“Mek way, circus business!” he bellowed.
“What’s going on, George? Who were those people?” asked Ned as he clung to the gorilla’s tree-trunk of a neck. It was a strange way to travel – but no stranger than flying in an inflatable tent.
“If those filthy clowns had hurt you, I’d have …” began the ape crossly.
In truth, Ned was amazed. He had only just met Benissimo and his troupe, and yet they had hurried as one to his aid, even though the Ringmaster now had the contents of his dad’s deposit box. Hearing the tone in George’s voice something else struck him that he had not been expecting. He had made himself a friend. Albeit a genuinely frightening one. Despite the ape’s continued eloquence, ‘gentlemanly George’ was still nowhere to be seen. Animal anger boiled beneath his skin and he dropped to a gallop on all fours, moving Ned on to his back as he did so, and puffing out his chest like a bull, with nostrils flared from snorting.
“They must want the ring pretty badly. But why, what can it—”
George snarled angrily, not even letting him finish as he punched the ground with a loud boom.
“Those people are bounders and scoundrels of the very worst kind. If you ever see them again you find me, Ned, you find me, or you run.”
“The big one, Barbarossa, he seemed to know you, and he called Benissimo ‘fratello’. What does that mean?”
“Brother.”
“Brother! You mean he’s Benissimo’s actual brother?”
“Brother and nemesis, with a soul as black as coal. Poor Bene has dedicated his life to undoing the beast’s wrongs, for as long as anyone can remember.”
“What sort of wrongs?”
“Atrocities of the very worst kind. Some people are born beyond reasoning. Barbarossa is beyond everything. As for his accomplices, Slim, the cowboy, when un-glamoured, is a long-elf, different to their shorter cousins, and prone to acts of cruelty. They weren’t always so heartless, though thankfully they’re now uncommon. The little one is a dwarven berserker, which keeps him both enraged and unbreakable.”
“I could brekk him,” chimed in Rocky from the front, before barging his way through a group of disgruntled potion makers in the midst of selling their wares.
In his current mood, Ned had no doubt he was right.
At last they made it back to the shanty town of tents, where the visitors continued with their festivities, unaware of the danger that the Circus of Marvels was in.
The Night of the Twelve was by now in full swing. African drums and gypsy wailing filled the sky, accompanied by an endless shimmer of beyond-the-Veil-made fireworks. A procession of beautifully painted bull elephants marched round the camp while dark-skinned nymphs with cymbals on their fingers floated and chimed between them.
Just near their camp, the Longhorns and the Cossacks were arguing over who had captured the most dangerous Darklings, the Russians settling the dispute by displaying a heavily-chained chymera; a petrifying beast, with the heads of both a lion and goat, and the tail of a thick-fanged snake. If Ned hadn’t been chaperoned by his two hulking bodyguards, he was pretty sure the sight of it would have frightened the skin off his back.
High above them, a large rocket exploded, briefly turning the night to an eerie semblance of day.
When the first scream came, it was piercingly loud. The second was enough to silence the drums. What followed, was a tidal wave of terror and sobering rage. Half the valley ran, the other stood murmuring in disbelief before leaping to arms.
Darklings. A stampede of oil-skinned assassins came tearing through the night. Iron-tinged hellhounds the size of rhinos on four legs; poisonous, razor-clawed nightmongers on two; and above them, a flying escort of dark-fanged imps, like bats, but with arms and legs and long spine-covered tails. They were all coming from the Circus of Marvels’ encampment. As the beasts spread through the valley, they sought out their own kind and cage after cage was flung open. Somewhere in the distance a wyvern roared before launching a plume of its noxious, flammable spit.
“Good lord. You’ll pay for this, Barba,” grunted George.
“Boy, hold on tight,” growled the troll.
As they charged forward an imp swooped down low, narrowly missing their heads, before cutting through the Russian chymera’s chains. In a heartbeat, the monster had ended three Cossack lives. Ned was horrified. This was what the world would look like without the Veil – running, screaming, and the gleeful delight of Darklings doing what they do best: killing.
