The Cat's Eye
Book I, Part VII
Morning light and the noise of teardown woke Traleau, though his body protested immediately. His arms and legs felt heavy, and his head throbbed worse than he could recall ever feeling. Still, he knew well enough that once he woke, there was no point trying to sleep again, and he let his eyes open. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, only that the familiar canvas of the circus tent wasn’t it.
His thoughts went immediately to the night before: though everything after Stonebreaker’s fist struck him was blurred, he recalled what came before very clearly: Iacosi, the pit, a man’s face caved in on itself, the ambush, someone barely older than him lunging awkwardly with a knife, how easy it had been to disarm him and draw the blade across his throat.
He noticed his hands vaguely pantomiming the motion and decided that was enough; it wasn’t that the memory made him uncomfortable, but rather he had the sense it should, but he felt only disappointment. It wasn’t how he’d remembered it. He stood up in spite of his aches and caught the attention of a few of the other performers. They laughed and smiled indulgently, shouting as they went about their work.
“Wild night, huh? That’s our boy.”
“Them mercs take you anywhere saucy?”
“Hey, how’s the other guy look?”
That comment seemed odd until Traleau noticed the woman’s hand pointing to her cheek. He touched his own, jerking his hand away immediately as the tender bruise reminded him where he’d taken Stonebreaker’s blow. He looked about for any loose stage makeup to hide it, but too late; Brogyr was already trundling over to him.
“My boy, you’re finally awake, wonderful!” he cried.
“Sorry, I’ll get to work n--”
“No, no, nonsense, it’s fine. Sit this morning out. You’ve always worked so diligently, you needn’t push yourself whilst recovering from your first dalliance with youthful exuberance!”
He couldn’t tell whether it was the hit to the head or so many words he only half-understood, but Traleau felt dizzy and stumbled slightly, holding his hands out to stop Brogyr from trying to catch him.
“I’m okay,” he muttered. “Just tired.”
“And likely unbalanced. I take it you landed yourself in an altercation,” Brogyr said, squinting at the bruise.
“It was a mistake,” Traleau said; without that urgent need gripping him, he could see just how hopeless lashing out at Stonebreaker had been. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
“There, there, my boy. We all have our inglorious moments, and I am simply glad you’re safe,” the heavyset firebreather said. “Though, I must admit I am surprised. I would not have guessed in a hundred years that you were the fighting kind.”
Traleau winced.
“Still very sore, I see. As I said, my boy, you mustn’t push yourself too hard this morning. Let the rest of us handle the dismantling this time, whilst you permit yourself a rest. Now, lest I forget.” Brogyr untied a small burlap pouch from his belt, bouncing it in his palm to produce a loud metal tinkling. “One gold piece and twenty silvers. Your share of the Duke’s generous payment.”
The knife-thrower accepted the pouch silently and tucked it under his snug wools.
“I do not know what worth this has to you, but I am proud that you were so adventurous last evening, regardless of the outcome. I have long worried about you, but you took quite the significant step forward.”
Brogyr smiled, opened his mouth, then thought better of it and walked off. It turned Traleau’s stomach, how placid it all was. Couldn’t that man tell, he wondered, that last night the boy he’d rescued all those years ago had slit open another person’s throat? Some of the fog lifted from the night before and he thought back to Kion’s words. Even if Brogyr’s instincts had told him something was wrong, the truth was simply too far outside his experience for him to admit to it. The difference between what him and the life he’d lived under the tent was too big.
Traleau watched the others loading equipment into their large wagons, the pieces of seating and stage that belonged to the troupe being broken down, grateful for the reprieve. He searched for his box of belongings, pulling out his belt, each of his nine knives perfectly stuck through the loops; there too were his twin daggers, sheathed, faithfully waiting for him. In haste he strapped them all about his waist and pulled out his thin, ragged fur-lined coat, drawing it around him, hiding his blades. That he immediately glanced around for any sign the others had noticed made him feel guilty, guiltier than anything he had done the night before. He hoped that a long enough trip through Scembre would convince him that it was the reason he’d been so eager to slip out of the tent.
