by Ben Galley
Merion flicked yet another wooden cup of drink from his window and listened to it splash in the trampled dust beyond, etched with a hundred different boot and shoe prints. He picked at his teeth, ignoring his stomach grumbling for the dozenth time, and angled his head so he could stare up at the big tent. It glowed brightly from within like a Cathayan sky-lantern. Shadows flashed against its patchwork skin. Every few seconds a mighty cheer erupted, and Merion huffed, wishing he was inside. He closed his eyes and let every cacophonous roar of laughter and raucous merriment fill his ears.
‘Fallin’ asleep on the job there, son?’ A voice made him jump.
A man in an off-white suit and a black tie stood in front of his window, filling it effortlessly. He was a big fellow, by all angles, full in the belly and wide of shoulder. His grey-white hair was slicked back, matched by a smart white goatee and coiled moustache. A pair of crystalline spectacles balanced on his nose. He looked like a man of business, from the ink stains on his crinkled fingers to the newspaper folded under his arm. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ he swiftly apologised.
Merion shook his head and knuckled the tiredness from his eyes. ‘Not at all, Sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s three dimes for entry.’
The old man cast him an intrigued look. ‘You Empire-born?’ he asked, rubbing his beard.
Merion held an empty palm out and waited patiently. ‘That I am, Sir. From London.’
‘Ha!’ the old man slapped his thigh. ‘London? Was there not last week.’
Merion’s ears pricked up. ‘You were?’
‘Indeed I was, son. Had business in Guileford. You know it?’
Merion had heard of it.
The man tucked his fingers into the hem of his jacket and rocked back forth on his heels. ‘I’m a skin trader. Built myself up from scraps, I have. Mother left me her struggling trapping business and a pile of debt when she died, Maker bless her. I turned it all around in just three years. Then I turned to the skies.’ The man paused to jack a thumb at the sky, where the last airship of the day was finally docking. ‘You know what every aviator and aviatrix needs, sonny? Besides a ship and some fuel, that is, ha!’
The problem with the self-made man or woman is that they love to talk about themselves, and of what they’ve made. It seems to give them the same satisfaction as actually building their little empires. Merion humoured him, hoping it would all boil down to some news of home.
The old man winked knowingly. ‘A fine flying coat, that’s what. With the finest fur lining to keep ’em warm no matter what the weather. “Skyhorse Coats”, that’s me. Got stores all up and down the east coast. Now I’m busy branching out into Pariz and London.’
‘Very impressive,’ Merion replied, giving the man what he clearly wanted to hear, though praise from a thirteen-year-old must have been a cheap win indeed.
‘Thank you, sonny. Say, you ever been on an airship?’
Merion had not. The closest he had ever come was climbing to the tip of the Bellspire with his father, and seeing London spread out below them like a model. He had his first taste of terror that day, seeing how high the architects of the Empire dared to build. Merion had detested heights ever since. ‘No, Sir,’ he replied.
‘There’s no better way to travel, I’ll tell you that for free. Smooth. Calm. Luxury, too, if you can afford it,’ the man winked again, suggesting that he of course could. And with that, he finished his lecture on his own accomplishments. He rested his newspaper on the window ledge for a moment so he could dig a thick silver coin out of his pocket. He deposited it in the boy’s palm and took his ticket with a flourish. ‘Thank you, son! Pleasure to have met you.’
Merion was in the middle of scrabbling for change. ‘Don’t you want your …’ But the old man had left him to it, and was already thoroughly lost in the circus crowds. The young Hark smiled down at the coins in his hand. Had he known he was being paid to listen Merion would have let the man ramble on some more. ‘How kind,’ he mumbled to himself and buried the change in his pocket.
Merion adjusted himself on the stool, trying to find a spot on his backside that was not numb, and drummed his fingers on the desk. He wondered how long he would be left in the booth. The sky above the valley was star-speckled. The moon was hiding half its face, and hovering just above the ridge, as if it were teetering on the edge of falling inwards and rolling down into the town.
