The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m sorry. What else do you want from me?’ he asked again.

  ‘And I’ve told you, I’m not sure yet,’ she replied, in that somewhat clipped accent of hers, that infernal smirk refusing to leave her face.

  Merion sighed and watched her circle him, trying to stare some reasonableness into her. She was an odd sort, that much was true. The woman was tall and willowy, much like his aunt, in possession of a body that spoke of a life spent on the road. She moved like a sapling in a breeze, swaying this way and that, never staying in once place for long. Red was the colour of her hair, halfway between red wine and red gold, with the texture of both. It curled and cascaded down her shoulders, chest, and back, and shimmered proudly in the candlelight. Her chin was as sharp as the dagger she toyed with, and her nose was thin and arched. Faint lines gathered around her mouth and between her narrow eyebrows, whether a sign of a lifetime of smiles, or a lifetime of stern frowns, Merion could not yet tell. The eyes that constantly watched him, crawling over the inches and details of his body, were deep green like the leather of the desktop in his father’s old study. She had changed clothes since her performance in the big tent, opting for something black and blue, with fewer skirts and frills.

  The dagger spun again, twirling before she caught it by the blade. Merion could see the silvery scars even in the dim candlelight—the scars of practice, scars of mistakes, winding this way and that over her hands and fingers, as if she had been attacked by snails at some stage in the night.

  Merion was tired. The woman had left him to stew for a few hours, and he had slept fitfully with his head on his chest. Now that she was back, his neck ached and his wrists were chafed. He wanted out.

  ‘Please can you let me go? I promise I won’t come back.’

  The woman came to stand in front of him. She crossed her arms, the dagger still shining in her grip, and tongued her teeth. She seemed to have a habit of doing that. She said nothing, simply gazed calmly down at him.

  Merion blew out an exasperated breath. ‘Please!’ he asked, hating how much like a child he sounded.

  There was a cough from outside the tent-flap and the woman turned away, her spinning skirts almost slapping him in the face. ‘What is it?’ she whispered through the fabric. A muscled arm poked through, brandishing a folded scrap of paper, and the woman snatched it away.

  ‘There are some people out here too, looking for him,’ said a low voice. Merion could barely make out the words. ‘A woman and a man.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Aunt. And a friend.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘What shall I say?’

  The woman paused to read the paper. One of her eyebrows climbed her forehead as her emerald eyes flicked over the words.

  ‘Bring them in,’ she told him.

  ‘Aye.’ Merion heard footsteps receding.

  ‘Can I go now?’ he asked, struggling some more. The woman held up her dagger and he swallowed as she moved behind him. He half-expected to feel the cold steel against his throat, but instead there was a schnick of metal on rope, and he felt his bonds fall away.

  ‘Finally!’ Merion exclaimed, moving to stand up. A firm hand on his shoulder held him down.

  Before he could protest any more, the tent-flap flew back and blinding daylight poured in. Merion winced and covered his eyes.

  ‘What’s goin’ on here?’ demanded a familiar voice. ‘We’ve been looking for you all night!’

  The woman strode forwards to greet Lilain, arms held open. The dagger had somehow been ferreted away in her skirts. Merion scowled as he rubbed his wrists. He blinked at the silhouettes of Lurker and Lilain standing in the entrance.

  The woman shook both of their hands warmly. ‘A simple misunderstanding Ma’am. I caught this young man here trying to open one of Mr Neams’s cages.’

  Merion was not about to let his captor spin a yarn for his aunt. He stood up and marched forward. ‘She’s keeping a Shohari prisoner,’ he muttered.

  Lurker was not impressed. Merion could see it in the downward curve of his lips. ‘What?’ he rumbled.

  The woman turned to him and sighed. ‘I know. It is not right. This little escapade has shown me that now’

  ‘What?’ Merion echoed the prospector. ‘All night I’ve b—’

  But his aunt cut him off. ‘Merion, hear the woman out.’

  The woman nodded her thanks. ‘Call me Yara, please. Yara Mizar, or Yara the Lightning, if you prefer my stage name. I am the master of this circus, and ever since this war broke out, business has been tough. I thought a Shohari would bring in some more customers, but I know now it is wrong. Immoral.’

