12. Rekachev Circus School Trial (13)
12. Rekachev Circus School Trial (13)
Time flew by, and before anyone knew it, the day of the preliminaries had arrived.
Saturday morning, October 23rd. We finished every last preparation and set out for the exam site.
Inside the carriage on the way to the school, nerves stretched tighter with every turn of the wheels. The troupe members, animated when we'd left the villa, grew stiffer the closer we drew to the square. Even Gaston, who always regarded the circus with a measure of disapproval, was now muttering Kirkeus's name under his breath, as if searching for a patron saint.
Ella and I had anticipated this, so we pulled out the fortune cookies we'd prepared.
"Why don't you all have one of these? Might loosen the nerves a bit."
The moment I tore open the wrapper, the scent of chocolate and butter bloomed through the carriage. The rigid expressions on the troupe's faces thawed, and one by one, they took a cookie from my outstretched hand.
I played it off as if I'd simply grabbed whatever happened to be stowed in the carriage, but the truth was I'd had Clara place a special order with the Slagbort Confectionery Factory days earlier. I'd asked them to put only good fortunes inside.
The members crunched into their cookies and pulled out the slips of paper.
Their faces, however, told me the messages weren't what I'd hoped for.
'Caught in a hunter's snare.'
'Wounded by the one you love.'
'A nightmare long forgotten returns.'
'Those around you glimpse the wickedness you hide.'
'A carefully laid plan will fail.'
'You will look upon your own coffin.'
Every fortune was an omen of disaster.
If Sven hadn't cracked a joke right at that moment, the mood might have plunged straight into the ground.
"Boss, you botched the order, didn't you? You were supposed to slip in things like 'Victory in the Circus Grand Prix prelims,' or 'Choose red today and all will go well.' Ha-ha!"
A ripple of stifled laughter passed through the group. With one sentence, he'd reduced the signs of doom to a prank gone wrong. I raised both hands in surrender.
"Alright, clearly there's been some kind of mix-up. I'd meant to include only cheerful messages. Not as blunt as the ones Sven mentioned, mind you, but still."
"When I toured the factory the other day, I saw how they do it—the workers just grab fistfuls of slips and scatter them over the dough like salt, pulling from a bunch of different jars at random. The confectioner probably swapped the misfortune jar for the fortune jar by mistake."
"Heh-heh, fortune or misfortune, who cares? Tastes good, that's all that matters. These are really good."
Umon smacked his lips in appreciation and scooped another handful from the bag in Ella's hand. He cracked them open one after another and read the slips aloud.
'Bitten by a pet you raised.'
'Wrongly accused of a crime another committed.'
'You will gravely injure a friend.'
"Hey, hey, quit reading that stuff."
"Why do they even put curses like that in cookies?"
"Right? A restaurant that served that for dessert would never see me again."
"They've got a real flair for jinxes."
"Ha-ha, the confectioners are squandering their creativity, I'd say."
The whole thing had veered far from my plan, but it managed to break the tension regardless. For a while, the troupe's chatter about the absurd cookies made them forget about the exam entirely.
But whatever confidence we'd scraped together evaporated the instant the carriage door swung open before the school gates. A wave of noise crashed over us—reporters shouting, spectators roaring, a thousand gazes tacking themselves onto us. The troupe turned to stone on the spot.
By the time we stepped out of the carriage, the only ones who still looked composed were Maya and me. Even Ella, who'd been rallying the others moments ago, couldn't keep her fingers from fidgeting with her hat.
"A little tense, I take it."
"Something feels off. Like someone's watching us—really watching us?"
"Rivals from the other troupes, most likely."
"Ha-ha, or gamblers who've put money on the other side."
We disembarked and headed for the auditorium. The students, perhaps because it was competition day, ran interference against the press with admirable efficiency, but the troupe continued to scan their surroundings as if expecting an ambush.
This wasn't our first time on a major stage. We'd done it once before in Rouge.
But back then, each person only had to execute a scripted performance. Today, we faced a contest that would be decided in three hours under the eyes of tens of thousands. The pressure belonged to an entirely different universe than the Rose Windmill Cabaret.
Once we stepped onto the campus proper, the Rekachev that met our eyes was unrecognizable from a week ago. A place that had been an ordinary school building was now a full-blown arena for "Acrobatic Rush."
Ten colors of bunting draped the school's outer walls like a tapestry, each bearing a sponsor's crest and the name of a circus troupe.
"Competitors, this way!"
The students guided us along. While we walked, Clara checked in from her seat. She'd reached the school ahead of us, leading the Ratmen.
"Boss! I think something went wrong at the factory. All the misfortune cookies we meant to hand out to the other teams got switched and came as fortune cookies instead! Their staff took them and actually thanked me as they walked off! One even had 'Victory in the Circus Grand Prix prelims' in my own handwriting."
"You put something that blatant in—never mind. And the misfortune cookies... we ate those."
"Ahh!"
We happened to be passing a billboard that read: 'Slagbort Confections. Astonishingly Delicious! Custom Fortune Cookies Available!' The signs doubled as barriers to keep runners from straying off course.
Though they called the school grounds a racecourse, the runners couldn't wander anywhere they pleased. Fifty competitors scattering into every corner of the campus would make a proper contest impossible.
