The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  The afternoon may have lagged, but Merion could chase the boredom away with blood. Time for him was like something he could bend and manhandle. Whenever he rushed, his concentration took over, and for him time slowed, like a private dance at one of those ribald clubs that his father had warned him about.

  Shan passed him vial after vial, nodding and nudging him here and there when it proved difficult. Merion must have tasted nearly a score of shades before he finally crumpled to a heap against a bench, sweaty and pale.

  Shan fetched him some water, more for his face than his throat. It wasn’t wise to mix so much water with so much blood, not for a while, or so Shan lectured. Merion doused himself, sighing as the heat was quenched. It was a hot day, and it would be a warm, starry night. Perfect for a little wrack and ruin.

  ‘Dear Almighty,’ Merion gasped.

  ‘He’s got more important things to do than bother himself with you,’ Shan muttered as she poured the water over his forehead.

  ‘Doesn’t the Almighty like rushers?’

  ‘Hasn’t Yara told you of Cain? Humans were not supposed to taste magick, just like we weren’t supposed to eat the apple in the Garden of Odin, but we did.’

  Merion frowned. ‘So we’re cursed?’

  ‘More like snubbed,’ Shan corrected him.

  ‘Snubbed I can handle.’

  Shan checked her pocket-watch. ‘Almost four-thirty. I suggest we call it a day.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Merion feigned disappointment before cracking into a smile.

  He stole a smile from Shan too, one of the few she had given him that afternoon. She still seemed bothered, or distracted. She packed up the empty vials and buckled her bag. ‘It’s a shame,’ she said, wistfully. ‘We will miss you when you’re gone.’

  Merion cocked his head to the side. ‘Gone?’

  Shan laughed, breaking the awkward pause so suddenly it almost made him jump. ‘When you have found your ship, of course.’

  Merion smiled politely, no more, no less. ‘Of course,’ he echoed, busying himself with tying his laces so Shan couldn’t see the flash of fire in his eyes. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he sighed.

  ‘But you won’t be,’ Shan grunted as she yanked the heavy bag from the bench. ‘Not when the Bloodmoon comes.’

  ‘Sunset?’

  She nodded. ‘Always just after. When the last rays of daylight have died. It likes to have the sky to itself.’

  ‘You say that as if it’s an actual being.’

  Shan looked out into the daylight, scrunching up her face. Merion could see it even through the thick, black hair. ‘There are some who believe the Bloodmoon is a deity. He, she, they haven’t decided. Not that it matters. But yes, they believe it.’

  Merion humphed. ‘I don’t know quite what to say.’

  ‘All you need to do is get some solid food in you, and have a rest for an hour. No more. Don’t want to miss anything now, do we?’

  The young Hark grinned. ‘Not for the world.’

  Shan left him be, clinking and jangling as she vacated the marquee. Merion sat alone, sprawling, holding the water jug at arm’s length, simply breathing. It is in these moments that faeries delight to appear, when you’re deep in thought and lost to your surroundings.

  ‘Feel it yet?’ remarked Rhin, making Merion jump and spill the water over him. The faerie did not look the slightest bit amused, with his dripping arms outstretched and hair slicked across his forehead. His purple eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’

  ‘You should know better,’ Merion replied as he slumped against the bench once more. It wasn’t the most comfortable of spots, but the armadillo blood he had just rushed had left a leathery feel to his back, and so he did not mind. ‘Sneaking up on me like that.’

  Rhin tensed, pushing his fists into his stomach, and gradually wisps of steam began to waft from his shoulders. A few more moments, and he was close to being dry.

  Merion poured a trickle of water over his own head. Damn if it was not hot in the tent. Merion pondered moving, but did nothing about it. ‘That old trick. Haven’t seen that one in a while,’ he commented.

  Rhin shook himself off one final time. ‘Hadn’t needed to use it. Not in those blasted deserts anyway.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ mused Merion. ‘Almighty, we’ve come a long way. If this circus has done nothing else for us, it’s got us here, Rhin. We’re at the coast.’ The boy’s voice became an excited hiss, mindful of eager ears.

  ‘Almost,’ Rhin said, kicking the grass, noting how it was scorched black here and there, or bleached to white.

  Merion stared at him. ‘You should be happier about that.’

