"It is a subtle thing," she replied, "to do with the interplay of events. And in truth—though you would never see it—I am saving you a good deal of trouble."
"You got some real iffy timing, lady. So happens, I may have uncovered a treacherous plot, carried out by certain ne'er-do-wells, whom I happen to be in the process of hunting down."
"Oh please," she laughed, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "I know what you're referring to. And what they intend will not succeed."
Gonko watched her, thinking. "Feeling tired, Shalice?" he said quietly. "Sick of it all? Yearning for greener pastures, mayhap?"
She watched him back, narrowing her eyes in a show of impatience. "Gonko. Under George's leadership, who wouldn't be tired? That time has passed. And I know who to thank. All I need now is the honoring of a bargain between friends, for reasons I can better explain to you tomorrow when events have concluded. It was you who raised the lead pipe, not me."
He sucked his teeth, looked away, and then nodded. "All right, goddammit. All right. We're out. Give us half an hour to finish some business."
"Now, Gonko. Go now. Please. It's important."
•
Curls, as it happened, was spending his pay in customary fashion beneath that very caravan, and he'd heard every word and every thump as Rufshod murdered his friend. His first instinct was to run away screaming, til he found Mr. Pilo and claimed the amnesty that had been offered to squealers. But who knew where the other four clowns were at that moment? Maybe keeping a close eye on the route to Mr. Pilo's trailer . . . maybe scouring the showgrounds for him with some bribed lookouts to help them . . . maybe the safest thing was to keep Gonko and Rufshod in sight while they hunted down everyone else who knew their secrets . . .
So he did, creeping out from what had just before been a love nest in the dark dusty space and shadowing their movements as close as he dared, flitting behind garbage cans, crawling beneath spare piles of canvas, into pools of alley shadow. He watched the fortuneteller approach, and edged closer.
Curls heard only part of the exchange between Shalice and Gonko. He had over years uncounted developed a fairly casual attitude to death, and certainly would not have said the prospect bothered him. So he was quite surprised to find himself almost blind with panic as he sprinted for Shalice's hut. Death by act of violent clown was something he'd never pondered before, and now they were after him, his only thought was the crystal ball. He'd hide in a safe spot, keeping an eye out for the clowns with Shalice's ball, perhaps until morning. He'd then see when it was safe to make a run for Mr. Pilo's trailer and squeal his lungs out. He could even take Kurt up through the gates and show him the proof.
The fortuneteller's hut was locked, but one learned a few things with enough time—the lock was no match for his special toothpick, screwdriver, and quick fingers. No sooner had he rushed in before a rough hand grabbed his arm. Dean? It was. With Emerald. With a clown! They were everywhere! How had they known he'd come? He yelled and thrashed til a hand clamped over his mouth.
"You got one choice to make," said Dean, a light in his eye placing him in the ballpark of Gonko, in terms of mortal terror. "Join the team, or die right here and now."
The hand came off his mouth. He said, "I'm in."
•
Shalice returned nearly half an hour after she'd left. She was not pleased to see Curls in her hut, but asked no questions. "I watched them go," she said. "They went up the lift. How long they'll stay away I can't be certain. You have some freedom of movement, for now. Gonko suspects I am part of your plan. Just suspects it, he does not know."
"Good," said Dean. "Curls, go now and bring back all the gate pieces. Act casual."
"I dunno, some of 'em are locked away, but—" That look was in Dean's eye again, and in the clown's too for that matter. "But that's no problem. Sure I'll do it."
"Bring them here, go go go." When Curls bustled off, Dean turned to Jamie. "We'll have some help up there now, at least. I was worried we'd have to do this alone."
"Do what? Isn't it time you told me, for God's sake?"
Dean grinned and produced several sheets of paper. "I was busy when you were looking for me." He spread the world map with lift coordinates across the small available floor space. "It's all been done already. Times, location codes, distances, and direction we'll need to walk from the lift point to the bases. Maybe one base will be enough, but we get more if we can. As many people as we can get. Then we get back here to help kick things off."
"Bases?"
"Military bases." Dean gave him one of the lists. "This tells us which ones are doing drills tomorrow. Live combat drills. Do you get it yet?"
Jamie looked at the list, laughed. "I get it, but . . . oh shit. I get it."
"I thought an actual combat zone would be better. If we got some suicide bombers down here—some edgy soldiers who've seen recent action with hair triggers. But if we got hit by a stray shot or stood on a mine, it would be game over. So, we set up the gates in a place where the troops are getting ready for their drill. They come straight down here, tomorrow when there's no show on and no music box playing. Surely we can sneak through a military base at night. They won't see us, right? With face paint on?"
"I hope not. At night, we can hide pretty easily, you just have to kind of remember you're hiding."
"This one looks likely," said Dean, tapping a location code with his finger. "Urban combat training, marines. Get them down here, Jamie. As many as you can, a hundred is not too many. And then it's game on."
"But how did you get this info?"
Dean pulled from his pocket a bunched handful of empty velvet bags. "Curls told me about the powder, how it works, the limits and rules. All I wished for was information, and that was before all this was even strictly the plan to run with. If I'd wished for a bunch of marines to come down, it wouldn't have worked. But it looks like information is allowed."
Jamie nodded. "You said you never wanted to use the dust," he said more in admiration than to contradict him.
"I never wanted to join the circus, either."
•
They waited for Curls to return, which took long enough to make them nervous, particularly Shalice. She paced and muttered to herself then sought him out with her crystal ball, but could not find him.
"We're going to be too late," said Jamie.
"I got info for the whole week, don't worry. Drills are going on all the time around the world, if my info is good. Didn't know exactly when we'd be able to do this, so I made sure we'd have options."
"You're forgetting something, Dean. You can't come up there with me for this mission."
"Why not?"
"You'd need the face paint to be able to sneak through the base. But when you put it on, you're not Dean. You're Deeby."
Dean thought about this for a second, then slapped his leg. "Shit!"
"I'll go with Curls, if he gets back here alive. Curls can sneak through a crowd at a train station without being seen, so he'll be okay up there. You'll have to stay here."
Dean paced the floor. "Now, when these soldiers get down here, how does the show respond?"
Jamie said, "They rush to turn the music box handle, put them all to sleep."
"Right. And what can we do about that?"
Jamie thought about it for a minute. "That could be where you and Jodi come in. Jodi, you have the veil?"
She pulled it up around her face. "I look like Emerald, right?"
"You do," Jamie said. "Dean, correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't Deeby the clown do just about anything to prove himself worthy of this fine piece of—of womanhood?"
Dean laughed, getting it. "He would indeed. He'd even trash the music box and use his big muscles to keep the door jammed, so no one could come in and fix it."