his possessions. I’m the Master Fencer; it’s hardly stealing if I hold them for him.”
“But—”
“Listen, you freak,” Alfredo said, his face reddening. “You only have one function in the circus: to sit in your cage and frighten the marks with that ghastly face of yours. Don’t presume to take on any other responsibilities. You are hardly indispensable.”
The Cyclops felt the Master Fencer’s will bear down on her. She looked down, and saw herself reaching forward to hand the sword to Alfredo as if she had no willpower of her own.
She pulled the rapier back.
“I … I’d better check with Marco,” she said.
Alfredo, shocked, grasped only thin air.
“Marco will know what to do.”
“Listen, you fool—!”
“I’ll check with Marco,” she repeated, backing away from the Master Fencer the way she would from a snarling hound. “He’ll know what to do.”
She turned around, heading for Marco’s tent at a shambling jog—the fastest her trembling legs would allow.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake, freak!” Alfredo shouted after her. “This is not over!”
Chapter 3
The oddities nattered outside of Marco’s tent, each trying to crane past the others to peer inside. There was much speculation about from whence the injured man had come, and why he was on the run.
“Is he all right?” the Cyclops said to Pahula, the Tattooed Lady.
Pahula’s parents had come overseas from Kardán, and Pahula still had a thick Kardish accent when she spoke.
“Marcoo has removed the arrow from the crazy man. Now he is—how you say it?—dressing the injury.” The chubby woman shuddered with glee, sending her illustrations dancing and fluttering. “You should see this man without his shirt. Ayah! What a body!”
The Cyclops wouldn’t mind seeing it as Pahula suggested, but she was cautious about letting others know of her desires. Once, when she had worked at a freak show in Dhallabi, the owner had learned of her passion for collecting teacups. Whenever he felt she had not performed to his satisfaction, he would smash one. She had learned the hard way that people could use what they know about you to hurt you.
“Where do you think he’s from?” asked one of the midget twins.
“The Cyclops has his bag,” said the other twin. “What’s in the bag, Cyclops?”
The request had caught her off-guard. She looked at the bag, then back at the oddities.
“Goo on,” Pahula urged in a conspiratorial whisper, “just a peek.”
The Cyclops hesitated for a moment, and then unwound the ties that sealed the injured man’s bag. She had started to open it when Marco emerged from his tent.
“All right, all right,” he said. “The excitement is over; ye can go on back to your tents. I’ve removed the arrow and he’s resting comfortably. There’s nothing else ye can do now. Go back to your tents and get your beauty sl—” His gaze fell upon the Cyclops.
“Go get some rest,” he said in a softer voice, and then returned to his tent.
The oddities cursed and complained, but at length, they relented and dispersed into the night.
The Cyclops remained, blinking in confusion.
For just a moment, before Marco had sent everybody away, she had glanced into the injured man’s bag. She had only caught a glimpse, but she was certain she hadn’t imagined it.
The bag was empty. Really, really empty. From the single glance, it seemed as if there was a cavernous space contained within that simple burlap sack.
The Cyclops looked at the bag again. It seemed plain enough, the surface completely unremarkable save for a row of intricate chartreuse stitching.
She glanced around to make sure she was alone, and then opened the bag once more.
Inside was vast. Vast and empty. By all rights, the bag should have had no weight to it at all, yet it felt about as heavy as a small melon. Left to itself, the bag tended to fill out toward the bottom, as though it were partially full, but the Cyclops was able to press the
“But—”
“Listen, you freak,” Alfredo said, his face reddening. “You only have one function in the circus: to sit in your cage and frighten the marks with that ghastly face of yours. Don’t presume to take on any other responsibilities. You are hardly indispensable.”
The Cyclops felt the Master Fencer’s will bear down on her. She looked down, and saw herself reaching forward to hand the sword to Alfredo as if she had no willpower of her own.
She pulled the rapier back.
“I … I’d better check with Marco,” she said.
Alfredo, shocked, grasped only thin air.
“Marco will know what to do.”
“Listen, you fool—!”
“I’ll check with Marco,” she repeated, backing away from the Master Fencer the way she would from a snarling hound. “He’ll know what to do.”
She turned around, heading for Marco’s tent at a shambling jog—the fastest her trembling legs would allow.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake, freak!” Alfredo shouted after her. “This is not over!”
Chapter 3
The oddities nattered outside of Marco’s tent, each trying to crane past the others to peer inside. There was much speculation about from whence the injured man had come, and why he was on the run.
“Is he all right?” the Cyclops said to Pahula, the Tattooed Lady.
Pahula’s parents had come overseas from Kardán, and Pahula still had a thick Kardish accent when she spoke.
“Marcoo has removed the arrow from the crazy man. Now he is—how you say it?—dressing the injury.” The chubby woman shuddered with glee, sending her illustrations dancing and fluttering. “You should see this man without his shirt. Ayah! What a body!”
The Cyclops wouldn’t mind seeing it as Pahula suggested, but she was cautious about letting others know of her desires. Once, when she had worked at a freak show in Dhallabi, the owner had learned of her passion for collecting teacups. Whenever he felt she had not performed to his satisfaction, he would smash one. She had learned the hard way that people could use what they know about you to hurt you.
“Where do you think he’s from?” asked one of the midget twins.
“The Cyclops has his bag,” said the other twin. “What’s in the bag, Cyclops?”
The request had caught her off-guard. She looked at the bag, then back at the oddities.
“Goo on,” Pahula urged in a conspiratorial whisper, “just a peek.”
The Cyclops hesitated for a moment, and then unwound the ties that sealed the injured man’s bag. She had started to open it when Marco emerged from his tent.
“All right, all right,” he said. “The excitement is over; ye can go on back to your tents. I’ve removed the arrow and he’s resting comfortably. There’s nothing else ye can do now. Go back to your tents and get your beauty sl—” His gaze fell upon the Cyclops.
“Go get some rest,” he said in a softer voice, and then returned to his tent.
The oddities cursed and complained, but at length, they relented and dispersed into the night.
The Cyclops remained, blinking in confusion.
For just a moment, before Marco had sent everybody away, she had glanced into the injured man’s bag. She had only caught a glimpse, but she was certain she hadn’t imagined it.
The bag was empty. Really, really empty. From the single glance, it seemed as if there was a cavernous space contained within that simple burlap sack.
The Cyclops looked at the bag again. It seemed plain enough, the surface completely unremarkable save for a row of intricate chartreuse stitching.
She glanced around to make sure she was alone, and then opened the bag once more.
Inside was vast. Vast and empty. By all rights, the bag should have had no weight to it at all, yet it felt about as heavy as a small melon. Left to itself, the bag tended to fill out toward the bottom, as though it were partially full, but the Cyclops was able to press the
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