The Lampo Circus Page 11

  Milli turned towards him with an open smile. ‘You’ll thank me for this later,’ she said, and before Ernest knew what was happening she had propelled him forwards into the arms of the jubilant Dame Trumps.

  ‘He’s perfect!’ she crowed. ‘How much do you want for him?’

  ‘He’s not for sale,’ Milli told her, ‘but his talents—of which there are too many to mention—are yours for the next hour if we have a deal.’

  ‘We do indeed, my dear, and now on with the show!’

  Poor Ernest was not quite strong enough to escape the determined grasp of the entrepreneurial dame as she steered him backstage where he was dressed in silk breeches and a crown.

  ‘Don’t you make a dashing prince, lad?’ she said. ‘Show’s about to start. I’ll signal when you’re to go on.’

  ‘Hang on a sec! Where are my lines?’ Ernest asked.

  ‘That’s the good news—you ain’t got any. All you got to do is prance about looking princely. That expression you’re wearing right now is just the ticket.’

  From the wings, Ernest listened to the narrator telling the story of Princess Salt from the far-away land of Cholesterol who was unable to find a suitor until she met the enchantingly smooth Prince Margarine. It was the worst story he had ever heard. Luckily, he was not required until the end of the show when the prince and princess finally meet and fall ardently in love. When his moment arrived, Ernest was shoved onto the stage only to be leapt upon by a girl in a blonde wig and frilly frock.

  ‘How handsome you are,’ the princess crooned in a deep voice. ‘And how much healthier I feel with you by my side.’

  Having not the slightest clue what to do, Ernest grinned broadly and tried to flex the muscles in his arms, imagining this was what was expected of princes without dialogue. The audience laughed rumbustiously, much to his discomfort.

  ‘A kiss, my fetching prince?’ Princess Salt said.

  This was certainly more forward than Ernest remembered princesses to be. A little more coyness from Salt wouldn’t go astray, he thought as she advanced towards him, rouged lips puckered. The audience made loud hooting sounds. As the princess drew closer, Ernest noticed that she had unusually hairy knuckles for a girl. He also saw a prominent Adam’s apple bobbling around her throat. When she was almost on top of him, Ernest could see Princess Salt had a little black goatee and thick eyebrows. He suddenly remembered learning about a period in history when female roles in the theatre were assigned to young men before their voices broke as acting was considered far too unseemly for a well-bred young woman. Just his luck to have landed in such an unenlightened time!

  Ernest backed away in disgust. Dame Trumps hadn’t mentioned anything about physical contact. Why had Milli gone and contracted him to the theatre company before checking out such details? The princess was now proffering her bristly chin and fluttering her eyelashes in a parody of girlish flirtatiousness. Ernest looked to Finn and Fennel in the audience for assistance, but they just waved him on encouragingly.

  ‘Err…’ he stammered, ‘perhaps we should ask your father’s permission before taking this any further.’

  ‘My father has given us his blessing,’ the princess said in a breathy voice.

  ‘As a mark of my devotion,’ Ernest said, having just glimpsed a means of escape which would not require anyone to lose face, ‘I request permission to kiss your worthy and rather broad hand.’

  ‘Nonsense! No time for modesty!’ Princess Salt cried and lunged at him…

  When Ernest regained consciousness, he was lying on his back in the wings.

  ‘What a beautiful touch!’ the bouncy Dame Trumps was saying. ‘The kiss literally took his breath away. The audience loved it—loved it, I say!’

  Ernest opened his eyes. ‘You mean I was a success?’ he mumbled blearily.

  ‘An absolute triumph, dear boy!’ Dame Trumps gushed, patting her chest in an effort to calm down. ‘We’d love to take you on a more permanent basis. You’re a natural!’

  ‘Okay,’ Ernest said, temporarily blinded by his success. ‘Where do I sign?’

  ‘What he means is, he would love to work for your esteemed theatre company but can’t,’ Milli jumped in quickly. ‘We’re just passing through, you see. Could we have those directions now?’

  ‘Anything for the star of the show,’ Dame Trumps replied. ‘Reaching Mirth is a tough challenge, little prince. The realm of the Fada is the hardest to infiltrate. No one I know has ever managed it.’

