Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  The beast-keeper smirked. ‘You’ve got some use in you yet. The tired old dog’s got one more job to do,’ he chuckled. ‘We need you just in case that boy don’t play along nicely.’

  Lurker grabbed the bars, snarling. ‘You touch him and I’ll end you! That goes for the others, too.’

  Neams laughed at that. ‘You don’t scare me. You’re just one of my animals now. Enjoy your stay.’ And with that, he shrugged back the curtain and left Lurker to pace, like an animal indeed.

  *

  ‘And how is our guest?’ Yara muttered, as Neams poked his head out of the warehouse.

  ‘Promising death for us all.’

  ‘As to be expected. But you’re used to wild animals. Treat him as one.’

  ‘That I will, Yara,’ Neams said, nodding, his pigeon-chest swelling with pride. ‘What about the boy?’

  Yara watched the passing carriages, taking a moment to listen to the clatter of the city. ‘If he suspects, he will not do anything about it. He is too preoccupied with his moment in the spotlight. And if he does, well.’ Yara shrugged. ‘We have his friend. And friends are terrible things to have in situations such as these.’

  Neams sniggered. ‘That they are, Yara. That they are.’

  Yara pushed herself from the wall and ran a finger through her hair, which was in a tangled state. ‘I have another guest arriving who I must see to,’ she said, before wandering into the street and leaving Neams to see to his other animals.

  Yara took her time strolling through the bustling streets of Washingtown, Lincoln’s capital. Cirque Kadabra had visited most of the cities in the known world, but never this one. Yara wanted to get the measure of it, like she did everywhere they set up camp: the mood, the sway of the town, the weight of the coin purses. Any good performer knows her audience before they arrive, and Yara Mizar went about it like a hunter stalking prey.

  Washingtown was a low and sprawling city. Drenched in greenery and cut through the middle by the Potomac River, the capital of the Endless Land was an exercise in marble and grandness. It was more akin to the ancient cities of Europe than to its neighbours along the coast, with its streets curving and criss-crossing like complicated capillaries. Majestic, pillared buildings stood on every corner, their white steps sloping casually upwards out of the wide streets. Signs proclaimed each of them as the House of This or the House of That. Great doors sat behind their pillars, and officious looking men and women scurried in and out of them, clearly busy with the running of a country. If the Endless Land was a vast tree, reaching far and wide with its branches, then Washingtown was the taproot.

  Yara’s wandering took her north, away from the river bank and past the vast gardens that sat at Washingtown’s heart—a green belt of grass and water that played host to the city’s monuments. The Ivory House, Lincoln’s marble palace, sat in the distance ahead of her. Before it, the half-finished Spike sitting alone on a slight rise, was clad in scaffolding. The faint chip and bang of hammers on stone could be heard over the city noise and droning of the airships above. To her right was the tallest building of them all: Capitol House, the domed seat of Lincoln’s government. It shone in the summer sun, dominating the green fields and ponds laid out so neatly in front of it.

  The circus master nodded and smiled to passersby, rich folk strolling up and down the fringes of the greenery. She walked in a curving arc north and west, to where an elliptical circle of stone and statues lay in the Ivory House’s shadow, and within that circle—she smiled as she saw it—her own grand structure, the main tent.

  Cirque Kadabra had been allowed to pitch right in the heart of the city. If Yara had learned one thing about these rich folk, it is that they do not like to walk far for their entertainment. The circus had found its place between the towering trees and black iron statues, like a maggot curled at the core of an apple.

  The circus was almost ready to receive its prestigious audience. They had arrived barely a few hours before, and had been given a stiff welcome by Lincoln’s guards. King Lincoln was a very popular individual, and yet popularity always comes with a shadow, one of greed and spite. Lincoln’s victories had made him enemies, and the guards were taking their jobs very seriously indeed. And rightly so.

  A circus in the Ivory House grounds was a security nightmare. The guards’ displeasure might as well have been written on a sign and waved in Yara’s face, it had been so obvious. Every crate had to be checked. Every box rooted through. Every trunk inspected. They had been thorough to the point of madness. Yara allowed herself a smile as she walked. And yet not thorough enough. Fools. It happened every time, and she had been at this game many a long year.

