by OJ Lowe
Still no contact about Lysa. Still nothing from Carling. He debated the time difference between kingdoms, considered calling Aldiss for an update. Made the decision it wasn’t worth it. If he hadn’t heard anything in the next two days, he’d call. Just because you wanted an update, it didn’t mean you were going to get one immediately.
He didn’t have a thousand credits on him, he’d had to use his charge card. Somehow, he hadn’t been surprised to see her have a machine behind the counter. All part of the charm, he thought. They pretended to be all rustic and natural, soon as the credits came out, they knew all the tricks.
Sharon had gone to see the fortune teller, he was alone for the time being. Hence his purchase. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise for her. He didn’t want her pre-empting what he was going to do and having the chance to think it through, come up with reasons to say no. When he put it to her, he wanted her reaction to be fully instinctive.
He’d watched her box it and wrap it, had handed it to him as if it were a precious jewel. He supposed it might as well be. It was his hope for the future. Nick slipped it into his jacket, made sure the pocket was securely buttoned. He’d probably cry if he lost it. A thousand credits he wouldn’t be getting back.
Nick tapped his ear again. Still nothing but the sound of silence. Where the hell was that silver haired bastard?
Sharon had found herself stuck in the queue behind an eclectic group, not really listening to them but unable to help overhearing what they were saying. Her interest wasn’t in them, rather in some of the sights she could see around them. Across the grass, a knife juggler had thirteen blades in the air, his hands little more than blurs as he threw one knife into the air, caught another, repeated. His reflexes and speed were outstanding. As someone who had a little experience in that field, she could appreciate what he was doing. Stiltwalkers and fire spinners crossed the area, the warmth from the flames spat up into the air nice as a contrast against the cool night air. The stiltwalkers were an unusual bunch, she thought. They walked on heavily extended prosthetic legs, their movements ungainly and exaggerated. Sometimes they did swaying little dances which looked like little more than poor impressions of strange-looking trees in a blustery breeze. She’d never seen the point; the entertainment factor fell away very quickly after a while.
She didn’t know why exactly she wanted her fortune told, not when there’d been a time she could have done it herself with probably more accuracy than a carnival fortune teller could ever hope for. That was the past and this was the present. When she’d told Nick that she wanted to stop dwelling on what had happened so much, she’d meant it. The past was well behind her, that part was at least and to go back to it would be more trouble and pain than it was worth.
Besides, you didn’t come to a fortune teller for a guarantee. You came for the mystery and the riddles. To be told what may or may not happen in as deliberately a vague way as could be managed.
They were spirit dancers in front of her, she’d have to guess. She recognised the tall woman immediately, tanned skin and with hair so brown it looked to shimmer. Selena Stanton. One of the most recognisable spirit dancers in the kingdoms due to her side career as a professional model. Those with her, she didn’t know, though the fat guy in the acid green jacket and the simpering voice was sort of familiar. Those two gave the impression very much they were the voices of guidance in the group, older than the other two who were little more than out of their teens. A pale-skinned girl with blue-black hair and a few visible tattoos, doing her best to cling up to a guy next to her who might have been cute had the arrogance not been flooding off him in waves. The hair was thick and red, his face spattered with freckles. She didn’t need any sort of special abilities to sense that arrogance. Here was a boy, not quite yet a man, who thought the world was his to take without consequence. Everything was for his convenience. She’d seen his type before, usually in the spirit calling arena. She always enjoyed disabusing them of the notion that they were unbeatable, that all they had to do was show up and win.
“Maybe we should get a group seeing,” the fat man giggled. “Imagine the sorts of things we could hear about each other. Wouldn’t that be just fabulous.” He prodded the pale-skinned girl playfully in the shoulder with a pudgy finger. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little Mia. Hear all our secrets and spread them like shit.”
Sharon could imagine that the girl, Mia, was glaring at him. She’d have punched him in the face. There was something about him that made her teeth itch.
