Circus of Marvels

by Justin Fisher

  “Ahem, completely odourless, of course, and there is the added benefit of the puppy staying a puppy, till you opt for an upgrade.”

  On the lower-ground floor, they passed through Fidgit’s security department, of self-defending doors and thief-battering alarm systems before carrying on down to the basement, where they kept their safety deposit boxes, manned by a single, bored-looking attendant.

  “Yes?”

  “Box room, please,” said Benissimo, passing him Ned’s key.

  “A blood-key?” said the now interested attendant. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while. We discontinued them when people started using other people’s blood to get in here. We had one feller turn up with another man’s finger once. The lengths the criminal mind will go to …” he said, shaking his head.

  He reached into his drawer and pulled out a menacingly long needle. Before Ned could complain, his finger had been grabbed and stabbed and the key transformed. To his surprise, he hadn’t felt a thing. The attendant then ushered them through a small door and left them in a windowless marble room the colour of snow. As soon as the attendant shut the door, the marble turned as black as night and all they could make out was a gold-trimmed keyhole, waiting for Ned’s key.

  With a trembling hand, Ned pushed the key into the lock. When he turned it, there was an almighty thundering of gears as the walls slid apart to reveal a vast warehouse. Black and white marble boxes went on as far as the eye could see, all smooth-sided and completely unmarked. Each was held by a golden arm, and they spun, slid and flipped past each other like a giant mechanical puzzle. From far at the back, one of the white boxes came flying towards Ned, weaving smoothly in and out of the other containers, before stopping abruptly by his hand.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Put your hand to it; it knows who you are.”

  Ned took a deep breath. People were ready to kill for the contents of this box. Somehow, in some way, those very same contents might be used to save his father.

  He touched the box gently with his fingertip, and the cool marble lid flipped open.

  Ned and Benissimo peered cautiously into the box. Inside was a letter, and a small metal ring. Ned picked up the letter. It was addressed to him, but the writing was not his dad’s, as he’d been expecting. Then he picked up the ring. It looked just like his father’s wedding band. In all his years, Ned had never seen it off his dad’s finger.

  Benissimo sighed with what sounded like relief.

  “So the blood-key’s ‘O’ wasn’t an O after all,” said Ned, “just a symbol for the ring. All this, for a wedding ring? I don’t understand. I thought this was going to help us find the girl?”

  “It’s not really a ring, Ned. Not exactly. And in the right hands it could wield unspeakable power.”

  “Why is it here then? Why was it left for me?”

  Benissimo didn’t answer.

  “Well maybe the letter will tell us,” said Ned, and was about to open it when Benissimo stopped him.

  “Not yet, pup. Madame Oublier and her council would like to meet you first.”

  “Who is Madame Oublier?” said Ned, annoyed at being asked to wait.

  “It’s who the Tinker messaged when we were in France, and they’re already waiting for us.”

  Ned vaguely recalled her name being mentioned, but did not see what she or anyone else had to do with his letter.

  “You’re kidding, right? In the last three days I’ve discovered a secret world, been told my dad is some sort of mystical ‘Engineer’, shared a room with a talking gorilla, been attacked by a werewolf and dropped out of the sky in a flying tent … and you want me to wait to find out why? This letter was left for me, not some council.”

  “Wait, boy, you’ll thank me for it,” said Benissimo, his tone now more an order than a request.

  Ned didn’t understand. Why would he thank him and how did Benissimo even know the contents of the letter? Dad had told him on Grittlesby green before they parted that only two people knew about the blood-key. Was the second Benissimo? Was the handwriting on the letter his? Something about the look in the Ringmaster’s eye kept him silent, apprehensive even. Were there more things about his father that he didn’t know? Things that he wouldn’t like? And if so, why wasn’t Benissimo telling him?

  Once they were back outside the entrance to Fidgit and Sons, the Ringmaster took Ned’s items for safe-keeping – without asking – and pulled something from his jacket. It was long and silver, like the tool Ned had seen the pinstripes use on the tourist in France.

