gavisham smirked, flashing gold. ‘I’ll meet you by that saloon. See it? The one on the corner. Don’t get lost, alright?’
Asha screwed up her face. ‘I’m in no mood to be lost again.’
‘Fair enough,’ Gavisham said, and turned on his heel to stride up the steps of the postal office, boots clomping on the creaking wood.
As soon as he was inside, good and disappeared behind the swinging doors, Asha changed. She stood a little straighter, and her eyes widened ever so slightly. Her chin raised a fraction.
Calidae tutted and strolled to the saloon, pushing her way through the crowds now instead of weaving through them. The smell of the sweat on these desert-ripe people assailed her, as did the dust and dung of the various four-legged beasts being dragged through this town. She cared not a button. There was a glint in her eye now.
The young Serped was having fun with this ruse, it had to be said. To drop her graces and slip into a lower class, to perform this downtrodden maid of hers—it was not something her breed got to do every day, after all, and it came with its benefits.
But it was tiring her today, with the heat and hunger, and the pain. The ever-present pain.
Though her skin may have knitted itself back together on the surface, underneath it still felt raw and hot. It was almost as if the flames still burned between the layers of her skin, and nothing could quench them. The sunlight stoked them more fiercely. She was a stubborn girl, like her mother, but the fire was beginning to take its toll.
Calidae took a moment to lean against a water trough and stare down into its gloomy rippled reflection. It was not the first time she had seen her face. That bastard Barnamus had shown her in a shard of dirty mirror in the first few days. She had struggled and gasped and screamed, but she had not cried. I do not cry. A bucket of water had shown her more, barely two days’ stumble from his shack. Now she stared upon herself a third time and gnawed at the inside of her twisted lip.
Calidae poked and prodded, gingerly at first, then harder, testing the new skin on her forehead. She felt the pain flaring, crawling like spiders with daggers for feet. The skin was soft, hairless under her cracked fingertips. It was a far cry from the pampered, perfumed skin she had known all her fourteen years. Her fingers traced down and back over the rippled shape of her ear, trembled over her bald scalp, and finally dropped to where fingers of scar tissue cobwebbed her neck.
Her hands ran cautiously through her tangled hair, thick with dust. She tried to tease out some of the knots but it tugged too hard on her skin, and she gasped. She noticed a few shadows in the corner of the trough, and looked up to see two boys, barely sixteen, leaning against a post and staring at her. She swept her hair over her scars and scowled at them, the taut skin around her eye stretching painfully.
Calidae walked around the corner of the building so she could lean against the wooden panels and get lost on the edges of the bustle. She bowed her head and stared at the dust, muddled as it was with countless hoof and boot prints. The girl took a long, deep breath and held it until her lungs ached—burned even, until the spots danced at the edges of her vision. She finally allowed herself to exhale, though slowly, still pushing herself to torture.
‘I am a Serped,’ she whispered. Calidae knocked the back of her head gently against the wooden panelling of the building behind her. The crowd was too busy to notice. It was a stream of skin and leather, dark beards and curled hair, tanned and yammering, the roaring tone of a river of people.
‘I am a Serped,’ she said again, louder this time, and harder too. Her words ground out between gritted teeth, like grain in a mill. Bang! She hit her head against the panel. She grunted and bared her teeth as the pain pounced. And still, not an eyelid was batted in the crowd.
‘I am a Serped,’ she hissed, once more shuttering her eyes and driving her head back, where the skin was just scar and patches of smooth, shining skin. Calidae winced as the pain flickered around her skull. She knew there would be blood. She got one passing look from a fat woman who was lumbering by. She was wrapped in a blue dress with spiralling black frills, and fanning herself. The downward curve of her red-painted lips said she neither understood nor cared. And there was revulsion of sorts there too, an inch below the surface. Calidae matched her stare until the woman was forced to look away.
Calidae forced herself to feel every flash and throb of pain. ‘I am a Serped,’ she sighed once more, barely audible even to her ears. She put a finger to the back of her head and put the blood to her lips. It offered her no tantalising shiver. One’s own blood never did. She felt the ache of craving, and buried it deep. Soon, she promised herself.
