“I’ll go speak to Jory,” said Fringe in her noncommittal voice.
Below, she blurted out the demand. “There’s a threat there.” She shook her head, trying to define it. “Danivon looks stunned, or drugged from what he’s smelling. I think the hound is drugged. His eyes are wild. Somehow, he got word about the show we did in Shallow and he’s determined to have us perform here tonight. He’s like some crazy animal, tearing at things.”
“No matter,” said Jory calmly. “We’ll come.”
Cafferty put her hands on the old woman’s shoulders, as though to hold her back.
“But you’ve got no act,” cried Fringe. “No … no hype.”
“Oh, Jory has an act,” said Asner firmly. “Sort of an animal act.”
Jory gave him a warning glance and patted Cafferty’s shoulder as she said, “Don’t worry, Fringe. We’ll do well enough. You may tell the hound we’ll be ready whenever’s time for the banquet.”
Fringe returned with this message, no whit comforted. The chief chimi-hound seemed satisfied, however, for he swaggered his way up the hill toward the town, leaving only a few of his men to watch the Dove with avid, reddened eyes.
“Serious about it, isn’t he?” the captain commented. “What’s going on here?”
“I wish I knew,” said Danivon, exchanging an undecipherable glance with Curvis. “He’s obviously been put up to it by someone. Or something. Perhaps Curvis and I had better do a little preliminary reconnaissance.”
“First you’d better do something about your eyes,” said Curvis.
Danivon nodded painfully and went off to explore the contents of the med kit. Though he could smell nothing at all, he was able to see fairly clearly by the time the two of them went off down the pier in their show costumes, both pretending not to notice the clot of chimi-hounds who shambled along behind them.
Fringe thought it wise to see to the Destiny Machine. Discretion suggested that new capsules should be lettered in the Derbecki dialect, leaving out all words from which unfavorable inferences might be drawn at the current time. Words like “victory” and “choice” and “leader.” Cafferty found her sorting through the capsules and stayed to help her. Between the two of them, they replaced many of the old words, finishing up about the time that Danivon and Curvis returned, both very frown-faced and irritable.
“Damn near riot prevails,” muttered Danivon to the assembled group, including the captain. “We stopped in a tavern and listened to the talk. Seems Old Man Daddy arranged for his only son, Fat Slick, to be elected Perpetual Leader. Seems the chimi-hound chiefs weren’t all that fond of Fat Slick, so he died of accidental strangulation on the gibbet the morning after his daddy passed on. Then came a pretender from up-country, one calling himself Fees-mew and claiming to be Old Man Daddy’s younger offspring. He’s gained a considerable following from the lands around the sources of the Ti’il.”
“Then,” Curvis took up the story, almost with relish, “the boss chimi-hound chief—there’s twelve of them together, and this is the meanest of the lot—announced Old Man Daddy had picked him as successor by passing him the key to the treasure vaults just before he died, though this is widely assumed to be a lie because the boss chief has shown no signs of sudden wealth.”
“Which wealth,” said Danivon, “is still, so far as anyone knows, up in the tower vaults where Old Man Daddy stored it, needing the proper key or combination or whatever, to keep whoever enters the vaults from blowing himself, and it, sky-high in bits.”
“So the election is between this up-country pretender and the boss chimi-hound chief, and either of them would give his nose, teeth, and left arm for what’s in those vaults,” Curvis concluded the story.
“Does the boss chief have a name?” Jory asked.
“Houdum-Bah,” Curvis answered with an unamused snort of laughter. “Old Houdum-Bah the Bad.”
“And tonight’s affair?”
“A preelection victory feast for Houdum-Bah. It’s local custom to throw such banquets, to show how confident the candidate is. Meantime, Fees-mew is staying under cover, keeping safe from chimi-hounds who’d kill him gaver quick if they could catch up to him. Each candidate has forces abroad in the countryside, killing off the opposition or anybody who’s just standing around.”
“And we’re entertainment?”
“Too true,” Curvis replies. “That we are, in a place that likes its amusements bloody. And Danivon smells trouble.”