  “I need to remind our hosts that we were never here. Don’t talk to anyone, do not wander off, and try—”

  “Not to breathe?” interrupted Ned.

  “Not to mess things up,” said Benissimo. Then he went back inside the shop and locked the door behind him, flipped the closed sign over and rolled down the blinds.

  Ned picked himself a spot under the stars and waited. Whatever Benissimo was doing inside was taking some time and it was starting to get cold. He was weighing up what was worse, being away from his dad or being stuck with Benissimo, when he heard padded footsteps nearby.

  “Ooh, lookie nicey boy,” came a sinister little voice from the shadows.

  “Don’ lookie like mooch up close, do he?” said another.

  Ned turned around and his blood ran cold.

  Walking towards him were three grinning clowns.

  The clowns approached Ned with a strange unsettling stagger, their eyes fixed hungrily on him. Ned recognised one of them immediately as the clown he’d seen at his sitting room window. The second one was enormously fat – perhaps the one who had been driving the purple van, he thought – and the third extremely short, even shorter than the Tinker. Each of their outfits was dirtier and more outlandish than the next and when they got closer, Ned could smell a foul mix of bad breath and a distinct lack of soap.

  “You lostis? You no heerie froom?” squeaked the shortest of the three.

  Ned looked at the one from his house, and a flash of anger boiled up inside him.

  “I don’t speak clown, but I know who you are. What have you done with my dad?”

  “No Cloon spikky, hmmmmm,” said the fattest, eyeing up Ned as if he were a plate of food.

  “You cooms vid cloons noo, then ve foond Dadda,” said the tallest.

  The three clowns were now standing between Ned and Fidgit’s, so he couldn’t bang on the window, and with the shutters closed, there was no chance of Benissimo seeing out on to the street.

  “Not scarums boy, facie bad bad,” said the smallest, as he inched his way closer.

  “Nicey boy, vid cloons noo,” added the fat one, licking his lips as he got ready to grab Ned.

  Ned did not want to be eaten by a fat clown, or go anywhere with any of them, and as the clown moved in, Ned raised his leg high and stamped down hard on his foot, before bolting.

  “Argghhh, boy smush! Flik flak!” hissed the clown. “Getty getty noo!”

  Ned had no idea which way to go, only that he needed to run. Benissimo would never find him in the maze of streets, but if he could get away, he was sure to find his way back to the city wall and the camp where the troupe was waiting.

  Getting away, however, would be harder than he thought. Every turn he took seemed to lead him further from the city wall and deeper into the warren of twisting, darkening streets. At one point he took a fork to the left and the fattest of his three pursuers took the other. How were they keeping up? Their baggy trousers and rubbery shoes seemingly did nothing to slow the clowns’ progress, and Ned wheezed and panted as he tried desperately to escape them. Hurtling round a corner, his face dropped at the sight of a dead end. His two pursuers had him trapped.

  Ned’s head was pounding and his chest was on fire. The two clowns hadn’t even broken a sweat. Who were these monsters and how could they keep up with a young boy in less ridiculous shoes?

  “Gotchi, gotchi, nicey boy,” grinned the shortest, as they lumbered me
nacingly towards him.

  Ned had to think fast. In the corner of the alleyway, he spotted a pile of empty apple crates piled against the wall, and made a run for it. Three paces, a high jump and a face full of sandstone later, he found himself at the top of the wall. Usually anything higher than a two-step ladder would make his head swim. But there were some things even worse than heights and these clowns were definitely on the list.

  “Grrrrrr,” snarled the shortest, grabbing a bicycle horn at his waist.

  Honk! Honk!

  Ned dropped down on the other side and dusted himself off. His eyes were blurry with sweat and he felt sure he was about to have a heart attack. But he’d made it, he’d got away. Now all he had to do was find his way back to—

  HONK! came the deep bass of another horn.

  “Oh, come on!” yelled Ned in disbelief.

  Standing just a few feet away and not even remotely out of breath was the fat clown. How had he got there so quickly? Ned’s spirit was broken; there simply wasn’t anything left of him to try and escape again. In no time the others had climbed over the wall and he found himself pacing backwards down a narrow, covered passageway.

