by C F Welburn
“Did I miss something?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve spoken with an ashen. I forgot how single-minded they—we—could be.”
“I don’t follow.”
She set her mug down and fixed him with a level gaze.
“You’re going south. It amused me. It’s all anyone seems to care about.”
“You mean, you’re heading south too?”
“Why would I do that? Beer’s better here.”
“So, you mean to stay?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I know one thing. I’m in no rush.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to grow wary. You know, watching ashen come and go is like watching ships pull into port and then leave to be claimed by a storm.”
“None return?”
“None that I’ve met. All running south, chasing…” She let the thought hang and looked up from her mug with a smile.
Balagir bought reflection with a sip. She was right, of course. Everyone he had met had been heading south, lured by the promise of smoke. All save Kolak, who warned him he was wasting his time. Was that the way of it? That they were all being helplessly drawn as sticks in a river rush towards the fall?
“Kiela,” she said, holding out her mug.
“Balagir,” he responded, clinking in gesture. “You sound sceptical.”
She rolled her eyes. “When the evidence is irrefutable, it’s hard not to be.”
“So what, you don’t crave smoke anymore?”
She shrugged. “Craving and seeking are not one and the same. Once I realised the futility, I just paused. I blame Bohal for waylaying me so long. Takes too good care of his patrons.”
“There are worse places, to be sure.”
“I wake at night in a sweat, of course. I wander over to the hub some days just to hear the tune. But drink is a painless substitute. Less likely to end in death, and the more ashen I see ‘passing through,’ the less inclined I am to follow.”
“So that’s it? You’ll just settle?”
“Ha. Kirfory treats me well, but we all must answer eventually.”
“The piper?”
She snorted in the way of an answer, drained her mug, and signalled for another.
“I can’t stay here forever. I’ve lost count of the ashen I’ve seen pass through. Not a one have I seen again. Even those that promised they would return.” He noted a tinge of bitterness in her voice. “I figured last year I’d see one more fair out.”
“Well, drink your fill, you’ll not get better than this.”
“Don’t I know it.”
He hesitated, then gambled. “Look, we’re heading south in a couple of days, if you’d care to join us?”
She looked surprised. “Us? Risky business travelling with others, don’t you think?”
Balagir cocked his head. “It has its ups and downs.” When she remained silent, he asked: “So there’s a hub nearby?”
“About a mile outside the east gate. You didn’t stop there?”
“No. Came in with a caravan. Got tickets actually, if you want to take in a show?”
She raised a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”
“That depends,” he said, suddenly pleased the comely Ginike had not tagged along.
“Well, what say we start with another drink?”
“Why not,” he said, slamming his mug down in a way that brought Bohal scampering.
There was a difficult choice to be made, but he settled for the Red Mist, as it reminded him of the fire. If this fabled warping truly worked, he may well sacrifice some smoke to pay the Harlequin another visit.
After the syrupy Diabel’s Dagger—whoever Diabel was—he complimented Bohal on his craft, dubbing him the Dunn of Brewers. Bohal was so flattered, the next was on the house.
Kiela and he talked for some time about paths trodden. It turned out that she too had spent time in Warinkel and Wormford, but had not heard of half of the islands he mentioned—a fact that he assured her was a blessing.
They were joined by other settlers Kiela seemed to know too well, and when Balagir saw that it was dark outside, he cleared his account.
“You coming?” he asked.
“I think I’ll stay,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen enough of those shows. But I’ll consider what you said.”
“Do,” he said, hiding his disappointment.
His stool was swiftly commandeered by a young settler overly familiar with the redheaded ashen, not masking his delight when Balagir departed. Indeed, present company seemed enamoured of her, a fact that their wives would surely be furious about. It turned out that a woman was still a woman, whether she were ashen or not, and these men vied embarrassingly to appease her every whim.