The festive mood was little changed from the night before; though everyone had their daily business to attend to, the same Carnivale stalls stood lining the streets, and the people laughed loudly and easily. The heavy clouds had cleared away during the night, and the winds had calmed. The great swelling on his face shocked no-one even on the hills, drawing little more than smirks and amused whispers--Traleau even saw well-to-do young men sporting such marks themselves with pride.
He sighed and followed his growling stomach to the lower city and the old Lorian market hall, a huge marble structure now cracked and dirtied with age, full of small wooden shops. Every year the circus had passed through Scembre, he remembered walking through the hall, seeing how many of them had changed hands; this year, especially, he saw few he remembered.
Traleau bought a bit of dried venison sausage, a sheep’s milk cheese he couldn’t pronounce the name of and a slice of sour bread, and sat on a creaking wooden stool, watching as the owner poured watery wine into an earthen cup. He picked at his food slowly, often pausing to look around the hall.
It had always seemed odd to him, the way whole shops and even inns had been built inside the old hall. Not that history had ever been interesting to him, but it seemed like a silly game to him, taking something and covering it up when it didn’t suit anymore. The stalls and signs and faces changed every time. Carpets and fire pits had been laid to warm the place, but the floors and walls beneath it all were still the same stone, and some time, everyone would remember that.
Off to his right, Traleau could hear someone setting themselves on the stool next to him, ordering food. There, staring straight ahead into the recesses of the shop, was The Priest, his expression far more relaxed than the night before. He appeared to the boy more thoughtful than anything, though his sudden arrival made him wary. After his grave warning, they had not exchanged a word the whole way back to the circus.
“It’s good to see you’re in one piece,” he said in a hushed voice. “I thought I might be too late. Has anyone approached you today?”
“Approached?” Traleau asked.
“You’re in danger. More precisely, Stonebreaker has put you in danger and Kion, I think, was planning for this.” He paused, as if waiting, sighing when he heard no reply. “Listen, last night’s little bloodbath was never going to go unnoticed just because it was in a poor part of the city. Especially not when someone like Iacosi has a stake in it. I heard this morning that some night watchman took the killings to a magistrate. They won’t touch any of us, because they know the Duke bankrolled us, but Iacosi has enough money and influence that they still have to hang somebody.”
“Me?”
“You. This is precisely why I wanted to get rid of you. I knew this would happen, it must be exactly what they’d planned.” The Priest clenched his hands for a moment, relaxed them and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” Traleau said, carefully studying the robed mercenary. “I thought they wanted me to join your group.” He saw the Priest take a deep draft from his own cup and then . . . smile.
“The fourth principle of the Diplomat’s Art. It’s the classic work about statecraft by Suatoli, who--” His voice had a softness to it that Traleau didn’t quite believe was possible for him. “Nevermind. The fourth principle reads ‘Align your goals with the best interests of the other party.’ It means the best way to get what you want is to leave choices up to others, but make them think that what you want is also what’s best for them. Makes them more compliant, more likely to trust you and stand by your choices later.”
“So, if you stay here, you’ll hang. If you run, well, magistrates love to stage a hanging, and no one here will object if the hanged is some no-name foreigner. If you resist, it could hurt your circus folk.” The Priest let out a bitter chuckle--forced, though whom it was directed at, Traleau couldn’t guess. “On the other hand, if you had the protection of the favored mercenaries who crushed an uprising days ago, then people would content themselves that there was less scum on the streets thanks to you. Strange, isn’t it?”
Traleau looked away and reached for the last bite of sausage, but found his appetite had vanished. A silence settled between them and stretched out.
“How long before they arrest me?”
“I can’t be certain, though I’m sure they’ll check back at the circus soon if they haven’t by now. You are being tailed, but I very much doubt she’s with the magistrate or Iacosi.”
