The Cat's Eye: Book I, Part II

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part II

Thunk.

The knife stuck firm in the target board.

Thunk. Thunk.

A second followed, then a third, both just outside the outline of a man painted on the wood. A round-faced girl sat on a nearby box, fussing with her velvet dress of blue and white. She had an air of practiced indifference, her eyes taking in the scene as though it were a chore she resented.

“This doesn’t look so hard,” she said. The boy facing the target paused a moment, then drew another knife from his looped belt. He raised his right hand, took a deep breath in, and the arm lashed out in one fluid motion, the knife whirling end-over-end until it found purchase next to the imaginary man’s left wrist.

“Sorry,” the boy murmured, turning to the girl. “If you’re bored, I can show you around the tent. Everyone else is practicing now, too . . . ” His voice trailed off, his eyes turning to the ground and narrowing.

“And here I thought circus performers were supposed to be lively and charismatic,” the girl said.

“Charismatic?”

“You know, charismatic. It’s . . .” she frowned, seemed to struggle, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’d be bored anyway; circuses are for children.”

“You’re younger than me,” the boy said, again drawing a knife from his belt.

“But I’m twelve years old, practically a woman already.”

“If you say so.” His body snapped into alignment then slackened like a cracked whip. Thunk--the right wrist this time. “If it’s so boring, why don’t you leave?”

“Ugh, it’s my sisters,” she groaned quickly. “They’ve been begging our father all month to bring them here and meet everyone. He promised that he would today, but now he has to speak to the Duke privately about something, so I have to watch them instead.”

“Mm.” The boy nodded, reached for the edge of another knife, then withdrew his hand. “What’s your name?” he asked. The girl looked at him with momentary surprise, then regained her composure.

“Amiel tu Potali, Heiress to the Visconte tu Potali and--”

“Can I just call you Ami?”

“You most certainly may not!” Amiel shouted, face reddening, standing for the first time. She drove her hands hard into her hips, raising her chin to look down her nose at the taller boy. He stared at her mutely, his expression entirely blank, and after a moment the anger drained out of her, her shoulders sagging. “You’re just a commoner, I can’t expect you to understand manners.”

“Okay,” the boy replied, shrugging and walking to the target board.

“You . . . ” She sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Traleau.” He began pulling his knives free from the wood. “Just Traleau.”

“That’s a funny name. What language is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Well, what did your parents speak?”

“I don’t know. They died before I can remember.”

The girl looked momentarily horrified, a look Traleau had seen when a young man realized he had stepped on a snake’s tail.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

“It’s okay,” he said, sliding the last thin blade back into its loop. “Follow me.”

“What? Where?”

“I want to show you something.” Traleau turned and walked to the nearest opening in the canvas tent. Amiel started to protest, then hastily scanned the huge tent. Far at its opposite end, she saw her two sisters captivated by an acrobat’s effortless flipping and bounding; she decided that was like enough to supervision.

Pushing aside the canvas flap, Amiel saw Traleau already walking up the stone-paved lane, trotting after him to catch up. She took one glance and immediately had her bearings, to her disappointment.

“I’ve been on this street a thousand times; most of my friends live here. I’ve seen it all,” she said. No response: she noticed he was moving quickly, gaze casting about in every direction. “Maybe I should show you around?”

Abruptly, Traleau disappeared around a corner. She frowned as she recalled what lay around it, a small, private back alley where an infamously gaudy statue stood. She felt annoyed that some outsider would think himself so clever for knowing of it, but when she stepped into the alley herself, he had gone well past the statue, towards the back of the alley. Now curious, she checked for passersby, then walked towards him.

“What is it?” she asked. Traleau stood silent for a moment, staring at the wooden crates stacked against the whitewashed wall. “That, really? Well, at least you’re strange enough to be in the circus.”

Then, Traleau started to climb on the crates. With quick, fluid motions he went up the stack, until he could reach out and touch the balustrade of the nearby low balcony. He gripped the stone firmly, pulling himself up and over. Seemingly as an afterthought, he peered into the balcony window, then looked down at Amiel.

“Hey, come on, before someone sees,” he said. She had almost laughed at the curious display, thinking it was for her amusement. Realizing he expected her to join in turned curious into insane.

“W-what? I--no, I can’t even--never!” she stammered. Traleau lowered himself to the balcony floor and stretched his arms out between the posts, hands again beckoning her.

“You have to, if you want to see. I won’t let you fall.”

Amiel looked from him to the pile. With a deep breath, she walked towards them. Her climb was awkward, slow; crates shook under her unsure weight, but eventually she stood on the one Traleau had used. His waiting hands were within easy reach, and as she felt the pile shifting, desperately grasped at them and fell forward. She shut her eyes tightly, heard two crates tumble and smash onto the ground, but did not feel herself hitting the ground.

When she opened her eyes and looked down, her feet were dangling near her own height off the ground, the cracked pieces of two small statues spread below--no great loss. Strong hands held her by the arms and were pulling her up slowly. She turned to the balcony and saw Traleau, clearly  straining, and she reached for the balustrade. Between the two of them, she made it over onto the balcony, he red in the face and rubbing his wrists, she still trembling slightly.

“You had better have a good reason to put me through that.”

Traleau nodded, then stepped up onto the balustrade, grabbed the lip of the gutter lining the roof and hoisted himself up. When he offered Amiel his hands again, she climbed up after, pressing herself close to the wall as he helped her up. She crouched low on the sloping roof, crawling carefully over the slate shingles to distance herself from the edge, her eyes widening when Traleau stood without hesitation.

