by Ben Galley
‘Have you ever noticed anything strange about this place?’
There was a pause. ‘It’s a circus …’
Merion prayed for patience as he glanced up at the creaking roof. ‘I mean deeper than that, something odd going on. Something that doesn’t feel right?’
‘The people are a little strange, I suppose. Especially that Sheen,’ Lurker grunted.
‘I mean everybody. It’s like they’re holding back a secret they don’t want us to know. Or as if they have some other purpose about them. I’ve come to notice it, and it’s bothering me.’
‘You’re probably just tired, Merion. Been a long few weeks.’
‘No, listen. I think Ms Mizar knows I’m a lord. Knows exactly who I am, but she won’t admit it.’
Lurker took a seat on a barrel and rumbled an: ‘Mmhm.’
Merion illustrated the scene with his hands. ‘I showed her a paper. A newspaper I found in Daeven Port. The Empire Watchful, straight from London. My father has been framed as a traitor to the Empire, just as I have. They say they found letters in my house, letters between him and Lincoln.’
‘An’ is that true?’
‘It doesn’t matter if it is, she saw my name in the paper. “Tonmerion Harlequin Hark”, which doesn’t take a genius, and yet she said nothing. I could see it in her face. And that’s not all. I saw a letter on her desk with a coat of arms on it, Empire arms.’
Lurker sniffed, taking time over his answer. He stared about as Merion fixed him with an urgent look. ‘You sure you ain’t just paranoid? I mean, after what happened with those Serpeds?’
Merion jumped down from the barrel, holding his hands up claw-like. ‘That’s exactly why I’m suspicious! I let them play me like a violo, and I am not about to let that happen again. There’s something rotten at the heart of this circus, and I can feel it. I just need you …’
There was a slam of a door at the front end of the carriage. Merion clamped his mouth shut.
‘Who’s there?’ came a gruff shout. ‘You’d best not be botherin’ these animals, you hear?’
‘Mr Magrey,’ Merion called out, swapping a glance with Lurker. The prospector still did not look convinced. ‘It’s just us. Getting a bit of peace and quiet.’
The wiry form of Itch Magrey appeared from behind a cage, his face scrunched up with suspicion. ‘Plenty of that outside, if’n you ask me, Harlequin,’ he murmured. He still had not quite warmed to the boy, as Yara promised him he would.
Merion shrugged. ‘Too windy, if you ask me. What are you up to?’
‘Doing the rounds, not that it’s any of your business. People in this circus get on a train and forget their duties, just like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Neams is busy with your faerie. Thought I’d come do his job for him.’
Merion just shrugged, watching Itch’s narrowed eyes wander from him to Lurker, who was busy looking nonchalant and utterly bored.
‘Well, enjoy your peace and quiet. Don’t go pokin’ ’round, or I’ll have Yara leave you at the next water-stop. Jus’ you see.’
‘No poking, understood,’ Merion replied, watching him walk away. As Itch placed his hand on the door-handle, he shot him a question. ‘Say, Mr Magrey, did Devan ever find that girl?’
Itch threw a look over his shoulder. ‘What girl?’
‘The one that went missing in Daeven Port? Devan was looking for her.’
‘How should I know? Happens all the time,’ Itch grunted, before taking his leave.
Once they were alone again, Merion tossed his arms in the air in exasperation. ‘What do you think of that?’
Lurker had narrowed his dark eyes. ‘What girl?’
‘A girl called Sanja. And that’s not the first time it’s happened. Every time I ask, I get told “it happens all the time”, as if a child going missing were nothing.’
Lurker mulled that over for a moment, muttering to himself under his breath. ‘That ain’t right.’
‘Thank you!’ Merion tugged at his mop of hair.
‘Now wait just a minute. I’m sayin’ it ain’t right, not that the circus is to blame. What exactly are you sayin’?’
Merion kicked the crate with his heels. ‘That there’s foul play at work,’ he said, clear and as stark as the disappointment that abseiled into the wallows of his gut. He might as well have flown for all the chance of denying it.
Lurker sniffed. ‘I’m guessin’ there’s no sense in arguin’ with you.’
‘No, sadly not.’
