The Cat's Eye: Book I, Part III

The Cat's Eye

Book I, Part III

He emerged from his trance some time later to find that night had fallen, the tent’s staging had been decorated and he had, at some point, exchanged his throwing knives for the longer daggers used in his ‘blade-dancing’ routine. Gamul, his partner for the act, wiped glimmering sweat from his brow.

“I think that’s enough practice,” he said, a slight laugh working its way into his voice. “You must be possessed by something tonight.” It took Traleau’s mind a moment to catch up, but he nodded and sheathed the daggers, immediately casting about for some preparation to help with. Torches were lit, filling the great tent with warm light, crates and carts were carried out of sight under the stands; a handful of men in finery, each accompanied by a pair of guards, fussed about the great box space reserved for the Duke and his retinue of nobles, checking under cushions and along the floorboards. More men stood by the slight openings in the tent, poleaxes sternly crossed, though their expressions were relaxed.

“All right, gentlemen,” Brogyr shouted, “let us welcome the good Scembrese for our final night!”

At once, the soldiers withdrew their poleaxes and pulled back the canvas flaps, inviting a great crowd to flood the tent. Traleau recalled one of his earliest shows, when the crowds still made him nervous; one of the acrobats had joked ‘The audience puts on a show for us, first.’ Ever since that night, he watched the crowds closely for anything of interest.

Usually, he pinned his hopes on the commoners fighting over seats, as the nobles’ box was always the same whispering and scheming. But as the lords and ladies took their seats, he was surprised to see hard faces and strong bodies setting themselves in the front row: warriors of some sort. Traleau counted six men, the oldest-looking amongst them sitting in the position of favor to the right of the Duke’s chair. He had seen a noble of insufficient rank do such a thing thoughtlessly only to be forcefully carried off by guards an instant later. This time, apart from a few uncomfortable looks among the lords, there was no reaction.

Traleau trotted to the well-lit wooden platform at the center of the tent, joining the whole of the troupe staring expectantly at the nobels’ box. The herald appeared first, playing a brief fanfare on his horn and clearing his throat.

“All rise in the presence of His Grace, Sciato, Duke of Scembre.”

If there was one thing that never failed to fascinate Traleau it was the way one person could have a whole tent’s worth of people--nearly four thousand at these city shows--up on their feet just by walking into view. Sure enough, as Duke Sciato stepped into view in the front row, all assembled were standing and looking to him. To Traleau, the man seemed hardly to have aged since his first show in Scembre, nine years ago. Even if he held his people spell-bound with authority, he felt familiar with the man, even knew his act was one of the Duke’s favorites.

Still, his arrival was by far the tensest part of the night for the performers. As he had so many times before, Brogyr stepped to the fore of their group, bowing meekly, and most of the group held their breathing. What followed would determine whether or not they’d be paid.

“People of Scembre,” the Duke began, voice clear and commanding, “Our city has been blessed to host Brogyr’s famous circus! This year is their eighteenth in our city, and every year their last show has fallen on the first night of our Carnivale.” A mild smile appeared on his face, his gestures were easy; the troupe’s collective relief was palpable.

“Brogyr, to our youth, your circus is as much a part of the Carnivale tradition as anything,” he said, locking eyes with the fire-breather. “To that I say ‘May it ever be so!’” Brogyr bowed deeply, Traleau and the others following suit. A flood of cheering and applause washed over them; he knew some of those around him lived for precisely that moment, but Traleau wanted done with it: the idling before his act was long enough without things moving at such a courtly pace.

As Brogyr returned the Duke’s pleasantries, Traleau was waiting for the first polite opportunity to fade into the shadows under the stands until something--someone, rather--caught his eye. In the front row of the nobles’ box, one of the warriors, the one leftmost the Duke, seemed to be staring at him. He told himself it was simply surprise, something in the man’s expression seemed very familiar, though he couldn’t place it, and certainly hadn’t been looking for it.

Regardless, it felt strange. Nobody in the whole crowd, not even the other warriors, had such a look. It didn’t help that he was the largest, most battle-worn. After a moment staring straight at him, Traleau found himself wondering if such a man flinches when a knife is thrown at him.

The exchange of greetings ended and the troupe dispersed as Brogyr spoke to the crowds and introduced the first act. Traleau walked out past the edge of the torchlight, but rather than retreat under the stands, he sat down against the front of one and watched from the dim. It was more than just the man’s piercing stare; even from so many paces away he could tell his whole body was tensed, waiting. As the other warriors sat utterly relaxed, even chatting with the lords when addressed, he alone was silent.

Yes, Traleau thought, that is very familiar. It’s like me. A small voice reflexively told him it was either morally wrong or overly ambitious for him to compare himself to someone whose job was killing and he should take his pick, but he declined response.

