Foreward
Welcome to The Circus of Brass and Bone. This story is free, but donations are what keeps it going. All proceeds go to help cover my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer.

Now settle back and enjoy the circus. It's the end of civilization, but the show...must go on.

Episode 9

The Case of the Fortune Teller's Veil, Pt II

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The Loyale Traveling Circus campground, some distance from New York City

Tonya lay rigid in her wagon bunk. She waited to hear the sounds of the camp stirring to life around her. Then and only then would she allow herself to rise, light her lantern, and move about the wagon. She would join the others around the cooking fire. She would eat a hearty breakfast, and not in haste. Then she would walk out into the woods, as a modest woman might when she felt the call of nature.

She would never come back. Last night, she'd overheard enough to initiate Operation White Rabbit. Madame Tonya Wershow*, fortune teller extraordinaire, would cease to exist.

Her eyes stared unseeing into the lightening dark. She heard the crackle of logs in the fire pit and the clank of Cook's porridge cauldron being hoisted onto the spit. Not yet. She lay still and breathed deeply, in and out.

The skeleton man* had stolen the ringmaster*'s secret files. Someone else--a new player--feared what was in those files, feared it enough to menace the skeleton man until he handed them over. This new player had a British accent, but she could have sworn she'd never heard his voice before. Had it been one of the hostlers they picked up on the docks of Bombay? The British card sharp who had been in deep to the wrong people until he slipped out of town with their caravan? A sleeper agent who had been in their caravan as long as she? If only she'd managed to see his face!

Alas, when she had tried to pull herself up to peer in the skeleton man's window, her foot had slipped, scraping the side of the wagon. She'd frozen. The thump of sudden movement inside the wagon had sent her bolting into the shadows. She didn't try to linger to see who it was or--ha!--to ambush and capture them. That wasn't her job.

Today she must leave the circus, but it wasn't as if she hadn't known this day was coming.

Tonya foresaw a dark future. The murder of the ringmaster, the aether storm, the riots and looting in Boston, the laborers involuntarily indentured in Seppanen Town, the many, many deaths--she didn't need a crystal ball to know that bad times were a-coming 'round the bend. When things got this bad, some people hid. Some people tried to carry on as though nothing had changed. Some people reveled in the chaos.

"And some people," Tonya said, finishing her thought out loud, "some people step up."

She'd expected to leave because she was more urgently needed elsewhere, not because of Operation White Rabbit. Still, the result would be the same: no more circus life for her.

She would miss it. She enjoyed playing the flamboyant but mysterious fortune teller. They'd made quite a team: her, Ginger the clown*, and the ringmaster. They'd traveled across the country, gathering information in places where an ordinary stranger would have roused attention but the circus was just another spectacle. Their performances gained them access to rich and powerful individuals who wanted private shows. At those shows, the circus provided the distraction, and they took away valuable information. The act had taken them all the way to British India and past the gates of the viceroy's mansion.

But times had changed, abruptly and cataclysmically. People with her skills would be needed. Besides, she doubted that the circus would be able to survive in this new world, especially since the regular infusions of cash from the ringmaster's "investors" would surely end.

She schooled her restless thoughts to stillness. Time passed. Morning light filtered in through the curtains. Circus folk began to move around the camp. Outside, a hostler swore as the water he hauled to the animals splashed on the ground. The enticingly acrid scent of coffee seeped into the wagon. It smelt much better than the weak, chicory-cut blend would actually taste.

Horses snorted as they trotted past for their morning exercise, reliable as clockwork. Every morning, the equestrienne took her horses out for a run and made sure they were fed and watered before she sat down to her own breakfast.

"Rule Number 14," Ginger said, quite close to the fortune teller's wagon, "Eat your fill whenever food's available." From the unintelligible grunt that answered, Ginger's protégé--the new ringmaster--was not a morning person.

Around the back of the wagon, buttons popped. Tonya's eyes narrowed. The sound of a steady stream of fluid and a contented sigh confirmed her darkest suspicions. Some bum too lazy to walk into the woods was pissing behind her wagon.

Tonya's lips tightened. He'd never dare do that again if she stormed out and berated him, perhaps throwing in a dire prediction or two about what might happen to a man who didn't keep his fly properly buttoned. Any other day, she would have done just that. Even today, the idea tempted her sorely. Her wagon--but no, she reminded herself. It wasn't hers anymore.

His mission accomplished, the errant pisser left. Tonya gave it another few minutes and then pushed herself up from her bunk and lit a lamp.

