Carnival of Fear, page 8
part #6 of Ravenloft Series
Bowing, she backed away before them, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. Morcastle followed her down the canvas hallway to where it opened into a moderate-sized room. The walls were adorned with beadwork mosaics, brass trinkets, ivory carvings, and leafy ferns. Veils draped like banners from the pitched roof of the tent, segmenting the room into many translucent compartments. In one compartment, more of the veiled women reclined, their elbows resting on piles of pillows and their feet on ornate rugs. The women had gathered around a short table with a polished ebony top. They spoke furtively with each other, drawing food out of various bowls set about the table.
The veiled woman led the three down the sandy central path of the tent. "Even those of the brotherhood of performers," she said, placing emphasis on the phrase, "may not know that Oreaux's true name is Olaal Ab' Haddisha, or that he comes of royal blood from the lines of desert kings. These are but the wives who attend him." The woman graciously nodded toward the short table. "I am Satina. I will interpret the telling of Oreaux."
She rounded an opaque veil, and Morcastle followed. They stepped through a thick curtain of beads into a richly furnished room. The floor was covered by a red and black rug, which was edged with countless pillows. At the end of the room was Oreaux.
He sat in a large black chair. The arms of the chair were hollow boxes into which his forearms and hands were locked. So, too, the legs of the chair ended in boxes that held his feet and ankles. The oracle's head was restrained in a square wooden helmet attached to the back of the chair. A vertical slit in the front of the helm revealed the man's face. He was aged and dark in complexion, with nearly white eyebrows and a long ivory mustache. His eyes lolled dazedly in his head, and a line of drool extended from his lip onto the lower edge of the helm.
Satina stood beside Oreaux, stroking his shoulder and directing the magician and his friends to find seats among the pillows. "Don't let the black chair frighten you," said Satina. "His gift for prophecy came at a price-his sanity. But don't worry, he is quite harmless as long as he remains in the chair."
As Morcastle, Marie, and Hermos seated themselves, the exotic woman continued, "What do you seek, friends? The past, the future, fate, fortune?"
"We seek a murderer," Marie said calmly. The moment her voice sounded in the small room, Oreaux's head turned violently in the box. He sniffed the air, and his eyes made circular sweeps in her direction. His arms began to tremble, and his feet kicked, hammering against the inside of the box.
"The murderer of whom?" Satina asked, ignoring the clamor.
"We know who the man is: Dominick, a butcher from the city. We need to know where he is," Marie elaborated. "We must know quickly."
Nodding, Satina leaned near Oreaux and whispered into a hole in the helm. As she spoke, Oreaux shuddered, spittle sputtering in foamy flecks from his lips. He wrenched, striking his head against the sides of the wooden helm. "Please be still, my dear. Yes, she is a blind girl. Yes, they are performers as are we."
Satina's words drew nothing more than wheezes and grunts from Oreaux. In time, Satina backed away from him and wiped the foam from her head-veil.
"He says that Dominick is here, at this very carnival."
"Yes, we know," Marie replied gently, "but where? We must find him and stop him."
Again Satina leaned close to her husband, murmuring into his ear. He had not stopped trembling from the previous question, and now he emitted cryptic shouts.
The woman said, "He is stalking through the Performers Quarter, beside the arena."
Hermos started to rise, his eyes wide, but Morcastle motioned him to sit. The magician whispered, "How do we know he is there? Has the oraclceven said one word that makes sense?"
Listening for a moment to Oreaux, the woman replied coldly, "Your forward trouser pocket contains a deck of cards, which is missing the four aces. They are hidden in your sleeve, collar, stocking, and breast pocket. The blind juggling woman has seven scars on her right hand, two on her left, one center-thigh, and two on her'right shoulder from missing throws. And your man-giant friend-"
"All right, all right," Morcastle protested, waving his hands before him. "1 believe you."
Turning toward Marie and Hermos, he said, "Let's go capture him." Oreaux trembled and coughed violently. "He's not in the Performers Quarter anymore. He's reached the hippo-woman's stall," Satina said.
Rising from his seat, Morcastle asked, "Which way is he headed?'
The man barked out something meaningless, and the woman said, "He is moving toward this tent."