  ‘We know it won’t be easy,’ Milli answered, ‘but the prince is prepared for any eventuality.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ sighed Dame Trumps.

  Ernest, who had propped himself onto his elbows, did not like the sound of this and muttered that he thought he’d rather try his hand at acting. Milli ignored him.

  ‘Where do we start?’ she persisted. ‘Someone jot this down!’

  ‘Well,’ began Dame Trumps, rubbing her chin thoughtfully, ‘the first thing you have to do is get to the gates of the Toadstool Palace. That’s where the trials begin.’

  She pointed to an alleyway called Cat’s Cradle, so named because it had become a refuge for the city’s homeless felines.

  ‘Follow the alley until you can go no further. Take the path on the right and walk until you find you have come to a dense mass of white trees. This is the Wood of Tartar. You must pass through it—and try not to smile too much in there—in order to get to Mirth. Oh, and here…’

  She threw Ernest a pouch that rattled with what they presumed to be payment. ‘I’ve thrown in a little extra for the improvisation. If you ever need work, you know where to find me.’

  The children thanked the dame for her kindness and set off in the direction of Cat’s Cradle. As soon as they entered the dingy alleyway, they sensed dozens of eyes watching them from dark corners. A few wasted cats wandered out and rubbed against their legs in the hope of hand-outs. Ernest drew from the bundle he was carrying Nonna Luna’s idea of a sandwich: an entire loaf of bread jammed with inch-thick slices of salami and cheese. He pulled out the cold meat slices and placed them on the cobbles for the cats to feast on.

  Finn was surprised by such a display of soft-heartedness. ‘We might have needed that,’ he grumbled.

  ‘We need all the good karma we can get,’ said Ernest.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Drunken Admiral

  The children soon realised that Cat’s Cradle was home to more than just the city’s stray felines. A ragged boy with a dirt-streaked face and flaxen hair emerged from the shadows and reached, whimpering, for Milli’s hand. She was on the verge of taking it when Finn roared and pushed her roughly aside.

  ‘Don’t touch him, he’s an Urchin!’

  ‘Well, I can see that,’ Milli retorted in her most schoolmarmish voice. The little boy threw Finn a hostile look then turned pleading blue eyes back to Milli.

  ‘Urchins in Rune are different,’ Finn explained. ‘They befriend strangers and then steal their vital organs to sell to wizards at the markets. Organs fetch a handsome sum if they are fresh and unmarked.’

  Milli and Ernest looked at their companion in horror. ‘He hasn’t got any eyebrows, see?’ Finn continued now that he had their full attention.

  ‘That’s the telltale sign,’ Fennel added hurriedly, for the boy was inching closer, undeterred by the bad publicity he was receiving. ‘Urchins always present as hungry children but they’re skilled hunters. Soon as one has earned your trust, its fingers turn to scalpels and they just reach right inside you to take whatever happens to be most in demand. It’s usually livers around here.’

  Finn gave them a knowing look and made an imbibing gesture with his thumb, the meaning of which was lost on our young protagonists. Milli had just enough time to step away from the Urchin, who spat viciously at the twins before shrinking back into the gloom.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Milli, and for the first time, she felt glad of their decision to allow Finn and Fennel to accompany them on
their journey.

  As they continued down Cat’s Cradle, they passed an austere sandstone building with large pillars and arched doors through which people hurried clutching purses or lugging heavy sacks.

  ‘The Pebble Bank,’ a perplexed Ernest read aloud. ‘Is Pebble the manager’s name?’

  The twins giggled.

  ‘Why don’t you try opening the pouch Dame Trumps gave you?’ Fennel said.

  Ernest dipped a hand into the pouch and was surprised to find himself withdrawing a handful of pebbles instead of coins. From his geological studies, he immediately recognised them as the polished stones you find on the shoreline, tossed up by the sea. Their colours ranged from dull grey to vibrant shades of red and yellow, as well as some pieces of sea glass rubbed smooth by the corrosive action of sand and water.

