Carnival of the Soul

by Cebelius

  "How much longer will the performance go on?" he asked.

  The feline tipped her head back to look over her shoulder at him, the white-lace ruffle of her costume seeming to form a platter for her head as she said, "Silly. The performances never stop. You paid with your soul to be here. The show doesn't end until you want to leave."

  Jaw dropping with disbelief, he stammered, "But ... but the shows start and stop outside."

  With a fine feline disregard for his confusion, the clownish woman simply shrugged, not deigning to explain.

  They took a set of stairs down out of the bleachers and walked a narrow corridor underneath them. Terry had to turn sideways to keep from bumping into the framework that held up the seats.

  Eventually, they came to a door nailed straight into the scaffolding. The clown took a step to the side and waved a hand at the door as she said, "I'd tell you to take your time, but that seems like taking the joke too far. Good luck."

  "I need luck?" Terry asked as he stepped up to the door and looked around the edge. There were no walls, and the scaffolding kept on going in a broad, gently curving arc on the other side of the door.

  Fuckin' magic.

  Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Terry opened the door and stepped through it into what was unmistakably the dressing room.

  Racks of costumes in seemingly endless variety were lined up into the far distance, and the aisles they described were taken up by mirror-topped tables and dressers.

  People scurried here and there with a sense of purpose, but strangely, there was no banter.

  Armored warriors brushed shoulders with belly dancers, but though the scene looked chaotic at first glance, its relative silence gave the lie to that first impression.

  Given what he now knew about the nature of the carnival, he wondered how long some of these performers had been here, and if they were trapped or willing.

  After a few moments of looking around, he saw another door. This one was painted blue, and had a circular hole about six inches in diameter cut through it at head height. Inside that hole was a slowly spinning wooden star. One side of the star was red, the other black, and it lazily rotated on its vertical axis as though attached to a motor that kept it spinning.

  Beneath the star in ornate gold lettering it said simply:

  H&H

  The paint on the door and the star were chipped and faded, but Terry wasn't about to sweat the details.

  He had a job to do. He stepped up, knocked, and waited.

  "Who do you want to see?"

  Terry blinked. The sentence had been spoken with normal pacing and cadence, but every other word belonged to another person. The first was male, the second female, and so on.

  He glanced at the slowly rotating star, and an uneasy feeling began to creep through him as he thought about how he should answer. In the end, he went with a hunch based on the fact that only one person speaking about these two had ever mentioned one or the other of them rather than both, and that one person was a freakin' oracle.

  'In order to secure the aid of the Hellequin, you will have to speak to her.'

  Here goes nothing.

  "The Hellequin."

  The voice that answered him was entirely feminine.

  "The door is unlocked."

  As she spoke, the door audibly clicked, and with a mental shrug Terry pushed it open.

  Inside, the room was richly appointed, but everything contrasted so sharply that it was almost painful to look at. Half of everything was done in a masculine taste, while the other half was feminine. The feminine items had red as a dominant color and black as an accent; the masculine items were the reverse.

  It was a nightmare of red and black, and it all served to draw attention to the one thing in the room that was almost completely white.

  The Hellequin's mask was porcelain. Eyebrows were painted in black, and a delicate red blush had been masterfully done on her cheeks. The eyes were principally white with two pinpoints of black.

  She stood about seven feet tall and had a statuesque frame. She was costumed in what Terry could only describe as Shakespearean actor chic, complete with the neck ruffle. But the clothing was red with black accents.

  At first glance she looked human, but only at first glance. A second look revealed increasingly disturbing discrepancies. Her hands each had eight fingers and two thumbs. One set of each curled in each direction, all gloved in velvet that was red on the side of the hand that faced him, black on the other.

  Her feet likewise had no heels. Instead, both ends of her feet were toed, with joints a few inches above the feet that were currently angled away from him.

  Last and most disturbing, the Hellequin had no head.

  Her mask was manifestly floating in mid-air above the lace ruffle, and beyond it, facing away from him, was the backside of another mask.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  The voice came from behind the mask, and he noticed the expression on it had changed to one of curiosity, eyebrows raised.

  Okay, this shit is just bizarre.

  He shook himself and got straight to the point.

  "I'm here on a quest that includes killing Koschei the Deathless. I need to get into the castle without being seen. Can you help?"

  The strange being before him folded her arms under her chest and her mask's expression changed. He didn't see it change, it was simply different.

  Now, it looked speculative.

  "My my. Not one for small talk are you?"

  Terry assayed a smile. "It's been a long day."

  "Template?" she asked, the mask tipping from one side to the other, then actually sliding out off the body to survey him. It floated toward, and then slowly all around him, tilting up and down as though scanning him from head to foot. The second mask remained in place, facing away.

  "Yes?" he drawled, inwardly wincing at the feeling of being intensely scrutinized by a ... he didn't even have a word. A ghost?

  "My husband might be better for this than I am," she said as the mask slid back into place.

  "I'd rather not bother you both with something like this.

  "I hate him."

  The Harlequin's voice came from the far side, bold and certain. "I won't help him! He asked for you!"