  ‘It’s hard to be. London is where Sift is. And with everything else …’ Rhin chewed on his words for a short time. ‘I don’t want to go back to the Coil,’ he muttered, in a hollower voice than Merion had ever heard. The boy frowned. The faerie had never liked to admit weakness, never mind fear. This was a tough moment for him, and Merion knew he could not spoil it.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ he replied, wishing he knew whether that was true or not. He couldn’t hide the wince.

  Rhin shook his head and held up his palm. The X was still black as night, though less raw than before. ‘It’s inevitable. The bean sidhe never miss a mark, haven’t in two thousand years.’

  ‘Then cheat them. Evade them. Do what the Fae do best. And in the meantime, you can help me fight off a circus of rushers and find Lurker and my aunt. Fancy that?’ Merion cracked a smile. ‘And besides, if it comes to it, then I’ll just have to rescue you from Sift, won’t I?’

  The faerie glowered at the floor, grabbing at something at his belt. ‘Got to do what needs to be done, haven’t you? No escaping that.’

  ‘You could have months yet, Rhin. What happened to you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Fate came along and delivered us another horde of liars and thieves, that’s what.’

  ‘We certainly seem to attract them.’

  ‘Reckon London is any different?’

  Merion eyed the water for a moment, watching it shiver. ‘No. But it will be, when I finish this.’

  ‘Dizali?’

  The young Hark nodded firmly. ‘He will get everything that’s coming to him. Namely me, and a fistful of magick.’

  ‘You sound like Lurker.’

  Merion shrugged and snorted. ‘Maybe that old bastard is rubbing off on me.’

  ‘Roots,’ Rhin cursed. ‘I don’t know if I can put up with two of you.’

  With a groan, Merion got to his feet and aimed himself in the direction of their tent. ‘Tough shit, as the good John Hobble would say. Come on, I need a nap.’

  *

  Yara was sharpening her knives. They spread out before her on the forest-green cloth like a steel fan. Some were thin and shard-like. Others were wide and full of grooves. Yet others were curved and glittering, and the rest were arrow-straight and honed on each side. Yara doted on them like a dozen little cutthroat children.

  Cabele was sitting nearby, reclining on an ocean-liner deckchair and staring at the fading blue sky with a foul look. She was clad in her usual flowing pantaloons and silk shirts—never one to show off her incredibly lithe form.

  Yara flicked a look at her. ‘It will come when it’s ready,’ she hissed, echoing the scraping of her whetstone as she slid it down the edge of the curved dagger in her palm.

  ‘Every year it’s the same. The days rush past all quick like, and then wham!’ The Cat clapped her hands together. ‘They all bunch up into a muddle and get stuck, and we got to wade through the waiting game.’

  ‘You should write poetry, Cabele. Have I ever told you that?’ Yara sighed.

  ‘Once or twice, though I don’t rightly remember,’ she replied, in her southern drawl.

  ‘What is the time?’

  Cabele flicked out an ivory pocket-watch. She had clearly been flirting with Mr Jacque again. He was always giving out trinkets to any woman who flashed him some puckered lips. Incorrigible, like all
Francians.

  ‘Six.’

  Yara rubbed her pointed chin. ‘We have half an hour. Is everything in order?’

  ‘As it always is, Ms Mizar,’ Cabele replied, saluting.

  ‘Do not mock me, girl. The shades?’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘The seating?’

  ‘Finished.’

  ‘The lights as I asked?’

  ‘Burning away.’

  ‘The costumes?’

  ‘Sewn up.’

  ‘The animals?’

  ‘Being fed as we speak.’

  ‘And the Hark boy?’

  ‘Currently slumbering in his tent, or so Devan tells me. He took a quick peek.’

  Yara counted off all the other tasks on her fingers, having overseen them earlier. ‘What of Lilain and Mr Hobble?’

  ‘Vanished. Sheen’s got a lump on his head like a melon.’

  The circus master shot her another look, darker this time. Cabele just held up her hands and went wide-eyed. ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’

  ‘See to it they do not meddle is what! That is clearly their plan, otherwise they would have come for the boy.’

  ‘Alright!’ Cabele got to her feet and wandered off, an extra sway in her step as she picked at her nails irritably.

  Yara was left alone with her knives, just the way she liked it. She tested each razor edge carefully, over and over, until she was happy. The stone here, a dab of oil there. Not too much. It plays havoc with the technique.

