Читать книгу Den of Stars - Christopher Byford - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe Hare herself
Landusk was one of the first settlements to have developed in the Sand Sea. Scores of migrants from the mountainous territories in the north first created a trading village for trappers who sold exotic beasts found in the wastelands as pets, livestock, or for private zoos.
It soon exploded with success and in turn thrived with housing. Tall gothic buildings were crammed together, dirty, gas-lit streets threaded between them, with sharp corners and eccentric roads. Roofs dominated the skyline with twisted and pointed apexes; lines of windows, shuttered with accompanying iron balconies, flickered with candlelight.
Built upon a foundation of rock, the city was erected in the desert with deep recesses in the sand dunes, a good hundred foot deep in places, making it a veritable island. The only means of accessing the city, by either foot or rail, was a series of bridges that straddled the gulfs. Unable to build out, the inhabitants instead built up.
As was the nature of such things, generations of labourers were broken through dangerous, unforgiving work, all to line the pockets of the elite. The rich became richer and the impoverished simply endured their circumstances, for the alternative outside of the city’s walls ensured the people of Landusk that there was no better place to go.
Times were difficult all round. What people needed was a little respite.
Monday morning was as uneventful as any other before it. The sun still struggled to cast its luminescence into Landusk’s streets, contrasting bright, brilliant light in some districts with deep shadow swallowing others. People went about their routines unaware of what was about to occur. Vendors managed their stores. Merchants bartered their wares at market. Grocers yelled excitedly about their prices. The mailmen went about delivering the post.
But it was today when the mailmen, who did things in their usual manner, were unknowingly the catalyst of a considerably exciting event.
In the upper districts, where the aristocrats and well-off resided, one mailman reached into his sack and withdrew a brick of string-bound black envelopes. Each one was decorated with gold accents on the edges, the backs sealed with white wax, the insignia a curtailed sun and three prominent stars. He had noticed the curiosity back in the sorting office, handed to him before he began his route. All of the addresses listed were on his rounds, all neatly written in perfect white script, so unburdening himself of further curiosity he set about delivering them one by one.
The letters patiently waited on mats and in post boxes for their owners to claim them, who then studied their exteriors as much as the postman. None of the recipients were familiar with such stationery and were especially perplexed at the seal on the letter’s reverse, for it belonged to no one they had corresponded with in the past, nor any in the social circles in which they travelled.
Each envelope was cracked open delicately as if the recipients were fearful to damage such a beautiful façade, though they queried what action they had performed that warranted such theatrics.
The slip of paper inside, deftly double folded and matching the black envelope, had been added with equal care. Neatly scribed over the surface in white ink, the contents provided little in the way of answers:
Dear Sir,
I have great pleasure to inform you that the Morning Star will be present on Sunday 7 p.m. at Redmane train station.
My entourage and I present to you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in its presence.
Your attendance is my fondest wish.
With deepest respect,
The Hare
The invitations were met with fascination. Those who had received them sought other recipients, discovering a pattern of those in high standing or significantly moneyed. Their speculations, despite having considerable resources, came up with nothing solid, only gin-soaked whispers that drunkards spread for attention. What was the Morning Star and who was its ambassador?
It was initially assumed that these invitations were of an exclusive nature, until word had begun to arise of a commotion from each of the districts, now bustling with excitement. The Morning Star. It was the name that graced posters, which found their way onto noticeboards and stuck to walls in well-crafted advertisements. Their scripted words encouraged gossip by lacking significant details. It gave the where and the when it would make an appearance but little else.
Many wondered exactly what the Morning Star was promoting, if indeed it was promoting anything at all. It was this name that hung on the lips of the fascinated. It was this name that distracted many from their work. The speculation was uplifting, bringing all manner of hearsay, mostly false of course. By the time Sunday arrived the sheer gravitas of rumour left plenty believing that whatever the Morning Star was, it couldn’t live up to the fantasies that had been cooked up.
These people were going to be proven wrong.
By the time Sunday evening came, the night had lowered its veil, letting shadows spill from alleyways and flood the streets in black. The aristocrats – a product of generations of industrial money – walked in procession as if on parade, giving a wide berth to the river of factory workers who shimmied past with speed and eagerness. Shop holders had locked up their premises early and even taverns found themselves alarmingly empty. Chatter filled the chill air, curiosity and excitement mixed as all made their way to Redmane train station.
Unlike the rail lines that shifted ore to the factories on the outskirts, Redmane accommodated a number of passenger routes. It ran between two tall inclines of buildings, stretching straight for a good couple of miles before exiting through the city walls. The twelve-platform-strong station was built to accommodate these lines. It was a dense and haphazard affair that had struggled to keep up with the requirements as the city grew. Its exterior was dated, square and brutal in appearance that very much put it at odds with the surrounding angular, gothic architecture. A clock tower squatted atop the entrance, once an ornate affair that time had reduced to a soiled eyesore. Within the building itself the platforms were packed with bodies, causing a considerable headache for the station guards who herded the inquisitive as best they could in the interest of safety.
The platform clocks all clunked in unison, the hands on the faces moving a few lengths from 7 p.m.
A shrill blast shattered the patient quiet. It cut through the night, a train whistle of course, but this was no normal call of arrival. It was three blasts in succession, the second a good couple of octaves higher than the first, and the last was lower.
Far down the line, out past the wall’s embrace, through the wide city gates and out across the arch bridge, a flicker of light hovered in the black. The spark grew to a single orb of luminescence that approached the city gates, revealing itself to be a headlamp. A locomotive, night-black in colour with red and white detailing rolled along the tracks, its square-panelled casing that sat along its boiler illuminated with every gaslight it passed.
A motif of playful white stars danced from the engine cab alongside all eight carriages in tow, spotless affairs that mirrored every building it passed. Constant puffs of steam were ejected skyward from its chimney as it drove onward, now slowing on its approach to the platform, its massive wheels and connecting rods falling slower and slower in their rotations.
The witnesses held their collective breaths, deafened by the slow yawns of steam. Flickers of light lashed across the vehicle’s surface, revealing the profile of figures standing attentively within its hauled carriages. The engine itself belched thick plumes of white, whistling its song once more as it eased its pace and gradually, perfectly, aligned itself with Platform Three.
