Carnival of fear, p.1
Carnival of Fear, page 1
part #6 of Ravenloft Series
CARNIVAL OF FEAR Robert J. King
Ferin Irongrod stepped back from the massive granite cornerstone and squinted at the letters he had just carved. The crisp cut marks glinted in the afternoon sunlight. The craftsman brushed the stone dust from his pudgy, dwarven fingertips and distractedly slid a stubby chisel into his work-belt.
"Grand Carnival l'Moral, huh?" he muttered. "Grand Carnival ..." He puffed a bit of rock powder from the serifs of the M, spat on the smooth stone surface, and began polishing it with a rag. "More like Grand Freak Show."
A gust of air crossed the grassy knoll where Ferin stood, whipping the heather in strange circles. It was a desolate place for a carnival, made only more so by the plaintive rustle of wind in the canvas tents.
Turning for a moment from the stone, the mason peered out along a sandy path that led to the circus grounds below. The carnival was a weatherworn cluster of tents, caravans, and sideshow booths, spread out across the broad heath. The whole area was hemmed in by a brambly hedgerow, which ran along a briny ditch. Only the wrought-iron gate provided entrance to the carnival, and did so at the cost of a silver lorin.
On Ferin's left stood a triangular district of shanties and caravans where the performers lived.
Their hovels
One of the man's talonlike hands fastened on Ferin's tunic, and his other traced out the etching. "'Founders, Andre and Juron Cygne'? What is this?"
"If you want your name first, monsieur, you'll need to speak to your brother," Ferin said, his voice quavering.
"I am lord of this carnival, dwarf-not my brother," the man hissed. "Mine will be the only name on this stone."
"When your brother contracted me-"
The words were choked off in Ferin's throat as knobby hands closed over his windpipe. The dwarf's heart fluttered, and the ground dropped away beneath his feet. He felt himself rising and spinning. He kicked, flailing to break free, but the hands around his neck were like iron. Ferin's eyes bulged; the sky deepened to a purple hue. He rose toward the shadowy cowl, toward the deformed face beneath it, and the smell of rot billowed over him as the man began to speak.
"This isn't a grave marker, Monsieur Dwarf. This is a cornerstone. My brother's name is not to appear on this stone. Do as 1 say. Remove it." His gashed nostril separated with each word.
Ferin blinked his compliance, blood flushing his face. A cold grin flashed across the shadowy teeth of Monsieur Cygne. Then, slowly, he lowered Ferin to the ground. The dwarf sputtered, drawing a long breath into his lungs. He staggered back against the stone and set his dusty fingers against its cool surface.
"Whatever you want-sir. But I've already started the F. The line will be off-center without your brother's name."
"Mortar in the Fand start again," Cygne barked as he turned away from the dwarf. "It must be done tonight." Without another word, Juron Cygne strode away toward the carnival grounds.
Before the sun set that evening, Ferin had filled the comers and crosspiece of the F and finished the lettering. He collected his final payment and, anxiously eyeing the darkness in the east, hurried away along the heath road.
After approving the dwarf's labor, Juron Cygne ascended the dark cornerstone to watch Ferin leave. A knowing smile crept across the carnival lord's lips. You will return, he thought, laughing quietly to himself. He would make sure his carnival soon had an exquisite sword - swallower.
On that same stone a few nights later, Juron Cygne lay beneath a black and starless sky. In the distance, some three hundred yards away, patrons were bustling through the carnival gates.
The lights of their torches formed a fragile chain along the inky heath road. Dutifully they had come; dutifully they would pay.
Juron listened with satisfaction to the hungry rumble of the crowd, the clink of silver lorins falling into baskets, the cacophony of music and shouts and laughter from the carnival itself.
"My carnival," Juron whispered to himself, pulling his black hood from his head. A slow smile of satisfaction spread across his lips, and he rolled over to gaze at the river of citizens coursing through the wrought-iron gates.
Their ruddy, ignorant faces beamed in the torchlight as they filed forward, one by one. A burly baker reached into his pocket and dropped a lorin into the basket before him. Dazed, he wandered forward, peering at the barkers lined up just inside the gate.