“I am? By wh--”
“Focus, Traleau,” he said, once more the hard-edged young man from the evening before. He looked around the market hall and abruptly took hold of Traleau’s arm, walking him into the thickest stream of people and moving towards the back of the building. “Let’s keep moving for a while. Now, I need you to listen to me, very carefully; this is important.”
Traleau nodded as he kept pace with The Priest’s quick, forceful steps.
“They’re right about you. Stonebreaker’s a madman who thinks the spirits tell him what to do, but when you tried to attack him, I understood what he was talking about, and why Kion indulged him. You have a killer’s instincts; now I don’t know where that comes from, and it doesn’t matter.” For the first time since he’d appeared, The Priest looked him straight in the eye. “What matters is that you have a choice about it.” He hurried their pace still more, and before long they’d pushed their way out into the shadowed alley behind the market hall. Again, he looked around before letting him go and slowing the pace.
“You’ll have to run away and start over, but you don’t have to be like them. You can be something else, a farmer, a sailor, a cobbler, I don’t care. Be a hunter, if you need to. I can supply you with enough money to establish yourself, if you want.”
“I don’t know,” Traleau whispered, eyes on the ground.
“It’s fine, you don’t have t--”
“I’m tired,” the boy said. “I always feel tired. Why am I trying so hard?”
The Priest said nothing, for once.
“I killed that boy last night,” Traleau said, forcing himself to remember the shocked, pained face he’d left the body with. “He was near my age, wasn’t he? He probably didn’t want to die; he was scared, too.” He abruptly fell silent and let himself slump back against the wall behind him.
“You . . . acted in self-defense. That doesn’t have to--”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was different. But then I, I wanted to do it again? I don’t understand.”
Amprezzo watched the boy shake ever so slightly; it was the most emotion as he’d yet seen from him, and he wasn’t sure if that was a victory or a failure on his part. Still, he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t fall flat, so he opted for silence. He could not guess at what had come before the circus for the boy, but Kion and that mad bastard, Stonebreaker, had done far too thorough a job of sending him back there.
For all the alternatives he’d offered, Amprezzo doubted that there actually was a chance Traleau could start any other life. Someone capable of such swift, cold violence as a mere reflex was likely only trying to fool himself if he played at peace. Worse still, the boy before him had basked in the adoration of the crowd, had the freedom of roaming far and wide; good money and fame were already facts of his life, so the desires that drove most impetuous young lads to take up the sword could not excuse anything. No, Traleau was a particular kind of creature.
Amprezzo wondered if letting the boy hang might be the greatest kindness he could offer. It would be easy enough to walk away, and the boy’s life had little meaning for his own purposes. Even so, his feet refused to lead him away.
It was not so long ago, he thought, that I stood where he stands. If I haven’t learned anything from it in seven years, I’m hopeless.
“Look, we’re still being followed, and the magistrate will pass through here sooner or later. Let’s at least make you less noticeable and get out of the street for now.”
The boy nodded uncomprehendingly at him and followed silently as Amprezzo led him through the lower city’s twisting paths, running ahead to buy him a simple black-and-white Carnivale mask, fitting it tightly over his bruised face and rushing him along to a small, foul-smelling tavern. A silver bought them an upstairs room, food and drink, and another made the cover story of a drunken cousin looking to sleep the last night off away from his parents more believable.
Amprezzo sat Traleau down in a chair near the window, throwing the latch on the door and took in the space: only one window, but thankfully it opened onto a short drop to a long stretch of flat roofs, a possible escape route. Satisfied, he leaned against the door and studied the boy.
“Even without the bruise, you’d stand out, but enough drunken idiots wear their masks in the daytime that it should help, some. If we’re lucky, you have a few hours to think. Whatever choice you make, it shouldn’t be made lightly.”