  “Nicey boy frightie?” grinned the tall one.

  “Mo snacka makey,” said the fattest, revealing a wide set of perfectly black teeth.

  Were these foul lunatics really planning on eating him?

  “Eanie, Meanie, heel! Mo, stop that!” boomed the voice of a stranger from somewhere behind Ned.

  Ned felt a momentary wave of relief. That was, of course, until he saw the look on the stranger’s face.

  Face-off

  The passageway had led to a small square, where two unsavoury-looking characters were sat around a table outside an otherwise empty café, sharing a pot of evening tea. One of them was the tallest person Ned had ever seen, a thin-lipped cowboy with a checked shirt and grubby yellow scarf. Opposite him was a short barrel of a man, who was almost as wide as he was tall. He had skin like sandpaper and wore a tight leather crash helmet, barely held together with a patchwork of stitching. He was trying to pour a cup of tea with visibly shaking hands, and had the expression of a man who was always angry. Under the table and amongst their feet, a cat was busying itself with a saucer of milk.

  “I’m so sorry my boys here startled you; they have the most shameful manners,” said the third stranger, smiling again.

  Ned had never seen a smile like it. It managed to look kind and cruel at the same time. The rest of him was no less unsettling. He was a large stocky man, with tattooed forearms as thick as Ned’s legs. He had a broad face and a wiry, black-red beard. On his head was a bowler hat with two black feathers in its rim and hanging from his belt was a heavy, square meat cleaver, brown with rust. He plucked it from his belt and began cutting an apple, in careful, measured strokes. Each of his fat fingers had a gold sovereign for a ring and his neck was strewn with chains. To Ned he looked like a pirate king, or a butcher, or both.

  “The truth is, Ned, we were just a little worried that you might be lost,” he continued. “The boys here are so good at finding … things.”

  Ned had been chased by deranged clowns, and come face to face with a werewolf, but nothing had thrown him more off balance than the smiling, apple-eating man in front of him. He had a forced politeness to the way he spoke that didn’t seem to fit, like a bulldog trying to eat with a knife and fork.

  “Who are you and how do you know my name?” asked Ned, trying his best to look calm.

  “Oh, but of course, how rude of me. We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Barbarossa, and I know your name because I make it my business to know. Nothing happens behind the Veil without Barba finding out.”

  Whoever Barbarossa was or wasn’t made little difference. The clowns were his and Ned wanted to leave as soon as possible.

  “Well, it’s, err, nice to meet you, Mr Barbarossa. But if you don’t mind I think I need to find Benissimo, the Ringmaster, he’ll be looking for me and—”

  “Oh, but I do mind, my lad. I couldn’t possibly let you leave. These streets can be so very dangerous at night, especially for a josser on his own. Besides, you and I have so much to discuss. There’s your little birthday present, for one thing, and we can’t really chat about that without bringing up daddy, now, can we?”

  Ned felt the strength being sucked out of his belly.

  “Do you have him? Please tell me. I just want to know if he’s OK.”

  Barbarossa stopped cutting his apple and laid down his cleaver.

  “No, Ned, I do not. Nor will I need him, now that I have you.”

  Suddenly only two things mattered: firstly, that his dad was free, and secondly, that Ned needed to find him. Before he could do that, however, he had to get out of here, and Ned suspected that for this he was going to need a miracle. He was trapped again, with these vile men and their terrifying clowns. Something inside him sparked once more, a flare of defiance and fury.

  “You don’t have me, and whatever it is you think I’ll help you with, you’re wrong. I’m not going anywhere with you. It’s a free country and I’m going back to the Circus of Marvels RIGHT NOW.”

  “That is quite incorrect, lad. This is not a free country. This is my country, and you are coming with me. Cannonball, would you mind persuading our new friend? He doesn’t seem to get the gist of what’s happening here.”