“Lady Ancuta here,” the redhead boy said in an oily voice. “Is a world-famous fortune teller. People come from all over the kingdom to hear what she has to say. I imagine that she’d tell you a lot more about yourself than she ever could about us, Ro.”
“Donny, Donny. You know what’s more fun than secrets? The small matter of finding out those secrets. You control the secrets, you control the story. Secrets are power, cuteheart. They can cut like a knife, twist like a corkscrew.”
“Just ignore him, Andy,” Mia said, her voice quiet. She sounded sad. Resigned. Like she didn’t want to be here, Sharon thought. Poor girl. The way she stood, she looked like she had a great weight on her shoulders and couldn’t wait to throw it all off and be free. The problem was, she either didn’t know how or didn’t feel she was strong enough. She was shaking in the cold of the night, her pale skin looking clammy.
“Yes,” Selena said. “You know what dear Harvey is like. He paints himself as a master manipulator. Really, he’s about as harmless as they come. Harmless Harvey, they used to call him.”
“Did not,” Harvey said defiantly. “They tried it once. Never again. Nobody calls me that. Never.”
“Maybe we should start,” Selena said, sticking her tongue out at the fat man. “Mr Harmless. Couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Not an alive one anyway,” Andy said. “You always struck me as the sort of guy who’d pull the legs off a dead one.”
“Charming, Donny, charming,” Harvey said. “Oh, you know me a little too well, don’t you just.” He sounded like he was about to start flouncing, Sharon thought, trying to keep her face impassive. It wasn’t hard. In her past, she’d worked on such things. Her old master had always told her never to let people see what you were thinking. It wasn’t good to show your emotions too easily. That’s why she never got what Nick was doing. He wasn’t as good at keeping it concealed as he thought he was. He was a hells of a lot better at it than most people. Not the sort of man you’d want to play cards with. He was hurting since he’d gotten back. She knew it. Didn’t have to extend herself to work it out. A novice could see it. There was something on her boyfriend’s mind and he was struggling with it.
Maybe it was his sick friend. She hoped that was it. Secrets weren’t a healthy thing to build a relationship on.
Then again, she had those of her own and she couldn’t really criticise him in that regard. Whatever else she might think she was, it was hard to think of herself as a hypocrite. It felt unjustified.
Ahead of her, the group of four moved into the tent. She’d be next. She was glad that they’d gone. Listening to them for much longer would have been hard work. She rubbed at her eyes. It had been a long day and her body was starting to feel the strain of it. She’d make it through the night. Maybe they’d spend all tomorrow in bed. That would be nice. Real nice.
Nick had found Carling, more almost tripped over him by the stage as he’d crawled out from underneath it, mud caking his hands and his knees. Their eyes met, and Carling froze for a moment before rising to his feet with what little dignity he’d managed to keep hold of.
“Ah,” he said. “You came.”
“I did indeed,” Nick said. He glanced down at the stage. He’d heard something about there being spirit dancing soon, challengers against the champions of the travelling folk. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Honestly, I can’t say for sure any more,” Carling said. “Just checking under the stage for anything that shouldn
’t be there.”
“You find anything?” Nick inquired. His response was a shake of his head. “Shouldn’t you have someone to do that for you?”
“Who to trust, son?” Carling said. “Just because Hobb was a sniper doesn’t mean that he’ll kill that way. The best assassins are the ones who do what you don’t expect.”
Nick had to concede that was a valid point. He jerked his head towards the tallest building. “You check that out?”
Carling nodded, tugged at the collar of his shirt. “First thing this morning. Area’s been secured ever since. Whatever Hobb tries to do, it’s not going to be taking a shot from up there.”
“It doesn’t have to be a VIP,” Nick said. “It could be anyone in the crowd, you know that.”
