by Ben Galley
‘Permanence. Seems to be a trait of the vein.’
Merion took the hint, and let the magick bubble away inside him until it finally boiled off, leaving a sour feeling in his stomach. He took a deep breath, waiting for the nausea to pass. His mind skipped back to a kitchen table, a glass of water, and his aunt tutting away to herself as he bent over a sheet of paper. That memory of her house in Fell Falls felt so old to him now.
Drawing himself up, staunchly ignoring the burn in his throat and shivering behind his eyes, Merion held his hand out. ‘Next,’ he said, with a wry smile.
‘What’s all this then? The boy’s mastered a new shade?’ said a voice. Merion did not have to turn to recognise it. It was Itch Magrey, leaning against a tent pole.
‘A new vein, actually.’
‘And which is that?’
‘Reptile.’
Itch snorted. ‘Not bad, but could be better.’
Merion frowned. He had never assumed shades would have a hierarchy. ‘Oh really? Do share, Itch,’ he challenged him, a defiant smirk on his face.
Itch bit, and bit hard. He strode forward, nudging the boy with his elbow as he passed. He jabbed a finger at Shan’s bag. ‘Got my red?’
‘As always,’ Shan smiled. She dug out a larger oval vial. Bright, fire-orange blood filled it to the brim.
‘Watch and learn, Empire,’ Itch grunted, before throwing his head back and downing the blood in one fell swoop. He lowered his head, shaking for a moment. He was good. The magick was rippling through his skin within seconds, literally rippling. The man’s tortured, twisted skin undulated like a sea. Itch lifted his head and grinned, showing off a few blackened gums.
‘Give me whatever you’ve got,’ he hissed.
A duel, then, a rusher’s duel. Merion’s second after Suffrous. The boy returned the grin, albeit a healthier one than Itch’s. He looked to Shan. ‘Have you got my shade, Ms Dolmer?’
‘Of course,’ she said, throwing him a skinny vial. Merion threw it back with relish. The familiar taste made him shiver with anticipation. He felt it seize his gut in a cold vice, and he smiled even wider as he took the magick by the reins and let it flow. The hairs began to stand up on the back of his neck. His skin pimpled.
‘Crackler, is it?’ Itch snorted. ‘No problem. Throw it at me, leech.’
Merion indulged him, pushing his hands together and letting the magick pool. Blue lightning flicked, jumping around his arms. The boy reached out with a claw-like hand, and the electricity burst from him, surging over Itch’s skin. The man grimaced, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords as the lightning crawled over him. His skin shivered under its harsh light, puckering there, blackening there, but always one step from wounding.
Merion let the spell die and set his lips tight.
‘Is that all?’ Itch taunted him, cracking his neck from side to side. He patted his bare arms and chuckled. ‘Impenetrable.’
‘We’ll see,’ Merion said. If Itch wanted more, he would give it, and pile all his disdain and anger into it to boot. The boy clapped his hands and rubbed them, letting sparks fly. He let the magick pour forth, a thick ribbon of lightning striking Itch square in the chest. Once again the man endured. His shirt was not so lucky, fading to ash under the crackling onslaught.
Merion glimpsed Itch’s defiant face amidst the blinding light and pushed harder. He began to walk towards the man, hands outstretched, shaking violently. The lightning made the air waver and split around them. Itch was marching forwards too, only faster. Merion grit his teeth and raised his fist to bring the lightning crashing down on him. Just as he swung, Itch dropped, swinging his knuckles up under the boy’s ribs.
Merion collapsed to the grass like a sack of dirt. The lightning faded as quickly as the fight, resigned to just skittering around his fingers and knees.
To add insult to injury, he felt Itch patting him roughly on the back of the head.
‘Nice try, Harlequin. Better luck next time, eh? Though I doubt there’ll be one,’ he snorted once more. ‘I’ll just leave you to catch your breath.’ And with a chuckle, he departed. Merion pushed himself to standing, still wincing at the pain. His embarrassment was the sour icing atop it. The boy snarled inwardly.
Shan pulled a sympathetic face. Merion hated it for the lie it was. ‘Dragon blood. Pretty hard to beat.’
Merion just held out a blackened hand. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any newt left, do you?’
