The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘In my tent?’

  ‘As you asked. He has a friend too. I’ll let him explain.’

  ‘Thank you, Devan. What of Master Harlequin?’

  The strongman snorted. ‘Distracted for the moment. Working with Big Jud on his act. Big fellow is spinning him some yarn about stage craft.’

  ‘Good. We can’t afford any trouble. Not now.’

  ‘We’ve worked too hard.’

  ‘That we have, Devan. That we have. Keep an eye on him. I shall see to him after.’

  Devan nodded and peeled away, heading towards the big tent, where the main stage for the evening was being hammered into place.

  Yara found her tent guarded by Itch Magrey. He did not look too happy.

  ‘What’s this? More guests?’

  Yara fixed him with a stern look. ‘I do not have the time or the patience for this, Itch. I told you we were expecting a visit from our employer’s man. He is here to help.’

  ‘We don’t need it.’

  Yara grabbed him by the buttons of his shirt and drew him close, her voice a snake’s hiss. ‘What do I say about taking chances?’

  Itch looked anywhere but her. ‘They’re for fools to take, not us,’ he grunted.

  ‘Do you realise how important this is? For us? For our friend across the ocean? This is the most important job we have ever taken, Itch. And have I ever failed us?’

  ‘No,’ came the mumbled reply.

  ‘Well then, why are you asking questions?’ Yara pushed him away from her and went inside her tent.

  A smartly dressed man in a long coat and a bowler hat welcomed her with a wide smile. He had made himself quite at home, lounging in one of her chairs with his feet up on a trunk. There was a young girl, possibly fourteen or fifteen, standing beside him, with her arms crossed and a pout firmly affixed to her face. Half of her scalp and face were covered with burns. Yara tried not to stare too long.

  The man hopped to his feet and extended a hand. Yara shook it warmly, feeling the familiar tap of his finger on her palm. She looked into his eyes, one blue, one green.

  ‘It is not every day that one of the Brothers pays us a visit. Yara Mizar.’

  ‘Extraordinary times, and all that,’ the man replied. ‘Arrid Gavisham, at your service, Milady.’

  ‘Mr Gavisham, it looks as though the wild west has taken its toll,’ she said, noting the dust on his coat hem, and the scuffing of his boots. There was the faintest hint of a darker shade under his eyes.

  ‘I’ve seen worse places,’ he winked. He gestured to the girl. ‘This is Asha, a survivor of the unfortunate incident with Lord Serped. I’m sure you heard.’

  ‘I have indeed.’ Yara moved forwards to greet the girl, curtsying with her skirts held wide. ‘Asha, welcome to Cirque Kadabra.’

  Asha just nodded, eyeing her up and down. Obviously not a talker.

  ‘We crossed paths in Kenaday. I’m returning her to London.’

  ‘An Empire girl. We seem to attract the type at the moment.’

  Asha threw her a curious look, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘We have a lot to discuss,’ Gavisham said, flicking his eyes to the girl. Yara got his meaning and waved a hand towards the tent-flap.

  ‘Let’s walk and talk,’ she said. ‘Asha, make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘And don’t go wandering off. Not until I’ve spoken to Ms Mizar here.’

  ‘Fine,’ the girl mumbled, settling down in the chair and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  They wandered back out into the sunshine and strode a short distance away where they could talk, their words muffled by the bustle around them.

  ‘Ms Yara Mizar, the Lightning, finest assassin this side of the Red Palace, or so I’m told. A real pleasure. Dizali has told me all about you. All’s in hand?’ Gavisham muttered, tossing a nod to the Ivory House.

  ‘To the very last detail, Mr Gavisham. It is promising to be quite a show,’ Yara informed him. She laid it all out for him. By the end, the man just nodded and hummed to himself.

  ‘Can’t see no problem with it except one. Can we trust the boy?’

  ‘He’s just a distraction. And in the confusion, I shall see the job done,’ Yara said, producing a knife out of thin air.

  ‘Quite the trick. I can see why they call you the Lightning.’

  Yara smiled as she twirled the blade. ‘Guns have never held any allure for me. There is no show in waving a gun around and blowing things to pieces.’

  Gavisham nodded. ‘Preaching to the converted, Ms Mizar. Where is the boy, anyway?’ he asked, a hint of grit in his tone. So this is personal, as well as professional, then.