The time came for him to take the stage. He first joined in with the acrobats, and though the precision asked of him by his seniors kept his eyes or mind from wandering, he couldn’t shake the cold just under his skin, wondered if the others felt it. Simple eye-contact showed him they didn’t. When the acrobats took to their more daring maneuvers and he stood a mere showpiece, it worsened.

The routine ended. By then, Traleau was certain what was happening; the man was watching him with the same uncertainty he felt. Though the memories were hazy, he felt his mind reaching back for the image. It came to him in pieces: marshes, harsh sunlight through dead trees, something cold and blistering-hard in a small hand, green eyes.

He cinched up his belt and strapped the scabbards over it, reminding himself that those things were long gone, and one strange man in a crowd couldn’t change that. He emerged to the sight of his familiar target board, Gamul standing next to it with a casual smirk beneath his mustache.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, indulge me in introducing a young man who needs no introduction! The Wonder from the Wetlands, the Marvel of Maspa, the world’s greatest knife-thrower: The Astonishing Traleau!” The crowd roared its approval. He put on the confident smile he’d practiced so often and drew out two of his throwing knives with a flourish, adroitly twirling them through his fingers. As his hands moved past his belt once more, he withdrew two more knives, and two more again--a half-minute performance that had taken him five years and countless small cuts to get right. Gamul, of course, showed the crowd a half-impressed smirk as if to say it were effortless.

“There exists in this world no equal to his artisanry with the blade!” Traleau did his best to keep a straight face through what Brogyr called ‘the embellishment.’ “He has studied under the six great knife-masters of Maspa, surpassing them all as a mere child, and while journeying in the mountains of the Northwest, he saved a caravan from bandits throwing the kitchen knives in the cart nearest him.”

Traleau had never been back to Maspa since his childhood, but his inquiries revealed that there were two great ‘knife-masters’ there, but that they were revered cutlers. As for the bandit story, which was a new addition--previously it had been bears--he wondered if anyone would actually be silly enough to throw a knife in a fight. The crowd seemed pleased to believe so.

“Now, tonight, Traleau will show you feats of precision beyond your wildest imaginings, but we know that some of these may not be for the faint of heart! Therefore, to assure you of his complete control over his tools, he shall first provide a small demonstration.”

Traleau replaced five of his knives, leaving only one in his right hand as it hung by his side.

“Now, as you can see, on this target we have painted the shape of a man.” Gamul said. “Traleau will now throw a knife to strike the heart!”

The boy’s arm snapped forth, the knife whirled through the air.

Thunk. It embedded itself neatly in the left side of the imaginary man’s chest. Cheering, clapping.

“And now, the stomach!”

Thunk. Perfectly placed. He had the whole audience’s attention now.

“The right hand . . . on the tip of the small finger!”

Thunk. He could hear a change in their sound, the surprised murmurs mingling with the cheering.

“Both eyes at once!”

Traleau had to fight back a frown, he could tell one knife had stuck in at a slightly higher angle; still the cheers gave way to more shock.

“And now, Traleau, if you would kindly strike the heart once again . . .” Gamul paused, surveying the crowd, “. . . with your back turned.”

All at once, the tent quieted. The only sounds now where disbelieving whispers and the creaking of the wooden stands as hundreds in the crowd leaned forward in their seats. Traleau turned away from the target and drew the knife, waiting. Guessing the right moment to work the crowd was a matter of delicate timing. The anticipation needed time to sit with them. He had to let them feel their bated breath run out, then in that instant--

He turned at the hips, passed his arm across his body and shot his hand out over his shoulder.

Thunk. It struck true, vibrating the first knife. He bowed gracefully to the wall of sound, but when he walked over to the target and removed the knives, the chill returned. The warrior’s stare lay heavy upon him, and his comrades had taken notice as well. The grey-haired man nearest the Duke leaned over and spoke to him casually, the Duke stroked his beard and nodded slowly. For some reason, Traleau’s heart sank.

“--his prowess, you may rest assured, good people, that I shall be safe.” Gamul was speaking to the crowd again, Traleau realized. He fought down his body’s urge to shake out the strange sensations, keenly aware of every eye upon he and his partner. “For you see, I shall be The Astonishing Traleau’s new target!” Confidently, he placed his back to the board and matched the painted outline’s pose. The crowd held their breath, Gamul searched Traleau’s face. The boy took a single deep breath in and lifted the first knife up.