The afternoon had been well spent, and he stumbled out into the torch-lit square with a satisfying gait. Kiela had given him something to consider, and not just her flirtatious airs. She had raised something they had discussed on the ship. The question of going on. But what other choices were there? Settle? Turn back after all he had braved? Unthinkable. No, onwards was the only way. If not for answers, then for an end. If death awaited, well, the inevitable, rushed or otherwise, was still the inevitable. Might as well rip off the bandage as peel it back one scab at a time.
The street thrived in the waning light. Musicians, puppeteers, jugglers, sword swallowers, fire-eaters exhaling jets of flame into the dim sky—all contending for attention and coin.
Ginike was waiting, slightly worse for wear. Imram and Drak arrived shortly afterwards, the former excited and muttering, the latter bored and mumbling. It was clear from both of their expressions where they had spent the afternoon. Together they weaved through the tightening crowds, pushing and shoving when necessary.
Judging by the prime position of Pilga’s tent, it was clear he had more coin about him than he had pretended. It fronted the widest stretch of the street, and already a queue had formed. The plump proprietor himself stood at the door, welcoming the paying guests. He had changed from his road-stained cloak into a bright yellow waistcoat, so tight the brass buttons threatened to pop off and take a patron’s eye out. He beckoned them over with a flourish as dramatic as his hairpiece.
“Welcome, honoured guests. I feared you’d not come.”
“And miss this?” Ginike said with enough sarcasm to give Pilga pause.
“We are intrigued!” Imram offered quickly, inflating Pilga’s chest once more.
“And what a spectacle awaits! Later I’ll value your opinions. You ashen have seen many a strange thing I’m sure, but even here you will find something to impress. Garwright will show you to your seats.”
The hard-faced, curiously spectacled security grunted and led them through the flaps into the round blue-striped tent. The wooden seats formed a semicircle about a raised stage and were filling fast.
A sign above the curtain read: PILGA’S PECULIARITIES AND COMPENDIUM OF ABBERATIONS.
Imram looked curious, Drak stifled a yawn, Ginike looked constantly on the verge of making some demeaning comment, and Balagir wished he had stayed with Kiela at the Harlequin.
Then, when the tent was full and the torches around the stage were lit, a charged hush descended.
A drumroll saw Pilga strut out onto the platform, as pompous as a puffy-chested pigeon.
“Welcome, one and all,” he announced theatrically. “Each year I return, and each year I must top the last. I’ve travelled far since our last meeting, and I assure you that your admission will not be regretted.” A few people clapped; someone shouted that he get on with it. Frowning, he bowed aside, and Garwright and another equally intimidating man stepped up to the curtain. From the side, Pilga announced:
“To start proceedings, I present Hilga and Halga.” The curtain parted, and a solitary figure stepped forth. It was female and stood taller than even Garwright. When it turned into the light, its two heads were revealed. She staggered forward, but a manacle clanked taut. The crowd w
as silent, caught between amazement and revulsion. Even for the ashen, it was not a pleasant sight, and these were settlers softened by indulgence. Suddenly the two misshapen heads got into a dispute and began butting each other, until one hung bloodied and unconscious. The tension was broken, and the crowd was in an uproar of hilarity.
Hilga, or Halga, retreated, and the curtain closed to the sound of rapturous applause.
“Next up is the Famished Phantom,” Pilga declared grandiosely. A seemingly vacant cage was wheeled out, and the audience stared in mystified silence. Just as the first hecklers piped up, the opaque-spectacled Garwright produced a large cut of bloody meat and thrust it through the bars with a long skewer. To the spectators’ astonishment, the meat was snatched by some unseen entity and devoured noisily, the blood on the cage floor the only sign that the meat or the denizen existed.
“Do not fear,” Pilga consoled, “the locks are charmed. No spirit can break such a bind. See, not only does Pilga bring you marvels, but he also does the land a service by keeping such beings at bay.” The audience muttered their approval whilst eyeing anxiously the flimsy lock on the rickety cage. As if a ploy, the cage rattled violently, sending gasps around the tent. Pilga smiled, and the cage was wheeled back behind the curtain.
