Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles (20 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The following hours passed too swiftly as I was put through various tests of ability. This was done before circus veterans—one man and a woman who seemed to operate in tandem. They both wore their hair long, straight and brown, but differences in shade and shape of mouth and nose led me to believe them acting siblings and not truly blooded.

I did not recognize them, but then, I had never attended the rings in which they excelled.

I wondered if it would ordinarily have been Hawke doing the testing. He had always struck me as a man who preferred to control all aspects of his domain.

To my relief, they did not request anything overtly complicated. I displayed various tricks; the walkover, the back bend, the cartwheel, making of myself a ring that could roll about, folding into a trunk without too much effort, and a decent balance upon the rope they strung for practice not far off the ground. I climbed another, hand over hand, and winced when the scar upon my forearm pulled, but I seemed to impress them enough—for a sold bit of flesh, anyhow.

Concentrating on these maneuvers took a great deal of effort. A wobble might be forgiven, a tumble might be welcomed—I wanted neither, for each might suggest I was nothing more than a sacrifice.

The ache of my body varied, from fear that cramped inside my belly to the pleasant and much more familiar burn of muscles stretched to the maximum. I concentrated on the latter, and focused fully on ensuring each maneuver was done smoothly, deliberately. Without panic or a haste that might be deemed unpleasant to watch.

Along with my testing, there were others who practiced in the hours before the circus would open. All were unfamiliar to me, and I felt it a surreal sensation. I was so accustomed to knowing the faces in the Menagerie that it did not occur to me that there was an entire roster I’d never bothered to learn.

The physical exertions kept my body and mind occupied, and when it came time for the knife-throwing display, I was nearly calm. Nearly. A tremor upon my third blade’s throw cost my target, and the glance my evaluators exchanged put another knot in my belly.

Whatever it was that look meant, it did not lose me the role.

“Good,” said the woman, “you’ll do.”

“Maybe you’ll last longer than the others,” muttered the man. She elbowed him, forcing a cough and a rueful rub at his chest. “Well, it’s true.”

“Just focus on each night,” she told me, ignoring him. She pointed down a far hall, where a corridor led into the unknown. The sound of flesh hitting padded mats, of the twang of rope and grunts of effort filled the air.

All too familiar, even as it seemed to me to be wholly alien. I clung to my wrists, conscious of the tremors I fought to hide.

“Turn left at the far end,” the older woman said. “You’ll find a room second to the right. You’re sharing with Drusilla and Penelope, and if Georgie’s in there again, give him a bolloxing and send him right out.”

I tilted my head. “Georgie?”

“Penelope’s boy,” the man offered, and rubbed a hand over his own hair. A shade darker than hers, and without hint of curl. “Thinks himself smitten.”

“You’ve got less than an hour. The girls’ll show you what to wear,” the woman cut in again, all stern business.

I hesitated. “Excuse me—”

“Lord have it, what?” she snapped.

The man behind her set to the task of fetching the knives I’d flung—the one I’d sent astray seemed the hardest to pluck.

At least I’d missed what would have been the target’s head.

I gathered my coat in my hands, wringing it without realizing I did so. “Do you know what it is I’ll be doing?”

“Nothing that requires practice with a team,” she replied bluntly. “You’ll be fresh meat for all them eyes, you will, but you’re a dab hand with the knife.”

“Thank God,” added the man behind her, but in a manner that said I wasn’t meant to hear.

I frowned. “Is that a compliment?”

“Depends on who’s askin’,” she replied, and shooed me along. “Go on. There’s a lashing if you’re late.”

I wondered at the freedom they allowed me as I made my way down the designated hall. More, I wondered at the likelihood of a rear exit. I could make my escape now, find Hawke and free him from this hell before anyone would be the wiser.

Then call in Ishmael and his Bakers once and for all.

A war.

I could not help the anxiety such a thing created in me. I trusted in Ishmael’s abilities, understood that his Bakers were rugged men not afraid of a rumble, but the Veil and its people were no easy prey.

If I saved Hawke, could I really tilt the odds in the Bakers’ favor?

I hoped so.