When they reached Kitty’s bus, the troupe were out in full force and all carrying torches. At their centre stood Benissimo and Mystero, two links in an iron chain holding everyone together.
“High toppers to the roofs, magic casters use your visions. Turn every shadow, scour every plain. We must find her!”
The Circus of Marvels cages had been opened, and Kitty was missing.
No longer a rag-tag group of misfits, the troupe split into squads, each with their own well-practised role. Couteau and his sword-wielding unit marched through the corridors of trailers and tents, like a cohort of Roman soldiers quickly dispatching any Darkling that moved. Even Daisy prowled the shadows. Above them, the Tortellini boys called out threats and where necessary launched a flurry of daggers with lethal precision. At the centre of the camp, a ring of heavies, impervious to fire and more exotic projectiles, shielded the magic casters as they used their skills to search for the Farseer. At one point the Guffstavson brothers managed to power every bulb and fairy light in the valley, but their current became too strong and they were all plunged into darkness again. Of everyone, Ned thought, the image of George leaping from rooftop to rooftop, beating his chest with rage and sorrow was the strongest. There was no remnant of the gentleman within, only raw animal instinct as he launched himself on the Darklings fool enough to find themselves within his long-armed reach.
Suddenly Rocky barged past Benissimo and his number two towards Kitty’s bus, in search of his wife.
“Rocky, wait! Don’t go in there …” pleaded the Mystral.
But the troll was not in a listening mood. Moments later, his sobs drowned out the sound of shouting and fireworks, drowned out the sound of everything.
“Noooooooo! Niet! Niet! Babooshka! My Babooshka!”
Ned followed Benissimo and Mystero on to the bus where they found Abigail’s seemingly lifeless body in Rocky’s arms. Her beard hung limply to one side and a brown tea stain ran down her front, the pot and saucer smashed beside her.
“There’s a pulse, but it’s weak, and she is non-responsive,” said Mystero. “It’s like she’s in a strange sort of coma. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Now we’re here, I have to tell you something else, Bene. It’s not good. The spirit-knot, the one Kitty made for Ned. It’s gone.”
Benissimo’s face turned to the colour of ash.
“Ned, Miz will take you to your bunk. Do not leave there till sun-up. No matter what your ears tell you … do not open the door.”
“But … but can’t I help? Can’t I help with the search?”
“Surely you must get it by now, pup?” Benissimo looked at him with exasperated eyes, before shaking his head hopelessly. “Either way, they’ve taken your spirit-knot as well as my Kit-Kat …” Benissimo’s eyes dropped. “Just stay in your bunk. Please.”
Ned did not get it. What he saw quite clearly though, were Rocky’s tears and a circus that had lost its rudder. This world wasn’t his. And yet somehow, in some way, he knew that he had to help. But following the Ringmaster’s orders would have to do for now.
Miz escorted him over to George’s container and Ned had to duck as an angry fireball flew past them after missing its intended Darkling. The Shar had sent his stone golems to help restore order but all around them bedlam still raged, the smell of brimstone and magic heavy in the air.
“Will they find her, Miz?” yelled Ned over the chaos.
Mystero pushed open Ned’s door. “If Kitty’s
our eyes, Ned, then Finn’s our nose and ears. If anyone can find her, it’s the Irishman and his beasts.”
“My spirit-knot, the one they stole – why is it so important?”
Mystero paused, as though picking his words carefully.
“There’s only one thing that would stop your father from saving the Veil, the very same thing that has kept him hidden for more than thirteen years.”
“What? What thing?”
“You. Whoever controls the spirit-knot can control you, Ned, and in turn your father. He will do anything to see you safe.”
Beads of moisture were streaming down the Mystral’s face.
“Are you OK?”
“Sure, just a little thinned out. Now get in there and keep that door locked. I’ll send George to keep watch.”