The onlookers dared not speak and watched in reverence. A sudden jet of steam against the platform encouraged everyone to take a few steps back.
Against the engine’s brilliantly painted veneer, its name shone out proudly, in accented red with white flicks on each letter.
The Morning Star
The train waited patiently, a skirt of steam creeping over the platform tiling. There was no movement from the blackened interior. The station hands looked at one another in puzzlement. The onlookers waited too, wondering what to make of it. No sooner had the murmuring begun than it was brought to a halt.
The hands of the station clocks all snapped to 7 p.m. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang to signify this.
A powerfully bright shock of lights lit up along the carriages in succession. A figure stood poised, dressed in suit tails, a silhouette against the bomb of illumination. A shower of fireworks burst in successions of threes overhead. The sky pulsed with glitter, their erratic flashes casting deep shadows across the platform. The person strolled along the top of a carriage before delivering a long sweeping bow to the applauding spectators.
A smart dress jacket did little to hide the femininity of the figure, a row of untarnished silver buttons pinning fabric to its absolute best display, lapel perfectly tidy and decorated with a small metal brooch of a stag’s head. The occasional flare of red emphasized pockets, buttonholes, and cuffs. The material, though believed to be a deep grey at first glance, shimmered ever so gently to black depending on the direction one looked, a trick of the light some wrongly assumed. Straight-pressed trousers and smart burgundy dress shoes finished the ensemble, punctuated with a lacquered cane with an engraved metal bulb under palm.
But what people focused on most of all, was the mask.
It was that of an animal, a hare, with long, stocky ears. The eye sockets were angled ellipses, so deep and dark that a peculiar inkiness seems to be all that existed where the whites of anything living should inhabit. The mask ended tracing down the cheek line, puckering up just beneath the animal’s embossed nose. The mask itself was ashen in colour, with ornate decoration highlighting every feature in a reddened metal. Packed symmetrical crimson swirls in the recesses of the ears give definition, a sparse contrast to the seemingly bare strip that followed from forehead to nose. Behind the animal’s features was a shock of blonde hair, tied into a lazy braid that flowed with volume in the cool air of the night.
Atop the carriage, accented by light both natural and artificial, the Hare turned from side to side, taking in the spectators who said not a word between them but watched with awe. When finally satisfied this individual made three loud strikes of the cane end against the carriage’s rooftop.
From beneath, the next three cars had their doors opened and out stepped eleven women, some gowned, some suited, all adorned with disguises themselves. They all wore the same grey and black colours, each one decorated individually with layers of texture, but all were clad in masks. Animal masks hid the features and faces, lending them a mystique of brilliant disguise. A wild cat and a mountain owl stood side by side. There was a thorn swallow, a mouse and many others, all unique, all waiting for the next command. Only these masks were allowed any touch of red. Their uniforms, if they could be called that, were devoid of this vibrant decoration.
Proudly the Hare spoke, her voice intimate yet assertive. It captivated those who watched from beneath.
‘I’ve heard stories about this city. Landusk. A wonder they called you. Grand they all declared, proudly rooted and testament to the unbreakable spirit of those who live in Surenth. Beautiful! Strong!’
Deafening cheers erupted from the platform.
‘But as we approached you, grand as you are, I couldn’t help but see something dissimilar.’
The noise subsided to nothing; fists raised in jubilation slowly started withdrawing.
The Hare stood as if she judged all those beneath her with a gaze most piercing, stony and fierce.
‘A city overgrown, reaching skyward with steeples and rooftops like stretching fingers, begging to the sun and the moon for audience. Buildings exist where buildings should not be, expansive and your confines are shifting ever outward. This grandiose city is a squalor topped with spires, people living upon one another like cattle. Its poorest are brushed aside to die in darkness, their backs broken in the effort to build the foundations of this city and forgotten when of no use. Landusk grows and thrives and lives, but you all forget its lifeblood: your merry selves.’
The woman took a stroll along the carriage roof, slow, with her feet impeccably placed, the cane placed before every step.
‘What I see are narrow streets. Winding mazes of railings and stone, claustrophobic, the fat-choked veins of city whose very blood is in danger of turning stale. You ever-struggling people. You all flow to mill, to yard, to factory, to office, sustaining a mighty creature with toil. Your factories beat like many hearts. You give this city life. Without you all, Landusk would breathe its last and die most unceremoniously. It is a crime that you each forget a solemn fact. This city is not a wonder of the west. You all are.’
Glitter burst in sequence in the sky, coaxing awe and applause. The Hare watched, flecks of colours reflecting from the mask, expressionless though far from emotionless.
‘I bid good evening to one and all.’ The Hare spoke proudly, never elevating to excitement. ‘What a delight it is to see your faces, bright and cheerful. What a delight indeed. Now you may be asking among yourselves who am I, and why I ride this glorious vehicle into your home. Is it for the intention of hauling cargo? Do I have coal for your factories, for the fires to burn? I say to you all: no. That is not my intention, nor that of any other who rides with me. Your toil is witnessed and respected. If I were to bring you new labour, I would have taken the time to address you. If I were to deposit chores upon you, then I would do so at the breaking of the dawn to ensure ample time for their completion. Rest, friends, for this is not the case. The Morning Star carries something of greater worth.’
The Hare changed tone, softer, though still loud enough to be intimate to everyone who watched.
‘My name is no matter, only what I bring is of importance. Once, in a place far from this, I asked myself two things from the Holy Sorceress Herself. The first was to grant me the wealth to live a dignified existence. The other was to satiate my undying thirst. I was rewarded for my faith and now I pass these bounties to you all.’
Fireworks popped once more. Glorious tendrils snaked in the costumed dark, dripping to nothing.
Most of the carriage interiors exploded in light, pairs of doors slid open by the accompanying women who paraded out. They began to construct a multitude of games on the platform before them. Decks of cards were placed alongside piles of chips, whilst stools and chairs were laid out for backsides. One of the carriages threw up its windows, advertising a well-stocked bar.