  Merion stood with his hands on his hips, hearing the words he had spent most of the night spitting out now falling from Yara’s mouth.

  ‘That it is,’ Lurker muttered. ‘They ain’t no beasts.’

  Yara held up her hands, and Lurker pondered her scars. ‘I know, you are right. And in fact, I am going to make amends right now, if it pleases you.’

  ‘I think it would.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Merion muttered. Lilain flashed her nephew a look, but quickly spotted the rope-marks on his hands and wrists. Her expression was stuck somewhere between embarrassment, concern, and confusion. At least now she could stop worrying. Her own hands looked raw from wringing.

  ‘Come, please follow me,’ Yara said, pointing them out into the light of day. ‘Let us put this straight. Merion, is it?’

  ‘Merion Harlequin,’ replied Merion, biting off the end of her question. He ignored the glance from his aunt; he did not want to drag his father’s name into this.

  ‘Then come, come. Follow me.’

  The Harks had always been a family for first impressions. Pictures were painted very swiftly in their minds, vivid in colour. Opinions formed as fast as bullets fly from guns. This was also why they were a family famed for grudges. Merion was already nurturing his own as he followed Yara out of the tent and into the warmth of the morning. He set a scowl on his face and thrust his hands into his pockets. His aunt and Lurker followed close behind, trading looks. Rhin was still under his hat, no doubt.

  The circus was almost as alive during the day as it had been in the dark. In the sunlight, however, there were no customers or patrons, just the circus-folk going to and fro, preparing to pack up and move on. As they meandered through the tents and wagons, Merion gazed about. Some of the magic had been lost in the light, but there was still plenty to be seen. The strongmen still tested themselves, only now they carted boxes and poles around, yanking mighty tent-spikes from the ground as if they were simply pulling needles from a cushion. The acrobats were also hard at work, swinging to and fro, coiling up the bunting and collecting the lanterns. It was quite surreal to see their skills put to work instead of entertainment.

  Mixed looks followed them as they walked, lingering a little too long for Merion’s liking. Perhaps the rest of the circus had already heard of his attempt to free the Shohari. He had a hard time deciphering the glances. He could not tell whether they were simply curious, or disapproving.

  Merion felt a weight on his chest. He had pinned the heavy bulk of his hopes on this circus, and now those hopes had been dashed to matchwood against the rocks of reality. He felt let down.

  Had he ruined their chances by trying to help the Shohari? No, he told himself stubbornly. It was their fault for keeping a Shohari cooped up in the first place. Still, despite this woman’s twisting words, she was making an effort to correct her mistake. Maybe there was a small fragment of hope to be found amongst the wreckage after all. He scratched his nose as they approached the cages, his tired head swirling.

  Most of the animals were sound asleep, snoozing through the morning heat. A few of the big cats still prowled in circles, and snarled as they passed. Lilain’s eyes were wide, taking in all the different stripes and spots and scales and wishing she could bleed every one of them. It was a strange lust, given the beauty of some of the an
imals, but a bloodletter can be forgiven for it, for the magick they weave.

  ‘Here we are,’ Yara announced, reaching the end of the spiral of cages. Just as before, the Shohari sat on a stool with his head in his hands. Merion could already hear Lurker growling in his throat. They must have missed this particular attraction last night.

  Hearing the voices and footsteps, the Shohari looked up, and instantly bared his teeth at the woman standing by his cage door. He ignored the rest of them, even the young boy who had tried to set him free.

  Merion had not noticed how thin he was in the dark. Now, in the light of day, he could see how the lithe muscle had sagged, and how the bones in his long limbs protruded a little more than they should have.

  The Shohari hissed and shuffled to the back of the cage as Yara produced a key from somewhere in the folds of her skirts. She jiggled the lock, and there was a click as it sprang open. The Shohari now wore a confused, if not slightly fearful, look. Lurker stepped forwards with a gloved hand held high.

  ‘Jah’na. Au me’te ansara,’ he said softly.

  Yara looked impressed. ‘You speak Shohari,’ she said, clapping a few spare fingers against an open palm. ‘How did you come to learn it?’

  ‘I’ve come across my fair share of them,’ Lurker muttered in reply.