Another sniff. ‘Well, guess I better play along, see what happens.’
It was so unexpected, Merion almost missed it. ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Merion grinned. ‘Now for evidence.’
There was a pregnant pause in which Lurker looked about. ‘And here was I thinkin’ you had some already.’
‘I need to look in Yara’s compartment, somehow. Can you distract her?’
‘What, you want me to juggle outside her compartment?’
‘Why don’t you just ask her to come for a walk or something?’
‘Merion …!’
‘Fine, I’ll sneak in.’
‘Why don’t we get Rhin to do it?’
‘He won’t help us. He’s too invested in his act. He’s using this place to forget …’ Merion trailed off, words stumbling over the cliff-edge.
Lurker narrowed his eyes. ‘Go on.’
‘To forget home. The Fae Queen is still after him. He’s had a letter, a threat,’ Merion lied. He did not need complexity poking its head into the matter. ‘It’s best just to let him pretend.’
‘Bullshit,’ grunted Lurker, making the boy flinch. He flicked the brim of his hat. ‘If’n you’re right, and there is somethin’ rotten here, then he’s in trouble too. We ain’t gonna do it without his help. Just tell him everythin’ you know. He won’t be able to resist a sneak, trust me.’
‘Fine. What about my aunt?’
Lurker snorted. ‘She won’t agree. Too into that lupus-lookin’ fellow, Sheen.’ He said the name like the slow draw of a steel blade.
‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’ Merion enquired, knowing perfectly well he did.
‘Careful, boy. Ain’t discussin’ that with you. I’ll talk to her, see it done right,’ Lurker said, with an affirmative nod. Merion decided to leave him be on the matter, and promptly hopped down from the barrel.
‘Tonight, when we stop, once the circus is pitched and the sun goes down, I distract Yara and you talk to Lilain. That gives me the afternoon to talk to Rhin,’ Merion reeled off. A bigger plan has more room for holes, as Rhin always said, when he had prattled on about battles and tactics, of wars fought in the wilds of Cymru, where he was raised. ‘Seems a tight plan, if I don’t say so myself.’
Lurker shrugged as he shoved himself off the barrel. ‘Hmph,’ he grunted. ‘We’ll see.’
*
‘Are you out of your pea-sized mind?’ spluttered Merion.
Rhin spat. ‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘You think I’m making this up?! That I’m mad for suggesting it?’
‘I think you’re readin’ crimes into innocent things, is what!’ Lilain butted in. ‘Yara’s probably just trying to put your mind at ease, is all. She ain’t the stupid type. She probably had you figured in a day. All she’s doing is tryin’ to spare you the worry.’
Merion held up his hands, grasping for silence. His voice was calm and low. ‘Aunt Lilain, you warned me about Castor Serped. I didn’t listen and look where it got us. I should have listened to you. But now it’s my turn to be right, and you should listen to me, before somebody gets hurt again. Yara is hiding something, and trust me, it is not in kindness.’
His aunt crossed her arms once again. ‘Castor Serped was a ruthless lord and businessman who was nothin’ short of a despot. This is a circus, full of fellow letters and rushers, who, last time I checked, took us in and are helping us head east. I ain’t going exactly goin’ to spit in their face because of a few suspicions.’<
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Merion dropped his chin onto his chest, and made a strangled whine of frustration. It was about time Lurker weighed in, did his part. He had been sucking on that flask of his again, though Almighty knew where he kept finding the moonshine, or the circus for that matter. He seemed to have made a permanent home out of the stool in the corner of their tent.
To his surprise, Lurker did indeed pipe up. ‘You’re just taken in, is all.’
Lilain rounded on him. ‘And just what is that supposed to mean, John Hobble?’
Lurker was drunk enough to glower right back. ‘You know what I mean: Sheen Dolmer.’
She gave him the coldest look she could muster. ‘Oh, for Maker’s sake. This is a good place for us. Wake up or grow up, prospector.’
That resoundingly skewered Lurker. He growled and pushed himself off his stool, storming towards the tent-flap and leaving them with a few muttered curses before he disappeared.
‘Please, Aunt Lilain, you have to trust me. And you damn well know how much I hate using that word,’ Merion said, truthfully.