  Finn picked each piece up in turn. ‘Pinkies, ambers, whittles, soots and swirls,’ he rattled off knowledgeably. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

  Fennel saw the children’s puzzled looks and proceeded to give them a lecture on Rune’s unique currency system. Swirls were the highest in value because they contained veins of several different minerals and were very hard to come by. Only the wealthiest and most powerful people had them in abundance. They were closely followed by pinkies and ambers with their earthy tones, whilst soots and whittles had the lowest value. These smooth charcoal-coloured pebbles were easily found, and were used to purchase most of one’s daily sundries, such as milk, apples or perhaps a glazed currant bun.

  The narrow alleyway seemed to snake on forever, parts of it so steep it was almost vertical. After a while, the wayfarers felt their steps grow heavy. So focused were they on reaching the end that they barely noticed when the shutters of a window above flew open and a bucket of greasy suds was tipped out, missing them by inches.

  By now the sun had set and it was growing dark. A wailing wind blew up and moved through the alleyway. By this I mean that instead of whooshing like ordinary winds do, this one was moaning as if in grief. We all know what a terribly miserable element the wind can be. But who can blame it? Would you be cheerful if you blustered about cities all day, sweeping off hats, turning umbrellas inside out, tearing down washing, toppling chimneys and being cursed by irate people simply for doing your duty? After all, destructive behaviour is only diverting for the first five minutes before becoming just plain sad.

  Folks are rarely flattering about the wind. They bask in the sun, dance in the rain and delight in the snow, but the wind is nothing more than a nuisance. A close relative of mine who was employed for many years trying to impart knowledge to children (before adopting the more profitable enterprise of chocolate-making) claimed his charges were always more restless and lacking in focus on windy days. And then there is the well-known proverb, It is an ill wind that blows no good, which inextricably links windiness with bad fortune. Little wonder the wind in Cat’s Cradle was wailing.

  ‘Bothersome wind! I can barely see where I’m going,’ complained Ernest. He suggested they may need to consider seeking shelter overnight. No sooner had he finished voicing his suggestion than they spied what looked like a tavern ahead. A chipped sign that read The Drunken Admiral creaked in the wind. Ernest assessed the feasibility of staying overnight at the establishment by trying to peer through its murky windows.

  Milli shivered and drew her jacket tighter around her. Something told her that wandering the streets of an unknown city with only a temperamental zucchini to help them was not a wise idea.

  ‘We’d better go in,’ she decided on everyone’s behalf and promptly pushed open the door.

  Inside the Drunken Admiral, weather-beaten, shaggy-haired seamen sat in groups over foamy tankards. At one end of the room was a long counter that served as the bar, and a fire crackled warmly in a hearth. Above it was a shelf holding a row of earthenware jugs. This was obviously the place where the ordinary populace of Rune gathered to discuss news, swap gossip and escape the daily grind for a few hours. The dimly lit tavern assured anonymity, which is always advantageous for those who do not wish to be recognised or identified whilst drowning their sorrows. Ruddy-faced men and waitresses in frilly petticoats exchanged playful banter. Ernest was sure his mother would not approve of him spending time in such a place—rescue mission or otherwise.

  Milli ducked out of the way as a lanky, bearded gentleman, limbs flailing like a beetle in his inebriated state, swiped at her thinking she was someone who owed him money. The man’s words were slurred and his breath smelled of ale.

  ‘Cough it up, Edgar. I only want what is mine. A lifetime’s service will suffice if you don’t have forty thousand swirls.’

  Quickly, Finn grasped Milli’s shoulder and they pushed their way towards the counter.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ the barman drawled. He looked Milli up and down then said, ‘You look like a Turbulent Tonic lass to me.’ He turned his attention to the twins. ‘And you two look like you need some Wet Dog Rum.’

  Finally he glanced at Ernest. ‘I don’t think we have anything strong enough for you.’

  (The world in which you and I reside has strong restrictions regarding minors and the consumption of alcohol, but in the Conjurors’ Realm they believed that age should not impinge upon the pleasures of life.)

  ‘We actually just wanted some supper,’ Milli said to him. She thought it wise to wait a while before deciding if this would be a safe place to stay the night.