The Hare swelled with delight, her smile fed by excited cheers, taking a respectful bow to all. The night sky cracked overhead with flashes illuminating the suffocating buildings around the tracks with reds and blues and greens. Pleasure dictated every word. The spectacle she created, her spectacle, was flawless. It had to be so.
‘I am the purveyor and licensee of all you see before you, every bottle you pour from, every dice you ask fortune of, every woman who deals from the pack. To you, I am charity. We are here to give you entertainment, ladies and gentlemen, to put on a show of the highest accord. Landusk! Tonight, revelry is paramount! Tonight, your prayers have been answered! Give yourself time, and whet the appetites that the toil of work has subdued, until the morning stars themselves disappear!’
Explosions erupted overhead, a bevy of sparkle. Sparkle also punctuated the words with suitable bravado. The customers revelled as much as they allowed themselves to, relieving themselves of long-drawn monotony. Joyous singing spread across the train platform, washing over various games at the tables, and mixing with the striking of full glasses in cheer.
Poker and blackjack were played by the score, the curse of the hand sighed by some, fortune praised by others. Roulette balls skipped into pockets, with a cheer exploding from one particular patron who took a risky bet on Number 17. Record players croaked out crackling music, encouraging a score to leave their seats and dance with the first pretty, or indeed handsome, thing that met their eye. Celebration was in the air and the money, much like the booze, flowed without restraint.
The Hare was a disciple in the art of entertainment. Her time as an entertainer for one of the more seedy venues instilled a quality of pride in her profession. Of course the showgirls were employed for their smiles, but that was not all. Any woman has a pair of breasts, the Hare would lecture, but a woman is a powerful, bright being. If a woman was to entertain, she would need to do so with her entire heart. She encouraged each to use her charms, to smile when she needed to smile, to banter and dance and flirt as she deemed fit. When the cards were dealt to each player, every hand motion was delivered with utmost care. The Hare had taught them an art and her disciples had been perfect students.
It had only been a few months since the train was on the rails, as the venture was in its relative infancy, though the trade was more than familiar. The Morning Star, despite being shockingly new to observers with its dazzling, untarnished decor and patina knew the routine well. Those in its carriages had walked this walk before, and were already accustomed to their roles in this grand extravaganza. This life – this nomadic life of fulfilment – was not for everyone, but for its occupants this was normal. The Morning Star was home.
As the Hare sauntered between tables and chairs, she shook hands with the keen, embraced the joyful, and wished the luck of the dice to those who carried favour. She said the words people wanted to hear. Unbeknown to the listeners, they were pale recordings secretly devoid of enthusiasm, for her mind was elsewhere.
The Morning Star hosted a plethora of attractions to create brilliant escapism. The gaming tables did plenty to keep punters transfixed, but it would be impossible to rely merely on such things as losing one’s money only kept them in a seat for so long.
The Hare struck her hands together and called for everyone’s attention. When gained, she strode beside one of the carriages and waved her cane in the air.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please, your consideration if you will. It is time to showcase a distraction. When the day comes to a close, prey once hidden in den and hovel believe themselves safe. But the night brings out its own hunters. At this hour it is only fitting that I introduce to you the Owl of the Morning Star.’
One of the accompanying women took her place alongside the host. She bowed in three directions, quite respectfully, a shock of shoulder-length tawny hair in bloom behind her mask. From inside the boxcar behind, a large length of wood was withdrawn, painted with brilliant white and black concentric swirls, its surface bearing the scars of previous damage. It was set up against the carriage side by an assistant who ensured the feet of the display were quite well anchored.
‘The Owl here is a hunter of the night. A sharp beak and sharper talons hide behind the beauty of its flight. These things are useless without prey,’ the Hare announced. The cane whipped around before her, its point settling upon one of the showgirls who waited a table with a round of drinks.
‘Little Mouse, if you would be so kind,’ the Hare requested.
The Mouse took her leave with an apology and a curtsey, navigating the chairs until accompanying the pair at the platform’s edge. She set herself flat against the board.
‘Your tools, if you please.’ The Hare stepped aside, letting the pair play out their act. With a snap, a collection of well-polished knives protruded between each of the Owl’s fingers, their perilous edges painted with light.
The patrons mumbled hushed concerns.
The Hare watched, never letting her expression slip, never giving an inkling of her thoughts.
The Owl whipped out her hands, letting the knives fly.
The blades embedded into wood, just inches from flesh, against thigh and forearm, by shoulder and shin. The thumps cracked the night, coaxing a number of loud inhalations. The resulting ovation was plentiful as expected, but this was a trick anyone could perform if they had the talent. More knives were launched, faster this time and seemingly with less care. More metal bit wood. Again the onlookers cheered.
For the finale a well-polished apple was drawn from between the folds of the Owl’s dress and paraded in hand to the onlookers. When content with the display, it was placed upon the Mouse’s dainty head, sitting quite neatly on the parting of chestnut hair.
The Mouse did not flinch, as mice do when threatened. She remained perfectly still and patiently waited for the danger to pass.
The Owl slipped the final three knives from within her apparel and had them take to the air above, spinning over and over in a juggle. Faster the rotations came as she checked her line of sight to the Mouse with occasional glances, the sheens of metal now flashing dangerously as they cut light from the station gas lamps.
With a flick of the hand, the first knife slammed to the left of the apple to a cacophony of gasps, touching though not cutting the fruit’s flesh. Those who had covered their eyes withdrew their hands just in time to witness the second knife being launched just as quickly, hitting wood like a crack of thunder, this time on the opposite side of the apple. The motion coaxed the occasional shriek from the more nervous in their midst.
The last knife was thrown in the same beat. With an eruption of gasps the blade was launched through the air. It separated the piece of fruit in half and embedded itself into wood, its thud populating the space that silence had given way for.
The Mouse’s eyes relaxed behind her mask, fingers finally uncurling from clenched fists.
The resulting cheers were deafening. Applause thundered around the station, coupled with whistles of admiration. The Owl strode over to her prey with well-rehearsed pageantry. The knives were each removed and the Mouse’s hand raised with the Owl’s own in triumph. They each basked in the appreciation, though not enough to take the attention away from the host. The Hare gave a soft-palmed applause in congratulation, watching an influx of tips being stuffed into empty glasses or handed to the showgirls passing drinks between patron and bar.
