Carnival of Fear, page 9
part #6 of Ravenloft Series
The man the leopard boy was chasing had come this way, and, by the smell of it, was still nearby. Rising on his back legs, Arkoo padded down the alley. He paused, turning his ear to the wind. The screams of the crowd had silenced, leaving only a fearful hush behind him, a fearful hush and the distant murmur of the carnival. But another sound was there, deceptively interlaced with these others. Quick, cautious footsteps. The footsteps of a large man.
Arkoo flexed his legs and shot down the alley, past the flapping tents, to a tree-sized lantern post that stood at the far end. He leaped for the wooden pole and sank his claws in amongst the tattered remains of bills once posted there. Strengthening his hold, Arkoo lurched upward. His claws released from the wood and dug in higher up. The broad lantern at the top of the post pitched precariously with each jarring jump.
Rising above the canvas rooftops, Arkoo scanned the carnival around him. He spotted furtive movement beside a gray-and-white striped tent some fifty feet from the post. A muscled arm swung back for a moment, then disappeared into the tent
Arkoo hurled himself from the post, soaring like a bat to the ground. His feet fell into rhythm, carrying him toward the gray and white tent. In six easy bounds, he reached the canvas wall. Planting his rear feet in the sand, he vaulted onto the tent. The tall center pole cracked and snapped. The canvas roof buckled, yanking stay cords from the sandy soil. As the leopard boy descended atop the billowing tent, a man's shout came from within, punctuated by the crash and shatter of glassware.
The leopard boy glimpsed a form struggling beneath the canvas. Scrambling across the cloth, Arkoo landed atop the form, knocking him to the ground within the collapsing tent. The man shrieked, trying to roll over, but Arkoo sank his claws through the canvas, pinning the burly man to the ground.
"Stay still," he snarled, panting.
*****
"This way," the Puppetmaster said, making a vague, sweeping gesture with his black-clothed arm. The hulking carnival owner glared at the two gendarmes, then stomped through the gate of Tent Town. His broad boots left heavy tracks in the sand.
Captain Moldau, the taller and older of the two gendarmes, regarded the Puppetmaster dubiously before following him through the ratty fence. He eyed the crowd that filled Tent Town and the torches glowing among the ropes and canvas. The captain tapped his partner's shoulder and motioned toward the mob. "This one's not gonna be pretty."
Lieutenant Ransen nodded, patting the club looped onto his leather belt. He fell in step beside Moldau, rubbing his young face with a cold, trembling hand.
Three tents on the outskirts of the Performers Quarter had been trampled down by the crowd, and one accidentally set ablaze. The grubby, torch-bearing performers eyed the gendarmes suspiciously as the Puppetmaster led them toward the center of the crowd. Lieutenant Ransen tried to ignore them: the bearded woman, the man with three legs, the armless acrobat, the goat-headed boy. . . .
"Here they are," the Puppetmaster growled, gesturing toward a circle of the performers.
A blind woman, a leopard boy, and a cheap-suited magician held Dominick the butcher to the ground.
Ransen unlooped his club and approached the three. "Get off him, you freaks!"
"Wait," snapped the blind woman angrily, stepping between the lieutenant and the others.
"That man is a murderer."
"Nonsense," said the captain, crossing his hands over his chest, "that's Dominick the butcher."
"Butcher indeed," said the magician, struggling to keep the man down. "He has committed three murders here on the carnival grounds. We have evidence to convict him."
"What evidence? Let's see it," Lieutenant Ransen demanded curtly.
"He killed Borgo the Sword-Swallower in my caravan," the blind woman began, "leaving a number of bloody handprints without the index finger. The gendarme on the scene tried to wash them away, but they still show faintly."
"And the bootprints here and at the other murder site match this man's boots."
The lieutenant leaned over, peering at the sole of his foot. "They also match mine pretty well."
"We can show you a whole graveyard in the woods below the carnival. He's killed over a hundred of us, one by one so that no one would notice-so that we would think they had just moved on," Marie said.
"How do we know you're not making this up?" the captain asked with a laugh.
