The city had embraced the show for the most part, largely because Grignal’s character suffered so much misfortune. No surprise there since Ale Surçois was one of the cities hardest hit during the war and had suffered several years of Kyngani rule. Grignal hadn’t even been synthesized by that point, but it didn’t stop the human race from holding it against him.
“Hey . . . Big boy . . .”
Grignal rolled his eyes.
Remmiau climbed the stairs leading up from the dressing area. Thick braids of bright purple leather and aubergine rope and eggplant cloth wrapped his body, stark against his red-tinged skin. He was due onstage in a few minutes to punish Ijia for leaving his side. He pulled himself up as tall as he could—still only coming up to Grignal’s sternum—and grinned, baring his pointed teeth and accentuating the wrinkles among the bronze tattoos crossing his eyes. “Found yourself a job, have ya?”
Grignal continued to stare. The trouble in Alé Surçois was beginning to boil over. The premier of the city, Jaubert Rousseau, was locked in battle with the city senate over his own post. Grignal didn’t follow such things as a rule, but he heard enough gossip from the troupe to get the gist. The senate claimed Rousseau was mentally unstable. They were trying to rally enough voter support to recall him. It was the main reason Bayard had decided on coming here as opposed to a half dozen other cities—political upheaval almost always led to more work. But, as was typical, Grignal had trouble finding work of his own; like most of the cities on Altarus, Ale Surçois didn’t exactly open its arms to members of his race.
“The meet’s tonight,” Remmiau continued, eyeing Ijia now. “Bring you right proper cred if you lend me a hand.”
“Get some of your goons,” Grignal replied.
“Don’t get me wrong, son. The boys are good, but a giant lizard like you”—he stepped closer and looked up into Grignal’s eyes—“strikes a certain note of fear in a man’s heart. Makes things go smooth.”
Ijia descended from the darkened heights of the tent, igniting a chorus of gasps from the crowd. She collapsed the moment she reached the stage, unconscious from her self-inflicted frenzy. The stage lights dimmed, and when it was nearly pitch black, Ijia’s body lit from within, blinding the crowd.
Cheers washed over the darkened stage.
“That’s my cue. What’d’you say?”
Grignal nodded. “When?”
“Ah, that’s my boy.” Remmiau patted Grignal’s arm, which Grignal jerked away. “Right after the show, son. Right after the show.”
Late that night, hoping to avoid as many security cameras as possible, Grignal, Remmiau, and two of his mates took to the spiraled walkways and stairwells and headed down through the concrete-and-crysteel jungle. Remmiau wore his brown derby; his knives were stashed away within the coat of his tattered brown suit. He was flanked by Quidam and Jacque, who wore pinstripe suits with rapiers at their side. Grignal followed just behind, towering above them—it was better that way, Remmiau had said; put a little fear into ’em.
Grignal had seen only two other Kyngani in the three days he’d been in the city. He saw one more on the way down to the lower levels of the undercity, but once he reached the deeper thoroughfares he saw dozens. They were leftovers, like him; dregs scraping an existence off of human civilization. Perhaps they had been left behind, like many of his race, or perhaps they liked it here. He didn’t know, but he felt no kinship to them whatsoever and so never bothered to ask.
Among the ground level, their group had drawn attention like a watering hole in the badlands, but here, thirteen levels below, they melded in like they’d lived here all their lives. Traffic increased sharply as they reached a wide street with sex shops and neon brasseries and stores selling cheap, prewar antiques. Several vidboards floated down the street, displaying gaudy and raucous ads, among them several political ads for Jaubert Rousseau.
“Not far now, boys,” Remmiau said.
They turned up an alley and reached a dimly lit courtyard a few minutes later. Nine stories of residences stared down with disinterest. Most of the windows were dark, and those that weren’t were covered with stained shades. Like a ray of hope, the faintest iridescent glimmer of the city’s protective shield filtered down through tram tubes, pipes, and other arteries of the city.