This awful fear bubbling in my belly would not simmer for long. I could feel it in my knees, in a subtle tremor struggling through my will. Outside the Menagerie, I could plan as bold as any, but now that I had made it this far, the reality was much heavier than I expected.

Anger was not as sustainable as the passive chill of fear.

Thoughts of easy escape were dashed when I turned the corner to find a guard lounging against the wall. He was sturdy stock, soft where a trusting sort might think him slow, but I recognized the type. Bullish and thick, he’d be a hard hand and a ready fist.

He watched me pass with glittering eyes all but buried beneath a thick patch of unified eyebrow. I had no choice but to halt at the second door at the right and let myself inside.

There were, as expected, two girls within. They looked up from the mirror they shared, sized me up, and then exchanged a glance similar to the one I’d watched my evaluators divide.

“Get her loosened up,” said one, and the other, a pretty black-haired girl with enhanced bloom, left the vanity to rummage about. “Well, don’t just stand there, bossie, get in.”

I blinked. I’d come ready with a false name, but “bossie” struck me as overly humorous. “My name is—”

“It don’t matter,” cut in the black-haired girl, returning with a flagon of something I could not see the color of. She shook it gently. “Have some of this before we set in.”

I took it by rote when she shoved it at me, and as I removed the cork, a familiar fragrance filled my nose. A little bit acrid, a little bit sharp. Cinnamon, too, unless I missed my guess.

Laudanum
.

Everything inside me tightened. The ache in my throat turned to a dryness as brittle as bone and gritty as dust, and I swallowed with great effort. All that I was cried out for a sip—a mere drop of the stuff, what harm could come from it?

Just a bit. And then perhaps more for later.

Who would have thought that the hardest battle I’d wage would come not from the circus tent I was meant for but the manner in which I would be prepared?

My hand shook as I replaced the stopper. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, look at her,” snorted the girl whose lips were painted with bloody red. She had hair the color of henna applied to a natural blonde—vivid red with a hint of orange where it had taken too deeply. Her eyes skated over me, nose wrinkling. “Fussy darkie, ain’t you?”

“Drusilla,” chastened the one I assumed was Penelope. She turned kind eyes on me. “Drink up, love. You’ll be thankful for it when the show starts.”

That was enough to turn all of my innards into waxy dread. My senses strained for the want of it, but I shook my head even as I drew the flagon closer. “No, I really... It’s...” I wanted it. A
sip
. Just a bit, just to take the edge off. Surely Ashmore would understand.

Surely nobody would blame me.

To fight one’s fears, a bit of help was often necessary.

A sharp knock behind me earned the attention of the girls who studied me with such curiosity, and the door opened without invite. The woman who’d watched me entered the small room, took a sharp glance about, and said, “Georgie in here?”

I managed to shake my head, earning a wince from Penelope. “He’s off working the stands,” she said, tucking aside her fall of curls.

“Good.” The woman thrust at me the brace of knives I’d been forced to use. “You don’t got your own, right?”

I shook my head again, a weak gesture. She barely noted it—or maybe it was that she didn’t choose to. “Get her ready,” she instructed the others.

She departed as she’d come, leaving me holding the flagon of laudanum in one hand and the bandoleer of balanced blades in the other. Eight. More than enough for a decent showing.

Drusilla bent closer to the mirror, adjusting the fall of her hair, and remarked, “Knife-thrower?”

“Seems to be,” I said.

Penelope reached out and took the flagon from my shaking hand. “None of this, then,” she said, still gentle for all it turned rueful. “Best to keep your aim sharp for the best result.”

“As if that’s what they want,” Drusilla snorted. The small compact filled with powder clattered to the vanity’s table, and the buxom woman leaned back to admire her figure draped in a high-necked silken robe. She was comely, I’d give her that. “They tell you what you’re doing?”

I shook my head.

Penelope vanished behind a folding screen, and a wash of blue spilled over it. It ran like water, fabric given a remarkable iridescence I’d never seen before. When an item that looked like seashells draped over it, I realized that I was sharing the room with a less-than-genuine mermaid.

“Probably for the best,” Drusilla said, and shed her own cover.