That, at least, seemed to get the boy’s attention through the cloud he knew was upon his mind. Amprezzo thought briefly of the far-reach stands of millet, burnt down to so much ash, but set the memory aside in search of other words.
“I hate Tshio Kion. The only thing I want is to kill him; it’s why I follow him. I have my reasons, but what I’ve been through has left me with enemies. All of the mercenaries have them, hardly a season passes without someone tracking us down looking for vengeance. Of course, someone comes at you with a spear, you don’t stop to think if you deserve it. You kill him first. If one of ours does get killed outside of business, well then ten people have to die to protect our reputation.” Amprezzo rubbed his temples. “It just never ends.”
"It's a rare day that I've only had to kill people nobody loves enough to avenge," Amprezzo said, smirking. "When it starts, you can sit and stare at your hands for hours, trying to figure out why they did it, but eventually you start seeing blood on them all the time, so you just--"
He considered Traleau: the boy faced the window now, still as stone. Still, he knew he was listening.
“What I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to have enemies. I was in earnest when I said I’d help you; let me help you escape. If you can get out of the Duchy, the magistrate will give up on you and move on to another case quickly enough. You find something you can do and you take that fire in your heart and put it into your work. Nobody will come after you. You won’t have to touch a weapon ever again. There’s nobody you have to hurt.”
“I know,” Traleau said, softly. “But I want to.” He loosened his thin fur coat and slipped his hand under it, drawing out one of his daggers and holding it up to the late morning light.
“I know it’s bad, but I can’t stop it. When I see someone dangerous, I feel hot inside. I want . . .”
“To put an end to the danger,” Amprezzo ventured, “and prove you are more so.”
Traleau nodded to the blade.
“I thought maybe it would go away when Brogyr took me in,” he said. “Like it was just something I got used to and I’d outgrow it.”
Amprezzo tried to imagine the boy’s childhood. One heard little enough about Maspa in the civilized world, and that little was not complementary. He knew it was poor, mostly marshes and a few patches of rocky grassland; violence had a way of following close at poverty’s heels. It focused the picture in his mind somewhat, but he felt the risk of losing the boy through assumption too great to proceed so armed.
“What happened to you before you joined the circus?” he asked. The way Traleau looked at him was familiar; he recognized in it the look that must have passed over his own face every time he recalled his old life.
“I lived in a swamp. It was cold a lot, I was alone. I made a knife out of a rock, for hunting.”
“Where was your family?”
“I don’t know. There was a fire, I think? I don’t remember. I never met anyone who knew my parents.”
“Do you even know how long you were there?”
“Four winters.”
“And that whole time, you were alone?”
“There were animals, sometimes people, bandits, but nobody lived in the swamp.”
At the same time he felt more sympathy for the boy, Amprezzo began to suspect he was beyond reach. Four years in the wilderness as a child, he thought, it is a miracle he has made it this long in society afterward. There was now nothing to blame or undo, just the world itself. Yet still, he had to try.
“Last night wasn’t the first time you killed someone, was it? I remember you said it was ‘different,’ somehow.”
“There were . . . slavers? Slavers, I think, who came through the swamp sometimes. Brogyr says that they’d take other kids they found there and sell them. They tried to take me a few times.”
“But you defended yourself.”
Traleau nodded.
“I just did what I’d do when an animal attacked. If they ran, I let them go, but then they’d come back, so I started chasing them down. And then I started liking it.” The boy’s grip on his knife tightened, and his gaze cooled. “I don’t know. Everyone says it’s wrong, but I don’t know why.”
Amprezzo couldn’t help but chuckle at that; how many works had he read on the morality of life and death, just violence, even the relationship between art and death? Ten hours every week in debate with his philosophy tutor, and fifteen spent lecturing his cronies for the benefit of nearby ladies. All that wisdom, ultimately worthless, before a feral circus child’s misgivings. His reaction that seemed to genuinely surprise Traleau, pulling him from his baffled recollection.
“What?”
