The Palace of Laughter (20 page)

S
ilverpoint, pale-faced and long-feathered, stepped into the room in the early hours of the morning, his tall hat sweeping the faded stars. He closed the door softly behind him, took his hat off carefully and placed it behind the door. Little stared at the ground, as though she did not want to meet his eye again and see no sign of recognition. Miles looked at the hat in the corner, wondering if there might be food hidden inside it. Silverpoint walked across the room and stood in front of Little, his hands on his hips.

“And just where do you think you've been, little softwing?” he said sternly.

Little looked up at him, and her eyes widened. “Silverpoint?” she whispered. His cool face broke into a smile. Little jumped up onto the bench and threw her arms around him. Silverpoint squeezed Little tightly, and the lone bulb on the wall glowed brighter, as though extra power had surged through the crumbling wires.

He stepped back and held her face in his hands. “I am glad to see you,” he said. “How on earth did you get here?”

“Miles helped me. We came on a tiger. We slept up a tree. He stole the keys from under Cortado's nose. Are you all right? A crow told us the way. Didn't you recognize me? Why are you helping them?”

Silverpoint put his finger to his lips and glanced briefly at Miles. “I'm sorry, Little,” he said. “When you fell from the ceiling last night I had to pretend not to know you. If that sniveling clown had realized who you were he would have run straight to Cortado himself, and then we would really have had trouble. The Great Cortado has a redder soul than I first realized.”

Little laughed with delight and hugged him around the waist. Silverpoint looked at Miles over her blond head. His face was serious again, and his
dark eyes searched into Miles's face as before, but this time his gaze was more curious than unfriendly.

“I am in your debt,” he said. He looked at Miles a moment longer, then suddenly held out his hand, as though he had just remembered this was the right thing to do. Miles took his hand. Silverpoint's skin was cool and smooth, but there was a strange tingle in his touch, like the tingle you feel if you are foolish or bored enough to put your tongue on the terminals of a battery. Silverpoint squeezed his hand. Miles squeezed back. It felt like an odd thing to do, particularly with someone who felt like a distant cousin of the electric eel.

Miles took his hand back. Enough was enough. “Actually neither of us could have got here alone,” he said.

For a moment they stared at each other silently, then Miles cleared his throat. “I don't suppose you brought any food with you?” he asked hopefully.

“I'm sorry,” said Silverpoint. “You must be very hungry. Your breakfast is on its way, but I'm afraid the chefs are a little”—he searched for the right word—“disorganized,” he said finally. He disentangled himself gently from Little's arms. “How did you get into the Palace of Laughter without being seen?” he asked.

“We came in through the ear,” said Little. “It was Miles's idea. Then we crawled through tunnels for ages. We could hear people laughing, but we couldn't find the show until it was almost over, and we couldn't see properly even then.”

“Then you were very lucky. If you had seen the entire show you would have been lost for good. I have never seen anyone who can resist the power of Cortado's show.”

“But
you
can,” said Little.

“That's because I take the antidote. All of us who work here are given an antidote before every show. It makes you immune.”

“Immune from what?” asked Miles. “What exactly is the Great Cortado doing to all those people?”

“It's a sort of hypnosis,” said Silverpoint. “He sucks the laughter out of their souls. After the show they are given a small bottle of liquid and sent on their way….”

Miles felt for the empty bottle of Dr. Tau-Tau's Restorative Tonic and took it out of his pocket. “Like this one?” he said.

Silverpoint looked at him suspiciously. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

“I found it,” said Miles. “It was already empty.”

Silverpoint nodded. “The tonic brings people back to their normal selves after they've been ‘laughtered,' as Genghis calls it, but it only lasts a few hours and people soon develop a craving for more. Only the Palace of Laughter produces the tonic, and it has made the Great Cortado a very wealthy man. The more demand he creates for the tonic, the richer he gets.”

“But why are you going along with it?” asked Little.

“I had no choice until now, Little. After we were given that sleeping potion at the Circus Oscuro I woke up in the back of a van. I was tied with ropes, bumping about for a day and a night and into the following day. I had no idea where you were. When we got here they said that I would have to do what they told me, or you would be killed.”