Near the far end of the courtyard, stairs led down to a service door. This opened shortly after they arrived, and nine men filed out, most of them wearing black trench coats. Grignal watched for tattoos on the palms of their hands—the traditional place the undercity gangs would mark themselves. He caught what looked like the open maw of a ferocious dog. Grignal couldn’t recall what group that might mean—that was Remmiau’s department. Remmiau recognized every gang in every city they went to.
The four men at the rear maneuvered a gray chest the size of a small coffin up the stairs to ground level. The chest had a keypad and a small readout, dark.
“Lot o’ boys, Livier,” Remmiau said. He was smiling, but Grignal could hear the tension in his voice. He hadn’t expected so many.
Neither had Grignal.
One man stepped forward, tall, but still a half head shorter than Remmiau. His head was shaved and a jagged scar through his dark beard to the apple of his neck. “That package weighs almost as much as that big head of yours, Remmiau. Besides”—the man looked straight at Grignal—“looks like you’ve brought a few extra, too.”
Remmiau shot a grin toward Grignal. “What? Him? Kind as a kitten, he is.”
The man pulled his trench coat aside, allowing a clear view of the sawed-off shotgun hanging from his belt. “And kittens have claws.”
“Now, now . . . You’re getting it all wrong. We’re businessmen, you and me, right? And we’re here for business, so let’s get to it.”
Grignal watched Livier closely. There was an ex-military stink all over him, which would mean heightened strength, speed, and reflexes.
Remmiau and Livier stepped closer. They talked quietly for a minute, but soon the man in black was allowing a progressively more annoyed expression to show on his face. Finally, he took a step back. “We agreed,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “We agreed three times, once just this morning.”
“Might be, but things change, son,” Remmiau said, smiling.
“Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, yes, it has. New info rises to the surface, don’t it? The contents of that case, for example. Sight more dangerous than you made it out to be. Worth a lot more cred, too.”
Grignal knew something was wrong about halfway into the ensuing pause. He started running before Livier’s stance had shifted. “Get back!”
Livier, quick as a blink, tugged his trench coat aside and reached for his shotgun. He was fast. Definitely enhanced.
But Remmiau was still faster. He retreated and launched two throwing daggers in blinding succession. Livier’s eyes went wide as the first pierced his chest; the other opened a red line along his neck. He aimed the shotgun just as Grignal grabbed Remmiau’s coat and yanked him backward, shielding him.
Pain tore into Grignal’s back and shoulder as the shotgun roared.
Grignal howled. A warm trickle of blood crept greedily down his back. He shoved Remmiau away, then twisted toward Livier. The bald man stared up, fear contorting his face. He pumped the shotgun to chamber a new round, but Grignal grabbed his arm.
The gun fired wide.
Quidam shouted and Grignal heard him fall to the ground.
Grignal, enraged by the blooding of one of his own, whipped Livier by the arm, sending him fifteen feet through the air like a suit stuffed with rags. He crashed against the brick wall and dropped lifeless to the ground.
Three more knives flashed through the dim night. Two men dropped. The four at the rear had picked up the case and were heading for the door they’d come through. The remaining two had drawn swords. A dagger from Remmiau clanged off the metal shield one of them was holding.
Far above, a red light began to flash. An alarm r
ang with it, out of sequence with the flashing. The lights in the windows began winking out.
“Get that case!” Remmiau shouted. “Grignal, get that case!”
“We’re done,” Grignal grunted through gritted teeth, backing up.
“Oh no, we’re not!”
While Quidam remained on the ground nursing the bloody shotgun wound along his shin, Remmiau ran forward and retrieved two long dirks from their sheaths. Jacque followed, pulling his rapier. They engaged the enemy, and the sound of steel rang out.
Remmiau and Jacque were good—very good—but this was too much. They’d be overwhelmed in seconds.
Grignal had no choice.
He charged and bellowed, allowing his footsteps to fall heavy on the asphalt. The sound echoed about the small space. Jacque and Remmiau sidestepped while Livier’s men retreated.
One, foolishly, tried to meet his charge with a thrust of his sword. Grignal met it with an upturned palm, allowing the blade to slip through his hand until hilt met palm. Grignal gripped the man’s wrist and whipped him aside. The man’s scream was cut off by a meaty thump.