  Before she entered the bustling circus, trapped in the tumult of preparation, Yara paused for a moment to stare at the Ivory House standing barely half a mile away. In all her years, she had never performed for an audience like the one that sat behind those windows. She was honoured, in truth, though not just because of Lincoln, but for the part she was playing. And come death or worse, she would be remembered for it, and that is what every performer wants when the final curtain falls.

  ‘Yara!’ came a shout. Devan Ford, striding across the sunburnt grass towards her. ‘He’s here,’ he mumbled, when he was closer. They walked into the circus side by side.

  ‘In my tent?’

  ‘As you asked. He has a friend too. I’ll let him explain.’

  ‘Thank you, Devan. What of Master Harlequin?’

  The strongman snorted. ‘Distracted for the moment. Working with Big Jud on his act. Big fellow is spinning him some yarn about stage craft.’

  ‘Good. We can’t afford any trouble. Not now.’

  ‘We’ve worked too hard.’

  ‘That we have, Devan. That we have. Keep an eye on him. I shall see to him after.’

  Devan nodded and peeled away, heading towards the big tent, where the main stage for the evening was being hammered into place.

  Yara found her tent guarded by Itch Magrey. He did not look too happy.

  ‘What’s this? More guests?’

  Yara fixed him with a stern look. ‘I do not have the time or the patience for this, Itch. I told you we were expecting a visit from our employer’s man. He is here to help.’

  ‘We don’t need it.’

  Yara grabbed him by the buttons of his shirt and drew him close, her voice a snake’s hiss. ‘What do I say about taking chances?’

  Itch looked anywhere but her. ‘They’re for fools to take, not us,’ he grunted.

  ‘Do you realise how important this is? For us? For our friend across the ocean? This is the most important job we have ever taken, Itch. And have I ever failed us?’

  ‘No,’ came the mumbled reply.

  ‘Well then, why are you asking questions?’ Yara pushed him away from her and went inside her tent.

  A smartly-dressed man in a long coat and a bowler hat welcomed her with a wide smile. He had made himself quite at home, lounging in one of her chairs with his feet up on a trunk. There was a young girl, possibly fourteen or fifteen, standing beside him, with her arms crossed and a pout firmly affixed to her face. Half of her scalp and face were covered with burns. Yara tried not to stare too long.

  The man hopped to his feet and extended a hand. Yara shook it warmly, feeling the familiar tap of his finger on her palm. She looked into his eyes, one blue, one green.

  ‘It is not every day that one of the Brothers pays us a visit. Yara Mizar.’

  ‘Extraordinary times, and all that,’ the man replied. ‘Arrid Gavisham, at your service, Milady.’

  ‘Mr Gavisham, it looks as though the wild west has taken its toll,’ she said, noting the dust on his coat hem, and the scuffing of his boots. There was the faintest hint of a darker shade under his eyes.

  ‘I’ve seen worse places,’ he winked. He gestured to the girl. ‘This is Asha, a survivor of the unfortunate incident with Lord Serped. I’m sure you heard.’

  ‘I have indeed.’ Yara moved forwards to greet the gir
l, curtsying with her skirts held wide. ‘Asha, welcome to Cirque Kadabra.’

  Asha just nodded, eyeing her up and down. Obviously not a talker.

  ‘We crossed paths in Kenaday. I’m returning her to London.’

  ‘An Empire girl. We seem to attract the type at the moment.’

  Asha threw her a curious look, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘We have a lot to discuss,’ Gavisham said, flicking his eyes to the girl. Yara got his meaning and waved a hand towards the tent-flap.

  ‘Let’s walk and talk,’ she said. ‘Asha, make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘And don’t go wandering off. Not until I’ve spoken to Ms Mizar here.’

  ‘Fine,’ the girl mumbled, settling down in the chair and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  They wandered back out into the sunshine and strode a short distance away where they could talk, their words muffled by the bustle around them.