“Traleau, please strike just above the crown of--”

He knew what to do perfectly well, had practiced thousands--no, tens of thousands--of times. So, it didn’t trouble him when Gamul’s voice and the reactions of the crowd faded. It did not surprise him when all nine of his throwing knives formed a perfect outline around his partner, because there was no other possible outcome. If everything went smoothly, the show would be done soon, perhaps there would be some way to speak to that warrior when he’d had a moment to calm down. He saw Gamul speaking again, inviting someone from the audience to let an apple be struck off their head; once was enough to prove the point and then--

The warrior stood there, not twenty paces away. How could that have happened, Traleau wondered? Where was the typical braggart, knock-kneed and desperately seeking reassurances from Gamul? This was wrong, and he almost felt betrayed.

“We have here, good people, a friend of the Duke himself!” Gamul said, gesturing to the warrior. “What is your name, brave sir?”

“I am called Stonebreaker,” he replied, his voice vast and deep, as right a match for the hard shadows on his face as for his body’s obvious power. His eyes narrowed at Traleau, his lips pulled a half-smile. “It’s an honor to see such skill with a knife.” Not quite a mocking tone, but challenging.

“You understand the nature of what you are volunteering for?” Gamul asked. Traleau couldn’t understand how someone standing so close could be so oblivious to the clawing sense of threat. Stonebreaker nodded calmly, accepted the apple from Gamul, placed it atop his head and crossed his arms.

“I have every confidence in him.”

“Well,” Gamul began, “People of Scembre, we ha--”

A knife plunged deep into the apple’s flesh with a spray of juice, knocking it to the ground paces behind Stonebreaker. Gamul, ever professional, barely let his surprise show in his face, though he snuck an ‘Are you crazy?’ look at Traleau briefly. The crowd had not noticed, thrilled by the feat. The warrior murmured something under their cheers.

“What was that?” Gamul asked.

“Let’s try a persimmon this time,” he said. Traleau immediately drew, and his partner knew at a glance that neither had any intention of backing off.

“Ladies and gentlemen, The Astonishing Traleau shall now strike a persimmon from the head of our brave volunteer!” he announced, gesturing vaguely at the darkness beyond center stage; one of the acrobats brought a persimmon soon after. Nearly the instant Stonebreaker had placed it on his head, Traleau’s arm snapped forward and his knife sent the smaller fruit flying.

“Can we call it done, now?” Gamul asked softly. Stonebreaker only chuckled.

“Now a dried lemon,” he said in full voice, shattering the crowd’s uproar. There was stillness, then laughter. Only he, Traleau, and the front row of the nobles’ box were silent.

“Go get one,” the knife-thrower insisted.

“Traleau, give it a rest,” Gamul said, hissing under his breath. “The persimmon worked out, but if you try this and miss, you’re going to hurt the whole circus.”

“He can do it,” Stonebreaker said. “And it will end with this.”

“And you, you think you can toy with us? Brogyr has the Duke’s favor and--”

The instant the warrior’s stare turned to him, Gamul’s annoyance withered, along with his stature.

“Right. Dried lemon.”

Realization passed over the audience when Gamul disappeared into the shadows. People stood, then shouted ‘Traleau’ with all their might. The ducal guards watched the audiences nervously, tightening their grips on their weapons and whispering to each other.

“Not that I mind, but why are you doing this?” the knife-thrower asked.

“To take the measure of you,” Stonebreaker said. “But you know this. You’re doing the same thing.”

Gamul returned with the lemon in hand, looking at both participants skeptically. Neither acknowledged his presence even as he handed the fruit to Stonebreaker. The warrior placed it with care atop his head and stood perfectly still. The scene should have looked ridiculous to him, Traleau knew that, but couldn’t make it stick. All he saw was a man without fear.

He raised the final knife up over his head and considered distance, size, shape, angle, weight, what it would mean if he missed. He’d be shamed, Gamul, too. Brogyr’s reputation damaged, though they’d recover. No, the worst part was that the warrior before him would win--what, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to find out that way. For the briefest moment, his deft hand recalled the trembling awkwardness of his first throw.

And the knife was away. It struck the top of the dried lemon and carried it off Stonebreaker’s head like a passing bird snatching its prey. There was a deafening sound, had the audience ever cheered so loudly before? Even Gamul could not hold back his amazement. Stonebreaker nodded too casually and walked towards him, hand outstretched.

“You are what I thought,” he said, barely audible. Traleau tensed, felt as though he should jump backwards out of his reach, but willed himself to grasp his hand. Immediately the iron grip pulled him closer. “It doesn’t matter that you hit the last one. It’s the look on your face when you threw. It wasn’t the face of an entertainer,” he said, voice nearly a growl. He released Traleau’s hand and walked back to the nobles’ box.

The rest of the show was a blur. A tremor had crept its way into his hands, keeping his improvisations during the blade dance with Gamul tame. He doubted anyone paid real attention, having seen what came before. Brogyr took center-stage again and called all the performers for the closing bow, there was a long standing ovation; he thought he might have heard the Duke mention him by name? Then it was over, the crowd spilling out of the tent under the guards’ guidance. The Duke and his company were the last to leave their seats, though to Traleau’s surprise, most of that lofty group walked out to meet them, guards close at hand.