Morcastle's eyes went wide, and he swallowed.
Hermos had also risen. "Here?" the man-giant asked.
"Yes," the woman replied simply. "Oreaux has summoned him."
*****
Morcastle, Marie, and Hermos crouched in Oreaux's crowded trunk room, which was separated from his sanctuary by a purple veil. Their eyes alternated between the fettered madman in the black box of wood and the beadwork entrance to the sanctuary. Hermos stood at the front edge of the veil, peering around it as a small child might. Behind him, Marie sat amongst a towering collection of carnival trunks, their tattered leather sides covered with faded bills posted one atop another. Morcastle stood at the other end of the baggage room, peering fearfully out.
Smoke rising from the ubiquitous incense burners circulated hypnotically in the quiet air.
"I feel like an idiot, squatting back here," Morcastle complained, rubbing his aching legs.
"He's not going to be com-"
Hermos glared at the magician, gesturing for silence. Directing his gaze back down the hallway, Hermos murmured another prayer to Qin-sah, god of horses. The words had just concluded when he spotted movement.
Satina was leading a stocky man down the aisle, throwing rose petals before him. The man was mesmerized, his eyes wide and glassy. Running a meaty hand over his balding head, he absently pushed the woman out of the way, spilling her rose petals on the sandy floor, and strode past her toward Oreaux.
The butcher muttered flatly, "Where's the oracle?"
"Dominick," Morcastle mouthed to the man-giant.
Rounding the corner that led to Oreaux's sanctuary, the butcher caught sight of the oracle imprisoned in his throne of black wood. Oreaux was quivering, his feet shuddering in the wooden box that held them. His eyes spun in panicked circles in his head.
Blinking dully, Dominick crossed muscled arms over his chest and stepped toward the seer.
The butcher's face was expressionless, except for a momentary twinge when he bumped the bandaged stump of his index finger.
"You are the oracle?" he slurred, his expressionless eyes pinning Oreaux.
Under the weight of that gaze Oreaux spasmed again.
The butcher smiled vacuously, and the dim glow of an oil lamp glinted off a silver tooth in his mouth. "I came to see you," he said stupidly. A look of confusion scrolled across his features as though he suddenly wondered why he had come.
Satina slipped soundlessly between the looming butcher and Oreaux. With averted eyes, she motioned for the butcher to be seated among the pillows. "Please, sir, recline for a moment as the oracle prepares himself to speak." Her thin hand settled on his and she drew him, stiffly, to the ground.
The butcher's brows were knotted in confusion, but he dropped among the pillows. "How did I get here?" he wondered aloud.
Patting his hand gently, the woman retreated to the oracle's side. Her voice was throaty and soothing. "You've come to learn your fortune, like everyone."
Dominick nodded blankly. Then his eyes darkened. He began to stand again, saying, "I haven't time for-"
"Stay, sir," Satina urged, running her hand seductively along her thigh. "You can learn what luck you'll have this evening."
Watching her fingers glide along her leg, the butcher again nodded, seating himself numbly back onto the pillows. "What luck I'll have this evening?"
"Yes-how you will do," the woman replied, her voice quavering and her smile looking strained. "But first we must learn of your past."
She set her slender hand on the box that encased Oreaux's forearm. Her lips murmured into the ear hole of the wooden helm. Oreaux shuddered once as she spoke, then sat still, his glazed eyes wide and locked on the butcher. He whispered unintelligible words to her. Satina listened, watching his lips and nodding.
The butcher leaned forward with a look of concern, "What's he saying?"
Without pulling her ear away, Satina whispered, "You are a man of blood and slaughter."
" "Course," Dominick replied, rubbing his balding head. "I'm a butcher."
"More than that," Satina said, nodding as Oreaux mumbled to her. "You kill humans, too."
"Yeah. Occasionally, when I'm a city guard," the butcher said, still dazed. "What's wrong with that?"
Oreaux had begun to convulse again, and gagged and garbled shouts emerged from his lips.
Satina drew back as the oracle spasmed and sprayed, hissing like a caged serpent.
"He sees knives and blood," Satina said, her voice rising in fear. "Many kills. Hundreds ... or thousands."