The Mystral smiled softly and walked out, locking the door behind him. Ned changed out of the knickerbockers into his ordinary clothes and sat on his bunk. He looked at his powerless phone and his empty picture frame.
“What am I doing here, Dad? Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”
But the phone stayed silent and the frame remained empty. What he really wanted, more than anything in the world, was to hear his dad’s overprotective voice say that it would all be OK.
But it was not OK. At last he understood why Terry Waddlesworth was the way he was. The world really was a scary place, things did indeed hide in its shadows, and as it turned out, those things wanted Ned.
Just then the lights in the container sputtered and went out. Ned thought it was probably either the Guffstavsons causing another power cut or the Darklings attacking the generators. He thought that until he heard the lock on his door click. Until he heard the door open. Until he felt the air move – without footsteps, without breathing – then a hand, just a hand, hard and strong, clasp itself over his mouth. Then there was the incantation of a spell, before George’s container, with its books, beds, phone and picture frame, became small and out of focus, and the kidnapper’s magic carried him silently out into the night.
Something in the Smoke
Ned felt heat, the kind of heat that dried your tongue and soaked your hair. The shouting from the troupe’s desperate search became muffled, till there was no sound at all. He found himself in a bank of thick, dark, grey. It was more like acrid smoke than the foggy dreams he’d had of Alice. Billowing plumes of hot ash and embers streamed past him and he could barely open his eyes. The hands that had taken him had gone and Ned was alone.
Through the smoke he saw shapes beginning to form. They looked like they’d been painted, from ash and oil. A house … He was outside his home at Number 222, except he wasn’t.
The black billowing version of 222 was unfinished and strange. Giant black Lego-like bricks floated above a half-formed roof and the street continued on forever, though there were no other houses.
“What is this place?” he asked aloud.
“Not what, Ned, but where. You are in the Shades,” came a deep booming voice.
Ned jumped. The voice came from inside his head and all around him.
“Who … who’s there?”
“A friend,” said the voice.
“If you’re a friend then why can’t I see you?” asked Ned, looking everywhere for some sign of the speaker.
“I’m too far away, Ned, you’re going to have to come to me.”
“Well that’s a great idea, voice, only I don’t know where you are.”
“Just follow my words.”
Ned walked forward and Number 222 melted away. He saw pieces of his school classroom come together, he saw his bedroom and the empty picture frame.
“That’s it, Ned, you’re doing just fine.”
The voice was calming him somehow. It was strong, powerful even, and it made him feel safe.
“Is it much further?”
“No, Ned, you’re nearly there …”
Parts of his dad’s toolbox floated in front of him. A spanner, then a ratchet, then hundreds and hundreds of tiny black screws. He thought of his father and the smoke thickened, till it became like treacle, holding him back and heavy to the touch. He found himself having to push his way forward.
“I have to find …”
“Yes, Ned, that’s it, fight it, harder!” came the voice, spurring him on.
“Kitty, she’s missing, I …”
As he mentioned her name, something changed. In front of him, the last fragments of his father’s tools dissolved, making way for something more human. It was lighter, brighter, a beacon amidst the blackness. It was a cloudy, billowing version of Kitty.
The old lady was on her knees and her face was contorted, as though she were screaming at him, or concentrating with all of her will, or both. From her lips, he heard syllables, soft and faraway.
“F … I … N …? Finn? Yes, he’s looking for you. No, wait, I see … FIND … FIND ME. She needs my help! She wants me to find her.”
And as he spoke, the image of Kitty began to break apart.
“My voice, boy, follow my voice,” boomed his friend again.
Her face was the last thing to dissolve. There was a flicker of a smile, and she was gone. Blackened, boiling smoke rose up from where she’d knelt. It clawed and climbed around Ned’s limbs, over his chest and up his neck. It started to feed into his mouth. His lungs burned with oil and ash and his world returned to darkness.
“Get up!” commanded the voice.
But Ned was tired and his limbs would no longer do as they were told. His eyelids drooped heavily, blinking in and out of black.