"We'll show you the graveyard, and the handprints-"
"They came to me," the Puppetmaster rumbled suddenly. "They came this morning with this news. I believe them, lieutenant, and Lord Odieu does as well. I suggest you do the same."
Ransen's eyes narrowed as he studied the performers' faces. "These are serious charges.
You'll have to-come with us to I'Morai to state them in full. It'll take a council hearing to convict him."
The blind woman's features hardened. "When do we leave?"
"Tonight."
Five
Hermos lay on the floor of the healer's caravan, watching the hypnotic sway of lanterns above his head. His toes reached to one end of the stuffy wagon, and his head touched the other.
On both sides, shuffling feet hemmed him in. Heads hovered over his still form, heads of crouching people, their eyes trained on him.
It was the first time he had ever looked up at any of them.
The healer herself prattled about with gritty powders and pungent salves. The drooping, silken sleeves of her shirt swiped back and forth across the man-giant's face as she worked.
"Give him some air," she croaked, oblivious to the position of her sleeve. "Back up, you folk.
Give him some air!"
She dumped a thick, mustardy concoction on his chest and began to rub it in. Those who hadn't backed up before did so now. Hermos winced, his nostrils flaring and his nose crinkling.
He peered suspiciously toward the woman, his bony hands clutching bloody linen over the knife wound in his stomach.
"Don't worry, Hermos. The salve drives out the spirits," the healer said with a toothy leer.
"I thought it might come to this," came a wry voice from the crowded doorway to the caravan.
The gawkers lining the wagon looked in shock toward the woman standing at the door. Marie the Blind Juggler stood there with Morcastle at her side. Despite her sightless eyes, white as boiled eggs, Marie knew exactly what was going on. She pressed toward the man-giant, pushing the milling people out of her way. Her nose led her to the salve-besmeared Hermos, beside whom she dropped to her knees. "What's this stuff?" she asked, holding her hands out to the sides.
"Salve," Hermos blurted, "for the spirits."
Marie shook her head and smiled. "Salve?" She leaned forward, scraping the pasty concoction from Hermos's chest and flinging it to the floor. In a conspiratorial whisper she said,
"Mighty Qin-sah! I wish we had a real healer."
"I am a real healer," the bent old woman protested.
Marie felt along the bandage on the man-giant's knife wound. It was loose and fouled with salve. "We'll have to rewrap this." She wiped the smelly salve from her hands onto her tattered skirt and began to remove the bandage.
Morcastle knelt down beside her. "Wait. I've got something that'll really drive out the spirits."
The magician lifted the wraps from the wound. "Hmmm. The cut is deep." Producing a thin metal flask from his coat pocket, the magician poured a capful of brownish liquid from it. "Take hold, man, and keep your tongue away from your teeth. This'll sting a bit."
In each hand, Hermos clutched the ankle of one of his attendants. Morcastle, setting his jaw, poured the liquid onto the wound. The man-giant cried out as he gripped the ankles.
Morcastle drew back, holding the cloths over the wound. As Hermos's thrashing slowed, the magician shot a concerned look at Marie. "He shouldn't go anywhere, I'm afraid," he said as he gently rebandaged the wound.
Marie blinked, setting her hands on Hermos's shoulders. "He's right, Hermos. But don't you worry. We'll convict that butcher."
The man-giant's brow furrowed. "Where are you going?"
"Arkoo caught the murderer," Morcastle replied, his eyes gleaming. "You know, Arkoo the Leopard Boy. We're going to 1'Morai to testify against Dominick. Don't worry, he won't get loose again."
Marie smiled and patted Hermos's shoulder. "You'd better rest, but you'd do well to get out of this witch doctor's hut and into your own tent."
Beside her, Morcastle gained his feet, groaning all the while, then extended his hand to help Marie up. They pushed toward the door.
Before Marie passed through, she said, "Wish us luck, Hermos."
"I do," Hermos said before his face was eclipsed by the fervid motions of the healer.
"I wish you luck, too," Marie muttered.
