Quayle nodded. “Mayhap that’s true. So I will show you what a gentleman I can be. Despite how rude you’ve treated me, I will spot you the crown. But if you want to buy my fish-boy, you will have to pay me my price, plus the crown, plus the first half-crown you charged me.” He looked to the growing throng for support. “Does that seem fair?” he asked the assembly.
A chorus of assent replied.
“All right,” the Ringmaster snarled. “Show me your damned freak.”
Quayle broke into a wide smile and stepped aside, bowing and gesturing politely at the wagon. “Be my guest, sir.”
The Ringmaster lifted the tarp high.
A pale arm shot forth from the bowels of the wagon, its sickly skin almost green in the flickering light of the brands, followed a moment later by the misshapen head, its huge, cloudy eyes blazing, its grotesque mouth hissing and screeching sounds that were clearly inhuman, and possibly demonic. It clawed at the Ringmaster, clutching his waistcoat and dragging itself toward him. The man pulled free and stepped away. The creature swiped helplessly at Quayle before sinking weakly back into the depths of the wagon.
The crowd gasped collectively, the spectators in the front pushing and shoving to get clear of the wagon.
Only the Ringmaster stood still. He turned to Quayle, who was still unable to disguise his gloating.
“How much do you want for it?” he asked tersely.
Quayle pretended to consider. “Well, this afternoon I had planned to ask for fifty crowns,” he said, continuing on through the Ringmaster’s shocked intake of breath, “but since you’ve been so downright rude, the price is one hundred gold crowns. Plus two.”
The Ringmaster started to protest, but then caught sight of the crowd surging enthusiastically toward the gate of the Monstrosity, and reconsidered.
“Done,” he said. He motioned to one of the keepers, and the man disappeared in the direction of the outer villages of Bethany.
“We’ll give you an hour,” Quayle said, climbing back into the wagon. “My friend Brookins here would like to use his ticket, if you don’t object. Then we’re gone, with our money and without our fish-boy, or without it and with him. So if your lackey ain’t back with the money—”
“He’ll be back in time,” the Ringmaster said through his teeth.
“Good,” said Quayle, stretching out on the wagon board. “And just to show you what a generous chap I am, you can take its fish; that’s what it eats, though it likes eels better. And maybe next time you’ll show up when you’re expected.”
The creature was handed over in the dark, when the sideshow had closed for the night. It had spat and hissed, but its soft bones and weakened state made its transfer a fairly easy one.
“Don’t forget to keep it wet,” Quayle had cautioned the Ringmaster as the creature was placed in a canvas sling and carried away beyond the gate and into the strange world of the Monstrosity. “It dries out easy.”
“Take your money and get out of here,” said the Ringmaster, watching the keepers carry the creature into one of the tents within the carnival. He turned and followed them without another word.
Later that night, as they rejoined the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, heading back west to the coast, Brookins finally spoke. He had been staring directly ahead of him for hours, trying to process what he had seen beyond the gates.
“There was a—woman in there with two—two—purses,” he whispered, gesturing between his legs. He shook his head, trying to expunge the sight from his memory.
Quayle laughed aloud. “Good thing I was holding the gold, Brookins,” he said with a crude tone. “You wouldn’t want to deposit any of your ‘coin’ in either of those ‘purses.’ ”
“And one that ate manflesh,” Brookins continued, still attempting to exorcise the experience. “Severed arms all around her, tearing at the muscle and fingers with her teeth—”
“Stop now,” Quayle directed, annoyed. “I just want to enjoy our good fortune.” He patted his chest where the wallet of tender was kept, and felt something sharp scratch across the skin over his ribs. He reached inside his shirt and pulled forth the ragged, multicolored disk he had taken from the creature. It shone, prismatic and radiant, in the light of the sliver of the setting moon.
“Well, lookee here,” he said, pleased; he had forgotten about the strange object altogether. “I guess we have another memento of our fish-boy.”
“Didn’t you promise to give that back?” Brookins asked.
Quayle shrugged. “A promise to a fish don’t count,” he said nonchalantly. “I make ’em promises every day to lure them into the nets. I don’t keep those, neither. Besides, by the time we would get back there, that sideshow will have packed up and moved on.” He turned the scale over, admiring his own face in the reflection.
“Did they say where they are goin’ next?”
Quayle thought for a moment, trying to recall, then nodded.
“Sorbold,” he said.
They drove most of the rest of the way in their accustomed silence, Quayle planning how he was going to spend his share of their good fortune, Brookins trying to forget how they got it.
10
Faron awoke in water.
The creature blinked; it was dark inside the tent. It could make out dim shapes through the blurry glass of its container; with a little effort it floated to the surface and took a breath, bumping its soft skull on the ceiling of reinforced canvas that had been chained around the outside of the glass.
It tried to remember what had occurred to bring it to this place, but the picture in its limited mind was hazy and painful to contemplate. Faron vaguely recalled being wrestled from the wagon onto a sling of some kind, and fearing drowning when plunged into the tank, but other than that, everything was a blur.
It banged helplessly on the glass, futilely pressing its bent hands against the canvas ceiling, but gave up after a few moments, spent. At least it was out of the blistering sun, back in the comfort of water without salt.
The thought of salt water made Faron melancholy. The last time the creature had seen its father was aboard a ship; he had left and gone ashore in an angry state and never came back. Faron had seen him pass through the Death scale into a deep abyss; the Lord Rowan, Yl Angaulor, had refused him entrance to eternal peace. Its father’s death had broken Faron’s heart; deep despair had set in, but only for a moment.
Grief had fled in the wake of the tidal wave that followed its father into the Underworld.
Faron had been belowdecks, down in a pool of glowing green water in the darkness of the ship’s hold, when the wave struck the ship broadside. The creature could hear the screams a second before, but had no idea what was going on above until the ship lurched violently, upending the pool and slamming the creature into the hull. Faron had lost consciousness and awoke in the sea, surrounded by flotsam and jetsam, and no sign of another living being.
And remained thus, suffering the sting of the salt and the thunder of the waves, until it washed ashore, unconscious, in the fishermen’s net.
The flap of the tent was pulled aside, spilling light within. Faron winced.
A stout woman in many tattered layers of ragged dresses, soiled aprons, and torn petticoats came into the tent, a tray in her sharp-nailed hand. She wore no shoes; her enormous feet, easily twice as large as would seem proper, were splayed at an odd angle, flat and covered with calluses. The toes appeared to have a webbing of skin between them.
She came straight up to the tank and peered inside. Faron wrenched away to the back wall, treading water furiously. The woman’s wrinkled lips skinned back, revealing an almost toothless smile; what teeth she did possess were black or broken.
“Yer awake! Aw, dearie, Sally’s so glad to see yer feelin’ better.”
The woman set the tray down on the dirt floor, clucking sympathetically.