The remnants of her former life lay inside a locked cedar box that she kept buried under a mound of shawls. The key hung from a chain that never left her neck. She hesitated for a moment and then unlocked the box and opened the lid. The gray dress, the white gloves, and the black cloak all looked much the same as they had the day she accepted her new job. The clothes were out of fashion, yes, and the white gloves and the bit of lace at the neck of the dress had yellowed, but she would pass. She lifted the dress, shook it out, and winced. A decade's worth of creases couldn't be banished that easily. Well, these days there must be plenty of women who didn't have the time or the starch to iron their dresses properly.

The dress still fit. It hung a little loose around the waist, but most people had lost a little girth since food supplies began to cost more dearly. She tucked the gloves into her pocket, wrapped the cloak around her waist, and then swathed herself in a billowing, eye-shatteringly garish kaftan. Over that went a trio of mismatched shawls. She was accustomed to bundling up, but with her plainclothes dress and cloak underneath, she felt like a toddler swaddled in so much warm clothing that she might topple to one side at any moment.

She accessorized with her usual complement: chunky glass-jeweled rings to mask the youth and deftness of her fingers; heavy, ornate necklaces to draw the eye away from her face; a veil to foil keen eyes; and a pistol. The pistol resided within the cedar chest except when she feared matters might become--interesting. Of late, the pistol rarely left its small holster in her boot. Lastly, she picked up the yellowed envelope lying at the bottom of the cedar chest. She would need a letter of introduction.

Properly accoutered, Tonya faced her veiled reflection. She firmed her lips and saw the shadow of the movement behind her veil. What would it be like to set the veil aside permanently and just be herself again?

She lifted her veil. Yes, she still looked like herself. It was just a face, much like any other. Though kind gentlemen had from time to time told her that her eyes were particularly fine, there was nothing about her to make her stand out in a crowd.

Which was a good thing, she reminded herself firmly. She would still be selling gloves at a ladies' notions shop* if she hadn't been unmemorable enough that the same gentleman came back three days in a row and didn't realize she was the same shop girl--or if she hadn't found that little detail vexing enough to point it out to him. To her surprise, he'd been quite pleased, and she soon found herself with a much more interesting line of work.

She hadn't been that shop girl in a long time, because what use would a shop girl be? Plain, ordinary Tonya--what could she do?

Inhaling, she lifted her chin. Enough. She could do enough. But first, breakfast.

#

"Doom! Doooom!"

Christopher* nearly spilled his soup when he heard the mournful wail. He hunched protectively over his bowl. He was of no mind to lose his luncheon simply because somebody had finally cracked. Though--what should he do? He cast a sideways glance at Ginger the clown, who was spooning his own soup up in undisturbed tranquility. None of Ginger's advice on how to be a good ringmaster and "clown" covered what to do when somebody was wandering through the circus camp proclaiming the End of Times.

"Doooooom!"

"What's that?" one of the aerialists asked, her face perplexed. She fiddled with the spangled purple ribbon in her hair. "It sounds like Isaac, the animal trainer." Her cheeks pinkened as she said his name.

The other aerialist, the one with an orange ribbon in her hair, finished chewing her bite of cornbread, swallowed, and said crossly, "Then shouldn't he be tending to his animals instead of--instead of whatever it is that he's doing?"

A howl of, "Doooooooooooom!" punctuated her statement

Christopher shot another sideways glance at Ginger. Should they do something? Lunatics could be dangerous, especially when they snapped suddenly. Ginger looked undecided.

As they paused in their meal, Lacey the equestrienne* strode up. She ignored the cries of doom floating across the campsite. From the precisely pinned angle of her hat to her smooth blonde chignon, immaculate skirts, and mirror-polished boots, she appeared unruffled.

"Has anybody seen Mr. Ben Doom?" Lacey asked.

The Indian mahout looked up from his contemplation of his bowl of soup, his eyebrows rising. "Who's that?"

"One of the monkeys," Lacey said briskly. "Black fur, white skin, white fur with a red ruff around his face. Isaac's looking for him."

They blinked at her.

"Hmph," said the aerialist with an orange ribbon in her hair.

Christopher still didn't have the aerialists' names straight. When the girls were in makeup and costumes it was impossible to tell them apart; the rest of the time it was merely very difficult. Both were short with the tight-muscled build of a gymnist, their faces an undistinguished--and indistinguishable--sort of pretty.