His eyes wandered around the edges of his window, counting the splinters as he went. And then they rested on the forgotten newspaper. Folded and squashed, looking for all the world as if it had travelled a thousand miles to be there, the battered paper languished on the edge of his desk where the man had left it. Merion plucked it from its resting place and unfolded it, crumpled page by crumpled page. His eyes widened with every fold.
It was the Empire Watchful. A paper his father had repeatedly and vociferously damned. Nothing more than the gossip and whining of overpaid, under-qualified, moronic journalists, Tonmerion Hark, if they can be even be addressed as such. Or so he had used to rant, whenever the papers had lauded his competitors in the Benches, or printed some lie or another.
At this point, Merion did not care. ‘Sorry, father,’ he muttered under his breath, hoping he was not turning too much in his grave.
Merion pulled the paper open and froze. His father would have done more than turn, had he seen what was splayed across the front page.
‘KARRIGAN HARK: PRIME LORD, FATHER, TRAITOR’
Merion began to shake, the paper rattling in his white-knuckled hands. How dare they! he growled to himself. How dare he!
‘Dizali.’ The name was a shard of glass crushed by a rock. Merion bared his teeth and slammed the paper down, thoroughly scaring the skinny woman in a bonnet who had been standing patiently at his window. Merion was slowly turning red; he could feel fire in his cheeks.
‘Sorry to scare you,’ he muttered.
‘Not to worry,’ the woman piped up, in a high voice. Merion strangled the newspaper with one hand as he took her coin with the other. He did not blame her for scuttling off as soon as she could. He felt a throbbing in his forehead. His heart was punching his ribs. There was a tremor in his hands he could not control.
Clutching the newspaper in a tight fist, Merion poked his head out of the door and waved a hand at the two stocky fellows standing under the entrance. One moseyed over. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the colour and the quivering of the boy.
‘Everythin’ alright, Merion?’
‘No,’ he replied, trying to keep his voice civil. He wanted to shout and roar at the audacity of it. Kick and scream at the falsity and lies. Strangle something for all the helplessness he felt. He was three thousand miles away, powerless and stranded whilst his family name was being trampled in the mud. He wanted to bellow all of that in this man’s face, but instead, he held it back, straining, and said: ‘I need to see Yara.’
‘She’s in the middle of her show, Merion, last one of the night. I …’
‘Can I wait in her tent? I need to talk to her.’
‘Well, erm,’ said the man, scratching his head. ‘Guess I could watch the booth for you. For a little while at least.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ Merion said, before storming off in the direction of his tent, hidden behind the circus.
At first, the young Hark was polite in his weaving and squeezing, battling with the raucous crowd drunk on sugar and beer, laughter and wonder. But his manners quickly decayed. Soon enough he was pushing and barging, baring his teeth to let them know he was not in the mood.
It took him a good twenty minutes to make it back to his tent, only to find it empty and dark inside. It was nearing midnight. Lurker and Lilain must still have been braving the crowds. Rhin must still be in his cage. Merion snarled and whirled on his heel.
Back out into the milling throngs he went, still strangling the crumpled newspaper firmly by his side, as if he were a soldier on the morning of his first battle, clutching a spear at his hip. He passed
stall after stall, stopping only to peek backstage to see if his aunt or Lurker hid there. There were a few winks from the performers, which Merion grudgingly and distractedly returned. Cabele, for instance, even beckoned him up on stage so that he could pass her another hoop for her to juggle. Merion did so, but only because her mesmerised audience all turned to stare at the lucky helper. Merion pasted a smile onto his face, bowed and handed her the hoop. There it was: his first taste of the stage, and such a fleeting moment to be quashed by rage. Merion barely noticed what he had just done. All he could see in his head were those bastard headlines and charcoal pictures of his father outside the Emerald House.
Off he went again, passing by Big Jud and Jackabo, one cheery and surrounded by jeering and tittering patrons, the other stern-faced, encircled by gawping fans. Each had their way with their customers, and each played them like fiddles. The coin buckets would be heavy in the morning.
Finally Merion made it to Neams’s zoo, and skipped ahead of the queue. The man holding a rope saw his face, and the expression burnt into it, and wisely decided to let him pass.
