by Ben Galley
Merion may have been young, and as unused to the concept of love as an octopus was to a mountaintop, but he understood that at least. He saw it now. The rug had been pulled from under her, like the rest of them, and believing something nefarious lurked within Cirque Kadabra was to recognise she now lay flat on her back. For somebody as tough as a cactus, that was hard. Merion felt a tinge of familiarity, recalling Calidae, and that look she had flashed him the night of the riverboat fire, as her father had pushed a piece of paper across the table.
Merion did not know quite what he was doing, but he reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. Awkward did not even begin to describe it, but it did the job he hoped for. Lilain looked down at him and nodded.
‘I’ve been a fool, and that’s something I ain’t very used to,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t worry,’ Merion replied. ‘I think we both have.’
They had arrived at their tent, and Lilain paused to scratch her head. ‘Thing is, I expect it of you,’ she smirked, before ruffling his hair and ducking into the tent.
Merion huffed and combed his bedraggled locks back into place with his fingers. He looked about, half-scowling at the circus around him, at the threads of people hurrying to and fro, all so wrapped up in their deception.
It was then that he caught a glimpse of a shape in the crowd, the profile of a man in a smart coat and bowler hat, gazing back at him. Merion blinked and the man vanished into the bustle. The boy shivered as if a ghost had climbed onto his back.
‘Nothing. Not a scrap of leather nor a drop of moonshine,’ Rhin was saying, arms folded, leaning against the tent-pole.
‘What’s this?’ Merion asked.
‘I found no sign of him in the camp. Spent all day looking and can’t find a thing.’
‘So Yara’s not hiding him here,’ Aunt Lilain surmised. ‘If she is keeping him.’
Rhin threw her a look. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’
Lilain tutted. ‘You should know by now how stubborn we Harks can be, Rhin Rehn’ar.’
The faerie hummed. ‘Yes, well, glad to have you on board at last.’
‘Family sticks together,’ she replied.
Merion cleared his sore throat. ‘And what an odd family this is,’ he murmured. ‘I say we bide our time. Lay low and keep quiet. Let Yara think she’s convinced us. Tomorrow night, we’ll catch them all out. Turn their show against them.’
‘And reveal their dealings with Dizali to Lincoln,’ Rhin affirmed.
Merion nodded. ‘In any case, I’m sure he’ll be keen to know.’
‘And are you ready for it?’ Lilain asked. Merion couldn’t hear any doubt in her voice, but if it was hiding, he wanted to crush it.
The young Hark smiled wider. ‘Aunt Lilain, I’m more than ready. They think they can trap me, but they’re wrong. Yara might be a liar, but I think she’s right on one thing: the Bloodmoon. I’ll use it against them, just like all their training. They’ll regret the day a leech like me wandered into their circus.’
*
Patience is a tricky thing. Some have it by the bucketload. Others can’t scrabble for a pinch. Others still can learn it, given time. Lilain Hark was not one of those people.
Those that do have precious little amounts of patience soon find it quickly eroded, like a sand dune in the face of a hungry sea. Lilain’s patience had worn out by sundown.
Now she lay on her side, curled up under her sheets, letting herself sweat it out. Her stare had not inched away from the tent-flap in at least an hour. She barely blinked. All she could think about was getting to her feet, marching out into the night, hauling that Sheen Dolmer from his bed, and giving him a piece of her mind, a heavy, sharp piece indeed.
She could hear Merion snoring softly beside her, lost in misty dreams, fitful though they seemed. The afternoon spent under Jud’s instruction and Shan’s relentless training had worked their magic. Not to mention helping to set up Neams’s circus, ready for the morning’s work. The boy was exhausted. Sleep had claimed him in seconds.
But not Lilain. Sleep was an elusive, slippery eel, always out of her grasp. Her mind was too busy concocting things to say to Sheen, hopping in and out of common sense and promises. She knew anything she did would jeopardise the boy and his plan. She knew it full well, and yet her feet kept twitching, dragging her towards the door.