  The Shohari took a few tentative steps forwards and the others backed away. Yara opened the cage door wide and pointed towards the open desert. ‘You’re free,’ she said.

  Lurker translated. ‘O’sh alba teh.’

  ‘Nobody will hurt you.’

  ‘Neh na teh.’

  ‘You’re free to go wherever you please.’

  ‘Beh s’oh teh.’

  ‘Teh?’ whispered the Shohari, his voice hoarse.

  ‘Teh, mal roh,’ Lurker urged him.

  It seemed the Shohari needed no further encouragement. He sprang from the cage and ran as fast as his unused legs could carry him, breaking free of the draped cloth and sprinting towards the west.

  ‘There,’ Yara said, looking between the three of them. ‘I hope that clears it all up. You were right, Merion.’

  Of all the phrases Merion liked to hear, that one held a special place in his heart. ‘Well,’ he began. ‘I should hope so.’ He felt his aunt’s elbow nudge him. ‘And I’m sorry,’ he added, a phrase he did not care as much for. ‘For any inconvenience.’

  Yara’s face broke into a wide smile, and she nodded. ‘No trouble. I shall have to find something new to bring the customers in.’

  ‘Well,’ Merion said, clutching for something to say. ‘I suppose that’s that then.’

  ‘We’d best be on our way,’ Lurker said. He was busy watching the Shohari disappear into the desert, the warrior quickly becoming a black fleck on the yellow sand. Whatever magic the circus had held for him had been soured. Like Merion, he stood awkward and unsure.

  ‘Won’t you stay for breakfast?’ Yara offered.

  The body is a strange beast, so loyal and yet so capable of the easiest of betrayals: the trembling hand; the twitching eye; or, in Merion’s case, the rumbling stomach. The boy rolled his eyes as Yara smiled even wider. Her teeth were strangely white.

  ‘It sounds as though somebody is in agreement,’ she said, before striding out into the daylight, her skirts twirling, beckoning them to follow.

  Merion looked at Lurker and Lilain, who both shrugged nonchalantly. Merion scowled at them as they began to walk. ‘You’re the one who wanted to travel with a circus, Nephew,’ Lilain reminded him.

  ‘Yes, but this circus? After that? And that woman is a strange one.’

  ‘We’ve all got a streak of strange in us, Merion, especially out here. Seems to me that we could be in good company for once.’

  Lilain looked around at the circus folk weaving between the tents and wagons. Merion had to agree with her. A bloodletting undertaker, a gold-sniffing prospector, and a bloodrushing orphan with a murderous faerie for a sidekick—what a strange group they made!

  ‘I suppose breakfast wouldn’t hurt,’ he relented. ‘But if it gets too strange, then we leave, do we all agree?’

  ‘I agree,’ Lurker replied. ‘Let’s see where this goes.’

  And so it was decided. The three of them followed silently in Yara’s wake as she led them a merry path back towards the main tent.

  Tables and benches had been stacked in rows on the sand and were filled with folk. There must have been two score of people there, and as they entered, the busy conversations dropped to curious whispers, before shuffling off their mortal coils altogether. Merion was already beginning to regret his decision when Yara strode forward, hands held up high.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ she announced. ‘We have visitors.’

  Merion felt a little heat rising in his cheeks. Lurker was already trying to shuffle backwards. Yara turned and bade them come forward. ‘Welcome them as our own,’ she said.

  An awkward smile spread across Merion’s lips. Manners, manners, manners, he told himself over and over. The crowd nodded and murmured a greeting before going back to its bowls and chatter. Yara led them to a few spare seats and then went to fetch them some food. Whatever it was, it smelled tantalisingly good. Merion’s stomach rumbled all the more. He patted it under the table, ordering it to be quiet.

  At the other end of their table sat a man and a woman. The man had a long mop of dark hair on his head, and a face that was slowly being swallowed by a beard and a pair of tangled eyebrows. He was brawny, and the arms poking out from his shirt were a dark nut-brown and covered in thick black hair. A pair of thin spectacles balanced on his nose.