“Next, we have a ferocious beast no man has ever gotten close to without being in mortal danger, yet I assure you, you are all quite safe. I have the finest trainers who have tamed the untameable.”
The crowd were clearly unsettled by the hulking shape that shambled through the curtain. More than a few glanced uncertainly towards the exit, for the beast was sufficiently muscled to break a man like bread, its thin, shabby hair unable to hide the powerful knots and bunches.
“The lesser seen—or rather lesser seen and lived to be told about—kargore! What did I tell you about my trainers? Look how his tongue lolls out like a dog to his master.” His tongue did indeed hang out uselessly from the side, and its eyes were bloodshot and vacant. The creature was not tame, but drugged, and clearly struggling to come around. It glanced across the audience, emitting a low growl. Someone on the row behind the ashen whimpered.
“Now, Gorey, that’s enough of that,” Pilga reprimanded, giving a nod to Garwright, who appeared to pat the creature. But Garwright’s hand withdrew, revealing the glint of a needle. The beast’s head lolled once more, and a long string of saliva ran from its tongue. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse his manners,” Pilga said apologetically. “There’s only so much one can do with something so savage.” A few claps sounded as the creature was led away, but the overall feeling was one of relief.
Balagir looked sidelong at his companions, who looked less enthusiastic about their front row seats than they had when they had arrived.
“Now my next exhibit is something quite special, the like of which I’ve never possessed. All the way from the north, behold, the Translucent Man.”
A man of normal height staggered free from the curtain. His torso was bare and so pale his heart and bones could be seen, pumping and clicking. He moved haltingly towards the door, until a chain stopped him short. He tugged at it distractedly.
As Balagir looked upon the pitiful, transparent wretch, something stirred in his stomach. He had seen something like this before. Back in Mudfoot. This was no beast, but ashen. A breaker, trapped and restrained. He turned, and Imram’s slack jaw confirmed it. The rest of the crowd watched on in fascination as the man moved, his lungs working, his grey blood coursing, his eyes desperate to move forward towards his absolution; towards the piper’s judgement.
The audience were sickened and fixated in equal measure; the ashen could do little but shift uncomfortably in their seats.
The next two acts passed in a blur, as Balagir could not shake the image of the tormented breaker from his mind. He felt a pity he could not explain. A kinship to the ashen he had never known. For that’s what they were; not race, but kin; bound by circumstance and mystery. It could easily have been him in that cage, or Imram or Kolak whose oath long remained pending. He could not let this lie.
At the edge of his consciousness, the audience jeered at a winged vagre that flapped and howled but failed to take flight whilst chasing its tail, and a final freak of a man who cast no shadow and threw no reflection, whose words were instantly forgotten and whose face could not stay fixed in anyone’s mind, dismissed the instant he was acknowledged.
Later, as the audience filed out, no one would recall quite who the last act had been, only that they had witnessed something strange without being able to put their finger on it. But their reports would be intriguing enough for their acquaintances to purchase tickets.
On the surface, Pilga was a pompous showman; beneath lay a shrewd businessman, his real success residing in his manipulation of the crowd as much as in the oddities he presented.
Balagir hung back until the owner had finished bidding his guests a cheery farewell.
“Well?” he asked excitedly. “And you thought you’d seen it all. Let it never be said that old Pilga does not have a trick up his sleeve!”
“I would share your enthusiasm, Pilga, were it not for one of your exhibits.”
“Oh, and which might that be? Let me guess, the kargore! Nobody likes him. Poor Gorey. Perhaps he brings you unpleasant memories?”
“No, it wasn’t the kargore.”
“Hm. Then which? The Famished—”
“It was the Translucent Man.”
“Him?” Pilga said, frowning. “Why, he’s quite harmless—”
“I beseech you to release him.”
“Release him? Why would I do something like that?”
“Because I’ve come to you candidly, trusting your honour.”