Half an hour passed, until finally, she could stand no more of it, and settled on a short walk to clear her head. Slowly and quietly, she slid from the bed and got to her feet. A few long strides and she was out in the coolness of the night, filled with the murmur of the city. A few carriages rattled along the streets in the distance, the clatter of wheels floating gently across the fields. The dome of Capitol House shone in the gaslight. The unfinished Spike was black against the starry sky, alone on its hill. And behind her, the Ivory House, its windows glowing and white marble gleaming even in the darkness. A fat moon lingered on the horizon, an inch from full. Already it wore the faintest of pink tinges, like a dress rehearsal, readying itself for the festival tomorrow. Lilain squinted at its craters.
Her eager legs guided her around the slumbering camp. At first they took her in the opposite direction from the Dolmers’ tent and wagon. But slowly, and undeniably surely, they led her in a loop. With a growl, she found herself standing fifty yards away from it, hands on hips and foot tapping. Torn, she wrestled with herself. Forwards or back. Stay or go. Risk it or wait. Patience or passion. Lilain grew more irritable by the minute, and after spending several of them swaying back and forth, grinding her teeth, she strode forward.
Not a sound came from the Dolmers’ tent. Not even a snore. Lilain crept around it, checking for any sign of life. It seemed the twins were fast asleep. A busy day for them too, no doubt. Lilain had seen Sheen only once, hurrying past with a crate. He had smiled, but could not stop. She’d scowled.
Their nearby wagon looked peaceful enough. No lights. No creaking of axles. She tiptoed to its side, fingers wiggling over the cords on the canvas. They were nimble and swift. She put an eye to the gap, but there was nothing but gloom.
As she carefully and quietly clambered up the side of the wagon, Lilain wondered what it was exactly that she intended to do. Proof of her own, that’s what she wanted. Not that she didn’t believe that impetuous nephew of hers, she just wanted something to throw in Sheen’s face, literally speaking. Maybe Lurker had come here, in his jealousy, and found something he shouldn’t have.
As she crept about the darkness, she instinctively put a hand to her hip, but no fat holster was there to comfort her. Lilain frowned while she felt about, hands gently flitting over drawers and tools, making not a sound. Her feet trod softly, remembering where the creaking boards were. She had already spent hours in this wagon.
There had to be something she had not seen. Surely there were plenty of hiding places in the wagon. Her hands felt around its edges, its shallow walls of canvas and wood.
No treasure is ever worth finding if it’s easy to discover. Fell Falls taught her that. Now she tested her patience again as her hands roamed back and forth, over and over, hunting for someth—
There. A hollow in the wood, and a ring that could be fished out with a fingernail. Lilain cautiously inched it open. It was a drawer, hidden in the front of the wagon behind the driver’s bench. It was short, but wide and deep. Just the right size for hiding a pistol, it seemed. Lilain instantly recognised the cold metal and wood in her grasp. She held it up against the canvas, faintly illuminated by Washingtown’s lights, to see the shape of it.
The Mistress.
Lilain was torn between a sense of victory and the sourest contempt. Her expression morphed between the two for a few long moments.
She got to her feet and thrust the long barrel of the pistol into her belt. As she turned towards the exit, a flame burst into life in front of her. In its flash, she glimpsed a face, one with an abundant amount of pitch-black facial hair, one with wide eyes and thin lips, with no trace of the smil
e of which it was so usually fond.
Another match was struck, and this time it found a candle. Lilain, even though her heart was thudding with the shock, was not one for a back foot. She crossed her arms, drew herself up, and gave him her best glower. ‘You’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do, Sheen.’
‘I expected this of your friend, but not of you, Lil,’ he replied, shaking his head. In the glare of the candle, which he held like a dagger, Lilain was abruptly aware she could not see his other hand—or what it might have held. She loosened the weight of her arms, her right arm burrowing down, ready to pluck the Mistress from her belt. She just hoped Sheen had kept it loaded.
‘Don’t call me that,’ she hissed. ‘Not now. Not ever again.’
‘Come on, you know me …’
‘I truly thought I did.’
Sheen took a step forward. Lilain took one back.
