The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella (2 page)

.3.

The next morning, Jacinda stepped down from the ringmaster’s wagon, pulling her glove back on and feeling very peculiar indeed. Her notebook and pen were under her arm, the large metal dog waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. After Lady Letitia’s strange behavior, she was more intrigued than ever to finally walk among the carnivalleros.

The fortune-teller’s manners and accent had been strange, and touching the bare skin of someone who wasn’t a lover had been a puzzling experience.

“Oh,” was all the glancer had said at first.

“Oh?”

Letitia’s other hand clasped warmly around Jacinda’s. “I’m sorry. About your husband.”

Jacinda straightened her shoulders and struggled to hold in that one damnable tear that threatened to wiggle out every time she talked about Liam. “I am, too.”

Letitia leaned in closer, patting Jacinda’s hand excitedly. “It’s going to get better—I promise you. You’re going to have some amazing adventures.” An impish smile told Jacinda that the glancer was keeping secrets, but knowing her future made her queasy, so she didn’t use her uncanny ability to winkle things out of loose lips. She’d never placed much faith in fortune-tellers, but if Letitia’s blessing was necessary for her admission to the caravan, she was willing to undergo the glancer’s scrutiny. And pity.

“Does that mean I can write the book?”

Letitia grinned. “Of course. Don’t worry about Criminy and his threats. He’s just a puppy, really.”

One eyebrow shot up as Jacinda thought about the ringmaster’s fangs. “A puppy?”

“A wolf puppy, maybe.”

“Then I owe you my thanks, Lady Letitia.”

“Please, honey. Call me Tish. And promise me you’ll be careful.”

The older woman’s nervous concern made Jacinda really study her. Fine lines webbed Tish’s eyes, and strands of white threaded her dark hair. The woman’s energy, strangely accented voice, and entire mien were of a younger woman, and yet she had to be at least ten years older than Jacinda. The outside did not match the inside. Something odd was going on here.

“So what’s your story, Tish?”

A coy smile told Jacinda she was about to get the brush-off. “Let’s just say my story didn’t really start until I got to the caravan. Besides, fortune-tellers are always more intriguing when they’re mysterious. Now, forget about little old me and go talk to the carnivalleros.”

With the glancer’s blessing, Jacinda was free to explore the caravan, yet she didn’t know where to start. Each lacquered wagon was painted a different color, most of them with beautifully calligraphed words proclaiming the talents of the denizens within. But no one was walking around or practicing in the weak morning sunlight, so Jacinda tapped her hip and began to explore the perimeter of the circle of boxcars with the mechanical dog clicking at her heels. It didn’t take long before she realized where all the action was: inside the circle, beyond the large clockwork animals that stood in the spaces between cars. A soaring patchwork tent, ragged but beautiful and open on the sides, was the source of the laughter and burbling voices that carried over the wind. It reminded her of the desert caravans she’d once traveled with at Liam’s side. She froze, seeing beyond the clockwork kangaroo to a past she couldn’t forget and couldn’t escape, to words shouted in anger and a heavy thump and the sudden silence, after.

“Can’t find your way in, eh?”

Jacinda turned to the aggressively dressed girl who had materialized by her side. Black-rimmed eyes hooded with glittering blue shadow glared back at her. In her younger days, the journalist would have felt the sting of otherness, of knowing that she didn’t belong among the brightly painted circus folk. Now the difference between her own serviceable adventuring costume and the girl’s lurid pink and green getup only made Jacinda feel more powerful. She didn’t need paint and gimmicks to get what she needed.

“No, I’m afraid I’m quite new to all this.”

The girl’s smile curled like a cat’s mouth barely containing feathers. “Always glad to help the new girls. I’m Emerlie, by the by. Tightrope walker. I’ll show you the way, shall I?” She took off, and Jacinda had no choice but to follow, her eyes dancing with spots from the vibrant acid green of Emerlie’s tutu.

“So you’re the tightrope girl?”

The tiny hat bobbed. “Tightrope, unicycle, juggling, bit of this and that. Been with the caravan forever. What’s your act?”

“Oh, nothing so impressive. I’m a writer. A journalist, to be exact.”

Emerlie dropped back, her expression avid. “You here to talk to Marco, then?”

“Marco?”

The girl’s shoulders shivered in excitement. “You don’t know? The new knife thrower—Marco Taresque? He’s a murderer.” But she didn’t look disappointed by the fact. Far from it.

“A murderer?”

“That’s what they say down south. Story goes, him and his lovely young assistant disappeared one night, and all they found the next morning was a wagon splattered in blood.”