Morcastle gave a strong yank on her arm, pulling her down the two wooden steps in front of the caravan and into the cold night air. Marie, half-stumbling, ran into the stock-still form of the magician. "Why'd you pull me? He didn't hear what-"
"Marie, there's someone here to see us," Morcastle interrupted, his voice cold and edged with apprehension. He stroked the waxed tip of his mustache as he stared at the stranger. The man wore a fine surcoat of gray wool over a white, ruffled shirt, black knickers, gray stockings, and shoes of black leather. His face betrayed his youth, with wide, bright eyes, a hawklike nose, and a rumpled mouth. Sweeping outward with his thin hand, he snatched Marie's fingers. Then he dropped to one knee, doffed his plumed hat, and kissed her hand.
"Good evening," he said, his voice nasal. "I'm L'Aris, page to the Council of I'Morai and jurisconsult to accusers, such as yourselves. When the gendarmes returned with word of Dominick's arrest, the council sent me. 1 place myself in your service," he finished, rising gracefully.
Marie drew her hand back and pulled Morcastle toward her. "Good to make your acquaintance, sir. But my friend and 1 must hurry on. The gendarme's phaeton is waiting." She took a step past the jurist, leading Morcastle after her.
L'Aris's eyes fastened quizzically on the young woman as she walked away with the magician. For a moment, he stood and stared in their direction, then he stomped after them, trotting to catch up.
"Pardon me, mademoiselle. I'm here to represent you, not convict you," L'Aris insisted, gesturing at the carnival around them.
Marie spun, her tattered skirt fluttering in a broad circle around her thin legs. A puff of sawdust rose beneath her foot. "Thank you for your offer, sir, but I thought perhaps the Puppetmaster would counsel us."
Amusement filled the young man's eyes. "The Puppetmaster? He's one of the council members. Only In extreme cases does-"
"Then we will argue our own case," Marie said politely.
The young man's face reddened, and he averted his gaze. "You aren't on trial here, mademoiselle. Dominick the butcher is."
"Let me be blunt with you, Jurist L'Aris," Marie said. "Jurisconsults like yourself have a reputation of favoring citizens over freaks."
"You have no chance without me," the lean jurist said, folding his gloved hands over his chest.
Morcastle shot a concerned glance at his companion and pulled her aside. "He may be our only hope. We can't expect to plead our own case and win. And we've got to convict this monster."
Marie's expression was distant, as though she were listening to some faraway voice. "There's something about them, Morcastle-about jurisconsults, I mean. Something my father told me, but 1 can't remember it." Then, with slow and measured words, she asked the jurist, "What will you do for us?"
Uncrossing his arms, L'Aris said, "1 will interview you, for one, getting the full story and learning about every possible shred of evidence against Dominick. I'll also counsel you on what to say and what not to say. I'll search for, gather, and present evidence based on the interviews.
Then, I'll argue the case for you, before the council."
"Answer one more question," Marie said quietly. "Do you. Jurist L'Aris, consider us freaks?"
Now the young man's face blanched. His lip pulled back from his teeth. "Yes," he replied quietly. "I suppose 1 do. I suppose I always have. But without me, you don't stand a chance of even being heard."
Marie's lips drew into a thin, grim line. She replied, "At least you're honest." She motioned for him to follow her. "Let's go."
The open-air carriage labored over the pitch black heath. The sky above it was clogged with thick clouds, which blotted out the stars and hung with tangible weight over the blasted ground.
Only the fender lanterns shed any light on the heath road, casting angular shadows beneath the puffing horses. The phaeton had left the glow and clamor of the carnival behind, and the lamps of I'Morai valley were still five miles away. Blackness filled the heath in between. Blackness and the cold winds.
Morcastle drew his thin cape about him, watching his breath curl in ghostly clouds from his mouth. Beside him sat Marie, her slender body quivering in the cold. About her shoulders, she wore the jurist's satin cape, which did little to shut out the cold.
As they rode along, L'Aris squinted at a bit of paper on a silver tray he balanced on his lap.
He'd been writing on the paper the whole while, asking questions of Marie and Morcastle, lifting the page occasionally to better see its contents. Who was murdered? How? Where are the bodies? Who was the first witness to the scene? Who was the first gendarme? Why do you suspect Dominick?