‘Don’t be angry because you fell for me.’
‘You?’ she spluttered. ‘Ha. You just had what I wanted.’ Lilain looked around at the shelves and cupboards. ‘Blood, and lots of it.’
Sheen managed to look moderately offended. Lilain smirked, even though she boiled beneath it.
‘I think it’s time you come along with me. Yara will need to hear about this. Don’t you try anything stupid, now.’ Another step was taken, slow and careful. Lilain caught a glint of metal by his thigh.
‘Come on, Lil,’ he whispered.
‘I told you not to call me that!’ she hissed again.
Lilain might have been growing old in the bones, but by the Maker could she move when she wanted. Her hand flew down to the Mistress just as Sheen raised his heavy tent-spike, ready to knock her senseless. The pistol swung up and out in a wide arc, catching him under his chin. The barrel was sharp and solid, and there was an audible crack of metal on bone. Sheen made a strange sound and wobbled on his feet, head back and eyes rolling. As he fought to stay conscious, Lilain hit him again, in the place that any man holds most dear—a place reserved for moments like these. Sheen’s eyes bulged as he sank to the floor, reeling as he fought to breathe. Lilain disdainfully stepped over him, keeping the pistol trained on his face just in case he had the mind to try again.
‘Where’s Lurker?’
Sheen couldn’t do anything but wheeze. Lilain pressed the barrel of the Mistress against his forehead and let him see the steel-hard look in her eye. ‘I’ve killed liars like you before, and I don’t mind sayin’ there are few things in this world more satisfying. I’ve been itching for some good old fashioned justice lately. To scratch a few of my own notches in the sand. Know what I mean? Now where’s Lurker?’
‘Docks,’ came the strangled yelp as Lilain pressed harder, her finger creeping towards the trigger. ‘Warehouse. Ambler & Co.’
‘There’s a good boy.’
She fought the urge to spit out anything more than words. ‘When I see you again, I’ll kill you. You and the rest of your deceitful, conniving little family,’ she growled, before bringing the handle of the Mistress down hard between his eyes. Sheen crumpled to a heap, and she slipped out of the wagon, quiet as a shadow.
*
A cold breeze was coming off the river, chased by the frigid winds of the Iron Ocean, a score of miles away. It made Lilain shudder even though the flagstones and dust were still warm from the day. The streets were almost abandoned. Lilain kept her head down and her ears pricked up, letting her boots decide the rhythm. Her plaid shirt rustled with each purposeful stride, and her ponytail thumped against her shoulders. The Mistress jostled for space against her spine, hidden under her belt.
Every now and again, Lilain would mutter something threatening as her mind unravelled the outcomes of what she’d done. And what she was still doing. Despite her gnawing doubts, she strode on, her boots not wavering for an instant.
The docks wandered on and on, little streets and avenues leading here and there, stoking her into an impatient temper. Half the gaslights had been extinguished, doing wonders for her sign-reading. Each flat-faced warehouse looked the same. Street after street came and went, and with every one Lilain grew angrier.
After half an hour spent stamping around the docks, Lilain found it: Ambler & Co., a box of a warehouse halfway down a lane with the river at its end. Lilain hovered by the door. There was a faint light flickering in one of the windows, the wavering shadow of a lonely lantern.
There was nothing else to do but grasp the handle and turn. Lilain drew her pistol and held it up, both hands clamped around it. The Mistress sat as steady as a rock in her grip.
Crates and boxes sat in clumps in roped-off squares, some vast, some tiny, barely enough for a wardrobe. Lilain weaved between them, heading for the glow at the far end of the warehouse. She trod slowly, even though the walkways were clearly marked. All she needed was a forgotten chair or bottle to kick and that was it.
She heard no voices, just something occasionally snuffling, though that was enough to rattle her since it did not sound human. As the shadows grew fainter and the light stronger, she began to make out cages of different shapes and dimensions, covered with blankets and curtains, sitting quietly on their own in the dark. She spied the lantern now, sitting on a small table. It had a neighbour: a skinny, pigeon-chested man with white-blonde hair. Neams. She inwardly seethed as she crouched down to fiddle with her laces. After all he had done for Rhin. It was almost as if each of them had been assigned their own personal liar.