“I don’t smell anything at the moment,” corrected Danivon. “Though the drug should wear off shortly.”
“How do the common folk feel about it?” Asner asked. “The Murrey, the color-people?”
Danivon shrugged. “They quote at us, is all. They bow and smile and say ‘All rou-Murrey when the old man dies.’ And true enough, at that. There’s been enough bloodshed already to make the Ti’il flow scarlet.”
“They’ll do dabbo-dam, tonight,” Jory mused. “They’ll do dabbo-dam and then some.”
“Likely,” brooded Curvis.
“What’s dabbo-dam?” asked Fringe and Nela, both in one breath.
“Calling down the gods,” said Jory with distaste. “Oh, they’ll call down the gods right enough, High Lord Chimi-ahm and all.”
“I’d like it much, much better out of here,” said Danivon. “But Boarmus told us to take a look, so we must.”
“Why?” asked Jory, looking puzzled. “Why did Boarmus want you to take a look?”
Danivon shrugged. “That he didn’t tell me. Just sent a clear language message telling me to investigate manifestations in Derbeck.”
“Manifestations?” she asked, darting a troubled glance at Asner.
Danivon shrugged. “In any case, Jory, there’s no way out. The booms are down across all the channels, with chimi-hounds guarding the booms. There’s no way for the Dove to get back to the river.”
He leaned across the rail, staring up at the town, sure that this time and place was the trouble he’d been smelling ever since leaving Tolerance. “I don’t know what this Houdum-Bah is playing at, but he seems set on doing it. Safest for us is probably to do what they want and trust in our skills to keep us out of trouble.”
“Or possibly get us out,” muttered Fringe. “After we’re in.”
They prepared for their performance in no mood of anticipation. Curvis and Danivon spent some time checking their armamentarium, deciding which highly advanced devices they would carry, deciding on those that could be easily concealed beneath their showman’s garb. Fringe carried a heat beamer on her belt, beneath her oracular garb. The twins had sewn themselves counterfeits of their Mulhollan’s Marvelous Circus costumes. Jory and Asner came up from below looking frail and vulnerable in their usual loose trousers and shirts, each of them carrying a light cloak.
When Danivon led them off the ship at dusk, the chimi-hounds fell in around them. Fringe, who was nervous as a novice, kept looking behind her, sure some other person had joined their procession but seeing none.
“Relax,” said Jory, patting her on the shoulder. “All will be well.”
“I keep feeling there’s someone coming along,” Fringe murmured.
“And why not?” asked Jory soberly. “Why shouldn’t anyone come along who might want to.”
Fringe shook her head, thinking she’d been misunderstood. She fixed her eyes on the back of Danivon’s neck and kept them there. Jory and Asner were behind her, helping her guide the awkward bulk of the Destiny Machine; then came the twins, with Curvis bringing up the rear. The old people set the pace for them all, which wasn’t fast enough to suit the chimi-hounds, who chivvied at them as though driving animals, lunging at them with fangs showing and bleats of hysterical laughter.
Danivon paid them no attention as he thrust his way through the crowds of Murrey folk, feeling them part before him like water at the prow of a boat, seeing them flow together behind them seamlessly; jan-Murrey, ver-Murrey, zur-Murrey, all mixed and marbling, the vivid spots on their fac
es and bodies glittering like bright lizard scales as their eyes flicked across the sideshow in quick glances, fleeing, returning.
“They’re curious about us,” muttered Jory.
“So would I be,” said Fringe. “We’re freakish enough.” She pulled distractedly at her headdress, bothered by the side flaps that restricted her vision.
“If those bitches’ pups don’t stop their baying at our heels, I’m inclined to pull their teeth,” Danivon growled.
“Caution,” she said. “Isn’t that what you’ve advised?”
He made a sound, maybe of agreement, and sniffed, out of habit, smelling little. The drug hadn’t fully worn off yet. He focused on his ears instead, alert for every sound. There was much to hear. Frantic ululations from distant rooftops. Drums pounding, a cacophony of rhythms. The roar of a chant howled from many throats, arriving on the wind and then fading with the wind into some other sound. There was no quiet anywhere, and the noises grew more persistent and tormenting the closer to the town they came.