Other acts were performed as the night wore on, some thrilling, some amusing, exhibiting a plethora of talents that coaxed exclamations of wonderment. The night was full of splendour with one delight following another.
The Hare was waved down by an over-exuberant gentleman who spilt his mug of ale this way and that. Clearly he was drunk, being encouraged to keep himself in check by his tablemates, who sheepishly withdrew into themselves upon the Hare’s approach. The man tidied his hair and fixed his tie, mistakenly assuming that this would disguise his intoxication. He wasn’t drunk enough to cause trouble – yet – though it was these very individuals that security on the Morning Star kept an eye out for. A stray hand or baseless accusation of cheating was enough to warrant a strongly worded reprimand. Anything further and they would be escorted away.
‘Aha! Our gracious host! I wanted to extend our sincerest thanks for tonight, from my friends and I … It is a delight that you should visit us! I can’t remember when we had such a grand time.’ This praise was interrupted with a vomit-laden burp, not that it made any difference. ‘All are content, with the exception of my sour daughter Alis, sadly, but she is never one to be pleased.’
The Hare was expressionless, now focusing on the hay-haired pale young woman at the table’s end who blinked in surprise, clad in a quaint butterfly-peppered scarf. She stammered a broken defence.
The mask tilted to the side in question.
‘Boring, I think you said? Hm?’ The man slumped forward, in glee, suds spilling down the grooves of the glass and over his fingers.
The mask tilted again, to the opposite side now.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alis blurted out with a shudder, ‘but all this pizazz, this … this showmanship is hardly befitting of one who promises so much and delivers so little. I am allowed to be bored, as is my right.’ She crossed one leg over the other and turned in her chair, clearly uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
The gentleman whined, having seen this far too many times. He swilled his drink and wiped the remains with the back of his free hand.
‘The folly of youth, Miss Hare. I feel I should apologize for her. She uses all the long words – and at great length – when a single short one will do. She scoffs at your feats yet has the gall to praise that lacklustre carnival that traipsed through here some months back. I’m at a loss.’
‘Dear sir,’ the Hare said softly, ‘do not chastise one so young for having an opinion. She will grow and realize that all views warp and bend. She must be aware that all things have repercussions and whatever platform one elevates oneself upon are the foundations of ruin. Like you said, it is the folly of youth. We have all entertained the notion in our gentler years that we are above our betters. You are of course allowed to court boredom, and you are also allowed to leave.’
Alis flushed bright pink at the suggestion. ‘I have no reason to go anywhere.’
‘So you remain in my hospitality, quite rooted at this table despite your objections, and I need not wonder why this is so. It is because you wish to be heard above all things. You wish to shout louder so your views weigh more. You slight me to remove the attention from yourself, lashing out to displace whatever it is you wish to displace. You think your self-worth is measured in the burly attention you childishly demand.’
The Hare’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.
‘I forgive you, miss, for I assure you that we have all seen your kind before.’ She licked her lips slowly. ‘And we do very much tire of it.’
Flushed in face, Alis kicked her chair back, her lips tightly bound together in outrage. She stormed off, pausing momentarily to get her bearings and discover the exit, then marched in the relevant direction.
The man erupted in laughter, slamming the base of his glass against the table in jubilation. ‘She has no stomach, that girl. That’s what time away for education does to you. Leaves you with … with a head full of delusions.’
The Hare bowed modestly. ‘I apologize. I meant no offence to your party.’
‘Yes you did.’ The man grinned, gulping down the last of the golden liquid.
‘Yes,’ the Hare corrected, ‘I did.’
‘Will you join us?’
The Hare politely declined, explaining how others were to be conversed with, playfully adding that there were numerous other insults to administer. But before he allowed her to leave, he asked a burning question that had been of some interest to those around the table.
‘Please enlighten us, we have been talking about it endlessly. Everyone beneath you seems to showcase a talent! May I ask what yours is?’
The Hare paused, curious as to how to respond. The others at the table tried not to keep any sort of prolonged eye contact in fear of facing the Hare’s wrath.
‘I keep all what you see here ticking along. That is a special expertise in itself,’ she stated.
‘Nothing else?’ he drunkenly slurred.
The Hare tilted her head. It had been quite the time since someone had challenged her so brazenly and as was her nature, and the nature of all of those aboard the Morning Star, challenges were to be risen to. Without doing so, there would be a danger of word getting around that their most gracious host was bland in comparison to those in her employ. This, of course, would not do.
The Hare gestured with a grey-gloved hand to a man lighting his cigarette with a silver flint lighter.
‘If you would be so kind as to do me a favour,’ she requested, quite politely.
Confused and intimidated in equal parts, he held out his lighter still aflame, the snifter of fire bobbing this way and that.
The Hare pinched it as one would pinch from a bowl of spice, raised her hand, with the flicker of light now in her possession. The hand offered it to the other, which pinched at it, stealing the flame for its own. The Hare twisted her wrists so they were upturned, raising her arms now in a wide circle. The flame was returned to the opposite hand. The fingers snapped open, revealing the fire now adorning her thumb and every fingertip. They closed once more, transferring to a single flame, snapping wide once more showing just the one balancing on an index finger.
This was repeated in the other hand, identically. As the hands jabbed at one another the flame transferred back and forth, then it became two, one for each hand, rolling in the palms, appearing, vanishing, appearing, vanishing, with every flex and thrust of the limbs. Then the flame separated, adorning both sets of fingers, was conjoined into one before being brought to the woman’s lips, balancing on the black and grey fabric of the glove.
Tilting her head to the heavens, the woman spat a puff of air, jetting the flame out just a hand’s length but still enough to make the onlookers recoil in their seats. It faded away into nothing, leaving those watching in awe.
The Hare took her applause graciously.
The bar began to populate with drained glasses, and sales of fine alcohol eventually dwindled to naught. Cards were folded and final pots given. Those who gambled with too much of their pay had not the heart to try and win it back, embracing their defeat with dignity. Others who were up on their luck sauntered away with glee.
