“Over the centuries, as our ancestors crossed into the hidden lands, they brought their gods and customs with them. We descendants like to have our history in plain sight, gives us a sense of place in the world.”
To the east, from the foot of a mountain, came a high-pitched whistle, as an enormous steam engine charged out of its tunnel. Instead of a regular engine and chimney, the great metal beast was in the shape of an iron horse locked in mid gallop, smoke pouring from its mouth and nostrils.
“The Indo-China runner,” yelled Benissimo over the din of its whistle. “Took old Zaheed fifty years to dig out the track for that little wonder.”
Benissimo was explaining who Zaheed was when Ned noticed the statue. It was at least two times the height of the city’s tallest building. A rough and weather-beaten image of a giant sitting by the tunnel’s mouth. Great tusks the size of streets curled down below its cheeks, and on its back a small forest of pine trees had grown. A village of ramshackle houses had been set up on top of its head, and as they got closer Ned saw its inhabitants desperately clinging to the nearest surface. The ground they were standing on seemed to be shaking. Then, very slowly, the mouth of the statue opened.
“Arooooooooraaa!” It made a sound not dissimilar to that of a whale, only deeper.
“What the …” said Ned in shock.
“Shalazaar, quite a sight, isn’t she?” said Benissimo with a proud twirl of his moustache.
“Not the city, that thing!” said Ned, now pointing.
“Ah, you mean Bernie.”
“Bernie?” He was still unsure of what he was looking at. “I thought it was a statue. Is it a … giant?”
“Bernaghast is a Colossus, and one of our many wonders. He’s a good deal larger than any giant, or anything else for that matter. Colossi are famously slow of foot. He turned up unannounced forty-odd years ago and hasn’t budged since. He’s waiting for an old friend of his, hasn’t seen him since 1732.”
Ned looked at Benissimo, smiling happily at the sight of his home. Right here and now, his guard was lowered and for the first time Ned saw him as a man and not a Ringmaster.
“You really love it, don’t you? The Veil and all it hides, I mean,” asked Ned.
“Every brick and every eyeball, to the bottom of my worn old boots.”
Ned could see why. He’d been behind the Veil for approximately twelve minutes. And despite everything else that had happened to him recently, they were the strangest, most wonderful twelve minutes of his thirteen-year life.
Benissimo handed him a brass-buttoned waistcoat, with a cream shirt and a pair of old-fashioned knickerbockers.
“Err, what’s this for?”
“It’s your disguise. Misery guts did the picking of it himself.”
“Knickerbockers! Who wears knickerbockers any more?”
“Servants to wealthy merchants, young pup. You will be the lowest of the low and I your wealthy and most benevolent master.”
There were some lengths that Ned was simply not prepared to go to, lost dad or not, no matter how important the asking, or who did it.
“I’m not wearing them, I’ll do the shirt and the waistcoat but not the knickerbockers. I’ll look ridiculous!”
Benissimo’s moustache started to twitch and his face soured. The Ringmaster had returned.
“Ned Waddlesworth, I’m going to do some speaking and you’re going to do some opening of the ears and closing of the mouth. Your father is halfway round the world by now, doing his very best to keep our enemies off your scent … it has not worked. Whether you like it or not, you are now the linchpin of my plans – and the only thing that can save the fair-folk and the rest of humanity on either side of the Veil – for which I need to keep you alive. Those streets you see below are filled with some of the most villainous men, women and beasts the world has ever known. If our spies are as real as Miz claims, then the darkest and most odious of Shalazaar’s inhabitants will have been told of your arrival. WHICH IS NOT A GOOD THING. When you put those on, you may well look quite astonishingly cretinous, but it is far, far better, than looking dead.”
Ned’s twelve minutes of starry-eyed wonder had come to an end.
