Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (16 page)

‘
You
let him go?’ Gavisham asked, his tone cold.

‘The boy kept trying to escape,’ Doggard explained. ‘Lasp had no right to keep him here. He was no prisoner. There was something about him …’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘East, is all.’

‘Where in the east, Major?’

‘He didn’t say, I …’

‘Damn it, man!’ Gavisham hissed.

Doggard wore a confused look. ‘He said he wanted revenge.’

‘Revenge against who?’

‘I don’t know! Look, what’s this all about?’

Gavisham smiled a cold smile, letting Doggard search his eyes for a moment. Then he put a hand on the man’s shoulder, as if to reassure him. ‘I’m sure you thought you were doing the right thing, the honourable thing,’ he said nodding.

Doggard shrugged, and opened his mouth to speak. He never got the chance.

Gavisham grunted as he drove the man’s head into the solid wood of the wall. There was a horrific crack as his skull caved in under the force of the magick in the man’s muscles. Blood spattered in all directions. Gripping the man by his fiery hair, he hauled his head back for another strike. There was wet crunch as his head was reduced to nothing but a broken crimson mess of bone, teeth, and flaming hair. Doggard’s body slumped to the ground, and his gore began to ooze into the dust. Gavisham looked around, wiped his hand with his kerchief, and then reached for the handle of the door, wrenching the padlock from its latch.

With the door shut quietly behind him, Gavisham sauntered casually away from the fort and into the little cluster of buildings. A few people dawdled about here and there, making what use they could of the daylight before they had to retreat back into the fort. Somewhere amongst the buildings the sound of a farrier rang out—a hammer bending hot horseshoes to its whim.

Gavisham pulled his bowler hat low and stuck his hands into his pockets, trying to act nonchalant. It would be a while before the body was found, but nonetheless, he did not want to arouse any suspicion. He even whistled a little tune between his teeth as he wandered the bare roads between the buildings and outhouses.

Just when he was an inch from the boundary of Kenaday town, a voice stopped him in his tracks. It wasn’t so much its words, but its accent that made him pause: Empire, without a doubt.

‘Spare a coin, Sir?’ she asked again, her voice tired and cracking.

Gavisham tipped his hat back and turned around to find a girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, slumped up against a wall, savouring the shade. Her clothes were obviously borrowed, or stolen, and the ones that poked out from the rips and tears were filthy.

Gavisham sat down to rest on his boot-heels. It was her face that made him study her. She had been the victim of a fire, it seemed. Half her scalp was bare and red where new skin had grown, and the right side of her face was twisted, molten almost. Her right ear had been fused with her scalp. The burns glistened wetly, stretching down over her cheek and down onto her neck, where the clothes hid the rest. She was a sorry sight, that was for sure. He could tell from the other side of her face and her tangled blonde hair that she had once been pretty. It brought back memories of a ship fire in the Iron Channel, of chasing Francian ships to the seabed when Gavisham had been a younger man.

‘You’re not from around here,’ he asked—more of a question than a statement.

‘Neither are you,’ she retorted, quick as a flash. It seemed some of the fire that had tortured her skin had holed up inside her. Something hot and fierce certainly burned bright in her piercing blue eyes.

The girl shuffled to sit straighter. She watched him carefully. ‘You’re Empire right? What’s brought you all the way out here?’ she asked.

‘I might ask you the same thing.’ Gavisham shrugged, looking out into the desert. ‘I’m looking for somebody. Official business.’

‘How strange,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a way home.’

‘Oh yes? And where might that be?’

‘London.’

‘And what is a London girl doing beggin’ for coins in a frontier town in the Endless Land?’

The girl looked at the dust, as if she’d buried some dark memories of her own there. ‘I was a chambermaid for the Serped family. For Lady Serped, in fact, and her daughter. The Shohari attacked the riverboat, or so they said, and I escaped.’

‘Lucky you,’ Gavisham replied.

The girl pulled a wry smile, the taut skin around her mouth creasing up. It looked painful, but she did not wince. ‘Not so lucky, mind you.’

Gavisham took off his hat and scratched his head for a moment, thinking hard. ‘Can you walk?’

‘I walked here, did I not?’ replied the girl.