As is true of any enjoyable experience, the evening went far too quickly for the people of Landusk. Midnight passed, forcing a good number of those to retreat to their beds. As time went on even the most avid card player reluctantly made their way home, walking, and in a good number of cases staggering through the streets in drunken song. The last of the most stubborn residents were escorted out of the station and stillness became the norm once more.
The Morning Star sat at Platform Three, with its cargo and companions, quite alone.
The furniture and games were efficiently loaded back onto the carriages, packed for transport as had been done time and time before. The clatter of clean, stacked glasses finally ebbed away and the showgirls’ banter now moved into the carriages with not a scrap of evidence remaining as to what had just happened at Redmane station.
The Hare sat upon a carriage, embracing her legs and gazing down at the rooftops before her. Her focus wasn’t on the spotless rooftops but instead on the tracks that ran into the darkness to the city gate, which was now very much closed. Still she looked, with dulled hazel eyes and enough make-up beneath her showpiece to cover the evidence of too little sleep.
The man beside her was ensuring that.
‘Forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he stated, mimicking her posture and absent stare, ‘but I distinctly remember us having a conversation about avoiding cities like this. Too many powerful folks with moneyed connections playing power games. Experience has proven that crap is bad for business.’
‘I know.’ She turned to him, taking in the splendid black and gold show suit. The mask on his own face, that of a stag with grand horns, was significantly imposing. ‘And like most of your advice, I decided to ignore it. The profits speak for themselves.’
She stared at the mask’s eye sockets, the owner’s pupils quite invisible in the darkness.
‘It’s not all about money you know.’
‘Obviously. Not that you’ve ever admitted that to me before, but I know.’
The stag exhaled. ‘I remember a time when you would listen to me. I miss that.’
‘Things change.’
‘I was never under the illusion that they didn’t. The Morning Star is evidence of that. Speaking of the train, you’re going to run it in to the ground aren’t you?’ He sighed, steering the conversation to something he dreaded.
The Hare didn’t attempt to refute this accusation.
‘If I need to. I’m doing what’s necessary. You of all people can’t chastise me for following that creed.’
‘Obviously not.’ The stag lowered his head, putting a bold statement forward: ‘But everything I did was to keep people safe. Even you. What you’re doing is the exact opposite. It’s dangerous. Are you honestly willing to sacrifice –’
‘I know full well what I have to give up,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t attempt to lecture me on that front.’
‘That’s always been your problem. You take advice as an insult. If you stopped for just a moment you would realize that, even if you achieved a miracle, even if you somehow pulled this off, things won’t end well for you. Is it actually worth it?’
‘Yes,’ she responded bluntly. She stared at the man’s disguise. It was a question she had asked herself so many times that her decision was borderline reflex.
He turned back, slowly nodding. He finally spoke. ‘I don’t approve.’
The Hare shrugged her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t. He never would have. It wasn’t his choice to make.
‘Then it’s a good thing you’re not real, isn’t it?’ the Hare confessed.
An interruption came in the form of noise, welcome noise, but enough to derail her thinking.
A burst of sudden heel clicks was followed by one of the more senior showgirls calling for her attention.
* * *
All the while the showgirls attended to the clean-up, the Hare had not moved in posture or averted her gaze. It concerned the one referred to as the Owl. Truth be told, this oddly stoic behaviour concerned the others too, who dared not begin a conversation with her in fear of where it might lead. Some whispered among themselves about what she was doing. One pointed out that she resembled a gargoyle atop a church buttress, playfully of course but nobody laughed.
‘Who are you talking to?’ the Owl put to her, quite confused. ‘I heard voices.’
The Hare slowly looked to the empty space beside her. The phantom her imagination conjured had vanished, a construct that had been increasingly haunting her as the days went by. Its appearance was almost routine now, not that such a thing subdued the pain she felt in its presence.
‘Apparently nobody,’ the Hare confessed with a pained sigh.
‘What’s the plan? Are you going to spend all night up there?’ the Owl, Corinne, called with her hands on slanted hips. A shock of her raven-black hair stirred gently with every motion. Like the others, she had removed her mask when the last of the patrons had left, leaving no need for such things. ‘There is a perfectly comfortable bed in your carriage you know.’
‘I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.’
‘May I ask what it is you’re even doing?’ Corinne sheltered her eyes from the gaslight’s glare with a raised hand.
The response was slow. ‘On the lookout for troublemakers.’
Surely she jested? Corinne took stock of the platform, and their own security – or what passed for it – who had begun to retire for the evening. What possible trouble could there be?
‘There’s nobody here, much less anybody who would cause a ruckus. Even if there was, the station has enough muscle around to deter would-be chancers. I keep saying that we need someone to provide some protection, not a part-timer like you’re satisfied with. Listening to me will allow you to spend time in that comfy, comfy bed of yours.’
‘That you do.’
‘So?’
‘My answer is the same as before,’ the Hare said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Corinne’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘You’ll think about it. Right.’
‘That’s my decision.’
‘It’s a stupid decision. Look, just come down won’t you? I’m getting a crick in my neck and you need to eat.’
* * *
The Hare didn’t respond.
‘Katerina has made stew!’ Corinne sang. The encouragement fell on deaf ears. The Hare avoided the request and resumed her stare. In her mind, the night concealed dangers, considerable ones at that. It is best I remain, she convinced herself, just in case.
‘I’ve tasted her cooking. That’s not exactly swaying me.’
‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ll catch a cold up there as well.’
‘Of that, I’ll take my chances.’
* * *
Corinne leant against the carriage side and patted its surface. This persistent stubbornness was becoming tiresome. At every stop they made, the owner of the Morning Star would retreat like this, paranoid over some unseen threat that stalked them. No matter how many times Corinne insisted that there was nothing to worry about, new excuses were made to the contrary.
‘Your chances mean that you’ll be stuck in bed, and my days will be spent bringing you nothing but soup. We have to be awake in four hours. That’s not a lot of time to get some sleep, especially if we’re to stick to this overly busy schedule of yours that you’re so keen on pushing.’ Corinne glanced at the illuminated city gates down the tracks, barely visible, but still noticeably barred. ‘According to Ferry, the gates won’t be open until nine at the earliest. There’s a curfew in effect, something about random trouble. I don’t know. It’s all very sudden.’