“Interesting.” Jacinda opened her notebook and began scribbling. “Do you know Mr. Taresque personally?”

Emerlie gave a sly wink over her shoulder. “We don’t talk much. But he knows how to stick a dagger, I’ll give him that.”

“Is that supposed to be a euphemism?”

The girl spun around. “A what, now?”

“Are you implying that you’ve bedded this murderous knife thrower?” Jacinda held her pen poised over the page expectantly.

Emerlie sneered. “You calling me a liar?”

“I’m not calling you anything. But I have a reputation for printing the truth, not wishful thinking.”

“It’s not wishful!”

Jacinda sighed and closed her notebook. “The only thing the knife thrower’s ever stuck you with was a mouthful of disappointment.” The look of outrage on Emerlie’s face was enough to make Jacinda giggle behind her glove.

“Find him yourself, then, cow!”

The girl flounced away, her tiny top hat bobbing over pin-curled blond hair, leaving Jacinda alone before a clockwork bird in the space between two wagons. Jacinda coughed down the rest of her giggles. Even if Emerlie was the reticule of gossip in the caravan, gently flattering half-truths out of the little ninny would have been immensely annoying, compared with going directly to the source. And now she had a lead on the sort of juicy story every journalist dreamed of nailing.

Jacinda glanced up at the awkwardly dancing bird. As she ducked to move past it and into the tented space beyond, the machine’s head shot around, blocking her way. Shoving it did nothing to discourage it, and no matter which way she moved, it wouldn’t let her pass. When a small syringe appeared in its beak, she decided she’d had enough and removed a small metal device from the bag at her belt.

“That’s enough out of you.”

Holding the gadget as close to the bird as she dared, she pushed a red button, and a blue spark arced to the bird’s copper body and raced over its surface like a wave devouring sand. The thing went still, a slender curl of smoke rising from its eye. Tucking the disruptor back into her bag and rucking up her skirt, she slid under the bird’s now-still neck and entered the circle beyond the wagons. Useful things, disruptors.

Laughter, murmurs, and the occasional
thunk
carried from under the patchwork tent. Not wanting to encroach on what was clearly a personal space, Jacinda sent Brutus back to her wagon and kept to the circle of weak sunlight just beyond the tent’s shadow, skirting the wagons as she navigated around the spaces set up for practice or work. The strong man nodded to her warily, a two-headed Bludman leered at her, and the lizard boy raised an appreciative eye from where he snoozed in a lone sunbeam that fell through a rip in the tent. She nodded politely but didn’t stop to begin her interviews. She was too avid to reach the source of the repetitive
thunk
ing noise. All she knew about this Marco Taresque was that he was a knife thrower, a possible murderer, and someone with whom Emerlie desperately wanted to be physically linked, and that combination intrigued her in more ways than one.

When she walked up, the subject of her inquiry was pulling a bouquet of knives from a scarred wooden target painted in rings of red and white. She had a moment to study him before he noticed her, and she realized immediately why Emerlie had been so very keen. Marco Taresque was a damn fine specimen of a man, dark and angular and as sharp as his knives, with thick, wavy hair that trailed down his back like brambles, making him seem half wild. She couldn’t help staring, willing him to face her while still enjoying the elegant but powerful movement of his shoulders and arms as he unconsciously went through his routine.

Like most men, he wore a white shirt that had seen better days, but the sleeves were more fitted, while the collar was uncharacteristically loose, especially when so many Bludmen were near to hand. He wasn’t wearing a coat, which was expected for such an unusually warm day. But his midnight-blue waistcoat was of a cut she’d never seen before, thick and tight, with boning similar to that of a lady’s corset and lacing up the back. It sharpened the lines of an already sharp man, setting off the wideness of his shoulders and the way his shirt stretched across well-muscled arms. As he pulled the knives from the wood, he slid them one by one into invisible slots in his vest, where their black handles disappeared against the velvety fabric. She counted twelve, six on each side, before the target was cleared. The daggerman spun around, saw her watching, and froze.

Feeling the full strength of his violet eyes, she froze, too. For a moment, they stood that way, and Jacinda was wildly aware that he could have reached down and stuck her with every knife in his vest before she could spin and run away. She felt like the target, like a solid thing, painted and waiting to be pierced. Despite a leather corset designed to repel attacks, she had never felt so vulnerable, not in seven years of traveling the most removed, dangerous cities of Sang. She imagined a black dagger flipping end over end, as quick as a bird, to strike her directly in the heart with a wooden
thunk
.

And then he smiled, a quick, wry thing that was gone instantly, replaced by a dark scowl.

“I should have known you’d find me.”