My eyes widened at the vast display of ink carved into her skin. From her clavicle all the way down, she was a walking masterpiece of art. Even her breasts had been etched, complete with a stunningly artistic sun rising over her bosom.

She ignored my blatant stare. “You’ll want something easy to move in, but showy enough to titillate the audience.” She hummed a thoughtful note. “Penelope, have you still got that coined number?”

“Sure,” she said, voice muffled as if caught beneath layers. “Let me finish and we’ll help you get ready, bossie.”

I desperately wanted to ask for that flagon back. I wanted to drink so much that I would fall over and sleep the rest of this away.

I wanted to forget everything that I had come here to do—and for that reason, I found a seat upon a small footstool and hugged my knees. I silently watched Penelope and Drusilla prepare for roles I had no recollection of seeing up close.

Drusilla was obviously a tattooed lady, one whose body had been turned into canvas of art for display. Among the whorls and leafy patterns covering her skin, I saw pictures of airships and blades and a wayward anchor with a name scrolled across it. I could not read it at this distance.

She dressed to reveal, in a black corset cinched so tight that her body seemed poised to topple from the waist. Bloomers in matching black silk edged with ivory lace revealed long legs left bare of all but continued ink.

She pinned her hair up in a chignon that no matron would call inappropriate—as long as it was paired with anything else but what she paired it with. A tattooed lady might earn a pretty penny in sideshows such as this, but she would never have for herself a proper life.

There was a certain freedom in that.

I clutched at my knees until my fingers turned sallow beneath the darkened stain. “Pardon me,” I said when the silence grew too much for me to handle. “What happened to your knife-thrower? Didn’t you have one?”

Drusilla spared for me a look reflected in the mirror. “He...” A pause.

“He tendered his resignation,” came Penelope’s voice from behind the screen. A clatter of beads followed.

“You mean he simply left?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Drusilla said, a note of wry cynicism to her tone. “You just do what’s asked of you, bossie, and you’ll be fine. Maybe you’ll last longer than most.”

The words, meant to reassure, drew a pit in my belly. I folded over my knees, burying my face in my arms. “Bloody hell,” I groaned.

“I told you she should have some of that laudanum,” Drusilla called to the other woman.

“And risk her losing her aim?” Penelope replied sharply. “Did you forget what the Veil has in store?”

“No.” Drusilla stood and began to rummage through various items strewn across the small room. “But maybe it’d be a blessing.”

“Drusilla!”

I raised my head in time to see the woman pull a bit of fabric from a pile. She shook it out, a merry jangling accompanying such rough handling, and it became a corset studded with Byzantine coins. “I’m sorry,” I said—a rasp, really. “What show? The Veil? What aren’t you telling me?”

“No time, bossie,” Drusilla said, and tossed the corset to me. “Get dressed. You’ll be doing your part soon enough.”

Bloody bells and damn, I knew it.

These girls knew more than they let on, but they weren’t sharing; and I lacked the will to bully it from them. It was all I could do to keep my insides from twisting up in a retching knot.

With every passing minute, it seemed as though I would have no choice but to enter the circus proper.

Certainly, I’d prepared for this. I’d counted on it, in an intellectual way. Yet as the time drew closer, I worried that my intellectual determination would fail beneath the hysteria bubbling up inside my chest.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to bury myself in a dark hole.

I wanted the damned laudanum and why shouldn’t I?

The obviousness of that answer did not need telling. I knew why.

I had to be stronger than this. Stronger than
it.

Sweat dampened my skin, creating an altogether different worry as I imagined the stain at my hair bleeding across my forehead. I dragged my sleeve across it carefully.

I shook so badly, it was a wonder I didn’t topple from my perch.

Penelope stepped from behind the screen. Her skin, ordinarily ruddy white, had gone gently blue with telltale shimmer. Gills patterned her throat where there had been none before.

Tricks of costuming, I knew. Like as not pinches of gum or dusted sap rolled until they could be molded into shape for the gills. I’d wager she could hold her breath for minutes at a time.

Smoke and mirrors. That’s what a circus show was all about.

I forced myself to swallow down my gorge. Something foul was afoot, something nobody wanted to talk about—but everybody knew. I’d find out soon enough.