The girl waited in the shadow of the building for a good fifteen minutes before Gavisham came wading through the crowds. He made an imposing figure, tall and stocky in his long coat and dark grey bowler hat. The crowd did not bother him. He was sucking his teeth, staring about at the faces before him as he sauntered, hands in pockets. He stood out like a big rock in a little stream: his clothes, pale face, sharp jaw, mismatched eyes, all of it. No wonder the people avoided him. Calidae would have, had she not known his kind before. She wondered again whether he had known Suffrous. Part of her ached to ask him. But not yet, she told herself. There was more to find out about this Gavisham, such as who his employer was, for that matter. She needed to know before she demanded safe passage home.
Calidae let her shoulders slump and her head hang to the side. She kicked at the dust as he strode up. He tugged a hand out of his pocket and waggled a small piece of yellow paper. A wiregram, if Calidae was not mistaken. She craved to know what it said, but Gavisham was already tucking it inside his coat pocket.
‘Bit of a queue,’ he remarked, eyeing her up and down. ‘You alright, girl? Aren’t fainting on me, are you?’
‘No, I just don’t like them starin’,’ Calidae said, trying to drop the edges of her words, as their kitchen maids had.
It may have been a half-lie, but it was a good enough excuse for Gavisham. He looked about, glaring. ‘People will tend to do that,’ he replied, winking each eye, blue then green. Calidae tried to smile politely until she felt the skin around her mouth wrinkle, and dropped it.
‘Right,’ Gavisham said. He had spied some sort of general store across the street with, fortunately for them, barely a queue at all. ‘That way.’
‘Lead the way,’ Asha shrugged herself away from the wall and followed him. An excitable-looking lady in a bonnet stood behind the counter. She said hello about four times before skittering away behind a table, shoving paper packets into a wooden box.
Calidae wandered back and forth along the shelves. The amount of saliva her mouth was currently producing was nothing short of astonishing. Though as hungry as she was, she had no idea what half of it was. She poked at packets and read labels twice. She held up scrawny vegetables and shook her head. If the knowledge did not fox her, the language did. The few edible things she did recognise had different names. Calidae shook her head. So there is a downside to having your food brought to you on silver platters all your life, she thought.
Gavisham had crept up on her. She tried not to flinch at the sound of his voice. ‘You’re picky, for a chambermaid.’
‘Excuse me?’ Calidae whirled on him. Hands on hips in the old habit.
‘Chambermaids get the scraps like everybody else and yet you can’t choose something to eat.’
‘Lady Serped fed us very well, actually.’
‘I suppose I should keep that to myself, and not tell my employer’s maids. There will be uproar,’ he told
her, as he picked several packets and cans from the shelf and pressed them into her arms. Then he grabbed a few supplies for the road, a new knife, and led her to the counter, where the woman scampered back to greet them.
‘But there are no prices on these. How do you …’ Calidae asked.
‘They haggle out here. General stores always do. Take it you don’t have any coin, no?’ Gavisham soon got the message from Calidae’s stare. ‘Thought not. Well, I’ve got a good few sil’erbits, as they call ’em, maybe a florin or two. Yes, Madam, hello,’ Gavisham said as he let the things fall with a clatter onto the counter. The woman was a skittish one, that was for sure. She shook this way and that, picking at the things and counting something in her head, totting it all up so she could start to haggle. Calidae tapped her foot. Gavisham was feeling around in his pocket with his fingers. She could just about hear the muffled clinking of coins.
‘Sixty sil’erbits,’ she announced, in a giddy voice.
‘Madam, please. Are you trying to skin me alive? Fifteen,’ Gavisham countered.
The woman blinked owlishly. ‘No, sorry. Can’t do that. Forty. Sorry.’ She shook her head about ten times.
‘Twenty, and I’ll throw in a handful of copper dimes.’ The man pulled his hand out of his pocket and stacked about five dimes on the counter, sliding them across to nudge her hand. She flinched and made a little hooting sound.
‘Thirty, and that’s my final offer.’
Gavisham sighed and made a big show of looking his wares up and down. After some deliberation, he picked up one of the packets, clicked his teeth, and handed it back to her. The woman did not quite know what to do. She took it and then just held it in mid-air.
‘Twenty-five. Meet me halfway, Madam. Come on now,’ Gavisham urged.
‘Oh,’ the woman worked her face for a few moments before following that up with: ‘I guess so. Seeing as you’re goin’ without this.’ The words were there, but Calidae got the feeling this woman didn’t quite believe them. Gavisham had just haggled her down to over half-price. She was obviously not very good at it.