‘He works here, folks, not to worry,’ the man reassured them. Merion ducked under the rope and waded in. Under the sheets suspended over the cages, the going was dark. Lanterns were scarce, placed every other cage or so, painted red and blue to play tricks on eyes and daub the caged creatures in an unholy violet hue.
The patrons lapped it up, of course. They huddled in front of cages, flinching whenever the big cats roared or prowled too close, laughing and pointing at the smaller, less fangful beasts, and whispering at the stranger creatures.
Of course, none was stranger than the cage in the darkest depths of the zoo. Neams was a clever showman. Rhin’s cage was decorated with foliage and reeds he had stolen from the riverbank. A solitary lantern hung at the back of the cage, one of those with mirrored shutters to focus the light, so that it that made you wince and squint if it pointed your way. Merion weaved his way between the squeaking children and dubious muttering adults. Every eye was fixed on the cage. He was paid not a glance. The young Hark fumed as he waited.
‘Witness the most elusive wild fairy! You don’t have to see it to believe it!’ proclaimed a brightly coloured sign leant up against the side of the cage. Quite the showman indeed.
There was a rustle in the reeds in the corner of the cage, and a high-pitched squealing from the children answered it. Merion rolled his eyes. They were only a few years younger than him, but he saw a great gulf between them. He had tasted dark things. They had not. And he did not wish those things upon them.
There was another shaking of the foliage, and laughter now, from the crowd. They suspected a cheap trick, some clockwork behind the scenes, perhaps, or simple strings. Merion, despite his foul mood, found himself smiling wryly.
The bars rattled now, and there was a shimmer in the bright glare of the lantern. A few of the children in the front took a few tentative steps forward, peering wide-eyed into the cage. They were not making it very hard for the faerie. Not one bit.
One of the children, a small boy, was wearing a cap. Something breezed past their noses and whipped it from his head. The boy wailed and ran back to the edge of the crowd. His friend, a little girl, just froze, too confused to move. She watched, eyes like saucers, as the cap danced around the cage floor, capering about as if it were possessed. There was a round of scattered applause from the grownups, too confused to know what else to do. The others looked about, narrowing their eyes, suspecting fish-hooks and thin line, a planted actor, or some other measure of foul play.
The cap died in the centre of the cage, not moving again. The crowd fell quiet once more, deathly so, so very desperate to hear a footstep, or a breath, to cheat their own doubts. For everybody secretly believes in magic, no matter how much they scoff and decry it. That is why they pay their coin, and take their tickets, because one day, just maybe, they may catch a glimpse of real magic, true power, and know they had been right all along.
Something scuffed at the dirt at the edge of the cage and the crowd recoiled as one. Merion was the only one who stayed still. He smirked a little more. There came a yowling, and a fluttering of wings, and the onlookers began to gasp and prod each other. Tiny stones began to zip through the air, striking some of the older men and women, catching them in harmless places; thighs, forearms, bellies. Rhin was a good shot. Merion scowled as a stone struck him in the chest, ricocheting off his creased shirt. The crowd stirred anxiously. Perhaps this magic was too real for them after all, the kind with a k. The children cavorted, giggling, but their parents swapped bemused glances.
Neams chose the right moment to strike. He bounded from the shadows, where he had been lingering, brandishing a broom handle. He began to whack it against the bars, and after the necessary amount of yelling and hollering, and after apologising and bowing profusely to the now clapping, cheering crowd, Nelle spun the hat from his head and held it out. The crowd needed no further encouragement. Coins practically rained into it. The man had just saved them from a dangerous beast, after all. While they filtered back to the entrance, Merion stood like a pillar in a stream, unmoving with crossed arms. He waited until the crowd had moved on before approaching the cage.
Rhin shimmered into view, perched on top of the cap. He was dressed in a dark green tunic, and his wings shone like clear crystal in the bright light, with their veins of purple and green. ‘A fine trophy,’ chuckled the faerie.
‘Quite a little act you have going here,’ Merion replied, his voice low.
Rhin raised an eyebrow. ‘Why do I have the distinct feeling something’s happened?’
Merion slammed the paper up against the bars. ‘Because it has, my friend.’