  "He's a man, dear. Of course he asked for me."

  Stifling his smile, Terry said, "Actually, I asked for you because Kalty mentioned you'd be the one to talk to."

  "Oh she did? How is she? I haven't seen her in a while," the Hellequin said, leaning down to put her mask at eye level with him and couching her knees with ... well, with the Harlequin's hands. Her own palms still faced him.

  I've heard of the beast with two backs before, but never one with two fronts, Terry thought, but didn't say.

  How are these two a couple?

  Aloud he said, "She's good."

  "She's gone," the Hellequin corrected him. "She's left the Carnival. Did you have something to do with that?"

  "I actually do not know," Terry said, sticking with the truth. He had a suspicion, but since he didn't know he didn't want to risk a misstep.

  "Hedging our bets are we?" she asked, her tone ripe with suspicion.

  "Telling you the truth. You make of that what you will. I need into the castle. If I get what I want, you'll get what you want. Help me?"

  "If I choose to help you, my husband will want to take something from you, and at the moment you don't have much to give him," the Hellequin said, straightening and tapping at the corner of her mask with a single finger.

  Terry wasn't about to make any more promises. He also wasn't in the mood to try and bargain, and hadn't been since this whole misadventure started.

  "Tell you what," he said, staring up at the painted eyes of the mask in a best effort to make eye contact. "You will help me, and in return I will give him his half of the carnival."

  "You said you were going to do that anyway," she pointed out.

  "I don't have to. My primary objective is ... someth
ing else. Killing Koschei is just recommended. And even if I do kill him, that'd mean I have the power to take everything he had. I'm under no obligation to give that to either of you. I could take this place for myself."

  Both the Harlequin and Hellequin began to laugh, and the sound was oddly musical, his laughter seeming to uplift hers.

  Terry didn't blink, and didn't back down.

  "I already have control of the Labyrinth. Ariadne is no longer the Power there. I also have Cecaelia in my back pocket. Trust me when I tell you that even if I don't know what I'd do with this place, I'm sure she could give me a few ideas."

  "You're bluffing," the Hellequin declared, their twinned laughter cutting out as though he'd pulled a plug.

  Terry folded his arms and kept eye contact. "Thinking on my feet, but not bluffing. I don't have to give this place back to you, and I'll have the ability to keep and make use of it, whether on my own or through a proxy. If you want it back, this is the deal. All you have to do is get me into the castle with freedom to move, undetected. The Harlequin can have his little slice of the Carnival back as the price I'm paying to do business."

  "If you fail and die?" she asked.

  "There'll be no proof it was you as long as you get me in and away without a hitch, and the Harlequin can take a shot at my soul when I come this way again."

  "'Take a shot at?' You think there's any way he wouldn't get your soul?"

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Hmm."

  The Hellequin tipped her mask up and seemed to stare up at nothing for a moment as she thought, the expression on the porcelain face was pensive.

  "We are overdue for a visit."

  "You can't be serious, wife. He's getting away with murder if you accept this deal!"

  Hellequin passed her hand in front of her face, and her pensive expression was replaced with a sly grin.

  "If we accept this deal, we are hoping he will get away with murder. I for one am tired of watching souls slip through my fingers, their power drained by an unworthy, cowardly mortal. I think this man is offering us a deal that is more than fair."

  "Hmph! You would."

  "That's right, dear. I would."

  Her painted eyes seemed to burn as she met Terry's gaze and said, "We'll get you in, and isolated in the keep with freedom to move. You aren't going to like how that happens."

  "I'm pretty sure I won't. As long as I still have my agency when it's all said and done, I'll do what I have to."

  "Tell me something, hero."

  "What'll you give me if I do?" Terry asked, really not wanting to answer any questions.

  The Hellequin's mask shifted to one of surprise, and the Harlequin let out a short bark of laughter though as he said, "Catches on quick, doesn't he?"

  Terry masked his own surprise as well as he could, but it made sense as he thought about it. Everything these two did that had anything to do with anyone else seemed to be purely transactional. What one gave, the other took. It made sense that they would expect others to act the same way.

  "Ask one question of me in exchange, and I will be bound to answer if I can," Hellequin said after a moment's pause.

  He thought about it, wondering what he could ask this strange woman. He had to have a question in mind before he agreed to answer one himself. He reviewed everything he had to do, and it hit him.

  "All right, ask your question," he said.

  "How did you die?" Hellequin asked. "What heroics brought you to Celestine?"

  Opening his mouth to answer, he was shocked to hear his sister Lisa's voice behind him.

  "Dad selling me off was the best thing that ever happened to me! I'm sorry you felt you had to go through this but I never asked for you to rescue me."

  Turning, he watched as the scene played out from there. Ghostly images of himself and the others in that funky locker room spoke the words burned into his heart, ending abruptly with the sound of the lone gunshot that had ended his life. The bloom of fire from the gun barrel expanded until the entire scene dissipated as though it had never been.