“Couldn't you have tried to escape?” Little asked Silverpoint. He shook his head.

“I couldn't risk it. Genghis and Cortado go back and forth from here to the circus all the time. It's always on the move, and if I went missing from here they might have got to you before I could find it.”

“Did they tell you that I had escaped from the circus?”

“No, of course not,” said Silverpoint. “But I knew you were coming anyhow, and when that sandbag
got loose I was pretty sure it was your doing. That was a very dangerous thing to do. Cortado was spitting mad. Once the audience had been put back on the train, we were all sent to look for you. It's lucky I was there when you were caught, or you would have been brought straight to the Great Cortado tonight.”

“Actually it was me who released the sandbag,” said Miles. “I was sure it would hit him. But how did you know we were coming?”

“I knew as soon as I saw that little dancing bear.”

Miles almost dropped the bottle that he was turning over between his fingers. “You've
seen
Tangerine?” he said.

“If you mean the bear, of course I've seen him, and I knew at once he was Little's work.” He fixed Little with a hard stare, and she lowered her eyes to the floor. “Cortado put him into the act as soon as he set eyes on him,” said Silverpoint.

“Tangerine is in the show?” asked Miles in amazement. “I didn't see him. What does he do?”

“He can't be made to do anything, of course, because he's brainless. He just stumbles around and gets in the way. The other clowns fall over him. Why are you so interested in the bear?”

Miles felt slightly insulted on Tangerine's behalf, even though he knew the bear's head was stuffed
with sawdust. The idea of Tangerine stumbling around with hundreds of people laughing at him made Miles feel slightly sick. “Tangerine is mine,” he said. “I came here to get him back.”

Silverpoint turned his dark eyes on Miles, as though searching for something too faint for the human eye to see. “How long have you had him?”

“As long as I can remember,” said Miles.

“It will be difficult enough to find a way for the three of us to escape,” said Silverpoint after a pause. “We can't jeopardize our chances looking for a stuffed bear.”

“You can do what you like,” said Miles, “but I'm not leaving without Tangerine.”

Silverpoint shrugged. “That's up to you,” he said.

“What are they going to do with us?” asked Little. “That smelly clown said we'd be made to watch the show.”

Silverpoint nodded, and his face clouded. “It was the only way I could dissuade Cortado from wanting to deal with you right away. I persuaded him that when we found the culprit he should be locked up until the next show. Then he could be put in the front row, and we would have no trouble with him after that. You've seen what the show does to its audience, I think.”

“When is the next show?” asked Miles.

“Tonight. There are usually two or three in a row, then Cortado and Genghis go back to the circus.”

“Why don't they just take the Palace of Laughter show on the road with the Circus Oscuro, instead of bringing people here?” asked Little.

“Cortado uses the Circus Oscuro to recruit and train performers for the Palace of Laughter,” said Silverpoint. “He needs to be absolutely sure of everyone he brings to work for him here. I believe they also like to screen the audience at the circus before handing out the invitations. I don't know exactly how they decide who gets a silver ticket, but you won't find a policeman in the audience here, or a psychiatrist either.”

“Then we'll have to escape before tonight's show,” said Miles. “You have the keys to this door. If you leave it unlocked when you go, I can sneak out and look for Tangerine. Once I've found him we can go back out through the tunnels, and you can come with us.”

“It's too late for that,” said Silverpoint. “Cortado has had the trapdoor nailed shut. The only other way out is through the doors, and Baumella guards those night and day.”

“She must sleep sometime,” said Miles.

“She sleeps on a chair that she puts against the doors. You couldn't open them without waking her.”

Miles pictured an elephant gently lifting the sleeping giantess, chair and all, out of the way of the doors. He doubted whether any elephant would be strong enough. “Maybe we can find some way to disrupt the show and escape during the confusion,” he said. “Couldn't you knock the Great Cortado out with a firebolt?”