"He shouldn't go around shouting, 'Doom!' It ain't right!" Orange Ribbon complained. "Who cares if a monkey's gone missing?"

Lacey's eyes widened. "I do. We all should. In these dreadful times, we need each part of the circus to keep functioning. Each performer. Each tentman*. Each hostler. Each talker*. Each animal. Without all of us working together, there won't be a circus. And without the circus, we'll just be freaks on our own." She met each of their eyes, one at a time. "I think we all know how well freaks do on their own, don't we?"

Christopher sized her up thoughtfully. She didn't look much like a freak. Heck, she looked less like a freak than pretty much everybody else in the circus. Her accent, her clothes, her mannerisms--they all screamed higher class. Her station should have insulated her from ever being seen as an inferior. But that emotion in her voice came from something personal.

"I'll help look for the monkey!" blurted out one of the aerialists--Purple Ribbon, this time. Her ears turned a delicate shell-pink. "We'll all help."

A reluctant mutter of agreement rose from the other diners. The phrase, "Once I'm done eating, mind you," figured prominently.

Lacey nodded her head. "I told Isaac he could count on everybody's help. All he needed was a little faith."

"In humanity?" Ginger asked dryly.

She met his gaze directly. "Don't be ridiculous. In the circus." She looked at the others. "Once you're done eating, start searching the woods. We've checked at least half the campground. It shouldn't take much longer to inspect the rest. I'm off."

"Hold your horses, Miss! You should eat something before you go," Cook scolded. "First you won't sit down for a meal until you've tended to your horses, and now it's the monkeys too? Next thing I know you'll refuse to eat until the ostriches are content, and they're never satisfied!" Cook scowled. "I should know. Lost my best wooden spoon to one when I wasn't looking!"

Lacey smiled, though the smile looked a little startled to find itself there. She picked up a piece of cornbread. "I'll take this for now, and when we finish searching the campground, I'll come back and have a bowl of your fine soup."

"Before you start searching the woods!"

One blonde eyebrow rose. "I promise," she said mildly.

"See that you remember!"

Christopher carefully studied his surroundings as he spooned up the dregs of his soup. He wasn't sure if it fell under Rule Number 6, keep track of your numbers, or Rule Number 7, nobody ever looks up, but he knew that Ginger would castigate him if the monkey was nearby and he didn't notice it.

He didn't spot any monkey sign, but he did realize something else. He hadn't seen the fortune teller since she left for a constitutional after breakfast. And whatever else she might be, the woman was usually prompt for mealtimes.

He leaned forward, as if to set his bowl down, and muttered close to Ginger's ear, "Where's the fortune teller? I haven't seen her since breakfast."

Ginger laughed as if Christopher had said something funny, but his eyes sharpened. Smiling, he leaned back and slapped Christopher on the back. A casual observer wouldn't have noticed the way the movement allowed his eyes to roam around the camp.

"Should we ask if anybody's noticed her?" Christopher questioned.

"No," Ginger said firmly, though the easy smile stayed on his face. "We don't ask. We wait to see if somebody else asks. We wait to see who doesn't ask. And when somebody does ask, we wait to see who chimes in."

"What's going on? Did she take the monkey?"

"If she took the monkey with her, everything's okay--peculiar, but okay. If she left on her own with no warning, we might be looking at White Rabbit." With that cryptic utterance, he leaned back and took another sip of the dreadful chicory-coffee blend. "No, what you're going to do is wait a bit and then go out in the woods as if you needed to shit. Look for a bundle of clothes, maybe concealed. And watch out for monkey-hunters."

"What do her clothes have to do with a rabbit? What kind of clothes?" Christopher asked, totally at sea.

"What was she wearing for breakfast? One of those dreadful bright-colored robes, if I recall. And all her shawls. Look for some sort of marker, above eye level." In a lower voice, he muttered, "That's if she doesn't suspect me."

Discretion being the greater part of valor, Christopher didn't demand an explanation again.*

"After that bean chili Cook served us last night, nobody'll be suspicious if you're gone for a good long time," Ginger finished.

"Suspicious?" Christopher made a conscious effort to relax his face and smile a bit, mimicking Ginger's nonchalance.

Ginger's smile gained a bit of genuine wry humor. "Oh, yes. If there's nobody with reason to be suspicious, then a cover story does no harm. If there is somebody with reason to be suspicious, it may save your life."