His voice was gravelly but musical, with an accent at once unfamiliar and enticing, and his eyes settled on the notebook and pen held, limp, in her hands. She dipped her head in acknowledgment but not acquiescence.

“You’ve heard of me, then, Mr. Taresque?”

Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. He walked toward her, every step deliberate, boots crunching on dead grass already trampled. As he passed close enough for her to feel the air stir from his sleeve, he said, “No. But I know your type. You’re not the first. You’ll not be the last.”

He kept walking, and as she’d promised to obey Criminy’s rules, she had no choice but to watch him go. His snug-fitting trousers had fine pinstripes that disappeared into high black boots. The man bristled with so many knives she wasn’t sure how he sat without cutting himself to ribbons.

In her years first as a student, then as a journalist’s assistant, then, most recently, as a solitary adventurer, she’d met thousands of men. Heroes, villains, brigands, jackals, shamans, monsters, soldiers, weak-chinned milksops, and even uncivilized madmen. But the strange push and pull of Marco Taresque was a first for her. Aloof but magnetic. Wild but carefully contained. Dangerous to a fault but in no way overtly threatening. Dark but oh so appealing. As soon as her feet caught up with her heart, she was following at his heels, pen and notebook in hand, hoping Criminy didn’t have spies lurking about.

“Mr. Taresque, would you be willing to tell me your story?”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t break stride. Said nothing.

“It’s not just you, of course. I didn’t come here to find you personally. I’m writing a book on the caravan. With Criminy Stain’s blessing.”

Again, no response. Just steady, confident, angry steps, faster and faster so that she was almost jogging to keep up. She was starting to feel desperate and resorted to a journalist’s last resort: accusation.

“I’ve heard that you’re dangerous. That there was blood everywhere.”

He had reached the clockwork bird she’d recently deactivated. A begoggled artificer and a woman in a frumpy coat were fussing with the wires in an open compartment, arguing over the cause of the automaton’s malfunction as he held a screwdriver and she held a book. Without a word, Marco took two fast steps, planted a boot on the man’s back, and catapulted himself over the bird.

“Dammit, man! These are fragile instruments,” the artificer growled, but Marco ignored him and kept walking.

“Oh, Henry. That’s your best vest,” the woman said, fussing at the bootprint.

Jacinda tried to get around the pair and the collection of tools, books, and wires arrayed on the ground, but there was no clear path, unless she went over, which even she wouldn’t risk in such voluminous skirts.

“Are you hiding something, Marco Taresque?” she shouted at his rapidly disappearing back.

He stopped and turned, hands on hips bristling with knives. Did she imagine the smile tugging at his lips?

“Of course I am!” he shouted back.

And then he was gone.

.4.

“So what do you know about Marco Taresque?”

The three girls around the table giggled behind their hands, telling Jacinda exactly what she wanted to know: he’d had absolutely nothing to do with any of them.

“He just showed up one night,” the bearded girl breathed, woolly cheeks in her gloved hands. “Materialized out of the smoke like he was part of the fire.”

“Everything was smoky that night, Abi. He just happened to walk out at exactly the right moment.” Demi rolled her eyes. “And honestly, he showed up that afternoon. Marched across the moor like anyone else who’s vaguely suicidal. You just didn’t see him because you were asleep in your wagon. It was far less dramatic then.” But the girl’s eyes went misty anyway, betraying her feelings about the mysterious stranger.

“Master Crim said he’s dangerous, and that’s good enough for me.” Cherie shook her blond curls, her mouth in a prim line. “Honestly, he looks like a wastrel. Like he did what the papers say he did.”

“Oh, he was in the papers?” Jacinda asked.

Abi leaned close, her beard wagging excitedly and dipping into her oatmeal. “Master Stain don’t like us to read about the cities, but the audience drops a paper every now and then. There was a drawing, and there’s a price on his head.”

“Down south, they call him the Deadly Daggerman,” Cherie whispered.

“I’d like to see that story. Do you have it still?”

Demi blushed. “Crim found us with it and took it away. Said it was just another case of a money-grubbing journalist making a sensation out of hearsay and ruining a man’s life in the process.” She raised her eyebrows and stared at Jacinda as if daring her to continue the line of questioning.

Jacinda knew when an interview was headed downhill. She would find a better time to talk to the girls about their own stories when they weren’t on the offensive—or packed together in a giggling gaggle.

