“What about Z’arta? I thought you said she’d have plenty of mending work for me to do.”
“Oh, she does. Believe me, when we are on the road, we have nothing but time.”
“When will we be stopping again?”
“Two weeks, maybe. We’re heading for Barsava.”
“I’d need to see a map to know where that is.”
He tapped his temple. “Here’s my map. Barsava is west. It’s the capital of Pulska. Then to Minuck. Then to Toksva, which, I’m guessing, is the end of the line for you.”
Toksva was the capital of Varynga. If I hadn’t found a better lead on the Fantazikes before we travelled that far, Toksva would indeed be the end of my journey. I’d have to admit defeat. But whether I would return to Prigha, and to Gideon and Marlis, was something I would decide only after I was certain I had no other options, and no other leads to follow. “Yes. I would part with you in Toksva, if I don’t find the Fantazikes before then.”
Falak nodded. “Eat your fill, Evie. There’s much work to do today, and you’ll need your strength.”
After licking my plate clean and shrugging on my dry but wrinkled shirt and trousers, I carried my dirty dishes to the green wagon near the end of the train and introduced myself to Geppenio, the circus’s cook. The hulking giant merely grunted and pointed to the huge pot of water steaming on the stove beside another burbling pot of what looked and smelled like soup. I arranged my dishpan while he observed like a brutish hawk watching a field mouse. When he was satisfied I wouldn’t ruin his neatly arranged kitchen or dissolve in a puddle of feckless tears, he grunted again and turned his back to me. The steady rhythm of his knife thudding against his cutting board filled the silence. Soon thereafter, the circus returned to the road, and the cook wagon rocked and swayed beneath my feet as we rolled along.
The procession stopped again at lunch time, and Geppenio dismissed me with yet another grunt. I carried two plates loaded with bread, butter, and cheese to the costumes wagon and met an unfamiliar young woman bearing a bundle of freshly laundered clothes, judging by the soapy odor emanating from the fabric.
“You must be Z’arta,” I said in Dreutchish, wondering if she understood. “I’m Evie.” She pressed her lips together and squinted as though she didn’t know what to make of me. “Falak said you had mending for me.”
Her expression eased into something less doubtful, but not much friendlier. As soon as I set down our lunch tray on the work table, Z’arta shoved her bundle toward me and rattled off terse instructions in a language I couldn’t begin to place. She snatched a pincushion from the worktable and balanced it atop the pile of fabric spilling from my arms. Several needles of various sizes prickled like porcupine quills from the pincushion. I tried not to blanch, imagining the hours of work in store for me.
Z’arta reached for a small wooden box on the worktable, popped open the lid, and revealed a collection of spools wound with threads in a rainbow of assorted colors. I nodded, showing her I understood. She harrumphed, turned on her heel, and snatched her lunch tray. She marched outside, leaving me in solitude while I ate my lunch and started a long afternoon of mending.
That evening, after the circus train rumbled to a halt, I climbed the steps down from the costumes wagon and discovered the caravan had circled around itself like a pill bug curling up to protect its vulnerable interior. In an open meadow alongside a worn and rutted road, the wagons had formed a concentric ring, protecting those who were most vulnerable.
Like ants from a disturbed mound, workers and performers poured into the small clearing at the center of the caravan ring. Under the darkening sky, they brought out seating, lanterns, and torches. Some queued at the window built into the side of Gepennio’s cook wagon. Others milled around the clearing, stretching their legs, greeting one another, conversing in a cacophony of languages, none of which sounded like Inselgrish. I recognized Camilla sitting like a queen upon a cushioned stool. Her acrobatic family surrounded her, fussing over her comfort. The little boy and girl I’d seen during my first visit to the circus chased each other in circles but never strayed far from their family group.
After taking my place at the end of the supper line, I slumped against Gepennio’s wagon and closed my eyes. The strain of squinting at small stitches had often given me headaches, and today was no exception.
“Langen tag, Evie?” Long day, Evie?
I spun to face Falak, who tried but failed to stifle his amusement at having surprised me. “The work is painfully familiar,” I said, “but the surroundings are a little uncommon.”
Over his shoulder, I watched several small children darting around the periphery of the clearing. The circus welcomed families, it seemed—possibly even encouraged the passing down of traditions and skills from parent to offspring, ensuring a renewable supply of well-trained performers. Standing alone at the edge of the group, a solitary woman with a forlorn smile watched the children play. She wore a long draping dress and a dark headscarf, and she stroked a large brass snake slithering around her arm and neck.
Falak must have seen the astonishment on my face. “Bashaya,” he said. “She’s a snake charmer.”
“But....” The dinner line shifted and we moved forward several steps. “It’s not real, is it? It’s mechanized like the animals in the menagerie.”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps you should ask her. If you’re nice, she might even let you pet him.”
“Him?”
“She calls him Ajej.”
The line shifted again. I shook myself and moved forward, close enough now to catch a whiff of Gepennio’s soup and the fresh baked rolls he’d set to rising before I left his wagon earlier in the day. Falak and I suffered a moment of awkward silence before taking our turns at the window, both receiving a small tray laden with a soup bowl, a huge fluffy roll, and a steaming mug of something that smelled of nutmeg and cinnamon. Compared to the fare I’d eaten when I was on the road with Gideon and Marlis, Le Cirque de Merveilles Mécanique fed its people like royalty.
“Sit with me?” Falak headed for the circle where everyone else had gathered. I followed him into the thickening crowd. Instead of taking one of the available seats, he crossed his feet and sank to the ground, balancing the tray in his lap. I eased down beside him, careful not to spill a drop. Inhaling, I savored the odors from the soup—an unfamiliar earthy aroma—and the tea, the meadow grasses, the evening breeze, and my companion who smelled of oil, coal soot, and something caustic like the polish the housekeeper at Fallstaff had used on the silver.
“The fact that you’re still here, and not halfway back to Prigha, says something about how you’re settling in, I think.” Falak raised his mug and sipped.
“I’ve been too busy to run away.”
He tore a hunk from his roll and dunked it in his bowl. “Maybe you don’t fully understand the concept of running away.”
He couldn’t know how wrong he was, that I was the grand champion of running away. Changing the subject, I clutched my mug and inspected its pale, milky contents. “What’s this?”
“You are not familiar with tea?”
“I know tea.” I frowned at my mug. “This isn’t tea.”
“Not Inselgrish tea, that’s for certain.” I shot him a sharp look, and he snorted. “It’s called ket, a staple from my home country. Gepennio makes it sometimes, when he’s feeling sentimental.”
I arched an eyebrow, demonstrating my skepticism of the cook’s capacity for sentimentality. “You and Gepennio come from the same country?”
Falak exchanged his mug for his bowl and swirled his spoon through the contents, stirring up meat and vegetable, most of which I recognized, even if the seasonings were foreign. He shook his head. “No. But his history is deeply entwined with mine, and my family’s.”
I waited for him to expound, but instead he sipped his soup. Undaunted by his sudden reticence, I pressed on. “So, where’s home?”
He waved, motioning to the entire wagon train. “Here. Le Cirque has always been my home.” Something in his tone indicated he’d said all he was willing to say on the subject, and we finished our meal in silence.
Chapter 12
Someone brought out a fiddle. Next came a fife and a pair of bodrum drums. The music reminded me of Niffin’s little band, and my heart cramped with longing for Malita. Certainly, I wanted to find the Fantazikes for the hope that they could help me restore my powers, but reuniting with my friend was another great motivation. If the Tippanys still have her. If they haven’t already found a way to send her back to Agridan.
Falak collected my dirty dishes and added them to his tray.
