Pantomime (32 page)

 

HEALTH REPORT TO THE ROYAL SNAKEWOOD

UNIVERSITY OF MEDICINE

 

When we put on our final show for the tiny village of Cowl, the villagers loved it.

  Every man, woman, and child came. It was an annual event, the first look at the circus worthy of the great city of Imachara, which most of them had never seen. It made the villagers feel privileged, and livened up their town while we were here. They dressed in their best garments. The girls tied ribbons, little more than colored rags, in their hair and the wives twisted their hair into patterned cloth. The men wore fabric flowers in their buttonholes, for fresh flowers were too rare and dear.

  Even so, we only had to erect one small stand to fit the entire population of Cowl. But we performed for them as if we were already in Imachara, as if royalty were in the stands. Many of the circus performers were from small villages like these, and they remembered how precious any bit of entertainment could be. The villagers stood up after the circus was over, and even the old men and women, whose faces seemed to have never been touched by a smile, beamed at us. I felt happier performing for them than I would have performing for the queen and princess of Ellada themselves. Well, perhaps.

  And so one night, the circus came into the village square of Cowl.

  We did not go into the city center more than once per visit, for the small village had trouble finding enough food to feed us. And, as much as they might enjoy our performances, we were still the outlandish outsiders, ones that, as Drystan had put it, played a joke on the world.

  The thatched roofs of the dilapidated buildings were greying. But although everything was third-hand, the people were responsible curators of their few possessions, and the town had no refuse in the streets. The air smelled of salt and smoked fish.

  We all entered the room of the sole pub and inn of Cowl, the
Scaled Hood.
Tauro and Karg had to stoop under the low ceiling timbers. The pub smelled of paraffin and roasting meat. No residents of the village sat at the rough tables. They were in their homes.

  The innkeepers, a husband and a wife whose family had owned the
Scaled Hood
for generations, entered and bid us welcome. As soon as we were all seated, they brought us tankards of ale, which was surprisingly good, though perhaps anything tasted wonderful compared to the swill we drank at the circus.

  "Who was the scaled man?" I asked Aenea as we waited for the food.

  She shrugged.

  "Oh, petal, you don't know the story of Fisk? He was the hero of this little village, many, many years ago," Bethany answered, dabbing the beer foam from her moustache with a cloth. "He was a malformed weakling at birth, and very nearly left to the elements. He had red eyes and large red lips, but the strangest part was his skin. White as snow but cracked deeply into diamonds."

  "Like a fool's motley," Drystan interrupted from several seats down. The whole table was listening to Bethany's tale, though most had probably heard it before.

  "Don't interrupt, poppet. The poor boy looked more demon than fool. The village wanted him killed, but the parents persuaded them to wait and let the babe die of natural causes. Babies like this were, and still are, born more often in Cowl than any other town in Ellada."

  "Are there any here, now?" I asked.

  "Don't know. If there are, they've never come to the circus as long as we've been practicing. But stop interrupting, dove."

  "Yes, Beth."

  "The parents made the villagers promise that no harm would come to the boy. He was called Fisk, for as a child he looked like a fish. As you can imagine, he did not die, but grew. He swam in the sea every day, no matter the weather, to soothe his skin, and he took herbs his mother gathered or bought for him, for she was a great healer. Perhaps he was indeed part-fish, as he was the best fisherman in Cowl at the time. And because he was kind and good, the villagers loved him despite his strangeness, and any other scaled babies were left to live."

  She leaned forward. "One fateful day, Northern Temnian raiders attacked the coast, planning to conquer Cowl and build a base to later attack the capital. The raiders were merciless, and no one could stop them. The townsfolk fought bravely, but the invaders were too strong. All seemed lost, and Cowl was doomed to fall.

  "But Fisk knew the Temnians were a superstitious lot. He dressed in a black cowl and carried a staff topped with a glass globe to cast eerie shadows on his face. He strode amidst the battle, showing no fear, singing a song in his harsh voice that his mother had sung to him as a babe, a lullaby of loss. The raiders stopped the battle, terrified. He sung and lifted the staff, as if casting a spell. The raiders fled, never to return. Though many perished, including Fisk's own mother, the village of Cowl was saved, all because of a scaled man that had almost been left to die."

  The food came, and we were silent as the platters clunked against the wood. It was a sad tale and yet it was not. Fisk did save the town and lived a long life.

  The conversation turned to other topics, but the story of Fisk stayed with me, tucked into the same corner of my mind as the Kedi.

• • • •

The food was marvelous – small portions of roast pork, apple chutney, mashed potatoes, gravy, and some peas, all served with freshly baked bread cooked with oats and butter. We were paying a high price for every morsel, but to me, it was worth it. And throughout the meal, the ale flowed freely.

  I had grown used to drinking ale with my meals, but not so strong, and before I knew it, the room took on a warm and pleasant glow. Everyone around me was alehappy as well, though some more than others.

  As the drink flowed, barriers lowered. The Kymri tumblers began to play their flutes and harps, dancing in place to their own music. Circus folk who rarely spoke with me clapped me on the back or swept me into a jig. I enjoyed the jocular atmosphere, and due to the copious amount of ale in my stomach, I caught myself grinning and laughing more than once. I danced with Aenea, content in this moment.

  The drink made people talkative. I fell into a philosophical debate with Tin, the small man, about the merits of the monarchy.

  "Fuck the Princess Royal!" Tin yelled, spilling beer.

  "She's a child!" I responded. "Screwing her would mean losing a head, for her age if not her social station." I hiccupped.

  "She'd like it," Tin said magnanimously.