This was enough for the Hare to finally look down to the platform.
‘What sort of trouble? Do we know?’ she asked, quite concerned.
‘No idea. Whatever’s happening, nobody is telling. The law refuses to whisper notions, though I did try to sweet talk them when they were hanging around trying to bum drinks. We have no option but to sit and wait it out I’m afraid. We are going nowhere, dear. You’d best get comfortable if you’re staying up there.’
‘I’m used to the waiting – that’s not of concern. I just don’t necessarily like it.’
‘Don’t like the boredom?’ Corinne asked.
‘I don’t like being trapped,’ the Hare muttered flatly, resting her chin on her forearms.
Again, there was silence.
Corinne finally spoke. ‘Are you sure I can’t convince you?’
‘I’m sure,’ came the reply, though this time she turned again and made eye contact. The pair watched one another until Corinne relinquished with a shrug.
‘Well, if you insist. Wait here. Not that you’re doing anything else of course …’
* * *
Corinne stormed along the platform and into the warm glow of one of the few illuminated cars. There was a good couple of minutes where there was nothing. There was no noise, there were no interruptions, only the perfect stillness of the city night. Landusk had seldom seen such tranquillity and whilst it may only last a scant few hours, it was something quite wonderful to treasure.
Then Corinne returned.
‘If you’re not coming for food, then the food’s coming to you.’ Corinne’s voice floated from over the carriage side, joined by the striking of shoe on ladder. The woman hoisted herself up, balancing two flower-decorated bowls with protruding spoons. One was placed before the Hare and the other was set aside temporarily. ‘Compliments of Katerina. Come on, take that stupid thing off – the show’s over.’
Corinne reached to relieve her manager of her mask, though she was met with immediate hesitation. In truth the Hare had forgotten that she still wore the showpiece. Its presence was so invisible that it felt as natural as her hand or foot. The flinch given was telling, though her eyes softened momentarily, allowing for Corinne to it relieve her of its burden.
* * *
Beneath the mask, the woman gave a long exhalation, patches of skin red from the mask’s pressure. Pits of black eye shadow reduced her eyes to a pair of dulled gems in a lagoon of make-up, hiding tell-tale signs of insufficient rest and obsessed troubles. Her lips, glossed slick, had worn a fake smile all night but this too had been removed, leaving a thin stoic line. Misu’s eyes softened in thanks.
The disguise was placed carefully beside her and just out of reach to ensure it wouldn’t be accidentally kicked aside. Corinne made her best effort to coax a smirk with one of her own though this was sadly ineffectual. Admitting defeat, she offered the food, relieved when it was finally accepted.
‘Here. It’s good for what ails you.’
‘Thank you,’ Misu said, cupping the bowl in her hands. She stirred the contents. Meat and vegetables bobbed around, suspended in a thick, pungent gravy. Its smell was a distinct comfort, a musky, woody aroma with the tang of onion.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Corinne crossed her legs and began to take spoonfuls of stew to her hungry mouth. A carrot dissolved to nothing as it rolled around on her tongue. A cube of meat required more chewing than she was comfortable with, but despite these flaws they contributed to a substantial meal.
Corinne wagged her empty spoon about.
‘I see why you like it up here. It’s pretty peaceful.’ She surveyed the darkened gothic buildings that sandwiched the train tracks. Barely any windows accommodated the glow of candle or oil lamp with most of the city’s occupants in their beds, unsurprising given the hour. ‘We don’t have much of that these days given the circumstances. I wouldn’t have imagined it could be so quiet being smack in the middle of such a big city.’
* * *
Misu changed the subject immediately, knowing full well when someone was probing for answers to challenging questions. ‘It’s a nice city, this. I wouldn’t mind returning sometime soon. There are good people with deep pockets. The takings were fine, or at least from what I’ve been told so far.’
‘Elizabeth says this place is all too claustrophobic. Doesn’t like that everything is built on top of itself. Tight streets and all that.’
Misu began to scrape at the remains in her bowl, taking the last few mouthfuls. ‘That’s a normal country girl reaction. Big cities don’t suit ’em. How is our songbird coping? We could have used her tonight. The punters were receptive. Could have brought in a lot of extra money if she did her set.’
‘She’s resting her voice. It won’t be long until she’s fully recovered. The worst is behind her or at least that’s what she insists. The girl has practically been living on sweet tea. I’ve been told she’ll be fine for the next show. Despite that, it should be said that she still manages to muster complaints.’
‘I have to confess, she’s a complainer that one,’ Misu stated with concern. ‘Always with something to say, rarely good.’
‘Nerves I’m sure. Do you think she’s trouble?’
‘Hard to say. What I know is that we need her on form and quickly. It’s been a month and she’s only done two performances.’
‘Come now, you can’t blame her for falling ill. That’s just bad luck.’ Before her manager could respond with a rebuttal that would sour the conversation, Corinne placed her bowl down on the rooftop and scrunched up her face in thought. ‘You’re right you know.’
‘Huh?’
‘The stew could be better.’
Misu finally gave a small smile, the first one witnessed tonight outside of the performance. Corinne took the bowls and stacked them atop one another. They both leaned back on the carriage.
‘You’re not going back in?’ Misu asked.
‘And leave you alone out here? That’s just not right in my book. No, you get my company – and no objections.’
‘No objections, boss,’ Misu corrected.
‘As you wish. That’s still difficult to get used to.’
‘You and me both, but these are the times. It’s strange days when you’re being dragged from place to place by, technically, a dead woman.’ Misu snorted in amusement, glancing to her mask that held a subtle hint of her reflection. The ruse created to conceal her identity fit in well with the natural theatrics that the Morning Star thrived on.
Nobody cared that the show was a copycat – if they did it was never brought up in her company, but out here in the far south of Surenth, where the Gambler’s Den never travelled previously, the locals found it refreshingly new.
Despite the dangerous circumstances and morbid nature of such an ordeal, Misu’s death was the best thing that ever happened to her. ‘You’d be surprised how liberating dying is.’