Silverpoint shook his head. “If I hit someone any harder with lightning than I do in the show it would probably kill them, and it is not permitted for a Storm Angel to release a soul. I'll have enough explaining to do as it is, when we get home.” He turned another hard stare in Little's direction, but she seemed to be carefully examining her nails.

Miles closed his eyes and tried to rerun what they had seen of the show in his mind's eye, looking for any opportunity there might be to turn Cortado's method against him. He did not get very far before he was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching from the corridor outside. The sound became more puzzling as it got closer. It was hard to tell if there were two people or more, or one person bouncing a large beach ball. Sometimes the footsteps seemed to be running, or even hopping.
Sometimes they all marched in step. There was even what sounded like a brief outbreak of tap dancing. As they got nearer, Miles could hear voices chuckling and quietly singing. Another voice said, “Ssssshhh!” and the sounds stopped outside their door. There was a snort of laughter, followed by a sharp rap on the door.

“This will be your breakfast,” said Silverpoint, and as he walked to the door Miles heard him mutter, “…with any luck.”

M
iles Wednesday, unwashed and unbreakfasted, stared curiously at the door of the underground dressing room. He could smell food, he was sure of it. Someone out there had some soup. Or maybe a chicken. He pictured Haunch the butcher, standing apologetically with a plate of fat sizzling sausages. Silverpoint opened the door and three small men tumbled into the room as though released from an overcrowded jack-in-the-box. Even if their noses had not still worn traces of red, yellow and green paint, Miles would have recognized them at once. They had changed out of their undertaker outfits into baggy pants and vests, and they
fidgeted and hopped as though the floor were burning their feet. Two of them carried plates of stew, and the other a large glass flagon of water.

Silverpoint introduced them as Fabio, Umor and Gila, the famous Bolsillo brothers. Gila, who had ridden the sandbag through the air, winked at Miles and pinched his own nose. He balanced a plate on the tip of his finger and set it spinning, stew and all. Specks of gravy flew from the plate and spattered around the room. Miles could not remember ever having had stew for breakfast, but he was far too hungry to care. A drop of gravy landed on his upper lip and he licked it off.

“That's no way to eat your food,” said Gila.

“That's no way to serve it,” said Umor.

“Give the boy his supper,” said Fabio, cuffing Gila on the back of his head.

“Supper's a bit late, I'm afraid,” said Gila.

He tossed the plate, still spinning, up in the air. It missed the ceiling by a whisker, and dropped neatly into Miles's hands.

“The boy's a natural,” said Umor.

“Should be in a circus.”

“Circus is in him, I'd say.”

“Too skinny for that.”

The Bolsillo brothers spoke so quickly that it was
hard to follow who was saying what. They had bushy hair that grew low on their foreheads, and small black eyes that glittered under thick eyebrows. When they smiled, their little teeth were pointed.

Umor handed the other plate to Little and bowed almost to the ground.

“Thank you,” said Little.

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Umor to the floor.

“Then give it back,” said Fabio.

Umor straightened up. “Thank you,” he said to Little.

“Fabio,” said Silverpoint, “we don't have much time, and there are things I need to discuss with Little.”

“Of course,” said Fabio.

“Say no more,” said Umor.

Gila rummaged in the pocket of his baggy trousers and produced a small gray mouse. He put it back, and rummaged again. This time a deck of cards appeared. He shuffled them with a loud snap, and the three little men settled themselves cross-legged in a circle in the corner of the room.

Miles began to devour his stew. He had never tasted anything so good, and it was some time
before he could spare his mouth for speaking.

“Maybe,” he said through a mouthful of food, “we should play the Great Cortado at his own game.”

Silverpoint put his finger to his lips and rolled his eyes in the direction of the three little cardsharps in the corner. “They are on our side, more or less,” he said in a low voice. “But I don't know how far they can be trusted.”

“What do you mean?” whispered Miles.

“They look out for each other, and care about little else,” said Silverpoint, “and they can be a bit light-fingered. They've tried to steal your dancing bear from Genghis at least twice.”

Miles glanced over at the Bolsillo brothers. They appeared to be absorbed in their card game. Gila handed the deck to Umor.

