Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Forty-Four: The Accused

"What do you know about Missus Carson?" I raised prior to going on for the show.

Within the tent, the lights were already low and acrobats were performing their high-flying and death-defying act in the eaves: hanging from the trapeze as aptly as primates.

Jacques eloquence escaped him for a couple seconds and he grappled with a poker face. "Elsie?" He polished the blade of his sword, drawing the slender silver length of it through a cloth now stained with grime and dust.

"I didn't know her name..." I shrugged, aligning the feathers in the shaft of the arrows.

Experimentally swishing the weapon and limbering his wrist. "Why the..." He gestured to me with the sword, the blade flexing as the tip jutted into my clavicle. "Sudden interest?"

I gulped, trying not to look culpable. "I just noticed she isn't around..." I stepped away from the point of Jacques foil aloofly.

Jacques twiddled with his moustache, shaping his dishevelled facial hair. "They found her dead..." He said, unfazed. "Mister Carson and Marcella."

I played along, looking startled. "How?" I loaded my quiver with all the tools of my trade, double checking my inventory before I went on.

Sheathing his blade, "Stabbed," he uttered.

I nodded mutely. "Anything particular about that stabbing?" I investigated, realising how unsubtle my probing was only once the words had blundered out of my mouth.

Jacques stepped closer to me, his lean and gnarly frame casting a shadow over me. "What have you heard?" His French accent had somewhat enriched as his demeanour had become colder.

"What? Nothing," I blabbed, eyes darting about his face. "Just curious..."

"Just curiosity."

"Curiosity killed the cat, mon cherie," Jacques threatened, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

That's when a wave of applause rumbled in the auditorium as the acrobats reached their finale, somersaulting from the heavens and landing light-footedly back down to the ring. I could see the trio in their harlequin jumpsuits bowing and waving before doing gymnastics out of the arena.

"Looks like you're on Hawkeye..." My mentor gestured towards the parting in the fabric of the tent. "Stun them stupid..."

I collected my bow and arrows in a hurry, eager to get away from my imposing teacher and at hearing my name announced, marched into the ring, arms outstretched as I let the welcome wash over me.

~

"What d'you want, kid?" One of the stagehands - Peter - asked me as I hung back as the carnival was being packed away.

"Nothin', I'm just thinking..." I muttered, standing by as Peter worked to dismantle the set bit by bit.

"Why don't y'get y'head outta the clouds and pull your weight, son?" Peter admonished, his hands blackened by the oil and grit coating the metal struts that held up the carnival stalls and tent. "Shame on you watchin' an old dog like me work when you're still so young..."

"I'd rather sit here y'know..." I retorted and I had a mucky cloth tossed at me that hit me smack in the face.

"Do y'value your place at the carnival 'ere, Hawkeye? Because I suggest y'get off y'fat ass if y'do," Peter grumbled, deadpan.

Peter is an endorser of tough love; a jab to the shoulder, a clip on the ear, a step on the heels. But in reality, he's like the grandpa of the carnival; he'd knock out the first outsider to insult his family. The old dog is seventy, with grey whiskers on his chin and a thinning thatch of hair, but he's still the most capable manual-labourer on the crew. Rumour had it he had been employed by the Carsons since the nineteen-forties, when he got out of jail.