"Come one! Come all!" cried a narrow man with a striped shirt and a gypsy scarf tied about his brow. "See the twisted freaks of 1'Morai-cursed by nature, abhorred by fate-living, breathing creatures, all. Tour the carnival grotesque, and face your deepest fears!"
In a whitewashed booth beside him sat a fat man in a red satin suit. "Fortune awaits. Seek her fickle hand in the Pathway of Chance. Play over a thousand games of skill and luck! Paupers become kings, and kings become paupers!"
"Mighty and ferocious beasts, every one a killer. See them tamed. See them slain! See them battle to the death in the Rings of Combat," came the cries of a third, bearing a pole arm crosswise on his tanned, muscled shoulders.
Juron watched blissfully as the flood of patrons sluiced into the carnival. "All the way from I'Morai they come," he mused to himself, "like cattle into slaughtering pens, wide-eyed and harmless."
Juron's attention shifted downward to a young boy who had wandered near the massive cornerstone. The boy distractedly dragged his fingers across the smooth block of granite. He stepped back and gazed up at the frontpiece, oblivious of the dark creature lying atop it. The child began to read:
"GR-GRAND CAR-CARN1V-CARNIVAL L'MORAI. Found-er-Founder, Juron Cyg-ne-Cygne. Est. 1272." Smiling faintly at his accomplishment, the child reached up to the lettering. His small fingers passed over the filled serifs of the F. The cement had shrunk, leaving hollow depressions that resembled the eyes, nose, and mouth of a skull.
"Yes, my lad," Juron said, his voice croaking ravenlike from atop the cornerstone. "This year, 1272, the arena will be built!"
Startled by the sudden voice, the child ran off, howling. Cygne watched him go, his shadowy eyes tracing every step the child took through the sprawling carnival. At last, the boy ducked into the great tent and disappeared.
Sighing, Cygne sat back on the cornerstone. He reached into a deep recess of his cloak, producing a candle and tinderbox. The box opened easily beneath his practiced thumb, and from it he removed a flint and steel. He struck a spark, lit the candle, and, wincing at the sudden light, shielded the small flame with his knobby hand.
"How's my twin brother tonight?" he asked excitedly.
Leaning forward, the carnival master pried a hand-sized plug of granite from the top of the cornerstone. He peered into the hole where the plug had been, down into a dark chamber carved out of the massive stone itself. An acrid odor rose from the cavity, making the flame flare oddly.
-
Positioning the candle between his fingers, Juron carefully dropped it into the chamber. It fell about four feet before striking the floor, bounced once on end, then dropped to its side. The flame flickered and grew in strength. Its timid light illuminated the remains of seven or eight other candles, their wax lying in hardened puddles on the stone floor and their wicks burned to blackened nubs.
Juron gazed into the chamber. His attention passed from the burned-out candles to the leg of the man who lay naked in the comer of the dark hollow. The man's bones showed through the bruised and papery flesh that covered his body, and veins ran in purple networks across his limbs. His eyes, closed in fitful sleep, were sunken in their sockets, and his lips were dry and cracked. Smiling wryly, Juron noted the candle he'd just dropped lay quite near the man's leg.
The flame was already reddening the flesh.
With a rasping cough of pain, the man awoke and pulled his leg back from the fire. His eyes cracked wearily open, then turned to the aperture in the stone above him. "Juron, is that you?" he whispered.
"You are looking more like me every day, Brother," the carnival master responded.
Andre shook his head and leaned back against the stony wall. "What-what are you doing to me?"
"Don't you remember, Andre? Was the drug so strong as that?"
"Please, Juron, I'm thirsty."
"Forgive me, Brother," came the cold reply. "There'll be no more water or food for you.
You've already fouled the stone enough. It's time for you to die."
"What did I do to deserve this?"
"It's better if I don't tell you," Juron responded simply. "You might pray for absolution." He leaned farther over the opening and drew a glimmering ruby pendant from his robes. "Did you see that I found this?"
The voice from the stone grew frantic. "Give it to me, Juron! Give it to me! It's my birthright."
"You have only death rites to worry about now. Besides, its healing powers Work only against disease, not starvation."