#

The outskirts of New York City

Tonya leaned against a barren maple tree and studied the city in front of her without fear of being studied in return. In her grey dress and black cloak, she would blend into the shadow of the tree, even if the guards were looking in her direction. For there were guards. Two men in the dark blue tunic and pants of the New York City Police stood guard where the road intersected the wall.

The wall was why she lingered in the shadows and studied the city. A wall could mean many things. It could mean security, or fear. It could mean war, if there was an enemy to defend against. It could mean peace, if it was a building project designed to give the laborers work and put food on their tables. They were not building the wall across the road. An opening was left--for traders and visitors, she supposed. A good sign.

There were also corpses dangling from the lampposts and trees near this entryway into the city. Not such a good sign, and it added a certain emphasis to the question of why the wall existed.

In most places the wall was no more than a foot or two high. Men and women carried stones and bricks and timbers from the city out to the growing wall, dropped them in a pile, and returned for another load. The slow, steady trickle of stone-carriers put Tonya in mind of ants building an anthill. Other men worked building the wall, setting the stones and mortaring them into place. The builders wore clothes practical for construction work: overalls or canvas trousers spattered with ancient paint and mortar, sturdy boots that would protect their feet from falling bricks, hats to shield their heads from the sun, and heavy gloves. The stone-carriers wore a mismatched collection of clothing. Women in ornate walking dresses labored beside men wearing beggar's rags. Tonya winced when she saw the thin gloves the lucky ones wore. Precious little protection those would provide! The unlucky ones went bare-handed.

Had the policemen been herding the workers, or guarding against runaways, Tonya would have faded back into the trees and found another way into the city. But that didn't seem to be the case. They stood with their rifles slung over their shoulders, not paying particularly much attention to the laborers at all. Every line of their bodies was relaxed. They weren't expecting trouble. They were just doing a job.*

It was still tempting to ease away and circle around the city until she found a place less well-guarded. That shouldn't be hard. Even if the wall extended all the way around the landlocked portion of the city, which she doubted, it was only a couple of feet high. There couldn't be enough patrolmen to keep eyes on it at all times, not with whatever had gone on inside the city. The close-packed warren of tenement buildings in the Lower East Side and the Five Points Neighborhood*. . . . She shuddered. It must have been even worse than Boston.

That last thought, and the corpses dangling from the lampposts, decided her. She needed to know what to expect inside the city.

She pushed herself away from the shelter of the maple tree and walked forward.

A branch snapped behind her. She froze. Her head whipped around and she searched the trees for any sign of what had caused the noise. Nothing moved. Maybe it had been a rabbit diving into its den, or a branch snapping under the weight of snow. She didn't see anyone.

She resumed walking forward, though her skin still crawled. It took no effort to adopt the hesitant, nervous stride of a countrywoman coming to the big city for the first time since the world unraveled around her. Her pistol was a reassuring weight in her boot.

She stepped onto the road and walked toward the city. The guards straightened when they saw her coming, but they didn't unshoulder their weapons or shout for her to stoprightthere! Another good sign.*

When she reached the intersection of road and soon-to-be-wall, the plumper of the two policemen stopped her with an outstretched hand and a smile.

"Just a minute, ma'am. We have questions to ask before you can proceed."

His partner, a rail-thin older man with hard eyes, asked, "Where are you from?"

"I come from the country," Tonya said. It took no effort for her eyes to widen with shock as she stared up at the dangling corpses. "I ain't been to the city since." Since what didn't require stating. "What did they do?"

The patrolman spat. "Thought they could do whatever they pleased, that's what. This lot ran down colored people and beat them something terrible, even women and children. They lynched a brave little boy who called them cowards when they knocked his mother down."

"A child? That's awful."

"That's right. The Commissioner said the only use they'd be was as an example to the others, so--" he gestured like a man holding a noose and made a kttth sound as he stuck his tongue out, imitating a hanged man. "After the first few, the ones hanged for looting or violence or assaulting an officer or causing a public disturbance, the Commissioner hangs quick and then buries proper. It's just the ones to be made an example of that get strung up like this." He pinched his nose. "The smell's the worst of it, I tell you!"

Tonya shuddered. "They make a fine example," she agreed, her eyes straying to the laborers. Not a one of the workers looked at the bodies or so much as glanced in the direction of the police, despite the novelty of a stranger's presence. "I certainly don't plan on making trouble."

"A little bit like you?" the policeman said indulgently. "I'm sure not."

His laconic partner spoke up. "In the Draft Riots*, the women were the worst."

