Ringmaster
The rest of what was said vanished as Lem Tory slipped past one of the distracted security guards and into the warren of backrooms and practice areas. The circus had drawn crowds from across town – all the pretty girls were in attendance, sleazy boyfriends on their arms, and the local bully-boys who'd been hired by the circus couldn't help but stare; it made Lem's job a great deal easier.
He'd been coming to the circus since it opened a month ago, back when he was one of few in the crowd and the performances were not so polished. Even then he'd had suspicions but chalked it up to several novels he was reading – his active imagination had landed him in trouble more than once. But as he watched, as he learned, as he stared up from his seat at every show he became more convinced that something was not right at Jacob and Sons Circus, that something sinister went on behind drawn tent-flaps.
No one questioned him once he was past the thick curtain separating audience from performers, though a few shot curious glances his way. It was standard practice for a circus like Jacob's to pick up new talent in every town passed through, so Lem put on a confident smile and pretended as though he belonged.
“Excuse me,” a throaty voice said from the shadows and he stopped, then tried not to look startled as Alhembra, Queen of the Sword slithered out of the darkness. Taller than Lem by at least six inches and as buxom a woman as he'd ever seen, she was one of the show's biggest draws. That he act involved not only sword-swallowing but poison-coated sword-swallowing made it huge hit, to say nothing of the fact that men all over town were desperately in love with Alhembra herself. Lem wouldn't call what he felt love, exactly, but he certainly had an interest.
“Yes?” he tried to make the word sound nonchalant but succeeded in giving it a cast of irritation. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How can I help you, miss...?” Lem hoped that she'd get the idea he wasn't local, but there was always the chance Alhembra had seen him in the front row for weeks on end.
“Alhembra,” she said, gliding closer, “and I need a favor.”
“S-s-sure.” It was difficult to keep calm with her body only inches away and Lem felt his breath start to quicken. His plan had been to start with the trapeze artists – they were the strangest of the lot – but it was possible that the sword-swallower could shed some light on the show's oddities as well. “How can I help you?”
“Come with me,” Alhembra said, turning swiftly to glide away. It took all of Lem's willpower to move after her instead of stare at her swaying form, and even then his eyes refused to stay where they belonged.
“Where are we going?” He managed as they swept past other performers and road-hands, all focused on their tasks and with no eyes for a beautiful woman or the young man behind her.
“Right here,” she said, stopping at a thin wooden door. “My chambers. Please, come inside.”
Lem nodded, head swimming and extremities going numb. He had little luck with those of the female persuasion, but that didn't mean he had no desire.
As soon as the door shut behind him Alhembra spun on her heel, striking him across the face with an open-palmed slap.
“Ow!” He cried. “Why did you do that?” Fantasies came tumbling down around his ears. “What's wrong with you?”
“Quiet, Lem!” She said sharply, and Lem sucked in a quick breath.
“How do you know my name?” He tried to make his voice sound gruff and irritated.
“I asked around,” Alhembra said with a small laugh. “After I saw you front and center for three weeks. There was something about you, something around the eyes that said you weren't buying the act.” She paused. “You're looking for our little secret, I suppose?”
Lem nodded, and the sword-swallower went on. “Fine. But I don't give away information to just anyone. Tell me how my trick is really done and I'll tell you the truth.”
“It's simple,” he spoke quickly, before the words went right out of his head. Confrontation wasn't something he was good at, and combined with beauty Lem found it almost overwhelming. “The swords are real, and so's the poison, but you're dousing yourself with an antidote every night. More than likely you're using Darasin, which is effective but requires you have a substantial constitution to endure its side-effects, which explains your strong and -” he hesitated, “robust figure.”
Alhembra laughed again and bowed deeply, forcing Lem to look away. “Correct, young man! Now, have a seat.” She led the way to small, upholstered chairs around a wooden table.
“Tell me,” she said, sinking down onto a chair, “what do think it is that we hide from the townspeople? What is our great deception?”
“I don't know!” Lem's voice carried his frustration. “I thought at first you might be fugitives, but none of you come close to any of the most wanted descriptions. You're not deserters or radicals, and I've confirmed you weren't part of the uprising last year. I don't know what else is left!”
“Hmmm,” Alhembra murmured, “and what was it made us seem odd in the first place, what did you notice?”
“It was...” Lem paused to think. “The acrobats. Some of what they were doing seemed impossible, even for trained professionals. There were several movements that should have injured if not outright killed them, but they went on as if nothing had happened.” He gasped, a sudden insight crashing into him. “Are they robots? Is that it?”
The sword-swallower laughed deeply, hands coming up to cover her face as she snorted in amusement. When she lowered them, Lem noticed a strange white marking on her jaw line, pale and dusty-looking.
“Is that...” he began, and she smiled sadly.
“Our curse is simple, Lem, but our malady profound. We've died a thousand times, bodies broken and useless, but are always raised again to perform. Our Ringmaster is far more than he appears.”
There was a sound at the door, a commotion beyond and Alhembra's eyes went wide. “Hide!” she said. “Quickly! They are coming!”
- D
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