“You deal,” he said.

“No dice. You deal.”

“You're faster.”

“Yes, but whenever I deal, you get all the aces. I think you cheat.”

“I swear on my grandmother's horse I never did.”

“Your grandmother never had a horse. She was a lighthouse keeper.”

“It was a sea horse.”

“Just deal the cards.”

Cards began flipping between the three men. Although Gila was dealing, the cards seemed to be going in all directions. Umor was looking at his and giving back the ones he didn't like, which Gila would pass straight on to Fabio, except for one that he hid in the back of his thick hair while pretending to scratch his head. Miles stared at them in fascination for a moment, then he turned back and spoke quietly to Silverpoint.

“How many times have you heard Cortado hypnotize an audience?”

The Storm Angel shrugged. “Thirty or more,” he said.

“Do you think you could do it yourself?” asked Miles.

“I've been thinking of that,” said Silverpoint. “If I could gain control of the crowd myself, I may be able to overturn Cortado's plan in some way, but I don't think it's possible.”

“Why not?” asked Miles.

“I've watched very carefully what happens,” said Silverpoint. “There's a certain point at the end of the show where the pace suddenly slows, and the audience is…left hanging in some way. That's when Cortado comes up through the floor. I don't
think it would be possible to gain full control over the audience before then. It's all timed very precisely.”

“Deuce,” cried Gila from the corner of the room.

“Checkmate,” countered Fabio.

“Game, set and halftime,” said Umor. “Deal again, maestro.”

“Maybe there's some way to prevent him from coming up through the floor,” said Miles. “Couldn't you go down and sabotage the throne?”

Silverpoint shook his head. “Nobody's allowed below stage except Cortado and Genghis. That area is kept locked.”

“I've been there,” said Fabio from the corner. Umor was shuffling the cards, and the three little men were listening in to the conversation. You could almost see their ears wagging.

“You?” said Silverpoint. “What were you doing there?”

“Sleeping,” chuckled Umor.

“Fixing,” said Fabio. “The throne wasn't working properly. I was fixing it.”

“He has a way with machines.”

“They do as he says.”

“He threatens them with his grease gun.”

“How does the throne work?” asked Miles.

“Big electrical engine. Rubber rollers against the steel pole,” said Fabio.

“Engine starts up,” said Gila.

“Rollers turn.”

“Pole goes up, trapdoor opens, Bob's your uncle.”

Miles glanced at Silverpoint, then turned to Fabio. “Could you sabotage the throne?” he asked.

“Nope,” said Fabio.

Gila clucked his tongue. “That would be treason,” he said.

“Treason with a reason,” said Umor.

“Why couldn't you? You know how it works,” said Miles.

“Because I don't have a key, Master Miles. Genghis keeps the key.”

Miles put his empty plate on the floor and scratched his head thoughtfully. There had to be a way around this. “If we can't get below the stage,” he said, half to himself, “we'll have to sabotage it from above.” He pictured the mayhem that he had glimpsed from his vantage point high above the show. Unicycles. Giant pies. Elephants and grease cans.

“The grease can,” he said, jumping to his feet with a smile spreading across his face. “That's how we can do it. The throne is raised by rubber rollers
that turn against the steel pole. If the rollers were greasy, the pole would slip and the weight of the throne would make it sink back into the floor.”

Silverpoint regarded Miles with his dark eyes. “I'm listening,” he said.

Little looked at the excitement shining in Miles's eyes. She didn't understand much about the world she was in. It was heavy and solid and seemed to be full of locks and machines and ugly noises. Nothing changed or moved unless it was pulled or pushed or dragged with a rope, yet Miles seemed to know the secrets of this world as instinctively as she knew the currents of the sky and the tides of the air. If anyone could make this plan work, she decided, it was this thin, coffee-skinned boy who had saved her from the Circus Oscuro.

“Look,” said Miles. “Here's my plan. You said you couldn't gain control of the crowd until the final moment anyhow. When the Great Cortado begins to rise up from the floor in a cloud of smoke, we'll be sitting in the front row of the audience, pretending to be brain-fried. I'll jump into the ring—”

“But by then we
will
be brain-fried,” interrupted Little.