‘I’ll have to give it a try sometime. There’s plenty that I would love to leave behind in an empty grave. Not that I need to explain that to you …’ Corinne’s smile dropped.
The conversation had struck too raw a subject, so Misu guided it back to work. ‘Good performance tonight. For a moment I honestly believed you were going to sink a knife into Colette’s skull. As did all of our onlookers.’
With a flex of her fingers, Corinne seemed to be recalling every detail of her exhibition, remembering the weight of the blade in her palm. ‘I’ve never missed a throw before. That little one worries too much. Like I say every time, as long as she keeps still there’ll be no accidents. She just fidgets when nervous.’
‘On the account of the sharp objects flying in her direction no doubt. It makes one a tad touchy. I can’t imagine why.’
Misu produced a silver cigarette case from her inner jacket pocket and a matchbox, offering a smoke to the kindly woman beside her whose company was appreciated. Both were lit and the pair leant on their backs, staring at the fissure of night sky between the tall gothic buildings that enclosed the station. Stars sparkled, with the merriest hint of the moon painting its lustre across a line of roof tiles.
Nothing was said. Gentle, patient puffs of smoke wafted between them in turn, carried on by the warm breeze that drifted across the train tracks. It was a tranquillity that scrubbed the grime and the effort that the show inflicted. Muscles didn’t seem so aching, bones not as sore. For the shortest of moments, the dangers and difficulties that this life brought Misu – and indeed all on board – felt non-existent.
And then Corinne had to go and ruin it all.
She withdrew her cigarette between scissored fingers, its butt painted with red lipstick, and she squinted at the stars. ‘You’re doing good, you know? Franco would be proud.’
There was never going to be a good time to draw attention to any of that, now maybe less so than any other. Simply hearing his name caused her heart to sink to some dark sea within her, struggling with the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, every facet of the circumstances that had brought about her being the Morning Star’s caretaker. It rightfully belonged to another, one more suited to the theatricality, who had made a life of doing so and most importantly knew what he was doing. She was lucky – lucky to be here at all, let alone to have stewardship of such a spectacle, and she was damned if this would be an opportunity wasted. It would be easy, preferable even, to simply draw the whole show to a close and pack it up for good.
But Misu owed Franco a tremendous debt. Some debts, he once informed her, can’t be repaid. It doesn’t mean that one should stop trying to do so, though.
Misu drew a touch longer on her vice before responding. ‘Let’s hope he sees it that way.’
Corinne nodded, swinging herself up after giving a minute for the mood to pass. ‘I’m going in. I miss that bed of mine too much, little luxury that it is.’ She moved to the carriage side and took a foot to each rung over and over, pausing to say her last piece: ‘I’ll be sure to mention to Ferry that you’re up here tonight. We wouldn’t want him mistaking you for a prowler now, would we?’
Misu’s throat closed up momentarily, refusing a decent reply any sort of momentum. Instead, she swallowed the words away and gave substitutes. A wetness that coated her eyes was blinked away and her gaze remained fixed on the black void high above. ‘Goodnight, Corinne.’
‘Aye, goodnight to you too.’
The carriage doors shunted to a close leaving Misu truly alone. Once upon a time she would have been content with that.
But Franco had convinced her otherwise.
* * *
Misu protested in the strongest terms at this idea. She had turned back more times than she could count, forcing Franco to convince her and take her by the hand in an attempt to share his courage. It wasn’t working of course. Her stomach danced around as if somebody was playing a drumbeat upon it. The sun-drenched streets of Windberg were far from busy at this early hour but still there were enough people to give the pair suspicious glances. Almost all assumed them to be partaking in some lovers’ quarrel, a good-natured one but a quarrel nonetheless.
‘This is the very height of ridiculous ideas,’ Misu protested, hiding beneath a large-rimmed hat that protected her from the sun, as well as other things. Her dyed blonde hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, its owner paranoid that somehow those passing could easily identify her. This wasn’t the case of course but for someone classed as deceased, the possibility of recognition was always a concern.
Franco did his best to ease her worries once again. Unlike her, he walked confidently to their destination, smartly dressed in a plaid suit, waistcoat, and tie, with his eyes hidden behind green-lensed sunglasses.
‘Last night you said it was good. Perfect, even! You’re changing your mind now? I said we both had to be completely in agreement. You agreed. I distinctly remember you agreeing.’
‘I remember the bottle we emptied, not necessarily any decisions being made.’ Misu pouted.
‘We’re here now. There’s no turning back.’
They both stared at the front of the establishment. Sandstone pillars forged high archways, the patio beneath lined with well-polished square tables. Behind the glass to the inside, glowing lanterns could be seen, hanging high above lines of bigger tables, congregating around the kitchen that was positioned in the centre of the room. The kitchen itself was enclosed by the bar, making it a communal centre, where patrons would watch meals being prepared, converse with the staff and drink bar-side if need be.
Fastened to the wall was a perfect metal sign, embossed with the name of the restaurant itself: Blue Sky.
‘Yes there is,’ Misu contested, turning on her heels once again. ‘There’s the opportunity to turn back right this very moment. See, I’m doing it now.’
Franco snagged her arm and pulled her beside him. ‘Back you come – come on. We’re doing this.’
‘What if they’re angry?’
‘They undoubtedly will be.’
‘You left that part out when convincing me this was a solid plan.’
Franco led her slowly to the door, one step after the other until reaching out and placing his hand on the handle, despite the closed sign hanging on the glass. ‘You never asked. Ready?’
From inside, figures went about their business, quite content to go about the daily routine, unaware who was about to stroll through their door.
‘No?’
‘That’s a shame.’
Franco heaved the door ajar. The gentle tinkle of a bell caught the attention of the women inside, especially the one in the middle of the kitchen who was jabbing at something boiling in a large pot. In a flurry, Colette advanced on them, waving the pair out.
‘The sign says closed. Did you not see it? Out please, there’s another hour to go until …’ Her eyes squinted in thought at the man and the woman who meekly hid herself beside him. This simply wasn’t possible. ‘Oh no. There is no conceivable way you … you …’
By now the others had taken notice of the confusion and they too questioned what it was they were witnessing. Someone dropped a glass in shock. The woman in the middle of the kitchen fainted in disbelief, taking a pan to the floor with her, which was, thankfully, not hot.