“Ah, it’s just that it’s a very fine thought. After all, if you were hanged tomorrow, these people would be cheering all around the gallows.” Insensitive, perhaps, but Amprezzo could see no further use in restraint. “I concede that I have no satisfying answer to that. I guess that makes me a fool for trying to dissuade you from anything.” He walked over to the window and leaned onto the narrow sill, fingertips brushing the cold glass.
“Maybe there isn’t any other choice. But at the very least, don’t sign up with us just to get out of here; if Kion knows you’ve agreed to it, he won’t let you leave if you change your mind later. So, let’s make a deal. You will stay here until nightfall and think things over. We’ll have a warm supper, and then when it’s dark, I’ll escort you out of the city safely. Then you can choose what you want. If the magistrate’s men come looking for us, I will protect you. If Iacosi sends someone after you, I will protect you. If the woman following you attacks, I will protect you. All I’m asking is from now,” Amprezzo traced an arc through the air with a lazy finger, “until Carnivale resumes.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now hand me a knife. I don’t want to fight unarmed like some tavern-brawling ass if it comes to it.”
Traleau complied, and Amprezzo slid the room’s one other chair next to the door and sat himself in it, resting the scabbarded knife on his lap. They passed the hours silently, eating the lunch brought them at midday and the supper brought as the sun set. They could hear the rising bustle of the streets below as voices took to shouting and were joined with instruments. On the second night of Carnivale, the street plays would begin, the lowest ranks of the Ducal Guard would don their festive regalia, and the wine would flow freely--an ideal night for an escape. Darkness settled over the city and with it, the time for thoughts ended.
“Are you ready? Once we start moving, there’s no rest until we’re well outside the city,” Amprezzo warned.
“I know. Out the window, right?”
Traleau pulled the window open, the night air draining the warmth from the room, though he seemed unaffected by it. He perched himself up on the window sill and leapt out into the night, Amprezzo slinging the scabbard strap over his shoulder and following just behind. They could see no guards up on the roofs, and the noise from the streets below was such that they’d never be noticed over it.
Amprezzo was aware of the boy’s curious look as he lifted the hem of his robe and tucked it tight into his corded belt. Only ragged woolen pantaloons stood between his legs and the night air, but without the flowing garment hung low to the ground, he could break into a dash easily. He cleared the first small gap between roofs easily, and no sooner did he turn to check on Traleau than the boy landed right behind him, looking puzzled as to why he’d stopped.
As they made their way over the rooftops, Amprezzo had the suspicion that they were being followed once again--or that Traleau’s shadow had known to wait for them on some roof near the tavern. The young woman he’d seen was clearly no amateur; wiry and lean, she had positioned herself perfectly in the market hall and made herself entirely inconspicuous. Only his advantage in expecting Traleau to be followed had raised his guard enough to notice her then; he would have to be swift and decisive with this one.
“Traleau, don’t stop moving, understand? Keep heading north. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I can.”
He stopped a moment and stared after the boy, thankful that he pressed on without question. Amprezzo counted out seconds in his head up to eleven, decided that was long enough, drew the dagger from its sheath and broke southwest at full speed, towards Iacosi’s territory. After leaping a few gaps, he thought paranoia had gotten the best of him, but a quick glance over his shoulder revealed a figure moving through the dark after Traleau. She had no choice but to risk being seen: Traleau was quick enough that waiting bore the risk of losing him. That Kion would have praised it as a neat solution only bothered Amprezzo for a breath before he turned and gave chase.
She moved easily and confidently; he had no doubt she could have outpaced either of them, but she had to keep a safe distance to avoid giving herself away to Traleau, and this allowed him to run her down quickly. She was utterly focused on the boy, so much so that Amprezzo drew near enough to reach his hand out and--
The elbow barely missed his head as he weaved to the side, but he saw her spinning hip push forward and hadn’t the time or position to do anything but brace for it. A hard shin crashed into his forearms, pain numbing them as he stumbled backwards. He half expected her to close in, but remembered he had a knife in his hand, of course she backed off quickly and ran for the roof’s edge. He lunged at her with all his might and managed to barely grab a tuft of her short hair, pulling her backwards. She kicked her weight back into Amprezzo, unbalancing him, but he pulled her down with him and managed to win their falling scrabble, pinning her to the roof and holding the knife’s tip to her neck.