“Odds suggest it is someone important though,” Carling said. “These people are serious players. Hobb is a kingdom-class sniper. One of the best Unisco ever produced. He might be the Wandering Man, but he still charges an extortionate amount of credits for each hit. Only the rich can afford him because they inevitably want the best. You want to wipe one of these out…” He gestured towards the crowds. “You do not hire a sharpshooter. You could have a common cutthroat do the job.”
“You know the first thing you shouldn’t do,” Nick said thoughtfully. He turned the words over in his mouth before letting them loose. “Make assumptions. It’s a dangerous game. It blinds you to what may be other lethal possibilities.” Something wasn’t right, the faintest hint of something in his head that had sent the alarm bells ringing. He was on edge right there and then. “Nigel…”
He paused, cut away from what he wanted to ask. The alarm bells had been silenced momentarily. He’d seen the VIP area, fenced off from the rest of the carnival by the rope. Could see the faces. Could see the bird with the pink crest sat atop a post, the feathers on its head blowing gently in the caress of the wind. He blinked several times, took a moment to think where he’d seen a bird like that recently. It hadn’t been since he’d gotten back to Canterage, but…
That bout with Julia Tamale felt like months ago. It had truly been scant days ago. Yet as he remembered what he’d recalled about woophawks at the time he’d seen her use one, who they were the favoured spirits of. Those memories right now were branded into the forefront of his memory, words he wouldn’t likely forget even if he tried.
Favoured by Unisco snipers to check wind pressure and altitude.
Snipers. Bloody snipers! If Hobb was half the man Carling had made him out to be, he wouldn’t be any different in his approach to the job. If he had a tool, he’d use it.
“Nigel,” he said, trying to keep his voice. “Do you have people in place in that building to check it?”
No answer. He turned, saw Carling had vanished while his attention had been focused on the hawk. Nick swore viciously. Jabbed at his earpiece again. This time there was a brief hint of static before it faded into the sound of silence. What the hells was the agent playing at?
Lady Ancuta wasn’t at all what Sharon had expected, she was young and slim, her face veiled with a jewelled length of pretty-pink patterned cloth. Above it, the eyes were the same colour as her skin, a paling brown the colour of milky tea. Strands of rich black hair poked out from beneath her shawl.
“Welcome, welcome,” she purred, gesturing to the table with a gloved hand. It was small and covered in a lace cloth the colour of snow and blood. Nothing else stood on there. “Have a seat, my pretty. At least there’s only one of you. Not like the last party.” The eyes narrowed. “Well, you and your ghosts anyway. Don’t worry, it’s only you I’ll ask to cross my palm with silver.”
“I don’t have silver,” Sharon said. “Will credits do.”
She was sure she could see the mouth beneath the veil curve into a smile. “Even better. Tell me my dear, your name. My sight is better than most but the mundane escapes me from time to time.”
“Isn’t that usually the way,” Sharon said, sliding into the seat. “Sometimes, you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“Indeed, you are wise beyond your years.” The fortune teller studied her again, then patted her hand down onto the table. “Place your credits here and hear what the fates have in store for you. Keep in mind that the voices may speak what you do not wish to hear but nor do they wish you ill. What happens will happen under the grace of Gilgarus and it is beyond our ken to change it. Paths have already been walked, it is merely the sights along the way that remain to meet our eyes.”
She spoke a good game, Sharon had to admit. She reached into her purse, drew out five yellow ten-credit pieces and placed them on the table. The fee hadn’t been stated but the board had suggested generosity. Fifty credits were a generous amount for something like this.
Gloved hands came out, swept over them, danced like spiders on gold.
“Your heart is true, my dear. You know the value of things. You know that there are things out there that most cannot comprehend. We live in a world of wonders, yet they are frequently thrown towards mundanity. Wherever a little magic exists, there is exploitation until it no longer seems that way.”
Sharon nodded. “You could say that I’ve seen some things that people would find hard to believe.”