"If you're going to kill me, at least let me die wearing my pendant. I beg of you-"
"Did you let me wear it when the Fever disfigured me?"
Andre's pleading gave way to a feral growl. "Give it to me, or I will curse you, Juron. I will curse you, and your torment will be twice mine."
"Tomorrow, the arena's construction will begin. The first row of stones will be set, my brother, beginning on the cornerstone in which you lie. And then the next row, and the next... ."
"I'll scream."
"As you did yesterday and the day before? 1 think not. This powder will silence you well enough," he said, opening a glass vial.
"I hate you, Juron. All my love has tur ned to hate."
"At last we are the same," Juron replied as he poured a fine silt from the vial into his brother's cramped tomb.
ONE
Marie pulled a lock of coal-black hair away from her face and tucked it in the blindfold she wore. Then, setting all but one of her daggers on the stool beside her, she held up the remaining blade and readied to throw. The crowd fell silent. With a powerful flick of her wrist, the young woman threw the dagger straight up into the sultry air. The keen knife tumbled end over end as it climbed ever higher. In the stillness, Marie could hear the faint sound of its edge cutting the air.
She could also hear, beyond that minute noise, the hush of the arena crowd and the languid flapping of the canvas tent high above.
"You see," she shouted in her elegant stage voice, "juggling is not a matter of eyes, but of instincts."
Shifting her bare feet on the sand beneath her, she judged the dagger had reached the peak of its arc. "You've already seen that I am blind. And for those who do not believe, I wear this blindfold." She raised her hand and held it palm-up before her. "But I need hands, not eyes, to catch a dagger."
The whir of the falling blade was drowned out by the gasp of the crowd. The handle slapped her outspread palm. She winced at the sting, then wrapped her fingers about the handle. Smiling broadly, she said, "Instinct is better than eyes."
The crowd broke into applause as Marie bowed. Reaching to the stool beside her, she picked up two more knives and took a deep breath, readying herself. The arena smelled of stale smoke and sweat: this had to be the largest crowd yet this year. Marie threw the first dagger into the air.
The second followed quickly, tumbling easily from her fingers. She caught the first and threw the third. The crowd quieted, and Marie listened to the rhythm of the daggers slipping into and out of her hands.
"The art of juggling is ancient and noble," she said, timing her words with the twirl of the blades. "The Council of I'Morai itself is a crew of jugglers, propelling justice and freedom, law and liberty in their never-ending orbits. I. for one. am glad they are skilled in their throws and catches. Even we, the common folk, are jugglers." She threw one of the daggers higher, then deftly grabbed another blade from the stool and fit it to the rhythm. The audience applauded again.
"Of course none of us-councilor or commoner-are perfect jugglers. We are human. We grow old, and our clockwork hearts lose their steady rhythm." As she spoke the words, Marie began juggling the knives unevenly, rushing some throws and delaying others. "Eventually, our hearts lose a few pulses." She set two knives aside, juggling the remaining two with one hand. "We grow old. In time, the rhythm stops altogether." The two remaining daggers arced up from her hand, then fell, stabbing into the sandy ground at her feet "And we die. But when the rhythm starts fresh"- she picked up five daggers and began juggling them in a broad circle before her-"we live again."
Suddenly, something fistlike struck Marie's brow. Dazed, she staggered backward, flailing to keep her balance as her foot tangled with the stool legs, spilling the knives from it. The stinging slice of a dagger ran along her calf. Hitting the sand heavily, she drew her leg toward her and placed a sweaty palm on the painful gash.
Only then did she hear the crowd's laughter and smell the rotten apple that had hit her.
Holding the wound, she desperately struggled to rise, but her head was spinning.
"How's your rhythm now!" came a shout from the stands.
Forehead furrowed with pain, Marie grimly set her teeth. The crowd was large and nasty, and her calf was already slick and hot with blood. She could feel the sand beneath her growing wet as she turned her face helplessly toward the crowded stands. A moan escaped her lips.
Then, above the crowd's laughter, Marie heard the rustle of gypsy satin and the thud of oversize shoes. "The harlequins," she whispered with relief.