  ‘Never! Not even a Centipede Whisky? Scallops in Scotch, Foot Ale, Sparkling Port, Lancelot’s Liqueur—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Milli answered as firmly as she could manage.

  The barman shrugged and handed them a tattered and stained menu. The entire page was taken up by beverages but in tiny print at the bottom was a box containing the meals offered by the Drunken Admiral. There were three in total—Admiral’s Log, Admiral’s Hat and Admiral’s Beard—and it was impossible to differentiate between them. They ordered one of each and hoped for the best.

  ‘Fine choices!’ the barman declared. ‘That’ll be three pinkies.’

  Milli instinctively put her hands behind her back, but the astute Ernest withdrew three of the required coral pebbles from his pouch and laid them on the counter.

  When the meals arrived, it turned out that Admiral’s Log was meatloaf peppered with chunks of carrot—the careful removal of which tested Ernest’s patience. Milli’s choice of Admiral’s Hat was baked cod in the shape of a canoe, while the twins shared an Admiral’s Beard—fine angel’s-hair noodles tossed with chewy mussels.

  The children found a secluded corner at the back of the tavern from which they could observe their surroundings. As they ate, their attention could not help but be drawn to a truculent pair sitting to their right, a well-built woman and a short, muscular sailor with a sunburnt face.

  ‘You stole my lucky ketchup!’ the woman said accusingly.

  The sailor drew himself up to his full height and snorted indignantly. ‘And you have eaten my second cousins!’ he retorted.

  ‘I never!’ cried the woman. ‘I never ate a human being except for once in desperate circumstances, but that was thirty years ago. Now give me back my ketchup.’

  ‘Do you like squid?’ the sailor demanded. ‘Particularly when they are char-grilled and served with a squeeze of lime?’

  ‘My favourite since I was just a tot,’ the woman answered, her mouth watering at the memory. ‘What do you think gave me the whopping great brains I have today?’

  ‘Then you are a murderer!’ shouted the sailor. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, guzzling my helpless cousins. My own wife is a charming trout and we’ve lived quite happily together since I caught her five years ago. Do you mean to tell me you plan to gobble her up as well?’

  ‘Well,’ said the woman huffily, ‘I believe we are even. I ate your distant relatives and you stole my ketchup.’

  The two decided this was a fair agreement and reparation was deemed unnecessary. Shaking hands, they parted qui
te amicably.

  Milli and Ernest looked at Finn and Fennel for an explanation, but the twins just shook their heads helplessly.

  Their hunger satisfied, the children were about to ask the barman about taking a room for the night when two gentlemen collapsed into armchairs by the hearth and began to prepare pipes by stuffing them with shredded celery. A jug of the best rum sat between them. The children did not recognise the black beard and gold earring of the first man, but the second fellow they knew immediately by his lumpy skin and carroty hair growing as blunt as a hedge.

  ‘What on earth is Mr Ledger doing here?’ Milli hissed. ‘Doesn’t he have accounts to finalise or the cost of abductions to calculate?’

  The others shushed her as they tried to eavesdrop, burying their faces in their mugs of cider to avoid recognition.

  ‘Tell me,’ the bearded man said in a guttural voice, ‘how is the world treating you these days, Ledger? Still working for that barge, Bombasta?’

  Mr Ledger blinked his orange eyes as he offered a cagey reply. ‘We all have to put bread on the table.’

  ‘I hear there are plans afoot; plans that will unite the provinces once and for all. Any truth in the rumours?’

  Ledger’s gingery whiskers twitched nervously. ‘I don’t know anything about plans,’ he answered. ‘What I do know is that I need another drink.’

  The bearded man was not ready to let the matter drop. He leaned in closer. ‘They say an onslaught is on the cards, planned for just after Black Harvest. Word is Lord Aldor has finally cracked the code to overcoming the Fada. But I expect he will fail as he has before.’

  A mottle-faced Ledger almost choked on his rum. ‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ he spluttered with unexpected venom. ‘The Illustrious One cannot be defeated this time, and anyone with half a brain should pledge their allegiance to him or suffer the consequences.’

  Mr Ledger’s eyes glittered in the firelight and he bared sharp little razor teeth. His friend gave a throaty laugh, pleased with the response his tactic had elicited.