“Open your eyes,” came the voice again. Though its pitch was different somehow, more real.
It took Ned almost a minute to open his eyes and another to make them focus. There was no smoke or burning embers. He was, in fact, in a sumptuous, four-poster bed.
“Young Master, I trust you slept comfortably? I am Mr Sar-adin, your servant. You will look to me for your needs while staying with us. I have brought sustenance. It is what young Masters enjoy, is it not? Pancakes, and sweetnesses.” Very slowly, Ned registered the figure of a butler standing at his bedside.
He wore a black turban, with a black button-down jacket and looked to be of Arab descent. His eyes were dark and hollow.
Ned felt groggy, as if his thoughts couldn’t quite connect.
“I think I was dreaming, but … I can’t remember anything. It’s … it’s gone,” he murmured.
“The dream is still there, young Master, it merely waits for your return,” answered the servant, while pouring Ned’s tea.
Ned looked about – he was in the height of luxury. Vaguely military, black marble covered everything and on the far wall was an elaborate carving of a coat of arms. It was a set of scales with a two-headed cobra. He’d been rescued, though why the Shar’s golems had brought him to the palace was anyone’s guess. If Ned was safe, maybe Kitty was too?
“Kitty? Is she OK? Is she here?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, young Master, the Farseer is in very good hands.”
Ned sighed with relief. There had been something else, something urgent. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but was sure it had something to do with a letter. It made his head hurt and he shifted his attention to the stack of pancakes in front of him. Their smell was intoxicating and he took a bite. It was perfect. Light fluffy butter mixed with hot sweet syrup. It had just the right amount of cinnamon. And something else. Something he’d never tasted before but already wanted again.
“Delicious,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.
“That is most pleasing. I shall tell the kitchens to prepare more.”
“Oh yes … thank you,” whispered back Ned. He found himself staring at a forkful of pancake for a long time. How long he couldn’t tell. It glistened as the sun rose and Ned felt as though he might watch it all day.
“Is something troubling you, young Master?”
“On no, just feel a little sleepy that’s all �
��” replied Ned dreamily.
“Indeed. You should rest your eyes, for this evening you dine with His Greatness and there is so much for you to discuss.”
Ned could barely stay awake. All he could think of was syrup, syrup and pancakes with a nice dollop of jam. As his eyelids gave way, he did wonder whether there would be enough to go round.
“Will Benissimmm be joininnnng ush …?”
“That would be next to impossible. You see, he has no idea where you are, besides which he would be most unwelcome here.”
“Oh goood, I nevver reallly liked himm muchhh.”
Ned was oblivious to Mr Sar-adin’s answer as his head was already on the pillow and the forkful of pancake had tumbled to the floor. Through the sweet aroma of syrup, he sensed another, strangely familiar smell. It was smoke, thick black smoke, and was followed by a powerful voice, a voice he knew, and though he didn’t remember where he knew it from, it was a voice that made him feel safe.
“There you are,” said the voice.
A Prisoner
Ned dreamt for hour after hour. His head and sheets were soaked with sweat. Memories of his past were swept away till he was left with a single guiding voice and a grey billowing nothingness. He was woken, from somewhere outside the dream. By someone or something, trying to burrow its way in.
“OWWW!” he yelled, jumping out of bed.
Out of his window the sky was pitch black, except for the stars and a smattering of cloud. His room was also hot, very hot. Fumbling in the dark, he tripped over a chair and landed on the ground with a thud. The pain had woken him so rudely that it made his eyes water, but it wasn’t till he checked his trouser leg pocket that he found the culprit.
“Whiskers, you’re back!”
The Debussy Mark 12 had returned to his old self, without any sign of a cog or gear anywhere.
“I’ve had such a weird time of it, boy. It’s good to see you again.”
Whiskers looked up at him and nodded in tiny mouse agreement. In the past Ned had often spoken to his pet, never truly expecting an answer. Nodding was not something the mouse had done before.
Circus of Marvels Page 10