The questions rattled on and on through the night, reconstructing the horrible evening when Marie entered her blood-washed caravan and found the body there. And when L'Aris had learned enough of that incident, he asked about the abduction and murder of Panol and Banol, the mounded graves on the heath, and the chase through the carnival.
At last L'Aris asked the question that jarred both Marie and Morcastle awake. "What will you do if Dominick accuses you?"
"Accuses us?" Morcastle asked, his eyes turning from the dark sky and flashing beneath their neatly trimmed eyebrows. "What do you mean, accuses us?"
"Anything can happen before the council," the young man replied coolly, brushing a bit of dew from the collar of his coat. "I've heard of accusations reversing on accusers, of public executions on the courtroom floor, even of the council turning in on itself. The Council of I'Morai is a volatile place."
"But how could Dominick accuse us?" Morcastle pressed. "We've done nothing."
"You are the only ones who've been gathering evidence," L'Aris replied. He rubbed his fingertips together. "Worse yet, the first murder occurred in Marie's caravan. Perhaps, he'll argue, you've concocted this whole thing: trumped up evidence, fed clues to the Puppetmaster, sent him to I'Morai to hunt up a likely suspect, had him chop Dominick's finger off, draw a scar across his back . . ."
"This is preposterous," Morcastle blurted indignantly.
"Preposterous or not, it may be Dominick's defense," the young jurist said with a shrug.
"We've answered enough of your questions," Marie broke in. She huddled closer to Morcastle. "Now you answer one of ours. What else could happen at the trial?"
With a brief, guarded smile, the jurist leaned back on the seat of the open coach and folded his arms. "There will be two trials: the arraignment and the actual trial. The arraignment takes place tonight, as soon as we arrive. There the accusers-you two-present your claims to the court and file a grievance. You need provide no physical evidence or extensive testimony tonight. If the council finds your accusations worth pursuing, you and the prisoner will await trial. At that point, the accused is assumed guilty and must assemble evidence and testimony to prove otherwise. 1 will gather the evidence and witnesses for our side. Then, we'll hold the trial-present evidence, examine and cross-examine witnesses. And the people will decide."
"The people?" Marie asked.
"Yes," L'Aris said. "The council only adjudicates. It's a vote of the people that brings a verdict."
"Wait," Morcastle said, inching forward on the seat, "we're coming to something."
L'Aris folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket as he looked beyond the carriage. From the deep shadows, two large stone peaks loomed up on either side of the road, black and enormous in the night. The high road headed between them, then curved to the right.
After they passed the rock formations, a wide valley opened on the left of the carriage. The valley walls and floor shimmered with light.
"We're coming down off the high heath," L'Aris said. "On your left is I'Morai. It fills this valley and the next. 1 assume you've never been to I'Morai."
"Yes," replied Morcastle distractedly. "I haven't. Marie was born in I'Morai, but after the Fever blinded her and killed her father ..." He paused. "I'm sorry, Marie."
"It's all right," she responded quietly. "What do you see, Morcastle?"
Blushing in the night, he leaned to the left side of the phaeton and peered over. The steep-sloped face below them was illuminated with a hundred flickering lights, which fanned into a broad valley and rose up the face of the opposite mountain. "It's all lit up. There must be a thousand houses and shops." The warm glow from the windows shimmered across the rocky sides of the valley. "I can see where the road goes. It switches back and forth on the mountainside until it gets down to the bottom."
"There's a river there," Marie murmured, her ear toward the valley.
Morcastle nodded, hearing the sound now as well. The distant rush and plummet of a wide, white-water river rose to the magician's ear. He thought he could see the snaking flood and the four or five bridges that arched over it. On the other side of the river, more lanterns dotted the slope, and Morcastle could distinguish the thin roads that passed among the buildings.
"It's beautiful," the magician noted offhandedly.
"Yes," Marie said. "I wish I could remember where Father's shop was. I was so young. I don't even know what it looked like, or what he did, for that matter. But 1 remember feeling safe there."
"Perhaps we could find it together," Morcastle suggested.