‘Kitty!’ someone cried out and rushed to help her.
Collette still couldn’t believe what was happening. Her heart pounded furiously and tears welled up, causing any other words to fumble out.
‘Franco? Is that really you?’
The owner of the Morning Star removed his sunglasses and smiled his best. ‘Not just me,’ he said. The woman beside him was adamant to shield herself from attention. Finally Misu raised her head, removed the hat, and braced herself for the worst.
Hands covered mouths. In the back, some began to sob.
Katerina staggered out from between the congregation, silent, and stood before Misu whilst examining her face. Suddenly she grabbed her old manager and embraced her tightly, letting some tears fall.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ Katerina said, muffled by Misu’s coat.
In reply the woman choked a thanks, reciprocating the gesture.
* * *
This moment was suddenly shattered, as was the ashtray that had been launched at the wall nearest to the arrivals. It burst into pieces, dotting the ground with chunks of glass. Misu shrieked as it exploded. Franco stood firmly in his place, unflinching.
‘That was uncalled for,’ he firmly stated to the culprit.
Corinne, situated at the bar, lowered her arm, furious and quite disgusted at the pair.
‘Am I hearing things or does the ghost before me actually have a line that defines when things are inappropriate? Because that would be ridiculous to the point of downright tragic,’ she seethed, all a fluster. This remarkable revelation was welcome – of course it was, as every day since the tragedy she had thought of those who were killed – but it wasn’t a tragedy now. It was a lie. A horrid two-year lie made at the expense of those who loved them. Jacques was right: the girls had all been used.
‘I told you …’ Misu whined under her breath to him.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Corinne. Dramatic as always but still, a pleasure.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’ She glared, suppressing the desire to insult him further. Her gaze now fell to Misu who shuddered at the realization.
‘It’s your turn to say something,’ Franco whispered beside her.
Misu elevated her hand and weakly smiled. Corinne rolled her eyes in response.
‘Try actual words,’ Franco insisted. ‘It might help.’
Corinne waited patiently for the gesture to be made.
As Misu attempted to quell Corinne’s understandable outrage, Franco was mobbed by the rest and many tears were shed at the sheer relief of both he and Misu being among the living. They all gathered around to hear the dramatic tale of how the pair survived though the latter months were only touched upon.
Corinne eventually rejoined the group, stony-faced but willing to hear them out, much to Misu’s considerable relief. When Kitty had come around, Colette stood beside her, fanning her with a dishcloth. Whilst everybody came to terms with what had transpired, the girls insisted that they both tried the house special – a pecan pie that Kitty proclaimed was the best ever concocted. She wasn’t wrong.
‘This is all yours is it?’ Franco asked, waving his fork around before succumbing to another bite of the dessert.
‘The best place for eats you’ll ever find in Windberg. Fine décor. Spellbinding staff. Amazing food. Best in the city according to some of the papers,’ Kitty proudly stated, her chef whites impeccably crisp despite the earlier mishap.
‘I can’t knock that,’ Misu agreed, polishing her portion off and sucking upon the fork until clean. ‘Something like this must be a dream come true for you.’
Her words tapered off as she and Franco glanced at one another.
‘I take it you two have been keeping a low profile.’
‘Something like that. We’ve been in Eifera mostly, waiting for things to cool down.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Well …’
Corinne, who leant over the back of a chair at the rear, found it all painfully apparent, especially for someone with their ear to the ground as much as her.
‘You don’t even have to answer that. The Morning Star is yours, right?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Franco laughed, partially from nerves, curious considering the company.
‘A ballsy loco like that rolls in – of course people are going to talk about it. It’s all they were discussing at market when I was collecting the meats. A train like that is only suitable for transporting royalty – or one of your shows.’ She played with the gold rings on her fingers, turning them this way and that. ‘And I sure don’t see a crown on either of your heads. You using a second chance to get up to your old tricks, Franco?’
‘No tricks, I promise you.’
‘This isn’t a catch-up is it?’ Corinne stated with arms tightly folded.
‘I don’t get what you mean.’ Kitty was quite dumbfounded at the accusation. ‘What are you on about?’
Franco leant back. That old cocksure smile he saved for special occasions used to fill Corinne with dread as it was an introduction to something genius, or something foolish being shared. He didn’t even need to speak. She was on to him.
‘Oh hell.’ Corinne strangled an exhausted, disbelieving chuckle. ‘This is a recruitment drive, isn’t it? You want us back, don’t you?’
‘Franco is planning on creating a new venture.’ Misu attempted to field the question but Colette interrupted.
‘You’re doing the same thing as before?’
‘Not exactly.’ He nudged Misu beside him who suppressed a smile of her own. ‘Our goal will still be entertainment, only … bigger. Better.’
‘There would be new contacts, the terms flexible and open to discussion for both the individual and the group.’
‘And what would your role be in all this, Misu?’ Corinne asked, getting directly to the point.
‘I’ll be fulfilling the same role. Everybody who accepts the offer would be reporting to me directly. I’ll manage all the day-to-day running, just like on the Gambler’s Den.
Kitty scrunched her face up to its fullest extent. It was an expression seen on two occasions before. The first was when she thought about what to name the restaurant and spent far too long obsessing over it. The second was when she mixed up the peppers in a dish and didn’t expect her soup to almost melt her tongue to nothing.
‘I’ve got a question. If you’re doing the same thing, won’t people notice the similarities to the Den and start asking questions of a why-aren’t-you-dead nature?’
That old sparkle danced across Franco’s face, a tell-tale giveaway as if he knew a secret that was not to be shared.
‘I promise you, what the Morning Star will be providing, nobody will be able to make that comparison. The Den was just a prelude to what people are about to witness. We were spoken about before. Excited rumours and so forth. But this … What we will be doing will go down in literal legend. That I can promise each and every one of you. Now you’ve asked us questions that I have entertained, so I’ve got one for you all.’ Franco leant forward and folded his fingers together, sweeping his eyes across the faces before him. ‘Who’s in?’
