sang at their torchlight funerals. The calliope played one sour note to harmonise. Staring across the length of the tent to the twisting iron mass of the scaffold, Herb finally understood. On the lift rig stood the HawkEye soldier with the courtesan, Nim, in his arms.
“Okay, old gal. Let’s ring the changes.”
Herb gave the rail an affectionate pat. On cue, the calliope expanded its gilt ribs and began to pipe a lilting melody that meant nothing to the marks and everything to the carnie folk. Herb saw the Jeridian slice a second head, spin about on a heel and leave the two remaining dust handlers in a footbath of blood. She ran a circuit of the outer rim, leapt at one colossal tent post and hung off the pitch crew’s handholds. Watching her climb towards the rafters, Herb saw the second hopper reined in by its handler.
Nim, the hoppers... his main attractions were intact. Herb took off his hat, its soft plumage waving like a sea anemone.
“Adey up, old gal. Adey up,”
He settled his ass on a small stool, lent back against the vibrating pipes and added his hum to the calliope’s swan song.
Concussed, Pig Heart found his world had become a blood-red dust cloud, the roar of thousands of papery insect wings in his ears. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Sirinese’s fist speed in again and he pitched sideways. The fist missed his lips by a finger’s breadth, just as the pitchman heard the farewell pipe of the calliope. A hot gush of terror ran beneath his chest. He had to get out of the ring and back on board.
“Lost your balls, swine?” The Sirinese showed his black teeth. Blood greased the bolt plate at his forehead. Pig Heart’s.
The insinuation fuelled a fresh attack. Pig Heart juiced his legs and charged. The Sirinese might have the advantage of a plated skull, but he had the advantage of pig-headedness. He butted the Sirinese in the left set of ribs.
Pig Heart didn’t stick around to give his opponent time to recover. As the reedy music filled the tent, he ran to the side of the ring and attempted to pressgang his way to the backstage area. Rock rifles fired off in the heart of the crowd and he stepped up onto the rim of the ring to get a glimpse over the marks’ heads.
At the calliope’s cue, his pitch crew had rolled the steel shield across the gap between backstage and the ring. Just like he’d taught them. Dull prangs sounded from outside the tent, droplines being released. A sudden pitch in the tent walls told him that Cyber Circus was on its way out.
He didn’t join in the screaming. A glance back confirmed that the Sirinese had sniffed him out and was on his way over, thrusting marks aside. At the same time, Pig Heart sensed the air heating all around him.
The circus was abandoning him, just as he had abandoned it. Just desserts, Pig Heart reminded himself with regret. The dollars in his pocket weren’t worth shit now. And that one good thing he’d done in trying to keep the wolf girl out of the hands of the pimp D’Angelus, well, that might aid his legacy but it wouldn’t keep the Sirinese from caving in his skull.
The calliope was puffing faster now, its fluting transformed into a low purr. Pig Heart recognised the sound as a heartbeat as alien as his own. His eyes squinted every which way. No time to climb the girders that supported the tent and which were retracting in towards each another, like a dying insect drawing its limbs in to its abdomen. No time to fight the swell of marks and appeal for entry at the backstage door. He stared up at the heavens. Only time to thank the swine’s heart in his chest for a life stretched beyond its limits.
“Give me your arm!”
A figure interrupted the glare of the spotlight overhead. The face that lowered towards him was a timepiece. The roar of the crowd seemed to drop away. Pig Heart could’ve sworn he heard the whir of sprung-wound inner workings. Blood ran from his snout. Multiple blows to his skull had left him in a state of partial consciousness.
In place of a divine being, he saw Hellequin – HawkEye telescoped down. Skin strained over the twin bone ridges at the soldier’s forehead.
“Come on, you swine!”
The tent swayed dramatically, swinging them hard against one of the diagonal iron girders. Pig Heart felt a fresh slash of pain in one knee. He stared across the weave of girders and saw the Sirinese perched between the ‘V’ of two enormous struts. The man trained a rock rifle in his direction.
Pig Heart counted off his last breaths.
The marks reacted to their first glimpse of the HawkEye soldier, and the Sirinese was knocked off balance by the crush of eager bodies. It was reprieve enough for the pitchman to attempt one last fight for life. He locked his grip around Hellequin’s forearm and together they were rising.
Pig Heart’s tiny watery eyes took in the speed of their lift, the sides of the tent slipping by in a flash as they shot towards the roof. His stomach flipped as they started a rapid descent. But then the motion swept them sideways, Pig Heart’s jowls dragging back off his tusks, the rush of air cooling his bloody snout. A gridded floor appeared under him and they dropped, landing on the deck in a painful mess of limbs.
Pig Heart breathed in gulps. He tasted the tannin stench of the zoo. The mesh beneath him reverberated and there was the oh-so-familiar buffering of heated air. He squinted past the rails that enclosed the platform. Lulu’s black trapeze swung towards him, receded far away, then swept back in again. He glanced down and saw Sore Earth drop away.
FOUR
Hellequin watched the pitch crew heave the last headless corpse over the rail, the Jeridian having sequestered the heads for her private collection. He imagined the cadaver flick-flacking out the open skirts of the tent below, a smear on the evening sky.
“Strike me again and I’ll chew your hand off,” Pig Heart muttered behind him. The threat won the pitchman another heavy slap.
Hellequin turned around, arms folded, and put his lower back against the rail.
“I don’t recall you adding that enthusiastic muscle to our fight, Lulu,” he said quietly. His HawkEye revolved as he fixated on the ladyboy.
Lulu lost his steel and looked tearful. “Hellequin, you chastise
“I cannot begin to comprehend why you would save the brute. He stitched us up. He stitched Nim up.” Lulu gave Pig Heart a backhand, the pitchman roaring more in rage than anguish as he attempted to lurch forward. He only succeeded in aggravating the rope burns to his flesh. Wincing, he fell back.
“Enough, Lulu.” Perched on the steps to his personal quarters, Herb rotated his hat’s rim between his hands. Gone the theatrics and light he reserved for performances. His lips were tight, his eyes hard.
“You’re all sissies,” pouted Lulu. “Only reason any of us even got wind of D’Angelus’s band was because Hellequin overheard Pig Heart and his bitch conspiring to run out on us.” The ladyboy thrust a finger at the suspended pitchman, just short of a poke in the eye. “We should offload this shitter along with the rest of the dead bodies. See if pigs can fly.”
“Maybe we will. First we gotta get the facts of what happened back there. Sore Earth isn’t any old pitch – its ripe at the seams. Literally, which is how the mining boys got them great steaming worms eating up the land like they do. There’s traders there, and forges, hardware, printin’ press, apothecary, whore houses. Which attracts marks aplenty, all in need of a night out at the circus and the spending of new-mined dollars in their pockets.”
Herb’s face pinched. “So I gotta wonder what we gained and what we lost back there. Taking off before the end of our show is gonna stitch us up good. Then there’s the question of the marks we sliced and diced. And for