His aunt fixed him with the same cold stare before his resolve chipped it away. ‘Fine, but I want more proof.’
‘Oh.’ Merion wagged his finger as he turned to his small friend, lounging casually against the edge of the table. ‘You’ll get it. Isn’t that right, Rhin?’
‘Couldn’t just leave me to it, could you?’ Rhin muttered and shook his head at the ground. ‘Had to boil up with something dark and terrible.’
Merion spoke between stiff lips. It was about time he spilled a little more of that bitterness he carried, the coldness of disappointment that stubbornly clung to his insides. Wetly fresh amongst vestigial leftovers from the hardship of Fell Falls. He had carried it always, buried deep where things could be silenced for a time. The circus had helped, but now that help had died miserably. Maybe this way he could boil it off, and kill it.
‘There are thieves and liars in this world, and they seem to gravitate towards me. Maybe it’s a curse, brought on by riches and the weight of responsibility my father left me. I don’t see how that’s my fault, and you can bet all your Fae steel that I won’t be outdone by it. So, Rhin, tell you what, you give me one chance: you read what’s on Ms Mizar’s desk and decide for yourself. It should be an easy trick for you to pull off.’ Merion wanted to go on, but all the breath had run from his lungs. He folded his arms, and waited.
Rhin was having a silent conversation with the rug, or a staring competition. In any case he remained quiet. Just when Merion was about to open his mouth, the faerie kicked the dust.
‘I made a promise to a father once. I made a similar promise to you. I said I’d protect you, and if you think there’s danger, I’m there. I already failed you once, so I’d better not do it a second time,’ Rhin replied, baring his teeth without humour. ‘But if I look at her desk and I don’t see what you tell me is there, then I’ll not be taking another step down that path. This matter’s over.’
‘Fine,’ Merion snapped, striding forwards to extend a hand. Rhin slapped it with one of his, and the matter was sealed. It was refreshing to be able to speak so plainly to the faerie again. Merion had to smile despite himself, and the faerie’s hard eyes. Like old times. Rhin just huffed, but Merion knew he thought it too.
‘You two are going to be the ruin of me,’ Lilain hissed, before waving them out of her sight.
*
There were no fire-pits that night. No raucous dinner, just a few spoonfuls of soup and a couple of biscuits. There was no point with the next locomotive coming so early in the morning. The tents sat in a broken ring around the sleepy railroad station while the rest of Cirque Kadabra remained packed up on the still-warm rails, glimmering in the light of the fat, waxing moon, which was taking its lazy time across the star-freckled sky. Halfway between half and full, and that only meant one thing. The Bloodmoon was mere days away.
Every night brought the Bloodmoon closer, and every night Merion thought of it, once his head had hit the pillow. The boy dug around in his veins and in his mind, attempting to uncover any magick lingering there, as though the Bloodmoon might already be working on him. There was never anything but a headache at the end of trying, and Merion found nothing else to do but wonder about it, the colour, the size, the feel … for hours at a time. Each day that brought it closer, the more it filled his thoughts.
It had caught him by surprise at first. Sneaking up on him like a footpad. His mind would trundle off as the countryside turned to a blur in his preoccupied eyes. There it would be, the crimson moon, waiting to be hummed over, for a forehead to be scrunched. Each mental footpath led to it. Though his dreams were still an amorphous, muddy haze, that he could never remember, the Bloodmoon was always lingering low on the horizon.
‘Will you hurry up?’ Rhin whispered, buzzing his wings.
Merion was almost a dozen paces behind. There he was again, drifting off. He flicked a finger at his neck to jolt himself awake. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, jogging forward.
‘Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.’
Merion pulled a face. ‘Don’t even go there. Come on.’
As usual, Yara’s tent was detached from the makeshift ring, set inwards and closer to the station. Like half the tents around her, a candle or a lantern burned within. Early nights don’t seem to sit well with circus folk, even if early mornings are called for.
A score of paces from her glowing doorway, Merion took a breath and smoothed his shirt. ‘Go in the back. I’ll sit across from the desk, on that cushion of hers, so her back is turned. The rest is up to you.’
‘How generous!’ Rhin grinned sardonically.