At the top of the slope the road ended at gaping warehouse gates lit on either side by glowing firepits. Spitted carcasses sizzled and spat above the coals, sending up a smoky fume. Stacked kegs at the near corner of the building stood half-hidden beneath a lounging pack of chimi-hounds, their muttering interrupted by occasional shouts of brutal laughter. The place reeked of sweat, smoke, blood, and burning fat. It had a feel to it, Fringe thought, not unlike the feel of the Swale back in Enarae. A muttering threat, barely below the surface.
The leader of their escort sent them between the firepits and through the open gates with a sweep of his arms and a mocking bow before going off to join his fellows. Once inside the cavernous hall, the three Enforcers instinctively turned their backs toward one another with the other four in the middle. Chandeliers hanging from the distant rafters bloomed in the cobwebby dark like distant constellations, lighting the place only well enough to assure them it held no immediate danger. An orchestra of yellow boys diddled and wheeped from one corner, and a troupe of zur-Murrey ran up and down long lines of tables, setting them with mugs and pitchers and plates. Against the far wall, across from the open gates, stood a hastily built platform of planks laid across bales and boxes.
“If that’s meant for us, people won’t be able to see,” said Nela. “The chandeliers are out in the middle of the place. Against that wall is the darkest place in here.”
“You’ll need to work the Destiny Machine from the floor,” suggested Bertran. “Not from the platform. You’ll want people to be able to watch it closely.”
“It would be wisest to avoid the platform entirely,” said Danivon, turning slowly to inspect every corner of the building. “Someone standing alone up there is too good a target and these people are in the mood for targets. Like bowstrings they are, all thrumming with eagerness.”
Fringe thought he described it well. The sound of the city shrilled like a cable drawn too taut for its own safety. Here was no law against riot, no control against panic, but instead the deliberate provocation of both: drums, shouts, chants, torches gleaming, ululations, shrieks, cries, a tapestry of sound and movement, of excitement and encitement, a city-wide hysteria being fed and stoked toward some planned-for climax.
“If you’re the law here, as you say,” whispered Nela, shivering at the sound of the city, “can’t you do something about this?”
“Of course,” Danivon replied, surprised. “We could do something. We’re capable of reducing the place to rubble. But there’s been no complaint and disposition nor any violence offered us yet. Nose and experience both tell me it’s coming, but Council Supervisory won’t accept nose and experience as an excuse for preemptive action.”
“So you can’t do anything?” She fretted under Bertran’s sardonic look.
Danivon himself found her question amusing. “Are you suggesting we commit violence, Nela? Would that be moral?”
She flushed, seeming near tears.
He shook his head at her, patting her shoulder. “I’ve transmitted a standard trouble message to Tolerance. If, when trouble finally presents itself, we are unable to Attend the Situation, they’ll send a retaliation and reduction force.”
“Which will be an exemplary lesson for Derbeck,” said Fringe in her noncommittal Enforcer’s voice, “though not of much use to us personally by then.”
Nela gulped and shut her mouth, seeming determined to keep it that way.
“Less talk, more action,” said Curvis. “There should be a table on the platform for the high mucky muck Houdum-Bah. Get him up there in everyone’s eyes instead of us.”
Jory nodded in agreement. “Of course,” she said. “Someone should tell the Murrey. Asner, will you take care of that?”
He stumped off to do so, speaking softly to several of the Murrey folk who paused in midscurry, looked fearfully about them, then ran to hoist one of the long tables onto the platform.
“I told them they’d forgotten,” whispered Asner when he returned. “Told them I was making a friendly reminder. Poor things, they believe someone forgot to tell them. So, we’ll put our things over there to one side, near the platform, but not on it. The light’s better there. The boss chief can see us, and so can everyone else.”
“What will Houdum-Bah think?” demanded Nela.
“What would you think, if you were the boss chief and arrived at your own banquet to find a table set high upon a platform?” asked Jory. “You’d think it was for you, wouldn’t you?”