  One by one, she slid them into their respective sheaths, hidden high in the short sleeves of her flowing dress, in its folds, and under its laces, or close to her spine. Her hands began to rove across each one, slowly at first, growing faster as her fingers tapped each hilt, beating out a rhythm. She built it up, hands whirling from blade to blade. She started to pull them out. Pausing for a splinter of a second to slide the blade out, then in again. Faster still, she moved. She circled slowly, manoeuvring to find a target. Nearby stood a pole, high and proud, holding bunting and lanterns over the path. With a hiss of breath, Yara unleashed her blades, her nimble fingers plucking each one free. She sent them whirling through the air with nothing more than deft hiccup of the wrist before moving on to the next. Fourteen blades burst from her body in the space of a blink. Blurs of steel, chasing at each other’s heels. Fourteen sharp thuds rang out, arranged in a busy cluster at chest height on the pole.

  Yara did not smirk or nod to herself. One does not celebrate being able to do one’s job. Knives were her job. And the throats they slit.

  ‘Quite impressive,’ commented an Empire-tinged voice. Dizali’s man.

  The circus master flicked him a sour look. ‘It is not very often the public get to see the show before it opens,’ she said.

  Gavisham snorted at that. ‘Am I public now? And here’s me thinking I was one of you. We’re the same, after all,’ he smirked, stepping closer. ‘Nothing better than tools.’

  ‘That is why I strive to be the sharpest tool in the box,’ she smiled sardonically as she yanked the last blade free. She twirled it in a figure-of-eight, dangerously close to Gavisham’s nose, before burying it somewhere in her skirts.

  ‘I see why he hired you.’

  ‘Like many before him, he knew he would end up a happy customer,’ Yara narrowed her emerald eyes at him. ‘I never disappoint.’

  ‘Well, don’t start making a habit of it today, will you? I’m keen to see the back of this country.’

  ‘As are we all,’ Yara nodded, staring up at the Ivory House, perched barely half a mile away. ‘You need to vanish.’

  Gavisham crossed his arms. ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because,’ Yara explained, looking over the man’s shoulder. ‘Master Hark will be here any moment. I suggest if you want your moment of surprise, you make yourself scarce.’

  Gavisham had to agree with that. ‘In that case I shall see you at the finale,’ he said, already walking away.

  Yara nodded, and smiled politely. ‘As agreed.’

  It was perfect timing. As Gavisham disappeared around the corner of the big tent, Merion came trudging across the grass, a weary smiled pasted on his face.

  ‘Master Harlequin,’ Yara curtseyed as he came close.

  He bowed, as he always did, though today he was a little stiffer. Contempt or just plain old tiredness, it was difficult to tell, even for her. ‘Ms Mizar,’ he said. ‘Has there been any news of my aunt?’

  Yara tempered the curl of her lip, hiding it well. ‘Not a whisper, I am afraid, Merion. It seems she has got up and left, possibly in search of Lurker?’

  ‘Not without telling me,’ the boy retorted. He knew something was amiss, Yara could tell. He just lacked the fortitude to spit it out.

  ‘Perhaps she did not want to distract you, what with your big night ahead of you,’ Yara suggested, slipping out a knife from behind her back and making it spin around her fingers. A knife never fails to keep a mouth shut.

  ‘Hmm,’ Merion nodded slowly, eyeing the blade.

  The boy was already dressed up as Yara had ordered: in a smart suit with long tails, like that of a gentleman magician. It had been fashioned out of old blankets, pieced together by some of the seamstresses and, by the looks of it, it was incredibly itchy. Merion fought not to squirm and scratch as she led him around to the back of the big tent, where the stage had been erected. Backstage, as it were, was outside the tent, housed in a marquee and surrounded by crates and wagons for privacy.

  Merion looked this way and that, eyeing the winding rows of tables full of makeup and beakers of water. Yara had pulled out every stop, even drawing in a few of Cirque Kadabra’s workers to act as extras and prop-monkeys. Backstage was a hive of activity. The chatter was nearly deafening. Those who had not made the cut for the show were getting ready to man their stages and booths. Big Jud for instance, halfway through having his face powdered, would wow the crowds before they settled in for the main attraction. No wandering. Just a tour, neat and tidy. Like guiding a herd of rabbits into their nooses. Yara watched everything, making sure it flowed just the way she liked it. She was part foreman, part queen of her own little kingdom.

