Quayle rubbed his chin, as if considering. “And who is in charge of this carnival?”
The tall man’s dark eyes roved over Quayle’s face.
“Who’s asking?”
“Someone with somethin’ to sell,” the fisherman replied stoutly. He had seen too much dark action in his days on the wharf to be intimidated by a clown in striped pants, a muscle-bound deadglow, and a hairy man behaving like a monkey.
The tall man’s eyes narrowed.
“I am the Ringmaster of the Monstrosity,” he said darkly. “And I doubt that you have anything that is of interest to me. I have collected the finest specimens of freakdom from every corner of the world—”
“What about a being that is both man and woman, and part fish?” Quayle interrupted.
The Ringmaster snorted. “Got one,” he said.
Quayle crossed his arms. “This one’s real.”
Rage began to brew in the tall man’s black eyes. He cast a glance around the alleyway to ascertain whether anyone had heard Quayle’s derisive comment. “All of the Monstrosity’s freaks are real,” he said, unmistakable menace now in his voice. “And now, if you don’t wish to buy a ticket, you should leave.”
Quayle considered without blinking. “Tell you what,” he said, ignoring the blackening anger on the face of the keeper, “I’ll buy me a ticket, but you will come meet me outside the sideshow half an hour before it opens at dusk. I’ll show you my Amazing Fish-boy, and if you want him, you’ll buy him from me—and buy back the bloody ticket. Bargain?”
“Half a crown,” the Ringmaster said, extending his palm.
Finally Quayle blinked. “Truly, I am in the wrong business,” he muttered, pulling forth his coin purse and depositing the coin grudgingly in the tall man’s hand. “But at least I know that when you want to buy my freak, you will be well flush to pay me handsomely.”
Quayle met up with Brookins outside the western gate.
“How’d the catch sell?”
Brookins offered him his hand and pulled him into the wagon.
“Surprisingly good,” he said, taking the reins again. “The fires on the western coast shut down the flow of fish. The mongers were pretty hungry for it. An’ I found ropestock for dirt cheap.”
Quayle rubbed his hands with delight. “This is shapin’ up to be a very prosperous trip, Brookins,” he said importantly. “How’s our fish-boy?”
“ ’Twas alive the last time I checked him, but he’s startin’ to shrivel. They’ll need to get him into a tank or something fairly soon. And he stinks to beat all.”
“By sunset he will be out of the wagon; we can scald it good before headin’ back,” Quayle said. “Well, I’d best check on him and see if we can pretty him up before he meets the Ringmaster tonight.”
He crawled into the back of the wagon, stepping gingerly around the seaweed blanket, and pulled it back carefully from the creature’s face.
Unconscious, exposed to the sun, Faron merely blinked and exhaled, the air escaping through the fused sides of its mouth in a hiss.
Quayle reached over and shook the creature, recoiling at the slimy feel of its skin.
“Hey! You! Wake up, beast. You’re going to the grand ball! At least for your kind.”
The creature did not move.
Quayle’s brows drew together. “Wake up,” he urged the creature again. When it still did not respond, he looked over his shoulder at Brookins. “Not good—they won’t want to pay as much if all he does is lie there.”
“Mayhap he’s sick,” Brookins suggested.
“Mayhap. Fish out of water—can’t be feelin’ too well.” Quayle steeled himself, then gingerly took hold of the creature’s thin wrist and raised its soft arm, folds of skin hanging loosely, only to have it fall limply at its side again. The fisherman exhaled in annoyance, then blinked, moving closer for a better look.
In between the long, arthritic fingers something was wedged.
Quayle reached out and took hold of one end of it. It was thin and hard, with a ragged edge, green. At first it had blended into the seaweed so that he had not seen it. He gave a tug.
The creature’s eyes flickered open.
Quayle tugged again.
The fishlike creature hissed, louder this time, its head lolling back and forth, struggling to awaken.
“What the—?” murmured Quayle. He tugged once more, with as much torque as he could muster. The object broke free of the creature’s grip, leaving a thin trail of black blood dripping between its spindly fingers.
The creature’s eyes snapped open, and its fused lips shook with agitation. It hissed wildly, and flailed its weak arms, reaching for its treasure.
Ignoring its protestations, Quayle held the object up to the light of the afternoon sun. It was hard, like an insect’s carapace, with tattered edges, at the same time flexible, with tiny etchings that scored its surface. At first he would have said that it was green in color, but when the light hit its surface, it refracted into a million tiny rainbows, dancing over the object.
“Bugger me,” Quayle whispered, entranced.
The creature hissed louder and spat, its eyes focused on Quayle, brimming with anger. It made another weak grab for its object, but Quayle moved easily out of reach.
He stared at the thin disk for a moment more, then looked back at the creature, who was glaring at him with all of its remaining strength.
“You want it back?” he asked softly. The creature nodded angrily. “Good—you do understand me. Well then, my friend, if you want it back, you’d best look lively in front of the Ringmaster; if he likes you enough to buy you, then you can have your treasure back. And only then.” He slid the ragged disk into his shirt and climbed back onto the wagon board, turning a deaf ear to the piteous wails and whimpers coming from the back.
The Monstrosity was set up to the north of the city, just beyond the edge of the outer villages, in a ring of torches and lanternlight that cast twisting shadows on the Krevensfield Plain beyond.
In the light of the fading sun and the flickering brands, Quayle and Brookins could see ten circus wagons, each painted gaily in dark, rich colors with images that defied the imagination. In addition, there were several carts and a number of dray horses, with a multitude of tents set up all around.
A steady stream of people were en route to the sideshow, a host of wide-eyed spectators mixed with unsavory characters undoubtedly seeking other pleasures than the mere spectacle of viewing the monstrous. Quayle knew that sideshows were often fronts for peddling flesh, particularly flesh of the more perverse nature.
A ring of burly guards, dressed in the same fashion as the keeper he had seen in Beggars’ Alley, stood at intervals around the perimeter of the sideshow. The ticket taker, a hunchback with a harelip, waited at the entrance, carefully collecting the pieces of fishskin parchment that the Ringmaster had sold to the curious in the alley; sideshows often operated only with presold tickets, to avoid keeping their lucre on the premises in case of bandits or authorities who wished to harass them or shut them down. The hunchback waved two young boys away, followed a moment later by one of the guards, who growled at them.
“Ya can come back tamarra!” the hunchback shouted as they ran. “We here fer two more days!”
Brookins shielded his eyes from the torchlight and looked around. “I don’t see anyone waitin’,” he said nervously. He clucked to the horse, who was dancing anxiously in the torchlight.
Quayle glowered in agreement. There was no one outside the ring of tents and wagons waiting to meet them.
“I can go in and find him,” Brookins offered.
The other fisherman laughed. “I’d forgot you had a taste for this sort of thing, Brookins,” he said, scanning the scene again and still seeing no sign of the Ringmaster. “But we don’t want to meet him on his own twisted ground. Such places are havens of monsters, after all.”