  The barrel-shaped man launched from his stool like a rocket and was by Ned’s side in an instant. The sheer speed of his movement made Ned jump in terror, he was even worse than the clowns. But as he reached for Ned, there was the loud crack of a whip as Benissimo raced into the square. Ned’s heart leapt as the Ringmaster’s whip cut through the air, slashing Cannonball across his hand. Barbarossa grabbed his cleaver and he and the cowboy jumped to their feet, knocking over their table with a clatter of falling china and a hissing of frightened cat.

  “Welcome, fratello,” smiled the butcher, clearly trying to remain composed, “it’s been a while.”

  Benissimo’s whip coiled and he clenched his fists.

  “And yet, never long enough,” he replied. Though outnumbered, you’d never have known it from the Ringmaster’s glare, a glare, Ned realised, that was also being aimed at him. Benissimo’s look of blame was both wildly unfair and completely in character.

  “All the same, it’s good of you to join us, Bene. Now we can take the boy and the ring. You did get the ring, didn’t you?”

  Barbarossa and his men had formed two half circles around Benissimo and Ned. Clowns at the back, Barbarossa and the others at the front.

  “Boy and ring are under my watch. You and your … associates will have to go through me to lay a finger on either, and I’m in no mood for letting you have them.”

  “Surely there’s no need for all that? The Shar would be most displeased to have a brawl on his streets, and you really have no hope of winning. However if we must tussle, old Bessy here …” said Barbarossa, looking down at his cleaver lovingly, “… is fair thirsty.”

  “I’d have a thing or two to say about dat,” came a familiar voice.

  It was Rocky and Monsieur Couteau. Before anyone could move, the Russian had got both Meanie and Mo in headlocks, while the French swordsman held Eanie at bay with the tip of his sword.

  “You remember George, da?” said Rocky, as if announcing checkmate in a game of chess.

  George stepped out from the alley, with slow lumbering steps. The mild-mannered giant ape that had been so kind the night before, was nowhere in sight. In his place, the Mighty George stood – feral, simmering with anger, shifting agitatedly where he stood and ready to pounce. Even though George was there to save him, seeing him like that was so terrifying, Ned was glad not to be on the other end of his fixed, dark gaze.

  “Let the boy go, Barba,” said Benissimo.

  Barbarossa fell silent for a moment while weighing up his odds.

  “As you wish. But this is not over, fratello, not until I get what I want.” He
tipped his hat courteously at Ned, motioning that he was free to leave.

  “It never is,” sighed the Ringmaster.

  ***

  They walked a long while in silence before Benissimo turned on Ned.

  “I thought I told you to stay put?”

  “And I would have done, if it weren’t for the three homicidal maniacs threatening to eat me!”

  Ned could feel angry frustration bubbling under his skin. Being terrified was one thing, but being repeatedly blamed for things that were quite obviously out of his control was quite another. Why did the Ringmaster dislike everything about him so much?

  “I say, boss, I do think you’re being a little unfair,” snorted George.

  But Benissimo didn’t respond. It was only when Ned and his protectors had made their way back to the city wall that they understood why Barbarossa had so willingly let them go without a fight.

  Squar! came a call above their heads.

  The two-headed hawk has many gifts, but its greatest is sight. Aark could see clearly across an entire continent, even on the darkest of nights. Just a second after she raised the alarm, after something in the distance brought out her cry, a frantic Mystero materialised before them.

  “I was on my way back … we played right into his hands. The camp, Bene, it’s under attack!”

  Benissimo’s face turned to thunder.

  “Devil and damnation … Kit-Kat! Go to her, Miz, like the wind, GO!”

  The able number two corkscrewed back into mist, before launching himself forward in a rush towards their beloved Farseer.

  “George, Rocky, do not leave the boy’s side,” continued Benissimo. “Monsieur Couteau, with me. Quickly now! And Ned, this time … stay out of trouble.”

  Darklings

  The night market was in full swing now and they were having trouble making progress. George scooped Ned up with one powerful arm and swung him on to his shoulder, leaving Rocky to lead the way. A strange phenomenon in the mountain variant of the troll species, George explained to Ned, is that their flesh becomes denser and more ‘rocky’ as their anger rises. The now menacing troll carved a route through the crowds like a living freight train.