  ‘Currently distracted in the main tent, as he will be until tomorrow night. Though there has been a complication.’

  ‘I’m not too fond of those.’

  ‘One of his friends, from Fell Falls. He grew too curious and found our supplies. He is currently missing. The boy has spent the last day shouting about it, but we managed to calm him down for now. And his aunt too. We have distracted her with our letter, Sheen. He can be quite the charmer.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  Yara shook her head. ‘Put him in a cage, at the docks. Leverage is always useful.’

  Gavisham shrugged.

  Yara looked back towards the tent. ‘And what of the girl?’

  ‘Lord Dizali wants her. She’s Calidae Serped. Thinks I don’t know. Another orphan and heir to a fortune. She’ll be taken back with me.’

  ‘Did Merion do that to her?’

  ‘Not directly. But he started the fire.’

  ‘Does she know he is here? I know very well how much you Empire-born like your grudges.’

  Gavisham winced. ‘She might. Don’t suppose you have another cage around?’

  Yara smirked. ‘We just may.’

  The man looked up at the blue, cloudless sky and the buildings that poked up towards it. He took a breath and smiled. ‘A beautiful city. Almost seems a shame to tarnish it with a war.’

  ‘Almost,’ Yara replied.

  *

  Calidae Serped had never liked being told to sit and stay. That was for dogs, and she was not a dog. Hence she found herself slipping out from under the tent fabric and striding purposefully across the grass. To where, she was not sure, but she had a good idea it involved the main tent.

  The circus was a bedraggled affair. It smelled of sweat and paint, and that was not a particularly pleasant combination. She watched the dusty, unwashed bodies rushing about carrying things, hitting things, washing things, tying things together. It looked as though they were preparing for the show of their lifetimes. Calidae was not sure why, but it set a cold feeling of unease in her stomach. Something was rotten at the core of this circus. She did not need Gavisham and the flame-haired woman to tell her that.

  Calidae looked at the grand Ivory House. She had seen it before, on their way to Kaspar. She had even stood on its steps, waiting for her father to finish untangling himself from discussions of railroads and contracts. Part of her wanted to break out and make a dash for those very same steps, to shout for help and see this Almighty-forsaken country put behind her, in the roiling wake of a ship. She looked west and saw the masts of ships poking above the tall roofs of the city. Perhaps she could just skip straight to the point, she wondered, and sneak aboard a ship. But a Serped is never one for unfinished business. Her father’s words echoed in her mind.

  Calidae made it to the big tent and traced its edges, looking for an entrance. Between two folds of canvas, she found a small opening and wiggled through, careful not to catch her head or face on the fabric. She was still sore. She wondered if she would ever not be. She snarled to herself quietly.

  The smell of sawdust and baking canvas assaulted her nose. She crouched behind a crate and watched the bustle inside the tent. A huge stage was being nailed together in the centre. Men and women crawled over it like ants, wielding hammers, nails pinched between their lips. A few more circled them, pointing her
e and there and shouting directions over the banging. Others were seeing to benches, smoothing them down and picking out splinters.

  A small group sat apart from the stage: a woman holding a heavy bag, a huge man, practically spherical, who lounged on a borrowed bench and waved his hands about. Beside him, there was another woman, familiar somehow, tall and willowy with blonde hair scraped back in a tail, and a boy, thirteen at the most, who was pacing a groove into the earth.

  Calidae’s heart began to pound. There he was, bold and bright as daylight, a stone’s throw away from her. Calidae began to shake. Her fingernails, bitten short, dug scratches in the wood of the crate. There he was.

  It took her everything she had not to spring forwards and run at him, to sink her teeth into him and pummel him to a pulp. The boy had taken everything from her, and she ached to claim it back with his blood. But she had promised herself, laid out her plans and sworn to keep to them, and so she held back, resentfully. She bared her teeth and ducked out of the tent.

  No sooner had she done so than a heavy hand grabbed her by the shoulder, making her gasp in pain and surprise. Gavisham looked down at her, shaking his head and tutting. ‘I told you to stay put,’ he sighed.

  Calidae scowled. ‘I’m not a dog. You can’t tell me what to do.’