"Enough!" the butcher growled, stomping his broad, booted foot on the rug. Satina paused, shaking and staring fearfully at him. A brutal smile cracked his face and, rubbing his hands together, he said, "What about tonight? How will I do?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid," came a man's narrow voice. Morcastle stepped from behind the purple veil and flipped his satin cape defiantly. He now stood between Satina and the butcher.
Dominick jolted, startled, his fat hands clenching into fists. He struggled to his feet, only then seeing the man-giant who had appeared to block the other end of the room.
Morcastle said, "You, Monsieur Dominick, are under arrest for the murder of Panol, Banol, Borgo, and a hundred other carnival workers."
The butcher glared incredulously back and forth between the two men as Satina moved out of harm's way. Again he flashed an uneasy smile, his silver tooth gleaming. "This is some kind of joke, right?" - "I'm afraid not." The voice was a woman's this time, but it did not come from the retreating Satina. Looking about, Dominick saw through a purple veil the dark and ghostly form of Marie, almost indistinguishable among the trunks and crates around her. She moved into the light, her young and beautiful face contrasting with her white eyes. In her hands, she held a brace of gleaming daggers.
"We found your handprints," said the magician, taking a cautious step toward the -man.
"Missing the index finger. We found your bootprints and your precision knife work on the backs of your victims' skulls."
"What are you talking about?" the man bellowed.
"1 think you know," Morcastle said, taking another step forward. "The confirming proof will be the scar on your back."
Before the butcher could move, Hermos's strong, narrow fingers grasped the back of his collar. With a loud rending, the tattered chemise ripped straight down Dominick's back. Hermos released the two ends of the shirt, his sunken eyes growing grave. A long, fresh scar cut from the man's right shoulder to his left hip.
"He's got the-" Hermos's words were cut short by the butcher's fist, which rammed like a sledgehammer into his stomach. With a groan, Hermos fell, reeling back into the beadwork entrance.
Morcastle leaped on the butcher's back, wrapping a line of knotted kerchiefs around his neck.
Twisting the scarves tightly, the magician watched as the man's head reddened with exertion.
The butcher abruptly pitched forward. Morcastle tumbled over the meaty shoulder and through the air. He landed flat on his back and gasped. Dominick laughed.
Turning toward the laughter, Marie ripped the purple veil down and threw one of her knives toward the butcher. The dagger struck, burying deep in the man's thigh-sized ami. His laughter gave way to groans as he grabbed the knife's black hilt to pull it forth. Before he could dislodge it, though, another set of arms wrapped about him.
Hermos tackled the butcher. Clenching his jaw, the man-giant fastened a headlock on Dominick and cinched it tight. A silver tooth flashed. Dominick roared, and his teeth clamped down on the man-giant's Km, biting through the skin. Hermos shouted in pain, his arm going limp. He rolled, knocking the butcher
Dominick scrabbled backward and yanked the knife from his arm. Snorting like a bull, he charged Hermos and. drove the blade into the man-giant's stomach. With a quivering gasp, Hermos rolled away, clutching the hilt of the dagger. Dominick rose and laughed through bloodied teeth. He vaulted toward Oreaux, planted his anormous boot on the oracle's thin chest, and knocked the black throne over backward. Shuddering and screaming, Oreaux tipped over.
The back of the chair struck the ground and cracked. Dominick ran for the tent wall. Reaching it, he lifted the tarp and slipped out into the crowded circus.
Glaring toward the flapping tent wall, Morcastle rushed to the bleeding man-giant and knelt down beside him. Satina latched onto Marie's arms and led feer toward Hermos as well. The other veiled ladies, see-tag that the butcher was gone, descended on the scene tea fluttering flock, their hushed voices murmuring back and forth in an exotic and musical language.
"Back, ladiesl Back!" Morcastle snapped in frustration as he wrapped a torn sash around the wound and t gripped the knife blade still sunk into Hermos's stomach. The magician drew the knife gently, cleanly forth. He held one hand atop the sash, now growing *wm with blood, and gestured the crowd back with the rafter hand.
Hermos's long, narrow fingers clasped the magician's haw*, and the man-giant stared at him with solemn, sober eyes. "Go catch him," Hermos said.