Defeat is not in a Hark’s vocabulary.
*
The afternoon ticked away, slow and sluggish, like a pocket-watch with suicidal inclinations. Merion spent it rushing blood. Shade after shade, skipping through the veins, boiling his blood with frustration and angst. He did not know if was the Bloodmoon’s approach or the simple fact he had a mood to bend to the task, but he knew one thing, and that was he felt more alive than ever, exhilarated to his core.
The afternoon may have lagged, but Merion could chase the boredom away with blood. Time for him was like something he could bend and manhandle. Whenever he rushed, his concentration took over, and for him time slowed, like a private dance at one of those ribald clubs his father had warned him of.
Shan passed him vial after vial, nodding and nudging him here and there when it proved difficult. Merion must have tasted nearly a score of shades before he finally crumpled to a heap against a bench, sweaty and pale.
Shan fetched him some water, more for his face than his throat. It wasn’t wise to mix so much water with so much blood, not for a while, or so Shan lectured. Merion doused himself, sighing as the heat was quenched. It was a hot day, and it would be a warm, starry night. Perfect for a little wrack and ruin.
‘Dear Almighty,’ Merion gasped.
‘He’s got more important things to do than bother himself with you,’ Shan muttered as she poured the water over his forehead.
‘Doesn’t the Almighty like rushers?’
‘Hasn’t Yara told you of Cain? Humans were not supposed to taste magick, just like we weren’t supposed to eat the apple in the Garden of Odin, but we did.’
Merion frowned. ‘So we’re cursed?’
‘More like snubbed,’ Shan corrected him.
‘Snubbed I can handle.’
Shan checked her pocket-watch. ‘Almost four-thirty. I suggest we call it a day.’
‘Oh really?’ Merion feigned disappointment before cracking into a smile.
He stole a smile from Shan too, one of the few she had given him that afternoon. She still seemed bothered, or distracted. She packed up the empty vials and buckled her bag. ‘It’s a shame, she said, wistfully. ‘We will miss you when you’re gone.’
Merion cocked his head to the side. ‘Gone?’
Shan laughed, breaking the awkward pause so suddenly it almost made him jump. ‘When you have found your ship, of course.’
Merion smiled politely, no more, no less. ‘Of course,’ he echoed, busying himself with tying his laces so Shan couldn’t see the flash of fire in his eyes. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he sighed.
‘But you won’t be,’ Shan grunted as she yanked the heavy bag from the bench. ‘Not when the Bloodmoon comes.’
‘Sunset?’
She nodded. ‘Always just after. When the last rays of day have died. It likes to have the sky to itself.’
‘You say that as if it’s an actual being.’
Shan looked out into the daylight, scrunching up her face. Merion could see it even through the thick, black hair. ‘There are some who believe it’s our god. He, she, they haven’t decided. Not that it matters. But yes, they believe it.’
Merion humphed. ‘I don’t know quite what to say.’
‘All you need to do is get some solid food in you, and have a rest for an hour. No more. Don’t want to miss anything now, do we?’
The young Hark grinned. ‘Not for the world.’
Shan left him be, clinking and jangling as she vacated the marquee. Merion sat alone, sprawling, holding the water jug at arm’s le
ngth, simply breathing. It is in these moments that faeries delight to appear, when you’re deep in thought and lost to your surroundings.
‘Feel it yet?’ remarked Rhin, making Merion jump and spill the water over him.
The faerie did not look the slightest bit amused, with his dripping arms outstretched and hair slicked across his forehead. His purple eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’
‘You should know better,’ Merion replied as he slumped against the bench once more. It wasn’t the most comfortable of spots, but the armadillo blood he had just rushed had left a leathery feel to his back, and so he did not mind. ‘Sneaking up on me like that.’
Rhin tensed, pushing his fists into his stomach, and gradually wisps of steam began to waft from his shoulders. A few more moments, and he was close to being dry.
Merion poured a trickle of water over his head. Damn if it was not hot in the tent. Merion pondered moving, but did nothing about it. ‘That old trick. Haven’t seen that one in a while,’ he commented.