  ‘Ms Yara Mizar, the Lightning, finest assassin this side of the Red Palace, or so I’m told. A real pleasure. Dizali has told me all about you. All’s in hand?’ Gavisham muttered, tossing a nod to the Ivory House.

  ‘To the very last detail, Mr Gavisham. It is promising to be quite a show,’ Yara informed him. She laid it all out for him. By the end, the man just nodded and hummed to himself.

  ‘Can’t see no problem with it except one. Can we trust the boy?’

  ‘He’s just a distraction. And in the confusion, I shall see the job done,’ Yara said, producing a knife out of thin air.

  ‘Quite the trick. I can see why they call you the Lightning.’

  Yara smiled as she twirled the blade. ‘Guns have never held any allure for me. There is no show in waving a gun around and blowing things to pieces.’

  Gavisham nodded. ‘Preaching to the converted, Ms Mizar. Where is the boy, anyway?’ he asked, a hint of grit in his tone. So this is personal, as well as professional, then.

  ‘Currently distracted in the main tent, as he will be until tomorrow night. Though there has been a complication.’

  ‘I’m not too fond of those.’

  ‘One of his friends, from Fell Falls. He grew too curious and found our supplies. He is currently missing. The boy has spent the last day shouting about it, but we managed to calm him down for now. And his aunt too. We have distracted her with our letter, Sheen. He can be quite the charmer.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  Yara shook her head. ‘Put him in a cage, at the docks. Leverage is always useful.’

  Gavisham shrugged.

  Yara looked back towards the tent. ‘And what of the girl?’

  ‘Lord Dizali wants her. She’s Calidae Serped. Thinks I don’t know. Another orphan and heir to a fortune. She’ll be taken back with me.’

  ‘Did Merion do that to her?’

  ‘Not directly. But he started the fire.’

  ‘Does she know he is here? I know very well how much you Empire-born like your grudges.’

  Gavisham winced. ‘She might. Don’t suppose you have another cage around?’

  Yara smirked. ‘We just may.’

  The man looked up at the blue, cloudless sky and the buildings that poked up towards it. He took a breath and smiled. ‘A beautiful city. Almost seems a shame to tarnish it with a war.’

  ‘Almost,’ Yara replied.

  *

  Calidae Serped had never liked being told to sit and stay. That was for dogs, and she was not a dog. Hence she found herself slipping out from under the tent fabric and striding purposefully across the grass. To where, she was not sure, but she had a good idea it involved the main tent.

  The circus was a bedraggled affair. It smelled of sweat and paint, and that was not a particularly pleasant combination. She watched the dusty, unwashed bodies rushing about carrying things, hitting things, washing things, tying things together. It looked as though they were preparing for the show of their lifetimes. Calidae was not sure why, but it set a cold feeling of unease in her stomach. Something was rotten at the core of this circus. She did not need Gavisham and the flame-haired woman to tell her that.

  Calidae looked at the grand Ivory House. She had seen it before, on their way to Kaspar. She had even stood on its steps, waiting for her father to finish untangling himself from discussions of railroads and contracts. Part of her wanted to break out and make a dash for those very same steps, to shout for help and see this Almighty-forsaken country put behind her, in the roiling wake of a ship. She looked west and saw the masts of ships poking above the tall roofs of the city. Perhaps she could just skip straight to the point, she wondered, and sneak aboard a ship. But a Serped is never one for unfinished business. Her father’s words echoed in her mind.

  Calidae made it to the big tent and traced its edges, looking for an entrance. Between two folds of canvas, she found a small opening and wiggled through, careful not to catch her head or face on the fabric. She was still sore. She wondered if she would ever not be. She snarled to herself quietly.

  The smell of sawdust and baking canvas assaulted her nose. She crouched behind a crate and watched the bustle inside the tent. A huge stage was being nailed together in the centre. Men and women crawled over it like ants, wielding hammers, nails pinched between their lips. A few more circled them, pointing here and there and shouting directions over the banging. Others were seeing to benches, smoothing them down and picking out splinters.