  He swallowed hard and turned back to the Hellequin, who's mask now bore a faint smile. Terry felt compelled to say, "It wasn't heroism. It was stupidity. If I hadn't gone for that gun, I'd still be alive."

  "Perhaps." She said it in a musing tone, but didn't elaborate. Instead she asked, "And now, your question?"

  "If I bring you Stheno, will you keep her at the Carnival?"

  Hellequin tilted her mask, then it flew forward until it was only an inch from his, its painted eyes inanimate yet intense as she said, "What makes you think you could do that? Koschei will be easier."

  Terry smiled. "I'm full of surprises. Will you do it?"

  The mask whisked back to its place floating over the body as she said, "Oh yes. She would become one of our star attractions, I'm sure."

  He smiled. "Well then. Ready when you are."

  The Hellequin nodded, stretched forth one of her hands and splayed it, showing him the palm, as she began to chant.

  26

  The Easy Way or the Witch's Way

  The Hellequin had been right. Terry had very much not liked how he'd been smuggled into the keep.

  It was done simply, elegantly, and it worked perfectly. He still hated it.

  The Hellequin, in her infinite wisdom, had turned Terry into a mouse, and walked past the guards with him tucked into her bustier, the top of which having been neatly covered by her platter of Shakespearean lace.

  'I can't put you in my pocket, little man. They check those. You'll just have to grin and bear it. And if you bite or scratch me, I'll squash you flat.'

  As he descended the sixth set of stairs he'd encountered so far, he wondered what he'd done to deserve all the nonsense he'd had to put up with recently. All the while he was struggling to forget the guilty reality that being that small, and buried in cleavage, had been kinda awesome.

  Okay, maybe I didn't hate THAT part of this stupid plan. It's THIS part that sucks.

  The spell was set to expire in 'a few hours,' and Terry had no idea how much of that time had passed. He was free and alone in the castle as promised, but it was a big place, and he was not exactly sized to travel quickly on his own.

  Several people had passed him by completely unaware — and his body was so small that he was able to squeeze under doorways — but he'd been running for what seemed like forever now and was struggling down yet another set of stairs.

  At the bottom he could see a single guttering torch, but where he was it was pitch. His whiskers were a much better help than his eyes, but he'd smashed his nose on stone so many times now that it was a wonder his snout wasn't broken.

  This had better be the last set of freakin' stairs, he thought grimly to himself, hopping down, down, down toward that lone torch.

  He hadn't seen anyone for the last three floors of what he was sure was a dungeon. The kind people got thrown in when they pissed off the powers that be.

  Apparently, Koschei was easily pissed. There were groans and wailing from some of the rooms, but more than a few were still and silent, and the smell wafting out from under those doors was way worse than body odor.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the light of the torch revealed an ante-chamber of a sort he'd passed before. A lone table with three chairs and a stool played host to a pitcher of something and several mugs. Unlike the other rooms though, there was no guard on station at this one, and the door into the cells on the far side was already open.

  On the one hand, he didn't have to try and sneak past a bored guard with nothing better to do than try and squash a mouse. On the other, someone else was down here, and that could mean trouble of a different sort.

  Terry scurried across the room and into the far hallway, sniffing at doors as he passed. The smell down this far was actually a bit better than the previous two floors, but the unmistakable waft of old death was still coming from a few of these rooms. People had been put in here and left to rot.

  Literally
.

  Another difference he quickly noticed was that the walls of this prison were natural stone. Though it had been worked, there was no effort to brick over or shore up these walls as there had been on earlier floors. He wasn't sure why that was. It didn't make sense to him that the floors above him should need engineered support but this one didn't, but he wasn't an architect and the answer was — hopefully — not one he needed to get his job done.

  The hallway he was in ended in a t-juncture, and Terry peeked around the corner, looking left and right. He immediately spotted the guard. He was holding a torch aloft, looking bored.

  He was also headless.

  The memory of the last such man he'd seen made Terry bare his teeth, and he scurried down the hall in the dark toward him, ears alert.

  He took cover in the space between a door and the wall, peeking around the corner. From here he could hear voices inside the room, and one of them he recognized immediately.

  "... hold it against me, Baba. In life, I served you uncommonly well."

  Vlad!

  For reasons he didn't quite understand, the fact that the shaman was here made Terry shiver involuntarily. He knew that Vlad, as a mortal dead, should come to the Wildervast, and even to the Carnival of the Soul, but that he should be here, that was troubling.

  Baba Yaga's voice was light and friendly, even if her words weren't.

  "You were awfully quick to find a new patron in death, Dreamer. I find your shifting loyalties disturbing."

  "Come now, I died for you and your plans. What more could anyone reasonably ask of me?"

  "Anyone else wouldn't be able to ask anything of you. I am not just anyone, and the power of a Rakshasa was not lightly given to you. I will remember this, Vlad."

  "I trust that you will, Baba. Gratitude may not be in your nature, but consider that with this parting gift, you and I both know the scales are tipped in my favor. Take care."

  Vlad stepped out of the cell, reaching back and pulling the door closed before he and the headless man turned to walk back down the hall.