With a warm, professional smile, she stood, tucking her notebook under her arm without a single word written on the page. This interview had been doomed from the start, but she had learned more than she anticipated. Now she knew why Marco wouldn’t talk to her. And she also knew that he hadn’t been breaking hearts among the young and easily breakable. He went up a notch in her estimation, considering how very easily he could have preyed upon these moon-eyed girls. It shouldn’t have mattered, as she was simply a journalist gathering facts. And yet . . . it mattered.

“Thank you all so very much for your time.”

“But what do
you
know about Marco?” Demi asked, her eyes almost pleading. “Did he really do it?”

Jacinda reached out to pat the contortionist on the shoulder, forgetting for a moment that the girl was bludded and seeing only a tender young soul filled with longing, as she herself had once been. “That’s what I’m going to find out, dear,” she said.

She moved across the dining wagon to a booth shared by the bookish couple she recognized from her earlier encounter with the clockwork bird. They sat hip-to-hip on the same side, their heads together as they shared a joke. She cleared her throat, and they both looked up, suddenly going silent.

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” She held out her notebook and pen with an inviting smile. Without a word, the man slid out of the booth, tipped his hat farther over his eyes, and disappeared.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Murdoch,” the lady said, moving over as if trying to absorb whatever warmth he’d left behind. “He’s very shy of strangers.”

“And I’m as strange as they come.” Jacinda picked the woman’s looks apart with professional interest, noting her pretty face, owlish costume, shabby gloves, and guarded copper-colored eyes. “Are you part of the circus?”

The woman chuckled softly to herself. “I don’t look much like a caravan act, do I? Not at all bright and flashy. I run the butterfly circus, you see. And Mr. Murdoch is the caravan’s artificer, who invented my equipment and all the clockworks. I’m Imogen, by the way.”

“Jacinda Harville.”

“And you’re a reporter?”

“A journalist, yes. I’m here to write a book about the caravan.”

“Oh, that sounds fascinating. The city folk will just gobble it up, won’t they?”

Jacinda grinned. “That’s what I’m hoping. Are you from the city, then?”

Imogen blushed and looked down. “Yes. London. And it was just as dreary as the penny dreadfuls make it sound. I’d be glad to show you the clever intricacies of my butterfly circus sometime, if that will help your story.”

A flutter of color caught Jacinda’s eye, and she noticed a small orange butterfly slowly flapping dotted wings from its perch on Imogen’s hat. Her breath caught.

“Is that . . . real?”

Imogen chuckled. “Of course not. Everyone knows butterflies are extinct. Mr. Murdoch is very talented, you know, with his machines.”

Jacinda’s face didn’t change, as she knew how to mask her emotions—unlike Imogen, who couldn’t lie worth a damn. The keen-eyed journalist would have bet everything in her conveyance that the butterfly on her companion’s head was indeed real, but judging by the way Imogen was wringing her hands and glancing nervously at Jacinda’s notebook, she would have to change course soon or lose the meek woman’s trust forever.

“What I’m really curious about is the new knife thrower. Do you know anything about him?”

Imogen sucked air through her teeth. “He’s a bit of an enigma, that one.”

“Have you seen the papers?”

With a nod, Imogen reached to the bench beside her skirt and produced a stack of ragged newspapers, carefully folded. She shuffled through them before sliding yellowed paper across the table. “I get the one from London, although it arrives terribly late. I believe the Wanted poster is in this edition, although there’s very little actual fact. Marco and his assistant apparently disappeared on the same night, leaving behind only a blood-spattered wagon. He surfaced here, in the caravan. But no one has seen her.”

“Have you spoken to him?” Jacinda’s pen tapped against the paper.

Across the booth, Imogen ducked her head and shrugged into herself. “I spend most of my time with Mr. Murdoch. Or reading. I’ve seen Marco throw his knives. But I know almost nothing of the man himself.” She looked around the wagon, taking in two dozen people of all shapes, sizes, and species. “I suppose I should be more concerned about having a suspected murderer among us. But in my short time here, I’ve come to understand that Criminy and Letitia wouldn’t let anyone in who would bring us to harm.” She looked closer at Jacinda, perking up with curiosity. “Has she glanced on you, perchance?”

Jacinda’s skin prickled, remembering the warm, dry feel of Letitia’s palm against hers, the fingers gripping tightly as a little ripple of something passed between them.

Before she could speak, Imogen chuckled softly and said, “Of course she has, or else they’d never have allowed you in to question us. I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, Hen—I mean, Mr. Murdoch and me. Good luck.”

As Imogen swept her dishes off the table and left, Jacinda looked down at the creased old paper and unfolded it. It was the
London Gazette
, one of her favorites. She’d made a habit of picking it up in major cities around the world during her travels. Skimming went against her nature, but she would save her in-depth reading for another time. Instead, she flipped through until she found the Wanted poster, only a quarter of a page and clearly done by a sensationalist hack. The image looked nothing like Marco Taresque as she’d seen him.

