13. Circus Charlie (13)
13. Circus Charlie (13)
Monster Circus.
The phrase seemed to explain everything she had observed about Igor.
His bizarre appearance, his reason for prowling around this place, his indifference to becoming a laughingstock before a crowd—if he was the leader of such a troupe, it all made perfect sense.
Though the industry treated monster circuses with contempt, Anna's eyes held not the slightest disdain for him. If anything, she felt sympathy.
"So you're Troupe Leader Igor."
"That's right. But what I'm planning isn't just any ordinary circus. I'm aiming for the Circus Grand Prix!"
Igor chuckled, his shoulders bouncing with glee at the mere thought of it.
Anna withheld the obvious observation—that a monster circus would struggle just to find a sponsor, let alone advance to the finals. She simply offered him an encouraging smile.
"How many members do you have so far?"
At her question, Igor's laughter cut off abruptly. He removed his hat and scratched at his shiny bald crown.
"Still just me. I'll be recruiting from here on out. So how about it? Want to join my troupe? I'll give you the Deputy Leader position."
Anna couldn't help but let out a faint, incredulous laugh at his offer—she honestly couldn't tell if it was audacious or shameless.
"I'm not sure I have the skills for that. I have no talent for acrobatics."
"You didn't laugh at my show. That's enough."
He said it with deliberate cheerfulness, but the words struck Anna as deeply sad. His standard for trusting people revealed just how badly the world had wounded him.
"I appreciate the offer, but there's something else I want to do."
Igor's face fell. He smacked his forehead.
"Ah. Of course. Look at me, my head's in the clouds. You said your dream is to become a critic, right?"
"Yes. But... not the kind of critic like Mr. Mull, the one I saw earlier. I want to work for the Christian Guide."
Igor snapped his fingers as though this were perfect timing.
"Hm. That, I can help you with. I'm very well acquainted with one of the Christian Guide's editors. What do you say? Help me out for just three years, and I'll get you a job there. As a full-fledged evaluator."
Anna's ears pricked up. Even if she submitted this final assignment, there was no guarantee she'd become an evaluator. The Guide's selection standards were notoriously strict. Retired evaluators all said that taking the exam three or four times before passing was the norm.
A guaranteed evaluator position in exchange for three years of work was genuinely tempting. The three-year condition Igor had attached was likely made with the Grand Prix in mind. And for someone who had once given up on the path of an acrobat, the chance to participate in the Grand Prix was appealing in its own right.
But she quickly tamped down her excitement and shook her head. She remembered the resolve she'd made when she first set her sights on becoming a critic.
"Thank you, but my goal isn't just to get hired by a magazine. My dream is to become a fair critic. Like the playwright Christian."
"Like Christian, you say...?"
A smile of unreadable intent settled on Igor's lips. With those dark-tinted spectacles he wore, reading his eyes was nearly impossible.
"Yes. So I'm not comfortable getting in through a personal favor. And more to the point, I really wouldn't be much help. I can barely juggle a few balls before my arms get tangled."
"Alright, alright. I understand. Your feelings, I mean. I'm sorry for troubling you with an unwanted proposition."
Just then, a pigeon landed on the windowsill outside the exhibition hall and began tapping its beak against the glass. Gudol cocked its head at her, then flew back up into the sky. Ella must have secured the tickets.
"I should be going now. My companion is waiting."
"Is that so? Then I'll be on my way as well. Well. If you work as a critic, we might meet again someday. It was a pleasure, Miss Anna."
Igor swept his black cloak around himself and exited the room, vanishing from her sight in an instant. Despite his short, stumpy frame and the limp in one leg, his gait was improbably fast.
Anna let out a long breath as she stared after him.
There had been something deeply strange about the old man—something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't just his appearance. If she were the sort to be rattled by that, she'd never have managed her daily task of changing her master's bandages.
It was probably the queasy unease the phrase monster circus conjured, she decided, or perhaps the flashes of eccentricity she'd glimpsed beneath his genial front. With that thought, she stepped out of the exhibition hall.
A moment later, as Anna entered the lobby, she spotted Ella running toward her from across the hall, her expression alight with excitement.
"Anna, I got us seats in a pretty good spot! Look at this! I—"
But before Anna could reach her, a hand clamped roughly onto her body and restrained her.
"Ngh—wha—what are you doing?!"
Anna spun around to face the person holding her. When she saw his face, her brow furrowed.
He was the security guard from earlier—the one who had slammed Igor to the floor in the exhibition hall. He held her arm fast as he turned and addressed the neatly dressed old man standing behind him.
"It's this woman. She was definitely there."
"Is that so? Then bring her along. Ah, my apologies to everyone present. I am Orse, the director of this memorial hall. A thief has been reported in one of the exhibition rooms, and I have come to take a suspect into custody."
The old man's tone was polite, almost leisurely. His unhurried voice made the unfolding commotion sound like a trivial matter.
The bystanders, already curious about the disturbance, began pointing at Anna—held fast by the guard—and whispering among themselves.