Behind the Veil
The Circus of Marvels set up camp by a shanty town of tents, outside the city walls. Ned was almost trampled underfoot as the troupe unloaded their Darkling cages, and any of his offers to help were ignored. Inexperienced runaways – and especially jossers – were clearly considered a hindrance, though Ned wondered if their mistrustful looks had more to do with the weir’s attack. George had told him that tonight there would be a ‘Night of the Twelve’, so named whenever there was a meeting of the governing council, that ran the Veil’s circuses. The council was made up of twelve of the most senior circus members. According to George, rumour had it that they’d asked Benissimo to join several times, but he’d always refused.
One half of the encampment was made up of gypsies and nomads, the other was circus folk: ‘Longhorn’s Rodeo’ from America, ‘the Jade Dragons’ from China, ‘Putin’s Cossacks’ just in from Moscow and at least a dozen more, all transporting their captured Darklings for relocation.
The colours, sounds and smells – not to mention the desert heat – were dizzying, and everywhere Ned looked the gathered troupe members were locked in excitable banter. He’d never seen a group of souls so happy to be on familiar soil.
Frocks had been bought, stories exchanged and the food trucks were cooking up some exotic treats. The troupe were readying themselves for a party, all except Mystero and Benissimo. Their minds were clearly focused on the forthcoming mission and the retrieval of Ned’s deposit box.
As the sun started to lower, Ned found George sitting by Rocky’s wife. Beside them, Rocky was locked in a violent wrestling match with another even larger creature Ned didn’t recognise. A crowd of rival circuses had gathered and bets had been placed.
“Hello, Ned,” grinned George. It was the first time Ned had seen him, out and about with the rest of the troupe. “You all set?” he added in a rumbling whisper.
“Yup, think so,” lied back Ned. The knickerbockers were as uncomfortable as they looked.
“Abi – this is what last night’s fuss was about, my new roomie, Ned.”
“Well, of course he is. Ello Master Widdlewoops.” At this she winked to let him know she was one of the few in on his secret, along with Rocky, no doubt. “You’ve caused quite the stir already. Why don’t you come rest your bones next to me,” said Abigail in a thick West Country accent.
She was the prettiest, smiliest, fat bearded lady that Ned had ever seen and he was just beginning to wonder whether her beardedness was the extent of her specialness, when her beard started to ripple excitedly.
“That’s Yuri,” she explained pointing over at the fight, “Rocky’s cousin. He’s a troll like my ’usband – a bridge-troll – and nearly as dumb. Those two have been at it since they could fart. Neither of ’em ever wins, mind, an’ every year they meet up ’ere an’ give each other another good thrashin’. Big ugly lumps, the pair of ’em,” she said with a chuckle.
Crack! Crack! Crack! came a flurry of Rocky’s stoney thumps.
“That’s it, lover, you teach that big Cossack who’s boss!” shouted Abi, cheering on her man.
Benissimo arrived sporting a less crooked hat, a well-groomed beard and what looked like a bit of padding around the belly beneath his shirt. He was not in a playful mood.
“Come along, children, we’ve grown-up business to be taking care of.”
Rocky and Yuri got up off the ground, but not before giving each other a final thump.
“And what of my Kit-Kat?” Benissimo asked, turning his attention to Abigail.
“Gave her a cup o’ cocoa an hour ago. She’s all lights out an’ snuggled up in bed.”
“Good, good. And our perimeter?”
“Luigi an’ Marco are on the roof an’ the other Tortellinis are scattered about all over. I’ll be on the bo
ttom floor of Kitty’s bus havin’ a cuppa till you get back, boss. No one’s getting past the Beard tonight.”
As if to make her point, Abigail’s beard rippled again, like a bicep on a boxer’s arm, which was both impressive and deeply unsettling. Ned tried not to stare.
“Be sure that they don’t; we’ve no rudder without her. Miz, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Mystero – in his more solid form – followed Abigail inside to make a last minute check on Kitty, reappearing a moment later to give the all clear. Then he headed into the city with his decoy group, while Benissimo handed Ned the rest of his costume. It was a large sack of ‘goods’ they would pretend to trade.