The drawing showed a devil of a man with a cleaver in his hand, dripping black blood.

WANTED: THE DEADLY DAGGERMAN

In conjunction with the underhanded disappearance of one Petra Incanta on 22 February 1906, being a petite woman with dark hair and the knife thrower’s ill-fated assistant. Deliver to London Coppers dead or alive. Reward ten silvers.

And that was all. It didn’t even mention his name, which explained how he could perform here without being dragged off by a lynch mob. She pored over the periodical, but there was no reporting, no quotes from family, friends, or Coppers. Just the poster, sure to induce fear in the easily frightened children of London. Jacinda folded the paper and snorted. Idiots, all of them, and sloppy reporting to boot.

Journalism was more than work to her—it was a passion, a calling, one that her husband had died pursuing by her side. Although she was outgoing and accustomed to learning quickly the customs of a given society, she missed having someone insightful with whom to discuss the day’s findings over a cup of tea. All the people she had met so far at Criminy Stain’s caravan had been kind and welcoming, if not actually helpful. But she missed Liam more than ever, the way they had worked so intuitively as a team to unearth secrets and treasures and stories. He would have loved the caravan.

Try as she might, there were some things that men would only tell other men, and her late husband had been adept at sidling in with a cigar or a bottle of brandy. But he was gone now, and she was alone, and she wasn’t giving up, even if this was one story that was going to have to come straight from the bludmare’s mouth, as they said.

Standing, she took a last look around the dining car. Marco wasn’t here, which meant the story wasn’t here. Stuffing an apple into her pocket, she nodded to herself and made for the door and the weak sunshine beyond. These days, the next story was the only thing that kept her going.

This time, when she approached the clockwork bird, she found Mr. Murdoch blocking her path. She could barely see his eyes through the thick goggles that hid the rest of his face.

He cocked his head at her as if she’d forgotten her shirt. “Lose your mutt?” he asked.

“Your clockworks appear to be the only ones that don’t require recharging. Brutus sleeps more than I do.” She pulled out her disruptor, and he held up a hand covered in a thick leather glove.

“Put that device back where it goes, madam. I can’t have you mucking about, destroying my work.”

She waved the disruptor under his nose, her finger hovering over the red button. “How do I get by, then?”

He harrumphed. “I suppose we’re stuck with you for a while, at least until you finish your blasted tell-all book. Look, they’re guards. You see? Keep the rabble out of our private space. You want in, you walk up to this clockwork—this bird only—and say, ‘posthumous orangutan grotesque.’ He’ll freeze for a minute, and you can squeeze through. Do you understand, or has your career choice corrupted and shriveled your brain?”

At his three peculiar words, the bird stopped its strange dance, freezing in place. Jacinda leaned closer, listening for the telltale ticking of machinery. It was faint, and Mr. Murdoch smirked at her, waiting for the questions she was sure to ask and he was sure to dodge. Instead, she struggled to hold her tongue until the bird began to gyrate again.

“Posthumous orangutan grotesque,” she said clearly, and it froze. She nodded and ducked around its tail. “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch.”

“You’re not going to interrogate me?” he asked. “I was fully prepared to evade you.”

She looked him up and down from behind the mechanical bird, taking in the hat, the goggles, the layers of clothes, the leather mask that hid much of his face. “I know a closed book when I see one.”

Leaving Mr. Murdoch chuckling in her wake, she trod the same path she’d taken yesterday toward the heavy
thunk
ing of blades in wood. There was a steady, powerful laziness to the sound. Not rushed. Not unsure. Perfectly measured, every time. Along the way, she greeted the carnivalleros she’d met by name, introduced herself to others. She shook hands, laughed at jokes, and avowed she couldn’t wait to learn everyone’s story. And it was true, which made them like her even more. She’d begun her career as Liam’s assistant on a desert caravan and was proud of her knack for fitting in with new cultures and people, no matter how bizarre they might at first appear. It seemed the clockwork caravan would also soon be under her spell.

As a little girl, she’d been a voracious reader and daydreamer. But she’d never guessed what would happen at age eighteen when she enrolled in a cultural anthropology course, much against her parents’ wishes. On the first day, she’d fallen in love—with Egypt and the dashing young professor. After she had seduced Liam with her body and her brain, he had seduced her with the wide, wild world beyond academia. He never would have thought to study something as geographically available as caravans in Sangland. And yet Jacinda was fascinated by the people here, curious about all their histories.