  A small group sat apart from the stage: a woman holding a heavy bag, a huge man, practically spherical, who lounged on a borrowed bench and waved his hands about. Beside him, there was another woman, familiar somehow, tall and willowy with blonde hair scraped back in a tail, and a boy, thirteen at the most, who was pacing a groove into the earth.

  Calidae’s heart began to pound. There he was, bold and bright as daylight, a stone’s throw away from her. Calidae began to shake. Her fingernails, bitten short, dug scratches in the wood of the crate. There he was.

  It took her everything she had not to spring forwards and run at him, to sink her teeth into him and pummel him to a pulp. The boy had taken everything from her, and she ached to claim it back with his blood. But she had promised herself, laid out her plans and sworn to keep to them, and so she held back, resentfully. She bared her teeth and ducked out of the tent.

  No sooner had she done so than a heavy hand grabbed her by the shoulder, making her gasp in pain and surprise. Gavisham looked down at her, shaking his head and tutting. ‘I told you to stay put,’ he sighed.

  Calidae scowled. ‘I’m not a dog. You can’t tell me what to do.’

  Gavisham just gripped her harder, pushing her away from the tent and aiming her towards the city. ‘That’s exactly where you’re wrong, my dear Asha.’

  Gavisham did not stop at Yara Mizar’s tent. He kept walking, marching her further and further away from the circus. Whenever she struggled, he gripped harder.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, but Gavisham stayed silent.

  Street after street came and went, and still the man did not let up. Calidae took to staying silent, busying herself with memorising their names, so she could find her way back. She could see the river now, and the ships. Now the game was up, she wondered whether Gavisham was steering her towards them. Close, but not quite.

  A warehouse stood in front of them. A low building made of brick and wooden slats. It sat, quiet and unassuming, at the end of a road full of other warehouses. Gavisham pushed her forward, through the door and into the cool inside. More crates sat in a circle. A circle of tall cages sat at the end, covered in blankets and curtains. Calidae heard the muffled growl of something big and furry and began to struggle anew.

  ‘Let go of me, I say!’

  To her surprise, Gavisham did exactly that, using the force of her thrashing to push her to the floor. Calidae struck her head on the floorboards as she fell, catching her scars. Tears forced themselves out of her eyes.

  ‘You know what my first clue was, Calidae?’ Gavisham said, standing wi
th his hands on his hips. ‘Your eyes. Servants learn to look down. You don’t. You stare people straight in the face. Only a high-born could be as arrogant.’

  Calidae hissed something dark and vicious. Gavisham just chuckled. ‘Then there’s your teeth, far too polished. The white marks on your fingers where you’ve worn rings. Your accent. Awful when you listen hard. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.’

  Getting to her feet with a wince, Calidae lifted her chin. ‘So what are you going to do with me? Feed me to some lion? A bear? Whatever else they’ve got stashed in those cages?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind. Ah, here’s the gentleman now.’ Gavisham nodded as a skinny man with slicked-back hair the colour of sun-bleached bone emerged from behind a crate. ‘I have another one for you. Yara sent me.’

  The man sniffed and nodded, pointing towards the cages. Calidae was pushed again, Gavisham close behind her.

  ‘That you, Neams, you runt?’ came a shout from behind one of the blankets. American, by his accent. ‘Decided to let me out yet?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the man named Neams growled. ‘This is you, little girl.’

  Calidae scowled darkly at the man as he whisked the curtain of another cage aside and unlocked the door. The smell of ammonia and bleach was overpowering. Calidae struggled again, but Gavisham had the consistency of steel. He was immovable, and kept shoving until she stood in the centre of the cage, a look of thunder on her face.

  ‘When I get out of here …’ she began, but Neams just slammed the bars shut. She was left in the darkness behind the curtain to fume.

  Their footsteps receded until they disappeared completely. The last sound Calidae heard was the jingling of keys in a lock and the slam of a door. She held her breath and listened to the sounds of animals snoring, things shifting against straw, and of leather creaking.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded.

  There was a pause. More creaking. Something thudded, like a boot against an iron bar. ‘Don’t know your voice, girl. Who are you?’ a gruff voice spoke out.