The Boundless (15 page)

Mr. Dorian takes a drink of his coffee. “I can already tell that you, Mr. Everett, have many talents. What do you say? I think it's the safest way to get you up to the passenger cars.”

“And you'll both be going?” Will wants to make sure.

“Absolutely. It will be the three of us.”

He likes the idea, as much as it makes him nervous. Mr. Dorian seems to have more faith in his abilities than he does. He hopes he doesn't disappoint him—or Maren.

“Yes,” he says. “I'll do it.”

“Excellent. Maren, why don't you take Will to the rehearsal hall and see what grabs his fancy. Take care crossing between cars. Make sure there're no brakemen lurking about. I'll go find Madame Lamoine and let her know what we have in mind.”

“I never thought I'd run away to the circus,” Will says.

“Isn't it every boy's dream?” Maren asks.

Mr. Dorian gets up to leave, and then as an afterthought leans closer to Will. “I'd not tell anyone about the key you carry. For your own safety, you understand.”

*   *   *

“This ain't the way it was supposed to go,” Mackie says nervously.

“No point whining about it,” Brogan snaps, and takes a snort of whiskey. He's battered his share of men, but this is the first he's killed, and he wants to burn away the memory of the guard's face. “Damn fool got all high and mighty. Started hollering.” He shakes his head bitterly. “Could've had a share.”

The brakeman's cabin shudders over a rough patch of track. There isn't much by way of suspension. Spaced every forty freight cars, they are tiny shacks on wheels, meant to sleep two men. The place smells like creosote, food that was best eaten a week ago, and man stink. A couple of hammocks crisscross the room. There's a small stove, a table, a hole in the planks for doing your business, and so many pegs and hooks jutting from the walls that it's a danger to lean anywhere. It makes the caboose look like first class.

Right now Brogan's cabin is crammed with the eight other brakemen he chose for his job. At some time or another he's worked with all of them. He might not exactly trust them, but he's got dirt on each and every one—and that wins a man's loyalty. Anyway, he's relying on their greed to keep them in line. And on this job there's a lot to be greedy about.

“What do we do now?” Chisholm asks. He's got buggy eyes that make Brogan think of boiled eggs.

Brogan looks around at the weathered faces of his other men—Peck, Richter, Strachan, Delaware, Talbot, Welch—and knows they're all tense and waiting for him to lead.

“Nothing happens without that key,” he says, laying it out. “The boy has the key, and the boy's in those circus cars. That half-breed ringmaster's hiding him. We get the key, we're back in business.”

“You sure he didn't just fall off?” Mackie asks. “Hard to believe a kid could make it across all those cars at night.”

“His father was a brakeman,” Brogan says, “and a damn fine one. I saw that boy up in the mountains. Survived an avalanche. He's got grit. If the kid fell, it was into the elephant cage.”

“If he's alive, he's blabbed by now,” says Welch.

“Don't matter if he has,” says Brogan. “Who's he gonna tell? You think anyone's gonna take the word of some circus freak? Anyway, if he's in those cars, he ain't leaving them alive.”

There is a brief, heavy silence.

“You sure you want to be killing the son of the general manager?” Chisholm asks, looking around at the other men anxiously.

“Can you think of a better way to keep someone quiet?” Brogan demands fiercely. “You boys can step off at any time. When the stakes are this high, you're gonna have to dirty your hands some. This job is once in a lifetime—and you'll have more money than you can spend during it. Or would you all rather keep working the rails? Peck, you lose any more fingers, you're no good for even the mail car. And, Richter, remember what happened to your buddy McGovern? Who's gonna take care of
your
family if your legs gets sliced off during a flying switch? No one'll sell us insurance, boys. We got nothing. We're slaves. This is our chance to bust free.”

He watches his men and knows he has them.

“We're going back to the circus, all of us this time,” he says. “And we're going to take that boy.”

JOINING THE CIRCUS

Zirkus Dante's practice room is a long, narrow gymnasium, filling an entire double-decker train carriage. Light pours in from the windows and skylights, all of which have been covered with rice paper to keep spectators from gawking inside when the train is at rest. Colorful handbills plaster the walls, advertising wild animals, death-defying feats, and miraculous marvels.

Two stilt walkers waltz across the room—and Will realizes they're the Siamese twins he saw earlier in the dining car. Both men are perched atop three stilts and work together so seamlessly that Will can only stare in wonder.

“Those are the Zhang brothers,” Maren tells him. “They're one of our most popular acts.”

“They're incredible!”

“It's too bad they don't get along better.”

“No?”

“They hate each other. Well, who wouldn't, being attached to someone their whole life. Li actually tried to stab Meng once. Luckily, his sight's terrible. He needs Meng to see.”

Farther down the room an acrobat flings himself from his trapeze, tumbles through the air, and lands on a seesaw that launches a second acrobat up to a high set of rings. Both men are lean and muscular. Their heads are bald except for a tuft of long hair at the back, which is gathered into three braids.

“Are they—” Will begins.

“Mohawks, yes,” says Maren. “The best acrobats I've ever seen. Heights mean nothing to them. They're fearless.”

Across the carriage, against a mirrored stretch of wall, a trio of leggy milk-haired ballerinas is limbering up.

“Mr. Dorian thinks ballet lends the circus an air of distinction,” Maren says, catching Will looking at the dancers. “Don't fall in love with them. They're not quite as angelic as they look.”

“Really?” Will asks, intrigued.

“You should hear them cuss.”

Elsewhere a few performers are practicing a complicated three-way juggling routine. Will feels like he's part of something rare and exciting, but all the activity in the room is a bit overwhelming, and he can't imagine what he might be able to do.