His dark gaze raked Tonya. She kept her hands open and harmless in plain view.

The friendly policeman rolled his eyes. "I keep telling you, we're not in the Draft Riots! Do you see a crowd of thousands trying to tear us into itty-bitty pieces? No?" He turned back to Tonya with an exasperated sigh. "You got any contraband?"

She turned wide eyes up at him. "What's contraband?"

"Any kind of food," the suspicious policeman said. "Gunpowder or ammunition. Weapons. Liquor."

She shook her head. "No, I'm not carrying anything like that. I had my last crust of bread for breakfast," she added.

"Why do you seek to enter New York City?"

"My sister's best friend owns a candy store, Hardy Candy. I thought she might need a hand. Things are terrible tight in my village. I hoped there might be more food in the city." Which would be a mighty dumb idea if it were true. "I'm willing to work for it!"

"Aren't we all," the suspicious policeman said, his eyes on the mixed lot of people hauling stones to the wall. "Have to search you before letting you in. That's orders." He started forward.

Tonya hopped back. "I'm a decent woman, sir! Don't you go putting your hands on me!" Or you'll find that gun, and certain papers I'm carrying, and I'll have a hard time talking you into letting me go free.

"Wait." The friendlier policeman put his hand out, frowning. "Did you say Hardy Candy?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned to his compatriot, muttering in an undertone, "That's the candy shop the Commissioner's wife is all agog over. Talks about the owner like they're friends. That's why it's in with the allowed shops. Hate for her to complain to the Commissioner's wife about us."

His partner grunted a reluctant agreement.

The friendly one turned around. "All right, ma'am. Go on. Keep your head down and don't cause trouble. Steer clear of the special patrolmen. If any of them give you trouble, you tell them I said you were okay. They're not wearing uniforms, but," he tapped his left bicep, "they'll have a blue armband. Once you get to Hardy Candy, your friend will set you straight. Just get there before curfew. That's dusk."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Tonya said, making a mental note to compliment Mrs. Nave, the candy shop owner, on her tradecraft.

Tonya hurried past the wall and into the city before the policemen could change their minds. The Hardy Candy store was little more than an hour's brisk walk away. She was in no danger of missing curfew, which she became increasingly more grateful for as she took in the changed tone of the town.

The streets were emptier than she remembered. The pedestrians who did venture out walked quickly, their heads down. Special patrolmen were everywhere, with their blue armbands and swagger sticks. They frequently stopped travelers, especially those that might be carrying contraband, and questioned them. Still, they were not--quite--bullies. Tonya passed unmolested, as did most of those she would categorize as hard-working civilians.

Corpses dangled from the lamp-posts about every mile or so. They bore placards around their necks that named their crime: looting, murder, rape, assault on an officer.

Other hastily painted signs reminded everyone of the curfew. Posters in store windows advertised what was on offer at "set prices," reminded shoppers to bring their ration books, and warned that hoarding and offering a bribe for extra food were punishable offenses.

It all combined to make Tonya glad when she saw the sign for Hardy Candy. The cheerful color of the striped awning and the gleam of warm lamplight inside seemed quite welcoming compared to the rest of the city. Before she crossed the street to the candy shop, she stopped in front of a nearby grocer to read the list of rationed goods on offer.

As she bent forward, a flicker of movement reflected in the shop window caught her eye. A dark figure followed her. She glanced to the side. Apart from them, the street was empty. The pistol in her boot suddenly seemed inordinately out-of-reach. She leaned down as if to ease a stone from her shoe. Behind her, she heard the sound of running footsteps.

She yanked the pistol out and spun to face her attacker.

The first blow of the lead pipe knocked the pistol from her hand. The second smashed across her skull, sending her reeling into the street. The pipe rose and fell once more, and then there was only darkness.

(To be continued in Episode 10: What the Watchers Saw)

If you enjoyed this episode of The Circus of Brass and Bone, consider making a donation to keep it going (and get a character named after you, and a copy of the final book). All proceeds go to help cover the costs of my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer. If you can't afford a donation, tell a friend, or blog about it.

Acknowledgments

This episode is brought to you by the generous donations of Rosemary Sasse and her family.

The Circus of Brass and Bone is written and recorded by Abra Staffin-Wiebe (that's me). My main website is at www.aswiebe.com, and I blog at cloudscudding.livejournal.com.

Music is courtesy of Vermillion Lies. Go to their website at vermillionlies.com to hear more.

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