“All right, secret admirer, I have a feeling you know what I want to ask so--” He wasn’t quite sure what suddenly had him around the neck, but it jerked him back abruptly, lifting his weight off the woman’s back just enough for her to slip free. The strange grip on him released, she rolled over onto her back and he had his first real up-close look at her. For an instant, he marveled at how she seemed merely annoyed. Then the side of her foot smashed into the side of his face.
In his doubled vision, he saw her stand and dust herself off, muttering something--in Oza, was it?--that sounded distinctly like a curse.
“Ye right arse,” she grunted. “I lost all sign of the boy. I hope the roll was worth it to ye, though the knife were a desperate touch.”
Amprezzo shook his head clear and stood slowly, not quite sure what to make of her demeanor. He looked around for some sign of whomever owned the hands that had pulled him off her, but they were alone, as far as he could see.
“Did . . . did you choke me with your feet?”
“Aye, what of it?”
Amprezzo had to admit he hadn’t really thought that line of questioning out. Ten hours of debate a week, indeed. More importantly, she showed no interest in fighting him.
“You’re not one of Iacosi’s,” he said.
“Sure as I’m nobody’s dog,” she replied.
“Fine. But you’re still going to tell me why you’ve been tailing Traleau.”
“Oh, aye?” She put a hand on her hip, but the stillness that followed let Amprezzo know she was thinking it over even then. “I’m just watching the lad is all.”
“For whom?”
“I never said it were for someone. As ye said, I’m just a secret admirer. Lovestruck with the circus boy, ye know.” She noticed Amprezzo raising the knife before he did. “I’ve no reason to threaten him. If I did, we’d not be having such a lovely chat.”
“I asked you who is paying for your services. Now, I tried to avoid hurting you before because I was looking to get an answer. If you won’t give me that, I have no reason to believe you or let you live.”
“Aye, supposing you wouldn’t.” She looked over her shoulder--considering options again, Amprezzo thought--but only sighed. “What if I said I was asked to watch out for his safety owing to yer lot? Could ye leave it at that?”
“No.”
“Oi, oi, yer making this hard enough, aren’t ye? Near as I can figure, we’re about the same business,” the woman said. That struck Amprezzo as an odd comment, but then, odd was a fine word for the woman in whole.
“And how do you ‘figure’ that?”
“Them that hired me is wanting to keep the boy safe away from yer lot. Can’t say I know why, but it seems yer wanting the same.”
“You’re rather perceptive. Too perceptive for one day, I think. You were tailing us last night as well, weren’t you?”
“Aye. I saw well enough what happened, and I’d say circus boy made his pick then and talk after that is just spit in the ear. Still, not refusing coin.”
“I see. Well, the longer we spend here, the longer Traleau is on his own. You tell whomever hired you that he’s gone, and that’s all they need concern themselves with. I’ll make sure he’s safe. Now, I want to see you head that way.” Amprezzo pointed the tip of the knife southeast, and watched her, on guard for any movement. To his surprise, she nodded and took a step back.
“Yer not lying, lad has a need to get gone either way. Still, my pay is for through to next dawn.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Fair enough, but I’m checking up on yer lot at sunrise all the same, don’t go making the work hard again.” The woman turned her back to him and walked to the opposite edge of the roof, stepping up onto the low lip. “I saw the body after ye’d left. Circus boy cuts too clean. He’s a dangerous one.”
“I know.”
“Not my business, but maybe ye’d do well not to make him moreso.”
She leapt and dissolved into the darkness.