Blood spurted as Grignal pulled the sword free. He slipped sideways along the stair railing and reached for the case. Two swords swiped and connected as he yanked the case from the confines of the stairs, scraping three of the enemy against the red brick.
Grignal retreated, only now feeling the sting of the wounds along his palm and massive forearm. “Can we go now?”
“Right as rain, son.” Remmiau backed away and winked. “Right as rain.”
As night moved toward dawn, Grignal lugged the case over his good shoulder.
“You’re being unreasonable,” Remmiau said behind him. He was helping Jacque with Quidam.
They were at ground level, in the western section of Ale Surçois. The park that housed the circus sat at the intersection of three major streets, the glass buildings that surrounded it looming like headsmen waiting for the appointed time. One hundred feet up, the city closed back in, leaving the dozens of fiberop skylights to fend off the darkness.
Flocks of single- and two-person vehicles zipped counterclockwise along the narrow road rimming the park. This early, the only foot traffic was from businessmen and women in blue unisuits cutting across the park to get to work. Several of them watched Grignal with wide stares; he could only imagine what he must look like now with the amount of blood he’d leaked in the last hour. His breathing had become labored and raspy and his shoulders ached, both from the wound and the weight of the chest, but he wouldn’t stop, not until he’d reached Bayard.
Ahead, the big tent stood in the center of the park, a huge canvas sign above it pronouncing, “Le Cirque du Lumière,” in bold red lettering. Their personal tents hunkered like a horde of yellow-and-white yurts.
Jacque brought Quidam to the troupe’s medic, Le Chat, but Remmiau followed Grignal.
“Come on,” Remmiau said as he ran ahead and turned to face Grignal, “you want more cut, is that it?”
Grignal ignored him. He reached Bayard’s tent and dropped the case. By then, many of the three dozen troupe members were clustering around, straining to see what was happening.
Remmiau stared them down. “You’ve all got things to do, don’t you?”
Most of them remained until Ijia stepped into the circle. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tail and she wore only a tattered cotton robe, but she still exuded authority. She inspected the nondescript case and gave Remmiau a good long stare. Finally she gave the crowd a few quick shooing motions. They began dispersing immediately.
“What is this?” she asked, staring up at Grignal.
“None of your business, darling,” Remmiau said. “What’s mine is mine.”
Ijia turned to him, blinking her long lashes once. She jutted her chin toward Le Chat’s tent. “When you put the troupe at risk, it’s everyone’s business.”
A disheveled and half-dressed Bayard exited Le Chat’s tent and paced over to Ijia’s side. One side of his handlebar mustache was bent, which somehow made him seem angrier. “He’s going to be out for weeks.”
The muscles along Remmiau’s jaw flexed. “No one will even notice. The boys can cover for Quidam”—he stabbed a bony finger at the case—“and that’s my bloody catch.”
Ijia returned her attention to Grignal. With one raised eyebrow, she commanded him to tell her everything. He told her as best he could, though he didn’t know enough to tell her everything. Remmiau had withheld too much.
“Where was it headed?”
“Is headed, darling. Is headed. To Balgique-en-Leurre. It’s a simple pick-and-pop.”
“Not so simple anymore,” Bayard said. “Who’s in it?”
“No one special. No one the Boys in Red would care about.”
“That’s not true,” Grignal said. Had Remmiau been talking with an outsider, Grignal would have kept his mouth shut, but the troupe was involved, and the troupe came first. Remmiau should know better; he was letting his greed get the best of him.
“What do you mean?” Bayard asked.
“Remmiau knows. He said as much to the men we got the case from.”
Remmiau’s look of hatred bore into Grignal.
Bayard stared at Remmiau as the clatter of breakfast came from the mess tent.
“It’s only rumors,” Remmiau said.
“And who’s rumored to be in there?” Bayard asked.
“Aw, come on, Top Man, this is my business.”
“Spill it, Remmiau, or I’m wrapping you and the case in a pretty little package for the Men in Red.”
Remmiau tightened his lips to a thin line and shook his head. “It’s the premier’s daughter, all right?”