“I hadn't thought of that,” said Miles.

“I have,” said Silverpoint. “I will bring you my
dose of antidote when I'm given it. We only get them minutes before the show, but if I'm quick I can get down here without being missed.”

“But then you'll be unprotected, and we'll have only half a dose each,” said Miles.

“I know what to expect, and I will be able to resist the effects of the show,” said Silverpoint. He did not look at them as he said this, and Miles had the feeling he was not as confident as he sounded. “As for you, it will dilute the power of the show somewhat, but you'll have to use all your will to block it from your mind from the start. It's the best I can do for you.”

“What about their portion?” said Miles, nodding at the Bolsillo brothers. “If we pooled yours and theirs, we'd have four portions between six of us. That would be…two-thirds each.”

“No!” shouted the Bolsillo brothers in unison.

“No sharing!”

“No dice.”

“Bad enough as it is.”

“We don't want to be turned into vegetables.”

“But if we are, I want to be a turnip.”

The brothers looked genuinely frightened at the suggestion. Miles looked at Silverpoint, and he shook his head. “Let's hear the rest of it,” he said.

Miles shrugged. “When the smoke goes up,” he said, “I'll jump into the ring. Fabio can toss me the oil can, and I'll pour the lot down the steel pole just as the throne starts to rise. With all that smoke around, no one will even see me. The throne will slip back down, and you can take over.”

“What about the Bolsillo brothers?” asked Little. “Couldn't they grease the throne themselves?”

Miles shook his head. “We'll need them to distract everyone else. As far as we know, all the other clowns are on the Great Cortado's side. Then there's Genghis, and Baumella if she hears that something's going on. We'll need all the help we can get.”

Miles had another reason for wanting to get into the ring himself. He intended to keep a sharp eye on Tangerine throughout the performance, so that he could scoop him up from the smoke and the chaos on his way to sabotage the throne. After the reaction he had got from Silverpoint earlier, he preferred to keep the bear-retrieval part of his plan to himself.

In the corner of the room Fabio had picked up the two empty plates and the water carafe and was practicing his juggling. The plates were crossing and recrossing with a dizzying rhythm, and the water bottle spun so fast it was just a blur as it rose and fell, rose and fell from the little clown's busy hands.

Silverpoint stared at the faded stars on the ceiling, his arms folded and a slight frown on his pale forehead as he worked his way through Miles's plan. “What happens when the Great Cortado realizes his throne has sunk back down? He'll come up through the trapdoor anyway before we can achieve anything.”

“We'll have to block the trapdoor in some way,” said Miles. He watched the Bolsillo brothers, who had all joined in the juggling act, and were passing the crockery back and forth as though they were one creature with six arms. The contents of their pockets—a deck of cards, some brightly colored balls and even the gray mouse—joined the plates and the carafe in their intricate flight. The mouse did not seem to mind at all.

“They can bring their elephant to stand on the trapdoor,” said Miles, nodding at the juggling brothers, “and you can climb on her back. That way you'll be better able to get the crowd's attention, and the Great Cortado will have to go the long way to get up from underground. You'll just have to get control of the audience before he can return. If we can get them on our side they'll outnumber Cortado's men forty to one.”

“Sun's coming up, Silverpoint,” said Umor. He had produced an egg timer from his pocket, and the
last few grains of sand were whispering through its narrow waist. Gila was feeding crumbs to the mouse, who now sat on his shoulder. Fabio continued to juggle alone.

“We must go,” said Silverpoint. “We've been here too long already.”

“Wait a moment,” said Miles. He was not entirely happy with all the details of his plan, and there would be no second chance to get it right. “How are you going to gain control of anyone if you've given us all your antidote?” he said. “Couldn't you steal some for us instead?”

“I don't know where it's kept,” said Silverpoint. “I've been trying to find out since I got here. It's always Genghis who hands it out. He only gives one dose per person, and he never brings anyone with him when he collects it. I offered to help him once, and he became very suspicious.”