Rhin shook himself off one final time. ‘Hadn’t needed to use it. Not in those blasted deserts anyway.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ mused Merion. ‘Almighty, we’ve come a long way. If this circus has done nothing else for us, it’s got us here, Rhin. We’re at the coast.’ The boy’s voice became an excited hiss, mindful of eager ears.
‘Almost,’ Rhin said, kicking the grass, noting how it was scorched black here and there, or bleached to white.
Merion stared at him. ‘You should be happier about that.’
‘It’s hard to be. London is where Sift is. And with everything else …’
The boy frowned. The faerie had never liked to admit weakness, never mind fear. This was a tough moment for him, and Merion knew he could not spoil it. ‘I know, but I need you, and you need me. So there’s that,’ he said it as plainly as he could. Faeries like clarity.
Rhin chewed on that for a short time. ‘I don’t want to go back to the Coil,’ he muttered, in a hollower voice than Merion had ever heard.
‘You won’t have to,’ he replied, wishing he knew whether that was true or not. He couldn’t hide the wince.
Rhin shook his head and held up his palm. The X was still black as night, though less raw than before. ‘It’s inevitable. The bean sidhe never miss a mark, haven’t in two thousand years.’
‘Then cheat them. Evade them. Do what the Fae do best. And in the meantime, you can help me fight off a circus of rushers and find Lurker and my aunt. Fancy that?’ Merion cracked a smile.
The faerie glowered at the floor, grabbing at something at his belt. ‘Got to do what needs to be done, haven’t you? No escaping that.’
‘You could have months yet, Rhin. What happened to you enjoying yourself?’
‘Fate came along and delivered us another horde of liars and thieves, that’s what.’
‘We certainly seem to attract them.’
‘Reckon London will be any different?’
Merion eyed the water for a moment, watching it shiver. ‘No. But it will be, when I finish this.’
‘Dizali?’
The young Hark nodded firmly. ‘Will get everything that’s coming to him. Namely me, and a fistful of magick.’
‘You sound like Lurker.’
Merion shrugged and snorted. ‘Maybe that old bastard is rubbing off on me.’
‘Roots,’ Rhin cursed. ‘I don’t know if I can put up with two of you.’
With a groan, Merion got to his feet and aimed himself in the direction of their tent. ‘Tough shit, as the good John Hobble would say. Come on, I need a nap.’
*
Yara was sharpening her knives. They spread out before her on the forest-green cloth like a steel fan. Some were thin and shard-like. Others were wide and full of grooves. Yet others were curved and glittering, and the rest were arrow-straight and honed on each side. Yara doted on them like a dozen little cutthroat children.
Cabele was sitting nearby, reclining on an ocean-liner deckchair and staring at the fading blue sky with a foul look. She was clad in her usual flowing pantaloons and silk shirts—never one to show off her incredibly lithe form.
Yara flicked a look at her. ‘It will come when it’s ready,’ she hissed, echoing the scraping of her whetstone as she slid it down the edge of the curved dagger in her palm.
‘Every year it’s the same. The days rush past all quick like, and then wham!’ The Cat clapped her hands together. ‘They all bunch up into a muddle and get stuck, and we got to wade through the waiting game.’
‘You should write poetry, Cabele. Have I ever told you that?’ Yara sighed.
‘Once or twice, though I don’t rightly remember,’ she replied, in her southern drawl.
‘What is the time?’
Cabele flicked out an ivory pocket-watch. She had clearly been flirting with Mr Jacque again. He was always giving out trinkets to any woman who flashed him some puckered lips. Incorrigible, like all Francians.
‘Six.’
Yara rubbed her pointed chin. ‘We have half an hour. Is everything in order?’
‘As it always is, Ms Mizar,’ Cabele replied, saluting.
‘Do not mock me, girl. The shades?’
‘Done.’
‘The seating?’
‘Finished.’
‘The lights as I asked?’
‘Burning away.’
‘The costumes?’
‘Sewn up.’
‘The animals?’
‘Being fed as we speak.’
‘And the Hark boy?’
‘Currently slumbering in his tent, or so Devan tells me. He took a quick peek.’
Yara counted off all the other tasks on her fingers, having overseen them earlier. ‘What of Lilain and Mr Hobble?’
‘Vanished. Sheen’s got a lump on his head like a melon.’