‘A fair point, little lady,’ hummed Gavisham. ‘Well, you aren’t going to get far on your own out here.’

‘I’ve done alright so far.’

Gavisham chuckled as he got to his feet. ‘You want my help or not?’

The girl narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘Well now, that’s a difficult question. Can you really trust anyone these days?’

The girl mulled that over for a moment. ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. But I warn you, if your intentions turn out to be anything other than honourable, I’ll stick a blade in you. I will,’ she warned him.

‘You’re feisty, for a chambermaid.’

‘Lord and Lady Serped taught me well.’

Gavisham laughed at that, and flashed her a wink. He extended a hand and helped her up. She smoothed down her clothes, gingerly shook the dust from them, and looked west.

‘What’s your name, then? Or should I just call you “girl” for the rest of the walk?’

The girl shrugged. ‘You can call me Asha,’ she said.

‘Asha it is.’

YARA

29th June, 1867

M
erion had never been tied to a chair before. He did not much care for it. The ropes were solid, and knotted well, no doubt by one of the escape artists he had seen the night before. Their talents were a mystery, but Merion struggled anyway, more in protest against the audacity of it than in an attempt to break free. It was a show he had been putting on all night.

The woman circled him like a jungle cat stalks a deer, twirling that wicked little dagger of hers between her fingers.

‘I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m sorry. What else do you want from me?’ he asked again.

‘And I’ve told you, I’m not sure yet,’ she replied, in that somewhat clipped accent of hers, that infernal smirk refusing to leave her face.

Merion sighed and watched her circle him, trying to stare some reasonableness into her. She was an odd sort, that much was true. The woman was tall and willowy, much like his aunt, in possession of a body that spoke of a life spent on the road. She moved like a sapling in a breeze, swaying this way and that, never staying in once place for long. Red was the colour of her hair, halfway between red wine and red gold, with the texture of both. It curled and cascaded down her shoulders, chest, and back, and shimmered proudly in the candlelight. Her chin was as sharp as the dagger she toyed with, and her nose was thin and arched. Faint lines gathered around her mouth and between her narrow eyebrows, whether a sign of a lifetime of smiles, or a lifetime of stern frowns, Merion could not yet tell. The eyes that constantly watched him, crawling over the inches and details of his body, were deep green like the leather of the desktop in his father’s old study. She had changed clothes since her performance in the big tent, opting for something black and blue, with fewer skirts and frills.

The dagger spun again, twirling before she caught it by the blade. Merion could see the silvery scars even in the dim candlelight—the scars of practice, scars of mistakes, winding this way and that over her hands and fingers, as if she had been attacked by snails at some stage in the night.

Merion was tired. The woman had left him to stew for a few hours, and he had slept fitfully with his head on his chest. Now that she was back, his neck ached and his wrists were chafed. He wanted out.

‘Please can you let me go? I promise I won’t come back.’

The woman came to stand in front of him. She crossed her arms, the dagger still shining in her grip, and tongued her teeth. She seemed to have a habit of doing that. She said nothing, simply gazed calmly down at him.

Merion blew an exasperated sigh. ‘Please!’ he asked, hating how much like a child he sounded.

There was a cough from outside the tent-flap and the woman turned away, her spinning skirts almost slapping him in the face. ‘What is it?’ she whispered through the fabric. A muscled arm poked through, brandishing a folded scrap of paper, and the woman snatched it away.

‘There are some people out here too, looking for him,’ said a low voice. Merion could barely make out the words. ‘A woman and a man.’

‘Parents?’

‘Aunt. And a friend.’

‘Curious.’

‘What shall I say?’

The woman paused to read the paper. One of her eyebrows climbed her forehead as her emerald eyes flicked over the words.

‘Bring them in,’ she told him.

‘Aye.’ Merion heard footsteps receding.

‘Can I go now?’ he asked, struggling some more. The woman held up her dagger and he swallowed as she moved behind him. He half-expected to feel the cold steel against his throat, but instead there was a
schnick
of metal on rope, and he felt his bonds fall away.

‘Finally!’ Merion exclaimed, moving to stand up. A firm hand on his shoulder held him down.

Before he could protest some more, the tent-flap flew back and blinding daylight poured in. Merion winced and covered his eyes.