“Five credit pieces,” the fortune teller said. She split them into three groups, two groups of two at the edges and one solitary ten-credit piece in the middle of the table. “I shall summon the spirits of what have gone before to tell you your past. I shall call upon the ears of the what is to tell you your present. The furies of what yet could be will tell us your future.”
“You do get what you pay for then?” Sharon asked, not quite able to hide her smile.
Lady Ancuta nodded her shawled head, tapped a gloved finger on the credits towards the left of the table. “Give me your hands, my dear girl and I shall tell you what you already know.”
Sharon had been through this dance, she knew that it was usually done to build trust, establish verification. If the teller was right about the past, it made you wonder about the truth in what they had to say about the future. She held out her hands, felt the black velvet close around them with surprising strength. Lady Ancuta chuckled.
“You have beautiful hands, my dear. Dainty yet powerful. These have known power and not the sort of power that you are known for. True power, the power of life and death has run through these fingers. Some stains never fade. The blood never leaves. You know how it is to take a life.”
“Only in self-defence,” Sharon said, her voice quiet in the sombreness of the tent. “Only in preservation of my own life.”
The fortune teller didn’t blink. “If you take a life, my dear, do you know what you’ll give? The odds are, you won’t like what it is.” Sharon didn’t know what that meant. Usually a lack of surprise meant some sort of prior knowledge. Did that mean that Lady Ancuta was a hells of a lot more gifted than she first appeared?
“Your attention has been caught,” she said, not a hint of anything in her voice beyond complete certainty. “You have touched the light of life, the fire that burns in us all, you touched it and didn’t just survive but thrived. You could have been a legendary warrior of the blaze, yet you settled for less.” She tapped the second credit, span her velvet-covered finger around on it and drew a lingering long breath. “Ah. I see. The fires faded, didn’t they? Not just for you but for all. The light was extinguished. Snuffed out. What was many became just two. And with your loss of faith, two became one.”
Sharon blinked, found herself stunned into silence. An unsettling feeling for her.
“Damnit, Carling, if you can hear me, get someone to check that damn building out. Hobb’s here!” He punched it with his finger again and again. “He’s ready to start shooting, you need to get someone up there.”
Nothing. He was going to wring the little bastard’s scrawny neck when he got hold of him, to hells with protocol. Nick studied it again. No other building was even close to being appropriate enough for Hobb’s purposes. They were ei
ther too far away, admittedly not a problem for a master sniper, too small or the line of sight not clear enough. He looked back at the woophawk, pointed at it with his fingers and traced the trajectory of a possible shot across the air. If Hobb was watching him through the scope, he needed to be careful. Nick prayed that he wasn’t, however unlikely it may be. He’d picked his position well, partially obscured by a support holding up the roof of the tent. Maybe he wouldn’t be in that same line of sight. If he followed the line from the building to the hawk and carried on going, it went straight into the VIP area. Carling might have been right, as much as it pained him to admit.
“Carling? Anyone from Unisco?!”
Resignation filled his sigh. At this rate, he might have to go over and check it out himself. That didn’t fill him with relish. He could only curse Carling so many times, but it felt good.
A throat cleared behind him, a pointed little cough that sent every internal warning system jangling for attention. That didn’t sound good. Those who stayed alive for a long time developed a sort of sixth sense for when bad things were about to happen.
He turned, saw two of the travelling folks’ guards approaching him, their muscles barely concealed by their ill-fitting tunics. Both hefted their wrenches, neither of them had blasters. That much he was grateful for. The travelling folk couldn’t legally purchase blasters in Canterage. The people might be grateful for them putting on a show one night a year, it didn’t mean they wanted them to be running around armed for the rest of it. They were tolerated in Belderhampton. Out in other cities, the locals wanted them to move along as fast as possible. Their reputation as thieves and thugs was not undeserved.
Neither of these two gave the impression they were friendly. Their faces were set in scowls, faces that looked like they’d seen plenty of brawls over the years. Both noses were squat and square, had that look that suggested they were no stranger to being broken and fixed.