“You must be kidding; this weighs a tonne!” moaned Ned.
“Well you have to look the part, boy. Now, try not to mess this up, the less chit-chat the better, rich people like me don’t talk to their skivvies.”
The Ringmaster had now fully returned to his old less-than-charming self.
“You know you were almost nice when we came in to land?”
“A mistake I’ll no doubt forgive myself for … in time.”
***
Shalazaar’s streets and alleys were crammed with stalls, selling all things imaginable, and some that weren’t. Ned had to remind himself not to gawp. Behind the Veil, most of the creatures had no need for glamours and the fair-folk were out in force.
Snake-skinned women in pretty lace dresses laughed as a street conjuror pulled wild and rather irritable pixies from his hat. Slightly away from the crowd, a Chinese Kirin was being stroked for good luck by a group of excitable children. The kindly animal – which Ned recognised from a book of mythological creatures, but had no idea actually existed – had a tiger’s body, though covered in scales, and a face much like a dragon’s with a set of beautiful deer’s antlers at the top of its head. What Ned guessed might be an elf seemed to glide by it, all flowing dress and whiter-than-white skin. Outside a food stall, he was watching a group of tiny, leaf-skinned creatures arguing over a sack of plant feed when something sparkled its way between his legs, on the back of a goose.
“Fairy. Avoid at all costs,” warned Benissimo.
The more human inhabitants wore everything from Japanese kimonos, to outfits that would have looked more at home in the streets of old Paris. Some carried masks on sticks, others wore white powdered make-up. It was a living, breathing melting pot of mismatched places and mismatched times.
“Everyone looks so … different,” said Ned.
“You can trace when their ancestors crossed over, and where from, by looking at their clothes. The last good-sized migration was in the Victorian era. To be honest, some of them are a little snobby about it – especially the ones in togas. Now, button it, underling, or you’ll draw attention.”
Besides being busy, it was also noisy, as the din of a hundred sales competed with Irish fiddles, banging drums and the calls of jugglers trying to catch the eye of passing trade. The market streets of Shalazaar never closed. The Shar insisted on the selling of goods at all times of the day.
“Veil’s on the tumble! Darkling crossings on the up!” yelled a gaggle of ‘ink-hawkers’, trying to sell the local paper to anyone with eyes. “The end of the world is nigh – and only The Rag has it in colour!”
As if to prove a point, a group of ‘unveiled’ sat cross-legged next to the hawkers. This, Benissimo explained, was the name given to the homeless folk who’d had to move on when their part of the protective Veil began faltering. It had only gone completely in small sections so far, but it was worrying nonetheless. The unveiled were mostly ignored though, and their begging bowls left empty. In Shalazaar, the end of the world was not nearly as important as making a little coin.
“Three bars and an ingot? You must be mad! I ain’t payin’ nuffin’ over ’alf a scroll and two coppertops for that frog’s breath,” shouted a loudmouthed woman in tatty clothes, who smelt to Ned like she already had all the bad breath she would ever need.
“Arooooooooraaa!” came Bernie’s lament over the noise.
“Bloomin’ Colossus! Tha’s all we need. As if the ’eat weren’t enough! All day, all night, ‘Arooo’ this an’ ‘Arooo’ that. Can’t the Shar do nothing about it?” complained a grumpy market trader to one of her colleagues.
“Love charms, gypsy dreams, hag’s tears! Fresh in today, three for two, five for three!” barked a rough, three-horned trader, with pale green skin. “You, laddie, you look like you’re game, care for a wee sample? The tears really are rather good.”
“No tears today, Borrin. As the gods of misfortune would have it, the boy is with me,” said Benissimo, putting a firm hand on Ned’s shoulder.
“Be- Be- Benissimo, my lord, yes, of course.” The trader lowered his head and started to back away.
“We were never ’ere, Borrin, not now, not ever. Understood?”
“Yes, yes of course, your Ringliness … I mean, no sir, whoever you are, Borrin sees nothing.”
