by Ben Galley
‘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, I 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 Ju
d 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 was 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.
‘So,’ his aunt said quietly, as he rode up alongside her. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Have you made the right decision?’ Lurker had stayed behind, munching on something tough and meaty: jerky from Jackabo’s stash, no doubt.
‘I think so,’ he replied, keeping his voice low. ‘They seem to be genuine enough. And friendly. But curious too, about where I’ve come from.’
‘You’re right, Nephew. We’ve been asked the same all afternoon.’
‘Perhaps it’s just important to them, to know a person’s story. They were all eager to share theirs.’
‘Hmm, maybe. Telling them you’re a lord, however, or what you’re headed east for—those I’d keep quiet.’
Merion nodded. ‘Rumours are viruses; that’s what my father used to say. And I don’t want to infect his name with them. But anyway, what would they know of politics, or Dizali? Better just to say I’m going home.’
‘Never underestimate anybody, Merion, that’s what I say. But I get you. It’s unlikely to be a problem. So I’ll leave it to you, as this was your idea.’ She was using that voice of hers, when she was trying to be friendly. He knew exactly why. Since Fell Falls, change had pulled at her too. She had kept her word about trying to be calmer, just as he had kept to doing what she asked. Most of all, his aunt now listened to him, even trusted in him. Maybe she too saw his childhood as a burning mess, long past saving, and respected that.
Merion reached out and patted her on the shoulder, an awkward touch, if it had to be said. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Now, why didn’t you tell me about the Bloodmoon?’
Lilain waved a hand. ‘I know, I know. I’m just worried about you wading too deep into this world. It’s dangerous, and I’ve seen it lead men and women aplenty down dark paths. It can consume you as much as you consume it, Nephew, and I don’t want that for you.’
Merion stuck out his chin. ‘What if I wanted it? Or my father wanted it for me?’
Lilain bit her lip. ‘Then I would let you go your own way,’
‘Correct answer,’ Merion snapped, and then flashed her a grin when she glowered. ‘I’ll be careful, Aunt.’
His aunt rolled her eyes. ‘You’re spendin’ too much time around that darned prospector,’ she muttered.
‘What now?’ Lurker grunted.
Lilain tutted. ‘So what did they tell you about the Bloodmoon?’
‘They told me about how it’s a great party, and how the blood-red moon increases our magick, just for one night,’ Merion reeled off the others’ words.
Lilain shrugged. ‘And did they tell you how it started?’
Merion nodded. ‘As a celebration of the old hunts. Rushers have been doing it for centuries.’
‘True enough,’ she said, ‘but it’s much older than that, my good nephew, much older.’
‘Do tell,’ Merion urged her on.
‘It was originally a lamprey festival of blood-drinking. Entire families would be sacrificed, or a whole household of slaves, just to fill the pitchers at the party. Debauched doesn’t even cover it. It stretches back beyond the First Empire, to the olden days, when drinkin’ the blood of your fellow man was considered high society. They started the festival, and it’s survived ever since. You rushers just made it your own,’ she waxed historical. ‘Used to call it the Night of the Leech, during the Age of Enlightenment.’
Merion looked pleased. ‘Did they now?’
Lilain nodded. ‘Now it’s just the Bloodmoon.’
‘Makes sense, if leeches began to die out,’ Merion mused. He then snapped his fingers. ‘Before I forget, where’s Rhin?’
‘Safe under Lurker’s hat still. Been asleep all day, healing. I think he’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow.’
‘I want to steal a few hours with him if I can.’
‘Better keep him a secret for now, until we know we can trust them. At least until I speak to thei
r letters.’
Merion cleared his throat. ‘Agreed. Ugh. Well that’s another conversation I have to have with Yara.’
Lilain frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Merion counted it off on his fingers. ‘Yara, I didn’t say, but I’m also a leech, and also, I’ve brought a faerie with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dumps us by the roadside, if only out of pure shock.’
‘She won’t. They seem pretty keen to have more rushers along, if only for a while.’
‘Maybe I’ll spread it out …’ Merion hummed to himself.
Lilain snorted. ‘I think that would be wise, Merion. I think that would be wise.’
Chapter X
PRIDE
29th June, 1867
The day had held nothing but sunshine and sewer-stink. Say one thing for the grandness of London: for all its lofty marble heights and glittering glass, it stank like any other city in the summer. Today however, was worse than usual. A sewer workers’ strike, from what the paperboys were yelling. All the vileness of the population had crept out of the drains and come to visit its makers.
There is something indiscriminate about excrement, something that brings a balance. No matter who you are, prince or pauper, everybody’s cheeks meet the cold porcelain of the chamber pot. The sewage baking in the streets was the evidence of that. Velvet-clad traders, frock-wearing ladies, kingly lords strutting about—they all had shit on their shoes like everybody else.
Gunderton lingered by a stall selling sweetcakes and greasy mutton sandwiches, letting the sweet smells replace the stink in his nose for a moment. The stall owner prattled on about fine ingredients and cheaper prices than “him over there”, but he wasn’t listening. He stood still and stoic, his hood casting a darkness over half his face, and his bushy beard taking care of the rest. It itched something awful in the heat. Part of him longed to rip it out with his calloused fingers, but he held back. Disguises are not things to be dropped, never for a moment. Gunderton was waiting for somebody, and fortunately for him, that somebody was as predictable as the ticking of his old battered watch, which lingered somewhere under his cloak and grubby waistcoat.