  "Why are you against her?" I had never known someone to speak against the future queen. The nobility knew better than to do such a thing openly.

  "What's she done to deserve her silks and power? Naught."

  I remembered my tutor's lectures. "She doesn't have any power, does she? The steward does."

  "Aw, hell, she will soon enough. She's being primed for it. That wide-eyed innocence is all a ploy, so we don't care that she's robbing us blind and setting us up for war when she's of age."

  Her family had avoided war for many years, but I knew better than to point this out to Tin, for war was a likely possibility.

  "Doesn't seem like many in the circus are too fond of her. Funny, isn't it, considering we live outside her laws in many ways?"

  "Aw, away with you, young master smart arse. We've all got problems with authority, ain't we, and you'll understand it more when you've sprouted your beard." Tin laughed at my indignant expression and took another gulp of beer. "Think I could get the innkeeper's daughter to come upstairs with me?"

  "You can do whatever you set your mind to, I'm sure, Tin," I said, my mouth twisting.

  "It ain't my mind I'm bothered with tonight." He jumped off of his stool and weaved his way to her. He tugged at her skirt. She looked about, brown curls swaying, and glanced down. Her expression was hostile, but at his words she broke into laughter, as if in spite of herself. I wondered what he'd said to her.

  I took advantage of people's moods and spoke to nearly everyone that night. I flirted harmlessly with the contortionists, joked with the friendlier clowns, asked the Kymri tumblers to teach me a few words in their language – the curse words, naturally – and jabbered at anyone who would speak with me. Sal and Tila were on top form, finding increasingly creative ways to make me blush. Aenea watched me from across the room, highly amused, as she chatted with Bethany and Karla.

  I had a mug of ale too many and the tavern began to tilt and sway. I had to grasp the table tops to make my way about. Stumbling outside for some air, I took deep breaths to settle my stomach.

  I sat under the oilskin window of the pub, staring at the scaled hero of Cowl. His hood was pushed down, revealing his scaly face and wide, staring eyes.

  "What had Fisk, the man behind the hero, been like?" I asked the night air, grandiose in my drunkenness. The night did not respond.

  Bil stumbled out into the night from the tavern door, breathing heavily. He leant over and emptied his stomach, the sour smell causing me to gag. He did not notice me in the shadows beneath the windows.

  Sal was returning from the outhouse. Bil stopped her.

  "Can I interest you in a bit of business tonight, Sal?"

  Sal paused, looking him up and down in his drunken state.

  "You've never asked before, Bil. Trouble with Frit?"

  "You don't know the half of it. Well?"

  She paused, uncertain. "You don't like it much if I peddle to other circus members."

  "I'm a little different now, ain't I? I only run the blooming thing." His words slurred.

  She hesitated again. "I thankee kindly for your offer, Bil, but I don't think I'm of a mind to tonight."

  Bil staggered toward her. "Why not?"

  She backed up a step. "You and Frit, you're having some troubles, but you'll work them out like you always do. But if Frit ever found out, she'd never forgive me, and once you sobered, I don't think you could forgive me, neither."

  Bil staggered toward her, crushing her to him and kissing her roughly. One of his hands disappeared down the front of her top, the other up her skirt. Sal's arms battered against him. She was not a weak woman, and one of the blows to the side of his head caused him to let her go and lurch away.

  "Stupid bitch," he snarled, tottering toward her again.

  Prepared, she danced out of his reach. "You've no right, Bil Ragona," she said.

  "No right to couple with a whore?" he snarled. He braced himself to rush toward her again.

  I stood and started strolling unsteadily toward the outhouse, whistling merrily. At the sound, they paused and stared at me, Sal's eyes wide and Bil's red. The air seemed to deplete from Bil. He looked oddly small. He sighed. "Get back inside, Sal. Where it's warm..."

  She gave me a smile, as if nothing were wrong, and returned to the tavern. Bil gave me a drunken salute and walked to the statue and rested his forehead against its cold stone. I went to the outhouse and walked inside the tavern, and after another couple of tankards of ale and more dancing, I forgot what I had seen. Mostly.

 
 

from THE APHELION

 

Imachara was even larger than I remembered.

  The train crested a hill and wove toward the city, which stretched from the coast to as far as I could see. The city had originally been built in vaguely labyrinthine shapes, each quarter formed into a spiral. After years of construction, the spirals had uncoiled into a maze of side streets. The granite city's wonderful architecture was monochrome compared to the different shades of sooty limestone in Sicion. Stone was a trade Ellada did well in. The city sprawled below us like a smudged charcoal drawing.

  "Haven't you been to Imachara before?" Aenea asked, noting my stare.

  "Yes, but not for some time," I lied. I had been last year.

  "Where did you go in Imachara, as a merchant's son?" she asked.

  "Mainly we went to fetch stock and supplies for the shop in Sicion, but occasionally we would also go to a restaurant, a play at the theatre, or one of the smaller balls."

  "I've always wanted to go to a ball," Aenea said a little wistfully, and I remembered her tale of the past love who had hurt her, and who she had hoped would turn her into a lady. And yet now she was with someone who had been introduced at a debutante ball as a lady. It was funny, and it was very much not.

  The doors to the compartment behind us, Bil's compartment, whooshed open. Frit stormed past us on the train, her hands balled into fists. We hit a turn in the tracks, and she lost her balance, sprawling along the floor. She looked up and I met her gaze. Her hair had tumbled from her bun and eyes were rimmed red and angry as a coal in a hot fire. I flinched and she broke our gaze. Tauro helped her up. Frit brushed herself off and gathered the shreds of her dignity about her. The entire cart was quiet, pretending we had not noticed her tumble.