The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frank Tuttle
know a guy with two heads, back home,” I said, flipping him a copper. “Maybe we should introduce them.”
He laughed and waved us inside.
Clara and Clota shared one torso, three arms, three legs, and the same distinctly abrasive personality. Halfway through their song and dance act, Clara started cussing Clora and soon three fists were flying and three feet were kicking. Darla and I sought the exit as a pair of clowns grabbed each head by its hair and yanked the faces apart.
Darla shivered. “That was disgusting,” she murmured.
Next we sought out the Man of Bones. His tent was filled with a sweet, cloying mist which glowed in the lanterns aimed up from the floor. Music swelled, the effect only slightly marred by the musician’s inability to keep a tempo, and finally the Man of Bones himself stepped into the light.
People gasped. Give Bones that. In the swirling mist and the dark, cleverly applied paint did manage to project the illusion of bones in motion. Unless you looked too close, or too long.
The gasps soon gave way to guffaws, and when the first thrown bottle sailed onto the stage, the living skeleton made a very vital gesture and stomped off into the shadows.
Malus the Magnificent was next. He made his girl appear, then float, then vanish, and I was pleased to hear only the faintest of well-cushioned thuds from beneath the stage as she made her magical exit. Malus produced a rabbit from his hat, changed water to confetti, and caused a man’s handkerchief to hang dancing in the air. By the time the handkerchief danced, though, his audience realized no more barely-clothed young women would be taking the stage and most wandered away, Darla and I among them.
Vallata the swamp witch hauled wiggling live things out of her black iron pot and stuffed them down her gullet. We left when she let the water moccasin poke its fat black head out of her snaggle-toothed mouth in a final desperate gambit to escape.
Once outside her tent, we walked briskly away. The screams and groans of the hardy few who remained were loud and long.
I saw a break in the milling crowd and parked us in the shadows at the edge of it.
Before I spoke, we both heard the snores.
We turned. Behind us, unlit and unattended, a sign announced the presence of one Gogor the Troll, Menace of the Wild.
The mound of hay inside the cage stirred. A furry arm rose, a furry Troll nose was scratched, and soon the snoring resumed.
“Is that a real Troll?” whispered Darla.
“I think so,” I said. I’d never seen a Troll that small. I’d never seen a Troll that drunk.
But the smell – you never forget that Troll musk, and it was wafting from the cage in thick, choking waves.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Darla.
“I don’t know.” I approached the bars of the cage. They were thin and rusty. The cage just sat on the dirt, unsecured, and I figured I could lift it up with one hand and easily slip underneath.
On the right side, though, was a door. It wasn’t even locked.
Darla caught my arm as I pushed gently at the door.
It swung easily open.
“Hello, Walking Stone,” I said. “You alive, down there?”
The Troll sat up, shedding hay. A pair of big yellow Troll eyes opened and fixed their gaze on me.
It gurgled out a long string of Troll-talk. I shrugged. Without a sorcerer handy to turn Troll gargling into Kingdom words, we wouldn’t have many long conversations.
Darla bent down and fished an empty whiskey bottle out of the hay. A dozen more bottles glinted in the dim moonlight.
“I didn’t know Trolls got drunk,” she said.
“They don’t. Generally. I suppose this fellow makes an exception.”
The Troll turned his luminous eyes from me to the bottle Darla held. He reached out his hand for it.
“It’s empty,” said Darla. She dropped it. “You’re killing yourself, Mister Troll. Shame on you.”
The Troll blinked. Blinked twice, and stood, unfolding its backward-jointed knees as it rose.
“Time to go,” I
He laughed and waved us inside.
Clara and Clota shared one torso, three arms, three legs, and the same distinctly abrasive personality. Halfway through their song and dance act, Clara started cussing Clora and soon three fists were flying and three feet were kicking. Darla and I sought the exit as a pair of clowns grabbed each head by its hair and yanked the faces apart.
Darla shivered. “That was disgusting,” she murmured.
Next we sought out the Man of Bones. His tent was filled with a sweet, cloying mist which glowed in the lanterns aimed up from the floor. Music swelled, the effect only slightly marred by the musician’s inability to keep a tempo, and finally the Man of Bones himself stepped into the light.
People gasped. Give Bones that. In the swirling mist and the dark, cleverly applied paint did manage to project the illusion of bones in motion. Unless you looked too close, or too long.
The gasps soon gave way to guffaws, and when the first thrown bottle sailed onto the stage, the living skeleton made a very vital gesture and stomped off into the shadows.
Malus the Magnificent was next. He made his girl appear, then float, then vanish, and I was pleased to hear only the faintest of well-cushioned thuds from beneath the stage as she made her magical exit. Malus produced a rabbit from his hat, changed water to confetti, and caused a man’s handkerchief to hang dancing in the air. By the time the handkerchief danced, though, his audience realized no more barely-clothed young women would be taking the stage and most wandered away, Darla and I among them.
Vallata the swamp witch hauled wiggling live things out of her black iron pot and stuffed them down her gullet. We left when she let the water moccasin poke its fat black head out of her snaggle-toothed mouth in a final desperate gambit to escape.
Once outside her tent, we walked briskly away. The screams and groans of the hardy few who remained were loud and long.
I saw a break in the milling crowd and parked us in the shadows at the edge of it.
Before I spoke, we both heard the snores.
We turned. Behind us, unlit and unattended, a sign announced the presence of one Gogor the Troll, Menace of the Wild.
The mound of hay inside the cage stirred. A furry arm rose, a furry Troll nose was scratched, and soon the snoring resumed.
“Is that a real Troll?” whispered Darla.
“I think so,” I said. I’d never seen a Troll that small. I’d never seen a Troll that drunk.
But the smell – you never forget that Troll musk, and it was wafting from the cage in thick, choking waves.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Darla.
“I don’t know.” I approached the bars of the cage. They were thin and rusty. The cage just sat on the dirt, unsecured, and I figured I could lift it up with one hand and easily slip underneath.
On the right side, though, was a door. It wasn’t even locked.
Darla caught my arm as I pushed gently at the door.
It swung easily open.
“Hello, Walking Stone,” I said. “You alive, down there?”
The Troll sat up, shedding hay. A pair of big yellow Troll eyes opened and fixed their gaze on me.
It gurgled out a long string of Troll-talk. I shrugged. Without a sorcerer handy to turn Troll gargling into Kingdom words, we wouldn’t have many long conversations.
Darla bent down and fished an empty whiskey bottle out of the hay. A dozen more bottles glinted in the dim moonlight.
“I didn’t know Trolls got drunk,” she said.
“They don’t. Generally. I suppose this fellow makes an exception.”
The Troll turned his luminous eyes from me to the bottle Darla held. He reached out his hand for it.
“It’s empty,” said Darla. She dropped it. “You’re killing yourself, Mister Troll. Shame on you.”
The Troll blinked. Blinked twice, and stood, unfolding its backward-jointed knees as it rose.
“Time to go,” I
Similar Books
Cherry Crush
Stephanie Burke
Demon's Bride
Zoe Archer
The Adventures of Silk and Shakespeare
Win Blevins
City of Time
Eoin McNamee
The Chance You Won't Return
Annie Cardi
To the Moon and Back
Jill Mansell
Our Black Year
Maggie Anderson
Yvonne Goes to York
M. C. Beaton
Comeback
Vicki Grant