Bayard’s eyes looked like they were ready to pop out. “Jaubert Rousseau’s daughter is in there?”
“Yes, but we can use this. We’ll get top money for her if we play this right.”
Bayard alternated glances between the case and Remmiau. Then he stalked toward his tent. “Come with me.”
Everyone but Remmiau left quickly. No one wanted to be in the line of fire when Bayard got his mustache in a dander.
The shotgun wound burned like hell until the troupe’s medic, Le Chat, removed the last of the bird-shot. It would be another few days before the pain subsided, another week before it healed completely.
Throughout the day, Grignal kept expecting uniformed men to storm into the park and round everyone up. He made several mistakes at practice that afternoon until Ijia had had enough. She finally sent him away, telling him to calm himself before the show, which only made things worse.
When the show commenced, the scenes crawled. Ijia left her homeland and her lover at the behest of the devious Remmiau. She explored a world she had never seen, only to return to a place that had changed drastically in her absence. And her young lover . . . he had turned into a monster, played by Grignal. She could see little of the boy she had once loved, but the eyes, she realized—the eyes were his.
Grignal’s act began by spinning two steel loops in a circle. Ijia leaped and moved between them, through them, over Grignal in an acrobatic ballet of sadness and joy. Bayard stood backstage, studying the crowd. The rings nearly slipped from Grignal’s grasp when Tinker came to converse with Bayard.
Remmiau came onstage soon after, gesticulating broadly at Ijia while three white-robed sirens sang on a platform high above the stage. Remmiau took note of Grignal and drew his daggers. The final act progressed from a few missed shots to Remmiau throwing perfectly aimed daggers into Grignal’s arms and legs and chest. Blood flowed. The audience gasped. Remmiau’s strikes were stronger this night, and his tattooed eyes lit with a certain glee that had been absent for some time.
Grignal eventually succumbed to the onslaught; he could protect Ijia no more.
As Ijia pleaded with Remmiau to stop, Grignal cried for the loss of his love, bringing the crowd to absolute silence.
Grignal wasn’t surprised, for the release of emotions ha
d come easy. It wasn’t from the pain; it was from the fact that Remmiau felt betrayed by Grignal. He felt that Grignal couldn’t be trusted anymore. But it wasn’t Grignal’s fault. He had had no choice but to give Remmiau up to Bayard. In time Remmiau would see that Grignal had acted in his best interests—in his best interests and the troupe’s.
In the meantime, if it helped Remmiau to be more sadistic than usual, then Grignal would let him. The wounds would heal soon enough.
After Grignal had washed the blood from his arms and chest and had given the wounds time to close, he borrowed Ijia’s datalink tablet—one of only two the troupe paid the costly uplink for—and retreated to his tent. He sat gratefully on his creaking cot as the din of the crowd filtered through the tent walls. The show had been packed, and many were still wandering the park, sampling the games and fortune tellers and brica-brac stalls.
Grignal scoured the interlink for Jaubert Rousseau and any mention of his family. Oddly enough there were plenty of articles about Jaubert, but Grignal could find none that mentioned his wife or daughter. He eventually found one about Ale Surçois’ last election nearly three years ago. It had a picture of Jaubert Rousseau standing on a podium, one arm around an elegant looking woman and the other, presumably, around his daughter. Grignal read the caption. “Premier Elect Jaubert Rousseau, with wife, Ettienne, and daughter, Sidanne.”
Sidanne. What a beautiful name. Just like the girl herself. She had hair the color of dark wheat, styled with bold, angular cuts, the sort desert city girls seemed to favor. The article said she was twelve, but with the professional makeup and styling she looked fifteen at least.
What set of circumstances could have led her to this? Who would have the stones to do such a thing to the daughter of a premier? Remmiau had a reputation among the darker alleys for getting the job done, so it made some sense that he’d been contacted, but why transport her at all if it was merely for ransom? Perhaps whoever had taken her felt she had to be far outside the premier’s reach before contacting him. Perhaps they felt it would be a protracted negotiation and keeping her in outside the city was safer.
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