“Honour? Pah! You saw the audience! Imagine the crowds I will draw in Ozgar and Eskareth!”
“But he’s not what you think. He’s condemned. One of our own. A breaker.”
Pilga’s brows beetled incredulously. “That’s no ashen, I assure you. You could ask him, save that he cannot utter a syllable.”
“You’re mistaken. I’ve encountered his sort before. Likely you are the cause of his condition, for he has been unable to complete—”
“Ludicrous! I, honourable Pilga, the cause?” Several of his more substantial stage hands bristled up, including Garwright, who stopped shovelling a pile of kargore dung to lean threateningly on the haft. “He was the same when I found him. I’ve even wasted rations trying to feed him, but the ingrate simply stares at them as if I’d handed him a plate of twigs and dried leaves. Now, I’ll hear no more of this nonsense. You’ve tested my patience, ashen, and after I so cordially invited you along. Pester me more and I’ll see you escorted from the premises.” Garwright straightened, needing only an excuse to work those hammer fists. His eyes may have been hidden, but his clenched jaw said enough. Balagir let his hand drop to his belt, but Imram’s fell on his shoulder.
“Forgive us, Master Pilga. It’s been a long day. I’m sure my companion here will see things differently in the morning. Isn’t that right, Balagir?”
Balagir frowned.
“I suppose so.”
“Hm. So be it. You’d not be the first to be overcome by emotion after one of my shows. We will speak no more of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have things to take care of.” The plump yellow-coated man strutted off like a haughty canary as the ashen followed the last of the stragglers out into the square.
“We must act tonight,” Balagir said, once they were alone. Imram nodded soberly.
“After Silione, I can only aid you as far as it will not jeopardise my plans for the library. Being banished from another city is something I cannot allow to happen.”
“I understand.”
“I can create a distraction, but that’s it.”
“Drak? Ginike? We must do this.”
Drak nodded. “If it were me in there, I trust you’d do the same.”
“Must is a rigid word,” Ginike said, scratching his ear and a
voiding eye contact. When he glanced at his two frowning companions, he let out a weighty sigh. “But I suppose it would only be right.”
The trailers were parked behind the large tent: those that contained the cages and those that contained the sleeping owner and employees. All except Garwright of course, who stood by as dutifully as an imposing statue.
Balagir and Ginike hung in the shadows, awaiting Imram’s distraction, which came in the form of the huge tent beginning to sag as the guy ropes were cut. Once Garwright had grunted and stalked off to investigate, Balagir unlatched the cage-wagon and stepped inside.
The grasping hands of Hilga and Halga caught at his cloak, but he shrugged them off, to one’s disappointment and the other’s displeasure. Next stood the empty cage that quivered with anticipation for its next feed. Then there was the kargore, whose heavy-lidded eye followed them languorously. Then they stood before the translucent man, who regarded them with as much interest as a dog might a book.
“We’re getting you out,” Balagir hissed, to minimum reaction. Using the point of his dagger, he forced the lock. The translucent wanderer emerged with less emotion on his face than a fish, and stumbled his way along the row of cages.
Ginike stood uncomfortably at his side, eager to be away, whilst Drak hung at the door, keeping a lookout. Garwright was still investigating the tent, but an unforeseen consequence of having drawn him away was the needle he had taken with him; for in its cage, disturbed by the light and the breaker’s shuffling feet, the kargore began to stir.
The transparent ashen, despite being tenacious in his progress, was anything but steady on his shambling feet. The kargore’s eye flicked open and watched the shape with interest. Slowly it rose and began pushing against its door. It was upon seeing Balagir, however, that it fully awoke and began to exert greater force, making the bars creak alarmingly. They hurried, but Balagir was barely past when the lock gave with an ominous crack. Ginike, for all his womanising and professed manliness, let out a high-pitched squeal, making the monster reel and turn upon him. He backed away, up the trailer with no escape, suddenly the sole focus in the kargore’s long-desired freedom.