‘What’s goin’ on here?’ demanded a familiar voice. ‘We’ve been looking for you all night!’

The woman strode forwards to greet Lilain, arms held open. The dagger had somehow been ferreted away in her skirts. Merion scowled as he rubbed his wrists. He blinked at the silhouettes of Lurker and Lilain standing in the entrance.

The woman shook both of their hands warmly. ‘A simple misunderstanding Ma’am. I caught this young man here trying to open one of Mr Neams’s cages.’

Merion was not about to let his captor spin a yarn for his aunt. He stood up and marched forward. ‘She’s keeping a Shohari,’ he muttered.

Lurker was not impressed. Merion could see it in the downward curve of his lips. ‘What?’ he rumbled.

The woman turned to him and sighed. ‘I know. It is not right. This little escapade has shown me that now’

‘What?’ Merion echoed the prospector. ‘All night I’ve b—’

But his aunt cut him off. ‘Merion, hear the woman out.’

The woman nodded her thanks. ‘Call me Yara, please. Yara Mizar, or Yara the Lightning, if you prefer my stage name. I am the master of this circus, and ever since this war broke out, business has been tough. I thought a Shohari would bring in some more customers, but I know now it is wrong. Immoral.’

Merion stood with his hands on his hips, hearing the words he had spent most of the night spitting out now falling from Yara’s mouth.

‘That it is,’ Lurker muttered. ‘They ain’t no beasts.’

Yara held up her hands, and Lurker pondered her scars. ‘I know, you are right. And in fact, I am going to make amends right now, if it pleases you.’

‘I think it would.’

‘Damn right,’ Merion muttered. Lilain flashed his nephew a look, but she quickly spotted the rope-marks on his hands and wrists. Her expression was stuck somewhere between embarrassment, concern, and confusion. At least now she could stop worrying. Her own hands looked raw from wringing them.

‘Come, please follow me,’ Yara said, pointing them out into the light of day. ‘Let us put this straight. Merion, is it?’

‘Merion Harlequin,’ replied Merion, biting off the end of her question. He ignored the glance from his aunt; he did not want to drag his father’s name into this.

‘Then come, come. Follow me.’

The Harks had always been a family for first impressions. Pictures were painted very swiftly in their minds, vivid in colour. Opinions formed as fast as bullets fly from guns. This was also why they were a family famed for grudges. Merion was already nurturing his own as he followed Yara out of the tent and into the warmth of the morning. He set a scowl on his face and thrust his hands into his pockets. His aunt and Lurker followed close behind, trading looks. Rhin was still under his hat, no doubt.

The circus was almost as alive during the day as it had been in the dark. Only in the sunlight, there were no customers or patrons, only the circus-folk, going to and fro, preparing to pack up and move on. As they meandered through the tents and wagons, Merion gazed about. Some of the magic had been lost in the light, but there was still plenty to be seen. The strongmen still tested themselves, only now they carted boxes and poles around, yanking mighty tent-spikes from the ground as if they were simply pulling needles from a cushion. The acrobats were also hard at work, swinging to and fro, coiling up the bunting and collecting the lanterns. It was quite surreal to see their skills put to work instead of entertainment.

Mixed looks followed them as they walked, watching them pass, lingering a little too long for Merion’s liking. Perhaps they had already heard of his attempt to free the Shohari. He had a hard time deciphering the glances. He could not tell whether they were simply curious, or just drenched in disapproval.

Merion felt a weight in his chest. He had pinned the heavy bulk of his hopes on this circus, and now those hopes had been dashed to matchwood against the rocks of reality. He felt let down.

Had he ruined their chances by trying to help the Shohari?
No
, he told himself stubbornly. It was their fault for keeping a Shohari cooped up in the first place. Still, despite this woman’s twisting words, she was making an effort to correct her mistake. Maybe there was a small fragment of hope to be found amongst the wreckage after all. He scratched his nose as they approached the cages, his tired head swirling.

Most of the animals were sound asleep, snoozing through the morning heat. A few of the big cats still prowled in circles, and snarled as they passed. Lilain’s eyes were wide, taking in all the different stripes and spots and scales and wishing she could bleed every one of them. It was a strange lust, given the beauty of some of the animals, but a bloodletter can be forgiven for it, for the magick they weave.