Neams had his chin propped in his hand, currently frowning at a book as if it were written in Cathayan. Every now and again he would flip back a page, frown even more, and then shake his head. Lilain crept forwards like a panther, soft and silent now without her boots. She walked in a wide arc, moving around behind him. Her heart thundered against her ribcage. She had never been one for sneaking. That was the faerie’s job. She winced with every step she took.
Half a dozen paces away, and Neams shuffled in his chair, making Lilain freeze. Her breath caught in her throat, and, in the tension, she coughed, loud and clear. Neams, thank the Maker, took a few seconds to prick his ears and make sense of the noise. Lilain dashed madly forward, swinging the pistol with all her strength.
It was an awkward strike, but somehow it did its job. As Neams leapt to his feet and whirled around, his hand reaching for his knife, the Mistress came swooping down. It caught him in the side of the neck, eliciting a dull thwack, like a fist pummelling a fat steak. There was a wet click as something in his windpipe split. He fell to the floor, gasping and clutching at his neck. Lilain leapt on him, hitting him a good few times in the face before pinning his arms to the floorboards with her knees and clamping her hand over his mouth. With her finger and thumb sealing his airways, she pressed down. Neams thrashed wildly, as any man will, no matter how stunned, when he is robbed of his air.
Lilain clung on like a limpet, watching his eyes roll madly around their sockets in panic. But his struggling cost him precious air. Within a minute, he had slumped like a rag doll and Lilain released him. He wasn’t dead, but close enough. It would buy them an hour or two.
‘John!’ she yelled. ‘John Hobble, you’d best be in here!’
And there he was. A gruff voice barking out. ‘Lil?’
It was then that another voice rang out, one so unexpected it made Lilain stumble as she dragged the fabric from Lurker’s cage.
‘Who’s there?’
Lilain stood open-mouthed. She swore she recognised that voice. It had come from the cage next to Lurker’s. She walked to it, reached up to seize the sheet that covered it, and yanked hard.
‘Calidae Serped, what a surprise.’
And what a surprise it was. Lilain tried to keep her gaze fixed on Calidae’s eyes, even though it itched to wander to the scars, the puckered skin …
‘Madam Rennevie. And Tonmerion’s drinking companion too, if I’m not mistaken,’ the girl replied, as dry as an oven. The girl sat in the middle of her cage with her hands crossed. Her wardrobe was a far cry from what
Lilain remembered. No silks, no satin, no feathers nor sequins. Just a pair of britches a size too big and a shirt that had seen so much of the sun it had forgotten what colour it used to be.
‘Let me out of this cage so I can belt her, Lil,’ Lurker grumbled. The prospector looked haggard. Even more so than usual.
‘In a minute, John.’
The last time Lilain had seen her, she had been running full pelt into the burning carcass of her riverboat mansion, skirts swirling around her legs with the smoke. Lilain looked again at her fire-kissed scars and found she wanted to swallow. Shame was, her mouth was as dry as Calidae’s tone.
‘I think I told you before that Madam Rennevie died with Mister Rennevie. It’s still Lady Hark to you.’
Calidae rolled her eyes.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Lilain demanded.
‘That is a long and terrible story. One we most certainly don’t have time for.’
Lilain smirked. ‘We? There ain’t no we, Calidae. Lurker and I will be leaving. You will be staying.’
The Serped girl was on her feet in an instant. She had grown wiry during her time in the desert. ‘You can’t do that. I’m the daughter of Lord Castor Serped!’
‘And that’s exactly why I ain’t taking you, Castor’s daughter,’ Lilain glared, sweeping the sheet off of Lurker’s cage. He looked awful. ‘Keys?’
‘Belt,’ Lurker rumbled, pointing to the comatose Neams.
Lilain was back in an instant, a fistful of keys in her hand. She went back to the door of Lurker’s cage and began to work through the keys.
‘How did she get here?’ Lilain whispered.