  ‘Where am I supposed to go?’ Merion piped up. Yara had almost forgotten he was there, wrapped up as she was in the bustle. Tonight might as well have been gold-plated for how precious it was to her. Their ticket home. A grin snuck onto her face.

  ‘See the girls, there. For your makeup.’

  ‘Makeup?’ Merion looked horrified.

  ‘Yes, Master Harlequin. Makeup. Everybody, even Itch and Devan, wears it. It stops your face shining in the stage lights. We would not want that now would we? Not for your big performance?’ Yara laid it on thick.

  Merion grumbled something to himself, but acquiesced. Yara watched him go, mentally checking the structure of her plot, testing the joints, making sure the boy could not break them. He was a risk, but one she could control. She’d managed riskier. That’s the awful blessing of children. They’re naive, she smirked to herself, and so easy to dupe.

  *

  ‘You don’t look too hot, Neams,’ Rhin commented, leaning against the cage door. Mr Neams was fiddling with a lock that had taken upon itself to come loose during the train journey.

  ‘Fell over, is all,’ Neams hissed, and cursed as his fingers slid off the latch again, banging painfully on the iron bars.

  ‘Don’t seem to be having a lot of luck either,’ added Rhin, taking a brief opportunity to smirk. He had no liking for this man, not since Merion had outed the lot of them. But he knew his role and he was going to stick to it. The smile faded in an instant as Neams turned to him.

  ‘Can you see to it? You got smaller hands than me.’

  ‘Understatement of the week goes to Mr Nelle Neams,’ muttered Rhin. Oh, how he could not help but poke at him. Neams was jittery after his incident, whatever had happened. The faerie harboured the strong suspicion that it had something to do with Lilain and Lurker. Harboured, and hoped.
/>
  Neams was doing everything except physically licking his wounds. He grumbled and he moped, winced and gasped every time he touched his throat or face, which was plenty. Who knew that the beast-keeper could be such a whining piglet of a man?

  Rhin eyed the lock, patting it with his hand. ‘Let’s see here.’

  ‘Whassat?’ Neams spoke up, pointing at the faerie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That black mark on your hand. That weren’t there before.’

  Rhin tutted. ‘I think you’ll find it was. Maybe you just didn’t notice. It’s a tattoo. A Fae mark.’

  ‘Looks more like a brand t’me.’

  The faerie shrugged disarmingly. ‘Same thing to us.’

  Neams grunted, apparently satisfied. Rhin went back to the lock. It was more for keeping the crowd out than for keeping him in. There was always some daredevil or town moron that could be trusted to try and get in the cages, to pat the lion maybe, ride the tortoise, or catch the faerie. Rhin snorted as he jiggled the lock mechanism with his iron-like fingers. Idiots. Just let them try.

  With a click and a twang, the slipped pin slotted back into place and Rhin dusted his hands. ‘All done.’

  ‘Right.’ Neams jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Be time for you to leave, time to get that costume on. Only got us half an hour before the crowds start to arrive. You ready for this?’

  ‘As ever,’ Rhin replied, pausing for the nearby caged eagle to finish screeching. ‘Can you feel it yet? The Bloodmoon?’

  Neams shook his head, wincing as his neck clicked. Whomever had taken a disliking to him, they’d done a thorough job. ‘She won’t rise till it’s all good and dark. Just you wait.’

  ‘Better get to it then. Half an hour it is.’

  ‘Less,’ Neams rasped. ‘Twenty minutes.’

  Rhin nodded, and stepped out of the circus enclosure into the dimming evening.

  Twenty minutes goes quickly when your eyes are full of wonder. It took Rhin a whole ten to reach the tent, he was so marvelled by the evening.

  Say one thing for the lying, cheating bastards of Cirque Kadabra, they knew how to put on a show. The circus was an inferno of colour and light, defeating even the bright glare of the sinking sun. A kaleidoscope of ribbons, pennants and bunting stuffed the spaces between the twinkling lanterns. Every colour that had a name, and even some without, shone brightly. Checkerboard and pinstripe tied it all together, miles of it wrapping around every corner the circus had to offer, hugging the glowing stages and booths of those who had not been picked for the main show. There were no hard feelings about it. They all knew their place.