“Gods of misfortune!” seethed Ned to himself.
Past the spice markets and charm sellers, and down a side road, they came to a smart quarter with beautiful shop fronts and pretty cobbled streets. Smartly dressed lantern-wards were firing up their lamps as the night traders arrived for their evening shift.
For the most part, these shops sold an assortment of antiquated weapons and magic, with names like
‘LITTLE WHISPERS:
HOME OF THE SHADOWED ARTS’
whose shop window was filled with a moving cloud of inky smoke, making it almost impossible to see inside, and
‘THE LIGHTBOX: WHITE MAGIC SINCE
THE FIRST SPARK’.
Some of the magic was apparently so powerful it had to be guarded round the clock by the Shar’s stone golems, who Ned assumed, like the Colossus, were probably not just statues.
The most impressive shop of all though needed no introduction –
‘FIDGIT AND SONS:
PURVEYOR OF FINE
MEKANIKS SINCE 1066’.
Fidgit’s shop front was covered in a thick, gold-leaf lacquer, and delicate Victorian ironwork wrapped around the columns that stood either side of its entrance, giving it a look of grandeur and importance. Peering into the shop, Ned could see its vertically-challenged staff were all clearly minutians like the Tinker, with matching white lab coats. The shop’s polished glass windows were alive with clockwork tickers, like Whiskers – eagles, monkeys, mice, all as yet un-furred and un-feathered to show the intricacy of their inner workings. Everything Ned had ever built paled in comparison. The shop in front of him was a thing of wonder, all wrapped up in shiny metal and perfect moving parts.
“There’s nowhere quite like Fidgit’s,” said Benissimo, noting the look of wonder on the boy’s face. “Your father’s favourite haunt, or at least it was.”
Another reminder of his dad’s secret life, though this time Ned felt comforted. This was the Terry Waddlesworth he knew and loved.
“I’m not surprised … he would have been in heaven here.”
The most impressive piece was outside by the shop’s entrance. An un-furred tiger sitting completely still, its polished chrome metalwork glinting in the last rays of the sun. Pistons, dials and gears whirred away quietly, under a patchwork of curved outer casing so detailed and complex it could be described as art.
“So they definitely do sell more than screws then,” said Ned with a smile, as he reached out to touch the surface of the intricate metalwork.
“That’s not a good idea,” warned Benissimo.
But Ned’s hands were already on its casing. Deep inside the tiger’s chest, a gyroscopic heart started to spin and the beast came to life, its jaws opening to emit a low metallic snarl. Ned jumped back in terror, but the tiger softened, rubbed up against him like a cat and purred.
“Wow! It’s amazing!” laughed Ned.
“You wouldn’t be nearly as chirpy if it had removed your arm. That’s a display unit; the real thing isn’t as friendly. N
ow, are you ready? Is your head screwed on tight, your heart beating steady?”
Ned was still staring at the chrome-plated tiger.
“Not really,” said Ned, coming back to reality with a sigh.
“Once I open that box, all this becomes real. I liked Dad and me and the world the way it was. I didn’t know how much until now …”
Ned found himself regretting his honesty, and waited for the usual condescending insult to follow. Instead, Benissimo took his arm and looked him straight in the eye.
“We’ll get him back, Ned, if you’ve the heart for it. As for the world, well … it’s still out there. You just have to help us save it.”
Which was exactly what Ned was afraid of. But before he could have time for second thoughts, Benissimo had spun about and pushed open the shop door.
Inside the Box
The inside of Fidgit and Sons was larger than it should have been, at least five times larger. Everything moved. Escalators, elevators, pulleys and gears all running down to a large circular vault and all to the ceaseless clatter of tiny moving parts.
“This little beauty’s just in from Japan,” said an attendant, demonstrating the features of a mechanical puppy to an interested buyer. “One of our more popular new models.” The puppy proceeded to cock its leg and pee on the man’s foot.
Circus of Marvels Page 8