  Gavisham just gripped her harder, pushing her away from the tent and aiming her towards the city. ‘That’s exactly where you’re wrong, my dear Asha.’

  Gavisham did not stop at Yara Mizar’s tent. He kept walking, marching her further and further away from the circus. Whenever she struggled, he gripped harder.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, but Gavisham stayed silent.

  Street after street came and went, and still the man did not let up. Calidae took to staying silent, busying herself with memorising their names, so she could find her way back. She could see the river now, and the ships. Now the game was up, she wondered whether Gavisham was steering her towards them. Close, but not quite.

  A warehouse stood in front of them. A low building made of brick and wooden slats. It sat, quiet and unassuming, at the end of a road full of other warehouses. Gavisham pushed her forward, through the door and into the cool inside. More crates sat in a circle. A circle of tall cages sat at the end, covered in blankets and curtains. Calidae heard the muffled growl of something big and furry and began to struggle anew.

  ‘Let go of me, I say!’

  To her surprise, Gavisham did exactly that, using the force of her thrashing to push her to the floor. Calidae struck her head on the floorboards as she fell, catching her scars. Tears forced themselves out of her eyes.

  ‘You know what my first clue was, Calidae?’ Gavisham said, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘Your eyes. Servants learn to look down. You don’t. You stare people straight in the face. Only a high-born could be as arrogant.’

  Calidae hissed something dark and vicious. Gavisham just chuckled. ‘Then there’s your teeth, far too polished. The white marks on your fingers where you’ve worn rings. Your accent. Awful when you listen hard. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.’

  Getting to her feet with a wince, Calidae lifted her chin. ‘So what are you going to do with me? Feed me to some lion? A bear? Whatever else they’ve got stashed in those cages?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind. Ah, here’s the gentleman now.’ Gavisham nodded as a skinny man with slicked-back hair the colour of sun-bleached bone emerged from behind a crate. ‘I have another one for you. Yara sent me.’

  The man sniffed and nodded, pointing towards the cages. Calidae was pushed again, Gavisham close behind her.

  ‘That you, Neams, you runt?’ came a shout from behind one of the blankets. American, by his accent. ‘Decided to let me out yet?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the man named Neams growled. ‘This is yours, little girl.’

  Calidae scowled darkly at the man as he whisked the curtain of another cage aside and unlocked the door. The smell of ammonia and bleach was overpowering. Calidae struggled again, but Gavisham had the consistency of steel. He was immovable, and kept shoving until she stood in the centre of the cage, a look of thunder on her face.

  ‘When I get out of here …’ she began, but Neams just slammed the bars shut. She was left in the darkness behind the curtain to fume.

  Their footsteps receded until they disappeared completely. The last sound Calidae heard was the jingling of keys in a lock and the slam of a door. She held her breath and listened to the sounds of animals snoring, things shifting against straw, and of leather creaking.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded.

  There was a pause. More creaking. Something thudded, like a boot against an iron bar. ‘Don’t know your voice, girl. Who are you?’ a gruff voice spoke out.

  ‘I am Calidae Serped, and who exactly are you?’

  There was another pause, longer this time. Finally the man answered. ‘Name’s Lurker. And I don’t talk to lampreys.’

  *

  Merion was tired. It was barely afternoon, and he was aching and browbeaten. All he wanted to do was hit the sheets of his bed. Part worry, part work, the boy was sore in his bones.

  ‘Don’t be givin’ up now, Merion. Try again, son,’ urged Big Jud, still sprawled on his bench. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

  ‘I’m done,’ Merion replied, shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing to be gained from repeating mistakes over and over again.’

  ‘Oh, you’re gettin’ it, you’re standin’ tall, takin’ the right strides. It just seems slower to you, is all. Keep at it.’

  Merion furrowed his brow and paced some more. A tingle ran up his spine, and he looked around the big tent, feeling the prickle of eyes on his back. It was a sensation that had followed him around for almost two days now, ever since Lurker had vanished off the face of the earth. It might have been tolerable, the worry, the confusion, the anger, had they had stayed in one place. But no, since that night, they had travelled across several states, to the edge of the Iron Ocean. Yara had left a few of her men at various stations along the way, tasked with searching for the prospector, but Merion saw through her gossamer ruse. It was a warning, perhaps, goading him into action. But Merion was biding his time.