“How about music?” Asner asked. “Nela, you and Bertran are the experts. What can we do about music for our show?”
The twins went with Asner to talk with the musicians. Coins changed hands. The two drummers nodded as the twins described drum rolls, clashes of cymbals, and when both should occur. After further explanation, the almost trumpeter attempted an almost fanfare, with some success.
Very soon thereafter the Houm and High Houm began to trickle in, each wrapped in gay fabrics and glittering with beads. Blue boys ran back and forth bearing platters of meat from the pits outside the doors and loaves of bread from a store against the wall. Pitchers were filled and emptied and filled again. All was dash and froth and noise. Against the wall, the sideshow set itself in readiness.
“Now’s the time to work the crowd,” said Bertran. “Curvis, let’s work the tables.”
“Work the tables?”
“Come on. Let’s do some magic.” The twins signaled the musicians and moved to the nearest table where they began pulling coins from behind ears, scarves out of women’s hair to the accompaniment of drums and bugles and the occasional whang of a timely gong. After watching them for a moment, Curvis followed.
Fringe said, “They’re right, Danivon. We’ll want the crowd on our side if there’s trouble.”
He shook his head over her naiveté in thinking Houm or Murrey were capable of taking anyone’s side but their own, but he followed her as she tugged the bulky machine to a clear spot near another table.
“Your fortune, ma’am,” she chanted. “Your fortune, sir.”
Danivon busied himself as her assistant, wafting the incense, summoning the powers of the future.
“Lost … Treasure … Returns,” cried Fringe, reading the shining capsules as they fell into the bin.
“What is it you have lost, ma’am?” begged Danivon, his nose twitching as he held out his hand toward the High Houm woman in her bright green gown. “Was it a pin? No. A ring! Your mother’s ring?”
The green-gowned woman responded with cries of delight.
“In the garden outside the window where your washstand is,” said Danivon. “That’s where it is. You laid it on the sill when you washed your hands, and you forgot it.”
“I did!” she wept. “Oh, yes, I remember now.”
Her escort dropped coins into Danivon’s outstretched palm while others at the table laughed and demanded their own fortunes be told. Fringe worked her way around the table, stopping when she reached the side
of a child, a girl of some eleven or twelve years who was looking at her, half in terror, half in delight.
“What’s your name,” Fringe asked.
“Alouez,” the girl whispered. Her eyes were huge and shadowed in the pallor of her face under a misty cloud of hair. She was already beautiful, promising greater beauty to come.
Fringe pivoted, throwing her oracle’s dress into a dramatic swirl and taking the opportunity to glance at all the tables. No other children. No other children at all.
“Would you like to hear your fortune, Alouez?” she asked, keeping herself from scowling with some difficulty. Why was this the only child?
The woman sitting next to the girl put her hand to her face, hiding her eyes, not quickly enough to hide the gleam of tears.
“Yes,” breathed the girl. “Tell my fortune!”
She picked her own levers, pulled them, listened as bells rang and capsules fell. When they had done, Fringe picked them up, palming one or two to substitute others she had in her pocket. She wanted no message of fear for this child, no matter what the machine said.
“Riches, years, joy,” she read, putting the capsules down in front of the child. The tearful woman turned her head away and blotted her face on her sleeve.
“May I keep them?” the girl asked eagerly. The message had erased the anxiety from her face, but Fringe, watching the woman next to the child, knew the reason for that anxiety was still present.
She frowned as she went on to the next table, where Danivon came up to her and asked: “Who’s the girl child you were spending such time on?”
“Her name is Alouez,” she replied, glancing back at the child over her shoulder. “She’s the only child here, have you noticed? She seems very much alone, more than a little frightened. The woman with her is crying, trying to hide it. Something she knows the child doesn’t.”
“Nasty,” said Danivon, catching a whiff of the old familiar stench.
“She seems familiar, somehow.”
“The girl?” Danivon grinned fiercely. “Of course. She looks like you. Or as you probably did when you were that age.”
Sideshow Page 33