“Look,” Maren says, “don't worry. No one expects you to do anything like this. It would just be good if you had some little thing you could do during the show.”

“And if nothing works out, you can just saw me in half,” he says.

“Exactly. Maybe you can help me with my tightrope act.”

She leads him over to a long stretch of wire suspended a couple of feet off the floor. Even if he slips, he doesn't have far to fall.

Maren disappears behind a curtain and comes out in a leotard. She is very slim, but her legs look strong.

“Here,” she says, handing Will a small cloth sac. “There's some things in there I'll ask for later.”

After some stretches she takes up a long balancing pole and steps onto the wire. She walks across a few times effortlessly, then does a somersault. A small furrow appears in her forehead as she reclines on the wire. Her lips compress on one side and then the other. She lets go of the balancing pole and does a backward somersault. Then she lies flat again and uses her feet to push her headfirst along the narrow wire. Will can only marvel at her skill.

“All right,” she says, still balancing on her back. “Throw those four balls my way. Fast!”

Will takes them from the sac and fires them at her. One bounces off her knee; another sails beyond her reach.

“I meant throw them in the general direction of my hands,” she says, laughing.

He runs around, gathering up the balls and trying not to get crushed by the Zhang brothers on their stilts.

“Get out of our way, little bug!” Li shouts down at him.

When Will throws the balls a second time, Maren catches them all and instantly juggles them.

“That's amazing!” Will cries.

After another few seconds she tosses back the balls and says, “Now the padlock!”

He finds it in the bag and tosses the heavy piece of metal to her.

After catching it in one hand, she cajoles some tools from her sleeve, inserts them into the lock, and teases until it springs open.

“I can't believe it,” Will exclaims.

“It's still taking too long,” she says. “Again, please.”

They run through the padlock bit once more, and she's faster this time. Will chews his lip. “I don't feel like I'm doing very much.”

“It would be great if you could get up on the wire with me,” she says, hopping down to push a stepladder closer. “Take off your shoes and give it a try.”

He strips his feet bare and climbs the ladder.

“Step on with just one foot,” she instructs him. “Make sure the wire's centered—right between your big toe and second toe. . . . That's it! Now arms out! Looking dead ahead. Keep your balance!”

He loses his balance immediately and jumps clumsily to the floor.

“That's okay,” she says. “Everyone's like that at first. Again.”

He tries again, and again—and again. He feels like an idiot, windmilling his arms around, bucking back and forth.

“I don't think I have the knack,” he says.

She doesn't disagree with him. “Maybe I can help. Come back up.”

Once more he steps onto the wire, and this time she's right behind him. She puts her hands firmly on his waist. His breath catches, and for a second all he thinks about is the pressure of her fingers against him.

“You're doing it!” she says.

Immediately he's thinking about his balance again, and starts wavering. His arms tilt wildly, but Maren's hands nudge him from side to side, guiding him. He stays on the wire.

“I don't like your doing it for me,” he says.

“I'm just helping you.”

“Let me try it alone.”

She nudges him to one side. “You're not ready yet. Focus now!”

He tries to take a step away from her, and immediately topples off.

“Suit yourself,” she says, exasperated. “Go try something else if you want.”

She goes back to her practicing. He wonders if he's hurt her feelings. He didn't mean to be rude. He just felt ridiculous, flapping around like a baby bird. He doesn't want people doing things for him, especially not her.

He looks around the gymnasium. What
can
he do? He sees a short pair of practice stilts leaning against the wall. Even though they put him only inches off the floor, it takes him a long time just to stand upright for two seconds. He takes one step and then topples onto the sawdust floor. He picks himself up and tries again, and this time manages three careening steps before sprawling flat again. It's easier than tightrope walking, but just.

Across the rehearsal car a clown is watching him. White face, huge painted mouth, eyeliner, a curly wig, a red ball for a nose. He's just standing there dejectedly, arms hanging long by his sides. Then, as if every bone has suddenly dissolved, he collapses onto the floor and is nothing but a large puddle of puffy clothing. When he springs back up, fully formed again, Will smiles.

The clown crooks a finger at him. Will puts down the stilts and walks over. The clown's mouth widens in silent glee. They regard each other. The clown pats Will's cheeks gently with both hands. Will chuckles a little awkwardly. The clown pulls a pickle out of Will's ear, then puts both hands on his hips and tilts his head back in silent, raucous laughter.

“It's not that funny,” Will says.

The clown stops and assumes such a tragic expression that Will can't help but laugh.

“All right. You're funny!”

Eyes wide, his grin wider, the clown takes Will by the shoulders and guides him back against a wall. He pats Will's head and motions for him to stay put.

“Okay,” Will says.

The clown walks away, stopping every few steps to look back over his shoulder and make sure Will's still there. Will has to laugh. When he's a good twenty paces away, the clown stops, turns, and gives a big smile. Then he pats his hands in the air.

“You want me to stay here?” Will asks.

The clown clenches his fists and makes his body rigid.

“You want me to stay
very
still.”

The clown gives a hop of joy.

“Okay,” says Will.

The clown turns his back on him. In one swift movement he ties a scarf over his eyes. He bends down and opens a slim case. He draws out three knives. He hurls one back over his shoulder. Before Will can say a word, a knife impales itself in the wood next to his neck.

Will dares not swallow; he dares not even blink. The clown proceeds to hurl another knife backward at Will. The blade streaks toward him and thunks into the wood over his head. Before he can breathe, a third knife buries its tip on the other side of his neck, so close, he can feel the cold steel.