‘Merion!’ Lilain hollered at him, and he shook himself out of his daydream.
‘I said don’t wander off,’ his aunt said once he had caught up.
‘Technically, you did the wandering,’ Rhin piped up.
‘You, Mr Fae, can pipe down,’ Lilain scolded him.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Rhin replied, in his best Lurker impression.
Lilain scowled. ‘What’s gotten in to you today?’
‘It’s his big debut tonight, Aunt Lilain,’ Merion answered, before the faerie could open his mouth. The boy leant a little closer to Lilain and put a hand over his mouth. ‘I found him trying on costumes earlier, up on the desk. I think he’s rather excited.’
‘I can hear you, you know. I’m a faerie. I have far better hearing than you two clodhoppers.’
‘Our utmost apologies, Sir,’ replied Lilain, accentuating the Empire in her accent. Merion snorted loudly. Sarcasm seemed to run in the family.
After an hour of thumbing tacks into walls and bothering store owners and officials, all that lay between them and the circus was a short distance of grass and shrub. The box dangled at Merion’s side, empty. The town had been accordingly littered as Yara had instructed. Merion felt the tiredness creeping in again, turning his legs to lead and his eyelids to stone. Rhin did not help. He was surprisingly dense for his size, not to mention his armour.
Heavy beast
, Merion inwardly groaned.
The circus finally greeted them with its huge banner, spread between two huge poles. Beneath it, several booths had been knocked together with spare wood and a few nails. Each had a window, and two were already filled with two older girls Merion had not yet met. He smiled at them sheepishly.
Yara swept up to them, her green dress flowing around her like water. ‘Ah, there you are, Master Harlequin. We have been looking for you!’ she announced.
‘We’ve been putting up posters.’ Merion was eager to show he was helping.
Yara just nodded. ‘We need another body to man the last booth,’ she explained. ‘I thought you might be the best person for the job.’
Merion looked back at the empty booth. It was not exactly the most glamorous of positions. He had envisaged himself backstage, helping Devan or Jud with their act, or perhaps even onstage, if he was needed. Not in a booth. He fought back a yawn as he replied. ‘Whatever you need,’ he said quietly.
‘Good,’ Yara said, beaming. Her quick emerald eyes roved over him. ‘And where is your small friend?’
‘In here,’ said the satchel.
Yara bent down and leant close. ‘Mr Neams needs you in your cage, before our guests start to arrive.’
Rhin bounded out of his hiding place and threw her a rough salute. ‘Right you are.’
Yara clasped Lilain and Merion’s hands tightly. ‘I must say it is a pleasure to have you with us,’ she said, her voice dropping low and serious. ‘You have been a great help.’
‘Well, it’s a pleasure being here,’ Lilain replied, before making her excuses and heading back to the tent. ‘Stay out of trouble, Nephew,’ she called to him over her shoulder.
Merion rolled his eyes.
How much trouble could he get into stuck in a booth?
Yara ruffled his hair, a habit she had stolen from his aunt. Merion still did not much like it. ‘I shall have some food brought for you. Now remember, it’s a copper dime for the children, three for the adults, and a sil’erbit for a whole family of four or five. Everybody gets a ticket.’
Merion nodded. ‘Got it.’
Yara went on. ‘No drunkards, no whores. I will not have any soliciting in my circus. We are the only ones going to be making coin here tonight. Understood? There will be a couple of strong brothers standing by the entrance, if you need help. They have seen the bad and the worse, so fear not.’
‘Crystal clear, Ms Mizar.’
Once again, the ruffling of hair. ‘And above all, Master Harlequin. Have fun. It is a circus, after all.’ And with that, she floated away, skirts waving, off to see to something else.
Merion put his box by the door of the booth and sat on the stool inside. He looked around at the small shed-like affair. He had two lanterns for company, a huge barrel of tickets, and a small bucket full of spare coins. He stared out of his window at the sparkling town, bathed in the last rays of the day. It was dark in the valley now that the sun had dropped below the ridge. He watched how the mirrored gaslights of the airship tower bathed its floating, droning guests in pale yellow light. Columns of steam still arose from the port and the railroad station.
Almost half an hour passed before the first shadow slipped from the town. In the glow of the circus, Merion could see the figure striding across the grass towards the booths. A man in his late forties. He tipped his hat at one of the girls and bought his ticket from her instead. It was not long before the next shadow came walking out. Then another, and another. They still went to the girls.
Merion wondered if he had something on his face. Or whether his tired, bored expression was scaring them off. He sighed and rested an elbow on the desk. He propped his head up and stared up at the airships.
‘Merion!’
The boy jumped as a familiar face popped into his window. He almost fell off of his stool.
Shan pulled a guilty face. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Merion had regained his balance. He let his heart calm down for a moment before telling her it was fine. ‘Do you need help with something?’ he asked, hopeful.
‘No,’ Shan replied, dousing his optimism. ‘I thought you might like to put a little red in your belly, while you work,’ she said, holding up a slender vial and shaking it back and forth.
‘While I’m here?’ Merion asked, face scrunched up in doubt. ‘What is it?’
‘Ox. I had some left over.’
‘Never tried that shade.’
‘It works the same as mule, or Bison,’ she elaborated.
‘Now mule I have tried.’
‘So that’s a yes?’
Merion smiled and stuck out a hand. He could have fallen asleep right there and then. He knocked the vial back in one gulp. He winced at the taste of the blood as it flowed down his throat. It was quite warm, something he did not savour.
‘That should keep you going for a few hours,’ she said, leaving him to it.
Merion clasped his hands and squeezed them between his knees as the magick unfurled. It always hit him harder when he was hungry or tired. Merion tensed as it flowed up his chest and neck, and into his skull where it pulsated. He let it dribble down, bit by bit, into his tired muscles and aching joints. The blood felt hot, and strangely soothing. Merion’s eyelids lifted. He even sat a little straighter. He let out a big sigh as he felt the tiredness lift from his bones. Not the boredom, however. That staunchly remained.
Face by face, the crowds began to grow. Merion got a trickle, whereas the girls got a steady stream. It was only when he decided to paste a smile onto his face, rather than a bored frown, that a queue began to form at his booth. Merion soon had his hands full with tickets and coins, juggling both between the barrel and the bucket. They chattered excitedly as they stood at his window: men, women, boys, girls, the old and the young. Cirque Kadabra summoned them all. The questions came like rubble in a landslide as the queue sidled past his window.
‘What’s the best show?’
‘Are there any tigers?’
‘Elephants?’
‘Do you have acrobats?’
‘Strong men?’
Merion rattled off the answers, watching the grins grow and the children jump higher the closer they got to the entrance. He felt that strange pride blossoming again. He was part of their anticipation, a guardian of the gates, behind which fantastic things stood. With every passing patron his smile stretched a little wider.
The first hour passed like lightning. The second flew past. By the third, Merion was starting to flag once more. The queues had now died away and the circus was full to bursting. Now came the latecomers and the begrudgingly curious, the drunkards and the wanderers, the ejected and the demanding.
There seemed to be a scuffle going on at one of the other booths. Merion watched on, his elbows on the desk once again and his chin firmly affixed to his palms. There was garbled shouting, and he saw a portly, vomit-decorated man being dragged bodily from the circus and thrown into a scrubby bush. He lay there, defeated and too drunk to care. A few minutes passed, and Merion could have sworn he heard snoring. Had he company, he would have placed a bet on whether the man would still be there by sunrise.
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!