“Brogyr, I do trust you’ll countenance my friends and I congratulating your troupe personally,” Duke Sciato said. Brogyr smiled broadly and spread his arms wide.

“The whole of my circus is at your service, Your Grace.”

Traleau studied the warriors flanking the Duke; so close, he could see the same chilling sharpness in their eyes, felt the overwhelming tension, even though they carried themselves with ease. He was utterly alone in noticing, though each noticed him.

“I believe, in fact, that someone especially wanted to congratulate The Astonishing Traleau,” said the Duke, peering over his shoulder. Traleau tried not to wince as he wondered whether Stonebreaker himself, or the older warrior would step forward. “It was your daughter, was it not, Giormio?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” a jovial voice replied from far behind, the Duke’s entourage shifting until a soft-faced, thick-fingered man came forward with three girls--Amiel among them, wearing her courtly smile.

“Yes, this is Giormio, Visconte tu Potali. His daughter, Amiel, was quite taken with your act, young man,” the Duke said. “A feeling I’m inclined to echo. A dried lemon! How did you and Stonebreaker come up with such a thing on the spot? Excellent, wouldn’t you say, Amiel?”

“Yes, Your Grace” she said. “A most skillful performance, it was thrilling.” Amiel looked up at her father, the man nodding after a moment’s hesitation, then she daintily slipped her fingers into her dress sleeve and produced a delicate silken handkerchief.

“Please, good Traleau, accept this small favor in remembrance of the joy your great feat gave me.” With that, she extended her hand, holding the piece of cloth as though it were rotting meat. Traleau searched her eyes as he gently took it; no sign, and then she and her family withdrew. He couldn’t be sure in the darkness at the edges of the tent, but he thought he saw her looking over her shoulder back at him as he tucked the cloth into his belt.

“Ah, I don’t believe you’ve yet met the heroes of the day,” Duke Sciato gestured to the grey-haired warrior. “This is the famed Tshio Kion, along with five of his strongest men. They just assisted my troops in expanding our territory.”

For once, the performers shared Traleau’s reaction; everyone had heard Kion’s name, usually attached to rumors of daring maneuvers, improbable victories, and outright lies. He was very clearly not eleven feet tall, half bear or half demon, and he had not--as of yet--shot lightning from his eyes. The man feared as the deadliest mercenary looked an elder statesman who still played at swordsmanship in the mornings to get the blood moving. Even so, Traleau’s instincts had been right, especially if someone like Stonebreaker took orders from him.

“I guess you’ve heard of me,” Kion said, chuckling. “I’ve heard of you, too. I’ve long wanted to see Brogyr’s Circus, but this was my first opportunity.”

“I hope it surpassed your greatest expectations,” the fire-breather said, clearly pleased with praise from such lofty quarters.

“Oh, absolutely. I hope you can forgive my overly enthusiastic subordinate, but I have to say The Astonishing Traleau lives up to his name. How old are you, anyway?” Kion showed a smile Traleau had seen before on a grandfather’s face, but it didn’t seem right, and Traleau edged backwards slightly. As the silence stretched for seconds, Brogyr was quick to cover.

“He’s a bit shy, you see. He is fifteen, though.”

“Shy? Hard to believe in a knife-thrower,” Kion said, arching a brow.

“He’s . . . very dedicated to his craft,” Brogyr said. “Spends nearly all his time practicing.”

“Respectable. The Priest is the same way. Maybe the two of you together could whip the rest of my boys into shape.”

Traleau took notice of the man Kion had gestured to. This ‘Priest’ had a young face, but terribly old eyes; they didn’t seem to see anything. He made no effort to acknowledge his leader, who changed subjects with a practiced fluidity.

“At any rate, Stonebreaker in particular was so impressed with the boy that he wanted to invite him along with us as we enjoy the first night of the Carnivale,” Kion said. “Of course, as far as expenses are concerned, it will be our treat.”

Of course, extending such an invitation in front of the Duke meant there was no polite way to refuse it. But, more than that, Traleau was curious what it was the warriors stirred in him that was absent in those he’d lived among for so long, that which set him apart.

“I’ll go,” he said. The warriors cheered and welcomed him with pats on the back, save The Priest, who turned his eyes to the ground. “I just need to clean up.”

He left Brogyr and the others to their small talk as he slipped under the stands to find his normal clothes. Removing his belt, he noticed Amiel’s handkerchief slip and drift to the ground. He caught it just before it touched, and lifted it up, noticing something dark on the underside of the white. There, in black ink, a quivering hand had scrawled one word.

Run.