The boy ignored him, letting him slip into the shadows and melt away into the dust. ‘Show time,’ Merion breathed.
His knuckles made a dull thudding sound against the tent fabric. ‘Ms Mizar? It’s Merion.’
There was a shuffle of papers, and then a squeak of a stool. ‘Come,’ she said.
After the darkness, Merion was somewhat blinded by the bright lantern light. Yara turned it down with a smile, and he blinked away the spots.
‘What can I do for you, Master Harlequin?’ she asked. Something in her voice sounded tired, but cheerful enough.
It took all he had not to look at the desk. In his periphery, he could see a quill in her right hand, but what it hovered over, he had no idea. He did not dare to tempt himself.
Merion pointed to the fat cushion wedged into an angle of the tent. ‘May I sit?’
Yara cocked her head to one side as she swivelled to face him. ‘Of course, please.’
The young Hark took his time over arranging his backside on the cushion. He hoped Yara would take it for a different kind of nervousness.
‘I wanted to ask,’ he began, once he was comfortable, ‘as long as I’m not disturbing …’
‘Not at all.’
‘In that case, I wanted to ask,’ and here Merion took a breath for full effect, ‘to be in the big tent on the night of the Bloodmoon. I want to be part of the show for King Lincoln.’
It was a play, an act of course, just a bold subject to get her focussed. But that did not mean that Merion was not secretly curious, privately eager to find out more about what she had in store for him, what part she would have him play in Washingtown. Knowledge and power are the best of friends, after all.
‘My, my, Master Harlequin,’ Yara mused. ‘The Empire is not backwards in coming forward, is it?’
‘I was taught to get to the point.’
‘By a wise mother, or a stern father?’
‘What an odd question,’ deflected Merion.
Yara waved her hand apologetically. ‘From an old saying, in my hometown.’
‘Ah yes. Shat, was it?’
‘Siyat,’ Yara corrected, bending her vowels in that Rosiyan way. ‘Well, Master Harlequin, that is a big question indeed.’
Merion waited whilst the circus master took a few moments to rub her chin and hum over it. ‘Ho
w would you like to be my grand finale?’
The question was asked so simply and quickly that Merion almost missed it, already poised to parry with a counter offer. Just for show, of course, but there was that old boyishness again, creeping in, daring him to be excited, despite the danger. A moment was spent just blinking, more genuinely shocked than he would have liked. He was glad for it though; a shiver of something at the edge of Yara’s desk tickled his eye. Merion looked around, trying to find some words. His heart thumped.
‘The finale? Are you certain?’
Yara nodded. ‘As I said, Merion, you are our only leech. Lincoln deserves the best we can offer.’
An authentic question now, all charades put aside momentarily. ‘Do you think I’m ready?’ Merion asked. Out of the corner of his vision, something leapt onto the desk, a quiver in the lantern light.
A smile curved, prideful in a way. ‘The Bloodmoon will see to that, Master Harlequin,’ she answered, staring up at the coloured fabric that hung, criss-crossed from the ceiling of her tent. ‘Did you know they used to call it the Hunter’s Moon?’
Merion shook his head.
‘It is a very old story. The oldest, some say. No doubt your aunt has told it to you?’
A sheaf of paper on the desk lifted and fell, as if a breeze had disturbed it. ‘How about you tell it, and I shall interrupt if she already has.’ Merion straining to keep his eyes on the circus master. More paper moved.
Yara leant back in her chair and twirled the feather of the quill around her lips as she spoke. ‘The very first of us called it so, aeons ago, before we built cities or tamed the horse. Before the first of the kings and queens arrived from the ice, before the First Empire, the Greeks, the Nile Kingdoms. When man and woman were young, and the old gods still walked among us.
‘Every year, the blood-red moon would rise, and the people would go out to hunt under its light. They would hunt all through the night until it sank into the dust for another year. They believed it a different moon from our usual, a dark sister. Once a year, it would win the fight over its silver brother and rise, and we would honour it by spilling blood in its name. The old gods had but one rule, to spill the blood of the hunted on the ground, every drop, to let it soak back into the earth, so that the Hunter’s Moon might be drenched with it throughout the year. Otherwise it may not rise, you see.’