A harlequin came pounding up toward her and shouted, "Bloody good act, Marie! Bloody good!" The resulting applause was joined by the swishing of more pantaloons. A pair of gloved hands fastened over the wound in Marie's calf, and another pair clutched each arm.
One of the gloves lifted away from the gash. "Look! She's caught me red-handed!" the harlequin cried.
Laughter answered from the stony seats of the arena.
Muttering curses on the crowd, the harlequins lifted Marie to their shoulders and began to run from the arena. After every five paces, they hoisted her higher into the air and shouted, "Hey!"
The clamor and din were broken by the deep voice of the carnival master. "Let's hear it for Marie, the amazing blind juggler!" He paused as applause filled the stands. "And now, let me introduce performers with none of the grace or beauty-or blood-of Marie: Prepare yourself for the harlequins of I'Morai!"
As applause heralded their act, the harlequins trundled
Marie from the arena through the stone-walled stage entrance.
"Have you got her then, Anton?" cawed a harlequin as he shifted his grip on Marie. "We've got to set up the bucket brigade."
"It's all right," came Anton's booming voice as he cradled the injured woman against his broad chest. "I'll take her to her caravan."
Marie pushed the harlequin's- soiled ruffle away from her face and nodded her thanks.
The barrel-chested man laughed and stepped out across the broad, sandy floor, carrying Marie past a line of yipping dogs and a pair of harlequins on stilts. The roar of the arena lessened as they reached the arched exit and emerged into the night air beyond. "How long's the carnival been on this heath," Anton murmured, "and still they're throwing apples?"
"Four hundred years, my friend," Marie affirmed, "and rotten apples, at that." Her pupilless eyes seemed to stare back toward the glowing arena. "The bigger the/crowd, the uglier it gets."
^Afraid so, Marie," Anton sighed as his big shoes clomped across the woodchip-strewn ground. "They've outlawed fun amongst themselves, so they come out here for fun at our expense."
"I want to thank you and the brotherhood of fools," Marie said with a tremulous laugh, her hand still clamped over the gash.
"Hey," Anton said in mock incredulity, "us freaks gotta stick together." They had reached the door of her caravan. "Here we are. I'll help you dress the wound, if you need."
"You've been a great help already," Marie said quietly. "I'll be fine. It's only a shallow cut.
But you're late for the bucket act," she added with a wan smile. "The Puppetmaster'll have your head on a pike if you don't show."
"Do you think I'd make a good pike-headed man?" Anton asked, laughing, as he lowered her to the ground. "You sure you'll be all right?"
Marie was already on the stoop of her wagon. "I've been hit with worse things. If you see somebody with apple juice on his hands, though, lend him a fist for me." She gestured with her bloody hand.
"At your command!" Anton stomped once in comic salute, then whirled about and marched away.
Marie smiled painfully as he left, then set her sticky fingers on the handle of the door, easing it open. All at once, the sharp smell of blood from her wound sent a wave of nausea over her, and she leaned on the slick knob.
"I'd better stanch this," she said through gritted teeth.
Forcing the door back, she pushed her way into the cramped wagon and headed for the dry sink in the corner. Her hand trembled as she grasped the tin pitcher beside the sink and poured its contents into the basin. After washing her hands she pulled a shabby towel from a nearby chest, bit its hem, and ripped off a thin strip. After soaking the rag in the basin, she dabbed the wound clean and tied the rest of the towel around her calf.
It wasn't the first time she had gotten cut in her act, but always before she had been wounded by accident, and never had the audience laughed. Marie braced herself against the dry sink, the cachinnation ringing in her ears. Laughter and Blood. Laughter and Blood. It was a llhe from an old nursery rhyme her father used to read to her. She still had the storybook, shelved with other fairy tales beside her door. But the books were little good to her now: the Fever had taken both her father and her eyes.
Pivoting on her uninjured leg, Marie sat down on a stool beside the dry sink. The seat was warm and wet.
She stood up, brushing the back of her skirt and sniffing her fingers. More blood. "My leg must be bleeding worse than I thought," the young woman mumbled to herself. She reached out to the dry sink, her hand again clenching the crumpled rag. Dizzy, she shook her head, decided to lie down and clean up the blood later.