“Come on, we’re not there yet,” he said, easily walking along the sloped roof. Amiel followed slowly, wincing every time she put a hand or foot slightly out of line. To her relief, she saw that Traleau had walked to the roof-top garden closer to the main street, a garden she had been in before--more importantly, a flat surface. But no sooner had she lowered herself into the welcoming garden than the boy vaulted over the iron railing. She rushed to peer over it, and there he stood on a lower part of the roof, arms outstretched to catch her. It was simply too much.

“Hmph, I can do this myself,” she snapped.

“Oh, okay,” he said, shrugging and stepping back. Amiel immediately regretted her words, clambering over the railing awkwardly, the rough metal digging into her delicate hands as she lowered herself by inches. Nevertheless, she gave Traleau a stern look when her feet touched solid ground.

“See?”

The boy nodded mutely. He led her along a stretch of flat roof from which she could see the familiar homes, even recognizing faces through the ornate windows; her friends. If nothing else, Amiel thought, a story about rooftop adventures with a circus boy would need little embellishment to silence Casca tu Sotto’s endless chatter about her charming suitor in The Duke’s Guard, and Ronete d’Gli’s travelogues. She smiled at the back of the boy’s head as they walked, thinking it over. He was exotic looking, to be sure, if not handsome, and graceful in an animal sort of way; simply make him more articulate, perhaps add in a scandalous secret kiss, and suddenly he’s a dashing rogue with a wandering but ardent heart.

She had lost herself in crafting the story and so barely noticed the obstacles along the way, or that Traleau had stopped until he abruptly sunk out of her sight. She froze for a moment, then noticed he had simply sat down on the edge of the roof; when she looked up, it was the view stealing her breath. Amiel had lived on this hill amidst the great houses of Scembre her whole life, and though she had walked the lower streets with her father on festivals, it had always been a separate world--no longer.

From the rooftop, Amiel could see the whole of the great city stretched out before her, crowded alleys, bustling market rows, canals running from one end of the city to the other. The lowliest stone houses and grandest cathedrals all stood as one within the high stone walls. Further beyond, she could see the vast plains and the River Tipaolo, where the farms and villages that fed the city lay.

“Still bored?” Traleau asked. His plain face wore the slightest hint of a smile. Wordlessly, Amiel sat down beside him. She had always hated autumn before but found herself reconsidering; so high above the city, the grey skies and bracing wind felt like dreams of flight, suddenly made real. The gusts grew steadily stronger, blowing her hair about her face, stealing her warmth. She pulled her hands up into her sleeves, but Traleau seemed not to notice or care about the chill. Silence filled the space between them.

Amiel did not know how much time had passed when the boy finally stood, offering to help her back. She hastily said her sisters would be missing her and there was the dinner to prepare for, not that he’d understand, then a quiet trip back the way they’d come. Her sisters had missed her so dearly that they were enthralled by a portly fire-breather when she arrived. She smiled sheepishly and fetched them, ignoring their protests.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she passed Traleau, barely audible amid the wailing of two small girls, then disappeared through the tent flap. The knife-thrower lingered only a moment, then returned to his target.

“Ho ho, don’t think I didn’t notice you scampering off with that girl earlier.” The fire-breather said, grinning. “That’s very unlike you, though I have to admit I’m a bit relieved. A boy your age should be having those sorts of adventures.”

“What do you mean?” Traleau asked.

“Well, you see . . . hm. Never mind. Just be careful with rich girls, they can make your life miserable like few other things.”

“I just took her to the roofs, Brogyr. She’s okay.”

“The roofs?” The fire-breather mulled this over for a moment, then chuckled deeply enough to shake his whole body. “Ho ho, for such a wildman, you have an instinct for romance. Of course, being a part of my circus cannot help but add to your charisma.”

“That word again. Charisma.”

“Yes, my boy, charisma. Charm, suavity, that certain unnameable something.”

“But you just gave it three names.”

“Quite, as I said. Though we cannot say exactly what it is, you have it. Ah, I’m so proud of you! Be sure to bring that energy to the show tonight, the Duke himself will be attending.”

“Mm, right,” Traleau said, drawing out a knife and assuming his stance. Brogyr arched a brow, and abruptly put himself between the boy and his target.

“My boy, are you well?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You do not, if I may be so bold, seem ‘here’ lately.”

Traleau blinked, but said nothing. Brogyr heaved a sigh, and stepped aside, staring at the wooden board.

“You’ve been with us most of your life, you don’t remember much of the rest, and I know that training with the acrobats lately has been difficult.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Yes, but that’s just it. It’s only ‘not so bad.’ You’re young and, you see . . . hrm.”

“Brogyr?”

“What I am trying to say, my boy, is that if you’re thinking of leaving, we will miss you, but understand and wish you well.”

“Okay.” Traleau’s arm snapped forward, and the first knife struck the target wide, far off the outline of the man. “I should practice some more before tonight.”

Brogyr nodded slowly, patting the boy gently.

“Just think about it.”

Traleau tried his hardest not to, failing. Leave, and go where? Home; there was no such thing. Where the circus-folk had found him? No, there was nothing for him there. And if he found somewhere, what then? The knife was all he knew--the weight, the balance, the catching of the light, the voice of a blade splitting air: these things were truth.

Without realizing it, he had thrown two knives, both striking inside the man’s outline where the heart would be. He took in a deep breath, retrieved the two blades, and forced everything else out of his head. His hand came up, his whole body poised to strike. 

Thunk.