The runners' path was mostly confined to broad, open spaces—gardens, halls—and divided into ten distinct zones.
Zone 1, the "Front Yard," filled with flowerbeds, the Emperor's statue, and an array of sculptures.
Number 2, the "Vestibule"—the main gate, lobby, and Grand Staircase.
Zone 3, the "Central Garden," anchored by a bamboo grove and surrounded by student lounging areas.
Zone 4, the "Rear Garden," where the school's tamed animals were housed.
Zone 5, the "Dining Hall," where the students ate.
Zone 6, the "Theater," where students put on performances for visitors.
Zone 7, the "Shooting Range," used for dagger-throwing practice and firecracker fabrication.
Zone 8, the "Field," where Ground Acrobatics and wall-climbing were drilled.
Zone 9, the "Pool," with its pond and fountains.
And Zone 10—the "Track" that looped around the entire school.
As you can see, the arenas were mostly on the ground floor, with spectator seating built on the second level and above so that onlookers could gaze down at the action. Ticket-holders could watch from their seats or crowd against the railings and windows. Already, the galleries were roaring as we crossed the Front Yard.
"This is where we split up."
We reached the auditorium entrance and exchanged a last round of encouragement.
I rose from my wheelchair to send them off. Standing unaided and walking short distances were within my ability now. I couldn't show weakness in front of them as their Troupe Leader, not when they were heading into battle.
"Next time we meet, I'll be holding a trophy."
Ella had been exchanging a few words with members of the other auditorium team; now she turned to me, her voice set with resolve. She was always brimming with spirit, but today something extra blazed behind it—something almost solemn.
I gave her shoulder a pat instead of another reassurance.
"I believe in you. Good luck."
"Just leave it to me!"
She shouted that and led the exploration team away.
From somewhere in the distance, the emcee's voice rang out.
"Runners, take your positions on the track!"
"Mini Game competitors, please enter the auditorium!"
Before sinking back into my wheelchair, I looked after Ella one last time.
Was the unease I felt just my own, hidden beneath The Smiling Man mask?
Though only a few dozen meters separated us, she somehow seemed to be walking much farther away.
***
Most of the spectator areas required a ticket, but Zone 10—the Track, the starting line and final finish—was the exception. Since it wrapped around the school's perimeter, outsiders could line up along the fence and watch.
Ella gathered the exploration team one last time.
"We're clear, right? Three of us in a 'downed' state means automatic disqualification. So your only job is to survive as long as possible. Watch the ground constantly. Don't approach any slope without a reason. The second something looks suspicious, report it to Clara. She'll give you proper instructions. That communication line is the one edge we have over every other troupe—use it."
The other troupes relied on signals shouted or flagged from their support staff in the stands, but our team had the Sound Room to spare them that hassle.
Today, though, free back-and-forth chatter wasn't possible. To keep vital concentration from being broken by a stray voice during a Mini Game or a hazardous obstacle, Wonderstein had routed all communication through Clara rather than speaking directly.
"Runners, to your marks!"
A whistle shrilled. The team scattered, each member moving to their assigned spot.
The runners from the ten troupes wore vests with their team colors, spaced twenty meters apart, staggered so that no two members of the same troupe stood side by side. Forty-nine runners ringed the kilometer-long track, every face tight as they stared at the ground beneath them.
At that moment, every tile on the track glowed white—a color that meant everyone could step on it freely. Five minutes after the starting pistol fired, however, they would all turn black. Unusable by any team. In other words, every runner had to clear the track and enter one of the nine other zones within those first five minutes.
Ella spotted Reina approaching her position. She was still wearing the Weeping Woman Mask. Her presence here was no accident.
In the exams of June, July, and August, the treasure chest had been hidden across three different arenas each time, with not a single location repeating. That left exactly one arena where the chest had never appeared, which made it the likeliest spot for the chest today.
Over the past several days, Ella had analyzed that place relentlessly. Thanks to Wonderstein and Maya, she could now sketch its layout in exact detail, eyes closed.
Evidently, the other troupes had done the same kind of homework. She recognized the faces stationed ahead and behind her—aces from each opposing troupe's search team, exactly the people Clara had predicted would be here.
Reina, of all people, had ended up right in front of her. Their eyes met for a moment before Reina turned away to stare counterclockwise down the track.
"Still wearing that today, are you?"
Ella half-whispered at Reina's back. With twenty meters between them, it was less a whisper and more a shouted hiss, but the noise from the crowd along the fence swallowed it for everyone else.
"It's my choice."
"Come on. Why are you being so cold? Did that mustache say something to you again?"
Reina's shoulders gave a small flinch.
Simon's voice slithered through her memory.
Don't forget the condition you must meet to leave the troupe.
She drew a breath and forced her voice level.
"Nothing happened."
There was no way nothing had happened.
Ella was about to say as much, but stopped. She didn't want to burn energy on anything else before the exam started.
They stood in place for about thirty more minutes.
Speeches from the dignitaries and an orientation from the organizers came to an end, and then students in school uniforms lined the track, each holding a checkered flag woven with all twelve colors.
They raised the flags high. The crack of the starting pistol tore the air, and every flag dropped as one.
The Rekachev Circus School exam.
Acrobatic Rush.
The October match had begun.