"What? Don't be a fool," Morcastle said, glancing at the rumpled tent wall where the butcher had exited. "You're wounded."
Marie's slim hand settled on the magician's shoulder. "I can tend him, Morcastle. Go."
The magician looked at his companions, concern and fear mixing on his features. He pressed his lips together, rose, and headed for the spot where Dominick had made his escape. Wrapping his fingers around the base of the thick canvas, Morcastle lifted the tent side, ducked under, and disappeared into the carnival beyond.
He emerged onto a crowded boardwalk, a wide and steady river of patrons flowing past him.
The butcher was nowhere in sight. Morcastle set his jaw and pushed through the crowd, his eyes darting to each side. There was a gawky farmer, a scarred mercenary, a rotund council member, a sticky-faced girl. . . .
"Damn," Morcastle spat as an embarrassing sense of relief spread through him. Reaching the opposite side of the walkway, Morcastle stepped up on a broken crate, lifted his head above the crowd, and gazed down the boardwalk. .
There, in the river of patrons, lay a long, wide gap, like the wake of a boat. Squinting, Morcastle looked to the head of the gap. Dominick was there. The muscles of his shirtless back pumped as he ran, and the crescent knife wound from his shoulder to his hip showed red with the exertion.
Morcastle opened his mouth to shout, but his breath caught short. The heavy throbbing of his heart beat out one damning word.
"Murder . . . murder . . . murder . . ."
Morcastle blinked. Dominick was almost out of sight now. Best to let him flee.
"Murder.. . murder... murder..."
His lungs filled with the steamy night air, and he shouted, "Murdererl Stop him! Dominick the butcher is a murderer!"
The crowd around Morcastle stilled, then pulled back from him. The patrons gawked at the shouting magician, shock and fear on their faces.
Morcastle stepped from the box and pushed his way across the boardwalk. "Stop the butcher!
Stop the murderer Dominick." The crowd recoiled from him, clearing a lane as Morcastle began to run. "Help me," he implored, growing breathless. "Stop that man-that murderer!"
Only empty, fearful stares answered him, a grim gauntlet he was running.
Ahead, the butcher had almost reached the lower end of the Performers Quarter-Tent Town, where the-carnival's newest performers dwelt. The perfect place to hide. The perfect place for another murder.
Pointing toward him, Morcastle screamed out angrily, "Stop him! Doesn't anyone care?" His aching feet slowed and stopped on the boardwalk. Doubling over, he set his hands on his knees and drew deep, raking breaths into his lungs.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Arkoo the Leopard Boy: his hands and feet were nubby and clawed like a leopard's and his lean, youthful body was covered in orange and black fur. Arkoo's cleft lip drew back as he smoothed a whisker with his pawlike hand. "What's happening?" he murmured excitedly.
A pained smile formed on Morcastle's face. "Can you run, child?"
"Faster than an arrow," Arkoo said proudly, scratching the planking with his thick-clawed toes.
"Run, then, and catch that shirtless man up there," Morcastle said as he pointed toward the retreating butcher.
Arkoo nodded excitedly, making a clicking sound between his teeth. Then, dropping to all fours, he dashed away down the boardwalk. His clawed toes and fingers scratched deeply into the worn planks, propelling him past rows of startled patrons. As they drew back from him, gasping and shielding their faces, Arkoo released a laughing snarl.
Ahead, the fleeing man rounded the fence of Tent Town and disappeared into the maze of canvas beyond. Arkoo growled, quickening his pace. He roared like wildfire past the patrons, his orange, spotted skin undulating like flame. In four bounds, he reached the fence that surrounded the Performers Quarter. Clamping his jagged teeth together, the feline boy pivoted and leaped.
He rose with quiet grace, arcing above the screaming patrons, above the whitewashed fence. He landed on skidding claws in a sandy alley between two tents.
The alley was empty. Arkoo's eyes narrowed, but his slitted pupils widened just perceptibly.
He sniffed the air, smelling sand and smoke, fish, dung, canvas, straw-the perpetual bouquet of carnival scents. But, lying atop them all was a distinct combination of odors: sweat, blood, anxiety.