The circus master shot her another look, darker this time. Cabele just held up her hands and went wide-eyed. ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’
‘See to it they do not meddle is what! That is clearly their plan, otherwise they would have come for the boy.’
‘Alright!’ Cabele got to her feet and wandered off, an extra sway in her step as she picked at her nails irritably.
Yara was left alone with her knives, just the way she like it. She tested each razor edge carefully, over and over, until she was happy. The stone here, a dab of oil there. Not too much. It plays havoc with the technique.
One by one, she slid them into their respective sheaths, hidden high in the short sleeves of her flowing dress, in its folds, and under its laces, or close to her spine. Her hands began to rove across each one, slowly at first, growing faster as her fingers tapped each hilt, beating out a rhythm. She built it up, hands whirling from blade to blade. She started to pull them out. Pausing for a splinter of a second to slide the blade out, then in again. Faster still, she moved. She circled slowly, manoeuvring to find a target. Nearby stood a pole, high and proud, holding bunting and lanterns over the path. With a hiss of breath, Yara unleashed her blades, her nimble fingers plucking each one free. She sent them whirling through the air with nothing more than deft hiccup of the wrist before moving on to the next. Fourteen blades burst from her body in the space of a blink. Blurs of steel, chasing at each other’s heels. Fourteen sharp thuds rang out, arranged in a busy cluster at chest height on the pole.
Yara did not smirk or nod to herself. One does not celebrate being able to do one’s job. Knives were her job. And the throats they slit.
‘Quite impressive,’ commented an Empire-tinged voice. Dizali’s man.
The circus master flicked him a sour look. ‘It is not very often the public get to see the show before it opens,’ she said.
Gavisham snorted at that. ‘Am I public now? And here’s me thinking I was one of you. We’re the same, after all,’ he smirked, stepping closer. ‘Nothing better than tools.’
‘That is why I strive to be the sharpest tool in the box,’ she smiled sardonically as she yanked
the last blade free. She twirled it in a figure-of-eight, dangerously close to Gavisham’s nose, before burying it somewhere in her skirts.
‘I see why he hired you.’
‘Like many before him, they knew they would end up a happy customer,’ Yara narrowed her emerald eyes at him. ‘I never disappoint.’
‘Well, don’t start making of a habit of it today, will you? I’m keen to see the back of this country.’
‘As are we all,’ Yara nodded, staring up at the Ivory House, perched barely half a mile away. ‘You need to vanish.’
Gavisham crossed his arms. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Because,’ Yara explained, looking over the man’s shoulder. ‘Master Hark will be here any moment. I suggest if you want your moment of surprise, you make yourself scarce.’
Gavisham had to agree with that. ‘In that case I shall see you at the finale,’ he said, already walking away.
Yara nodded, and smiled politely. ‘As agreed.’
It was perfect timing. As Gavisham disappeared around the corner of the big tent, Merion came trudging across the grass, a weary smiled pasted on his face.
‘Master Harlequin,’ Yara curtseyed as he came close.
He bowed, as he always did, though today he was a little stiffer. Contempt or just plain old tiredness, it was difficult to tell, even for her. ‘Ms Mizar,’ he said. ‘Has there been any news of my aunt?’
Yara tempered the curl of her lip, hiding it well. ‘Not a whisper, I am afraid, Merion. It seems she has got up and left, possibly in search of Lurker?’
‘Not without telling me,’ the boy retorted. He knew something was amiss, Yara could tell. He just lacked the fortitude to spit it out.
‘Perhaps she did not want to distract you, what with your big night ahead of you,’ Yara suggested, slipping out a knife from behind her back and making it spin around her fingers. A knife never fails to keep a mouth shut.
‘Hmm,’ Merion nodded slowly, eyeing the blade.
The boy was already dressed up as Yara had ordered: a smart suit with long tails, like that of a gentleman magician. It had been fashioned out of old blankets, pieced together by some of the seamstresses and, by the looks of it, it was incredibly itchy. Merion fought not to squirm and scratch as she led him around to the back of the big tent, where the stage had been erected. Backstage, as it were, was outside the tent, housed in a marquee and surrounded by crates and wagons for privacy.