  ‘I want to speak to Yara,’ he said hoarsely, voice still raw from spending several hours of the previous morning shouting Lurker’s name at the desert.

  Big Jud shook his head and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Yara’s busy, or so I’m told.’

  ‘I want to know if there’s any news.’

  ‘As do I,’ Lilain echoed, still silent and distant. Lurker’s disappearance had hit her hard, possibly even harder than Merion. She blamed herself, naturally, and Merion lacked the heart to tell her she was wrong. Not anymore. Whatever Lurker had got himself into, he had been driven by something, something more than just the usual pint of moonshine. Sharp words had been swapped that night, and their wounds had yet to form a scab and heal over. Lilain still struggled to see the foulness of it, and Merion was tired of trying to convince her.

  Big Jud rolled his eyes. ‘Hey, Follust, Mien! Where’s Yara?’

  ‘Busy, I think,’ came Miss Mien’s shrill reply.

  ‘She’s with Neams, making sure the animals are secure,’ hollered Follust, the man with the perfect memory.

  Jud shrugged. ‘See? Told you. Busy as a bee. Now I don’t know if you heard, but we got a big show tomorrow night. Possibly the biggest ever. Lurker missing is a damn shame, but she can’t fill all her mind with it, now can she? Not at a time like this. Wait till after the Bloodmoon, then we’ll find your friend.’

  Merion chose to take a stab at the big man, to test him with something sharp. He saw his friendliness now as nothing more than another act. ‘And what if I don’t want to do the show? Not unless we find him?’

  Jud dabbed casually at his forehead again, looking not the slightest bit bothered. Merion frowned some more. ‘Then we’d be short our finale, and I think there would be
some disappointment.’

  ‘I can’t concentrate,’ Merion huffed, exasperated. He rubbed his eyes and looked over at his aunt. Lilain got to her feet and clapped her hands.

  ‘Lunch, Mr Jepson. That’s what my nephew needs.’

  Big Jud nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough.’ He pushed his gargantuan weight from the bench and rubbed his stomach. ‘In fact, lunch doesn’t sound too bad an idea, now does it? Shan?’

  Shan was busy staring at Lilain. ‘Not too bad at all,’ she replied quietly. She followed in Jud’s wake as he led them out of the big tent. Merion and his aunt promised to return in an hour and headed for some privacy. Merion found a little energy in his feet and walked faster, eager to get to somewhere comfy.

  ‘We’ll find him, you know. He’s a stubborn bastard. Whatever’s happened, he’ll be fine. Probably holed up in a saloon somewhere, drinking himself merry.’

  ‘You can try and convince yourself, Aunt, but I won’t. It’s too fishy. The night we find proof, Lurker goes missing.’

  Lilain fell silent, as she always did when he mentioned what Rhin had found. She had denied it at first, then simmered with anger, then fallen silent, contemplative.

  Merion stopped in his tracks, eager to see this farce dead and buried. ‘Sheen Dolmer really has conned you, hasn’t he?’

  He expected his aunt to whirl on him, her face like a thunderstorm and her words as hot as lightning. But all she did was look over her shoulder and sigh. ‘Did I ever tell you about my late husband?’

  Merion looked confused. ‘You mentioned him once or twice. And something about a hammer.’

  Lilain began to walk again. He caught up to her, listening as she talked quietly, staring straight ahead. ‘Yes, well. He went to his grave fifteen years ago now. Don’t worry, Nephew, I ain’t going to get all teary about it. I’m just makin’ a point of how long it’s been since, well, anybody. Your usual lady, I ain’t. I don’t like long strolls along the promenade. I don’t take nicely to candlelit dinners. I’m allergic to flowers. I won’t be seen dead in a frock. I think makeup is for actresses. I curse like a pirate. I can’t cook and don’t want to learn, and if you want to keep your ears intact, then don’t ever ask me my thoughts on squeezin’ out kids.’ His aunt paused to shudder. ‘Damin Rennevie was never the man for me. I took his name and my time realisin’. It takes a certain type of man to love me, my good nephew, and those are hard to come by. I’ve made my happiness with that. You either love me for who and what I am, or you learn to. Won’t have it any other way. That’s what cuts so deep about Sheen. When you find something rare it’s hard not to grasp for it.’