The faerie strode forward, even though his quick eyes devoured it easily. ‘By the bloody Roots,’ was all he said.
‘You’re damn right,’ Merion hissed. ‘Dizali’s gone too far—branding my father and I as traitors, Aunt Lilain too, no doubt. How dare he!’ Merion was turning a rare shade of purple. His fingers strangled the bars, his knuckles bleached. ‘I knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you, on the Tamarassie? They want my father’s estate—my estate—and they will do anything to get it.’
‘We’re going as fast as we can, Merion,’ Rhin offered, knowing it was a painfully weak consolation.
The boy just knocked his head against the bars and growled quietly.
Rhin tried to bypass the subject. ‘Have you shown this to your aunt yet?’ he asked.
Merion shook his head. ‘I can’t find her.’
‘What about Yara?’
‘I may be full of rage, Rhin, but I’m not full of stupidity. She can’t know of this. It would reveal who I am. I need to get home,’ Merion said, gruffly. He got to his feet and stuffed the newspaper inside his coat. ‘We need to find my aunt.’
‘I can’t …’ Rhin winced. ‘I have another hour.’
‘Ugh,’ huffed the boy, before walking away, ignoring the sigh he heard behind him.
Merion had a few good ideas about where his aunt would be. The first, naturally, was the Dolmers’ wagon. He set a course and walked as briskly as he could, heading for the darkened rear of the circus, where the wagons and tents had been pitched.
The Dolmers’ wagon looked dead and still, parked between two tall tents. Merion stepped up to it, craning to hear anything over the clatter of the circus. He thought he heard the scuff of a shoe, or a muffled word. His hand reached for the ties of the canvas but a rustle of grass and a muttered curse made him turn.
‘Hello?’ Merion asked of the shadows. A figure stumbled into view, coming towards him, arms outstretched.
‘Hello?’ cried a voice, a man’s voice. Merion made out a young face, early twenties perhaps, and a smart suit. ‘My apologies, young Sir, I’m lost. I need your help,’ he said in a desperate tone. Merion caught the man’s hands as they attempted to rest on his shoulders. He stepped back, wary.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘My daughter,’ the man said, clearly out of breath from fear and worry. ‘Sanja. She’s only ten. Blonde. Pigtails. Yellow dress with dots, white polka dots,’ he panted. ‘Have you seen her?’
Merion had not, and he regrettably said as much.
The man tugged at his hair with both hands. He made a strangled noise, and looked around at the shadows with wild hope in his eyes, as if he would suddenly realise she had been sitting there all along, and it had been some innocent game.
Merion winced at the man’s pain. Something about this sounded very familiar. ‘I could help you look,’ he offered. ‘I’m with the circus. I can speak to the master, Ms Mizar.’
The hopeful eyes turned on him. ‘Please. Yes!’
Merion half-heartedly fended off the man’s embrace. ‘Follow me,’ he replied. ‘Mr?’
‘Jarlbor. Hant Jarlbor. With a soft ‘J’,’ he said, trying to catch his breath. He followed Merion closely as the boy led them back through the circus, by way of Yara’s tent.
Merion decided to try and distract Jarlbor. ‘Tell me about yourself, Sir,’ he ventured, and listened politely as the man rambled on about his work in the airship yards, fixing the great lumbering sky-whales, as he called them. He spoke of his house, how his wife, who owned a string of ladies’ clothing stores in the area, was away on business. Fancy stuff for fancy ladies, or so Jarlbor told him. But then his talk turned inexorably back to his little girl Sanja. Again with a soft ‘J’. Merion listened to it all and nodded along, wincing as the man began to fret again, wringing his hands with worry.
‘It’s this way,’ Merion said, pointing to a small gap in the tents where they could slip back into the main area of the circus. Yara’s tent was to their left, glowing from the inside with candles. Merion saw no shadows, but he decided to look anyway.
‘Ms Mizar?’ he called, tapping on the canvas. There was no answer. Merion was just on the cusp of shrugging when he saw a figure standing between them and the circus. A sweating, bedraggled Yara the Lightning. Several knives were still tucked into the belt of her long green dress. Her dark red hair flowed in the riverside breeze.