  Merion nodded to him, and then went to do the same to the woman. Somehow his gesture got stuck halfway, frozen in shock. The woman’s face and arms were also swamped with dark hair, and her beard—Merion had to look twice—yes, her beard could have vied with the man’s for bragging rights. The young Hark’s eyes were unable to tear themselves away. Twice that morning he had been betrayed by his body.

  The man began to chuckle, and the woman winked knowingly. ‘Never had breakfast with a bearded lady, it seems?’ he asked conversationally. His accent was thick and garbled, Prussian perhaps.

  ‘Er …’ Merion stammered. Bearded ladies were not your usual sight in London’s upper echelons. He wondered what his old etiquette tutors would have made of this occasion.

  ‘It’s alright, young man,’ the woman told him. ‘Stare all you like. Want to pull it, see if it’s real?’ She smiled and twirled some of the thick black hair of her chin around her finger.

  Merion did. Merion really did, but something inside him told that would have been severely impolite. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and extended a hand instead. ‘It looks real enough,’ he said. ‘Merion Harlequin.’

  Both the woman and man shook it, and Merion smiled as he tried to ignore the very odd feeling of hairy palms gracing his.

  ‘Sheen and Shan Dolmer. Brother and sister. Not husband and wife,’ said the man, Sheen.

  ‘That would be a little too strange,’ Shan tittered. Merion smiled politely. Yes, because that would be the step too far, he said to himself.

  ‘Lilain Rennevie.’

  ‘Lurker,’ came the other introductions. Lurker stared straight down at the worn table-top, picking his grubby nails, while Lilain looked on as if the woman’s bushy beard were invisible.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sheen said. ‘Will you be staying with us long?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Merion shook his head. ‘We’re just here for breakfast. At Yara’s request.’

  The Dolmers swapped glances, as if the boy had just accidentally told a joke.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Sheen twirled his spoon like a conductor warming up. ‘We came just for breakfast three years ago now. Haven’t left since,’ he said, with a smile.

  Merion looked confused. ‘Are you not allowed?’

  Shan tittered again. ‘Oh, no. We can leave whenever we want. What my brother is saying is that
once you’ve tasted what we do here, you won’t want to.’

  Merion flicked a glance at his aunt. She seemed to be making a habit of shrugging this morning. That was usually Merion’s answer.

  ‘Speaking of tasting, what is for breakfast?’ she asked, craning to peer into Shan’s and Sheen’s bowls.

  It was at that moment that Yara returned, cradling three steaming bowls in her arms. ‘Beans, with bacon too,’ she announced. ‘I hope you like that?’

  Lurker grabbed his bowl so quickly he almost spilt it. If there was one thing in this world the prospector truly loved, it was a bowl of beans. And it had been far too long since he’d had some.

  *

  Merion’s head was so full of names and titles he was beginning to get a headache.

  ‘Meet Jackabo Boston, our resident fire-eater and more.’

  ‘This is Hoarse Hannifer, who’ll tell you your greatest fears before you even knew them.’

  ‘Itch Magrey, whose skin can tolerate more punishment than you can imagine.’

  ‘This is Cabele the Cat, acrobat and rope-walker.’

  ‘Nelle Neams, tamer of all sorts and our beast-keeper.’

  ‘Spetzig, a fellow from the old country, our clown, who can juggle anything you put in front of him.’

  ‘Mr Jacque, Francian and gentleman pickpocket.’

  ‘Kasfel, queen of the clowns and yet she never smiles.’

  ‘And Devan Ford, our best strongman—don’t want to challenge him to an arm-wrestle any time soon!’

  ‘Follust, a man of the Empire like you, who never forgets a thing.’

  ‘This is Rahan, from deepest darkest Indus, who can speak to cats big and small.’

  ‘Hashna, his young assistant.’

  ‘Miss Mien of Cathay, who has bones of jelly, it seems.’

  ‘Big Jud Jepson, who is the big man of the circus, the most obese fellow this side of the Red Palace.’

  ‘And I believe you already know the Dolmers?’

  And my, were they a strange bunch. They were friendly of course, and interested in the newcomers, but odd to the core. The sort of odd that a life in a circus calls to. The sort of odd that lingers just beneath the surface, flinching from the daylight. The sort of odd that only comes out at night, when the lanterns are fierce and the crowds are roaring.