Isn't that the burned girl we saw earlier?
I said something was off about her, didn't I? You can tell she's lower-class just by looking. Why would someone like that come here?
I knew it the moment I saw her. Definitely from the Thieves Guild.
Ella heard every word they were muttering.
Running their mouths about someone they didn't even know! Anna was the kindest friend—
Fury surged through her, and she charged at the guard.
"Let go of her! A thief? Don't make me laugh! You're suspecting Anna? Do you have any proof?"
Ella's tone was the polar opposite of the old man's. Her voice was incendiary, provocative, possessing a raw force that made even the patrons who'd been about to move on turn their heads back toward the scene.
Director Orse maintained a placid front, but inwardly, he was deeply agitated. If word of this reached the ears of the journalists roaming the vicinity, he'd have a disaster on his hands.
"Fine. Then you'll come along as well."
"Let go of Anna's arm first."
"Very well. So long as you follow without a fuss, you won't be handled roughly."
Released, Anna fell into step beside Ella behind Director Orse and the guard.
"Anna, what is going on?"
"I don't really know either."
They were led to a large room tucked into a corner of the museum. Over a dozen people had already been gathered there. As soon as the director entered, they erupted at him, voices shrill with indignation.
"Director Orse, what is the meaning of this? We are guests!"
"I hold a premium admission ticket. To treat a man who has come all the way from the Imperial Capital with such disrespect—!"
"You dare suspect a man who formally holds the title of Baron of being a thief?"
Orse listened to their protests with an impassive face. He waited until the guards had fetched the last of the suspected individuals before he spoke.
"The truth is, the claim that something was stolen was a lie. In front of others, I had no choice but to phrase it that way. I ask for your understanding."
The guests stared at him, incredulous. Then why, on the pretense of a lie, had he summoned them all here?
"A short while ago, in the east wing exhibition hall, several guests collapsed. Our infirmary's on-duty physician is currently attending to them. He reports that the symptoms of the fallen guests appear... identical to those of the Curse Plague."
The atmosphere in the room dropped to a deathly chill, as though doused in ice water.
"The Curse Plague?"
"Yes. A priest from the cathedral is on his way now. Once he arrives, things will become clearer. In the meantime, we have taken the step of gathering everyone who was present in the east wing exhibition hall. Are these all of them?"
One of the guards answered the director's question with an uncomfortable expression.
"There was one elderly man, but we lost him. He was a hunchback with a limp, so we assumed he'd be easy to locate. It seems he may have already left the memorial hall grounds. Shall I send men outside to pursue him?"
"No, leave it. If we cause a stir over that, the cure will be worse than the disease."
At that moment, one of the guests who had been listening quietly rose to his feet. It was Mull, the poet—a well-known figure in the Vegas theater district.
"But what is the purpose of gathering us here in secret? Going so far as to concoct a lie about a thief, no less."
"That is precisely what I was about to explain."
The director paused to gather his breath, then began his account.
"At present, discussions are underway in the Sky City Hippodrome regarding the venues for the Circus Grand Prix preliminaries. Only the final vote on the remaining candidates is left."
Several quick-witted guests grasped where he was headed and let out murmurs of realization.
"The judges claim to reach their decision through fair discussion and voting. But behind the scenes, furious negotiations are taking place among political blocs—nations, noble houses, corporations. Our memorial hall is among the eight final candidates. My sources tell me that one or two of those will soon be struck from the list. Some venues are already all but confirmed. We are not among them. And if word spreads of a plague festering inside our theater... we will most assuredly be eliminated."
He swept his gaze over the assembled group. By now, everyone present could see what he was driving at.
"Fellow devotees of the Vegas theater district. Imagine, if you will, a scenario in which our Christian Memorial Hall is removed—and some tawdry cabaret like the Rose Windmill over in Charlotia is chosen in our place. How badly would people mock the Vegas theater district? It would be a disgrace to Christian's name as well."
Ella, who had been ready to argue with whatever the director said, let out a conflicted murmur and stepped back. Many of the people gathered here were fans of Christian, and Ella counted herself among them. The director was right—if the Christian Memorial Hall were excluded from hosting the Grand Prix, it would be terribly upsetting.
What the director proposed was simple. Until ten days from now, when the final vote for the preliminary venues took place, they would all remain here to receive "quarantine treatment." All accommodations and amenities would be provided by the memorial hall itself. The label of "quarantine treatment" was merely a defensive pretext, a ready-made excuse to fall back on should anyone later raise questions.
His proposal carried no coercive force. In truth, the director had no authority to impose one. All he was doing was explaining the situation and asking for their cooperation.
Anna had initially intended to refuse. She had tasks she needed to complete. The final exam to become an evaluator for the Christian Guide. To pass it, she needed to attend performances and file her reports.
But the overwhelming majority of the guests accepted the proposal. A handful of especially vocal Christian devotees urged the others so insistently that the wavering holdouts soon found themselves with no choice but to agree. Anna was no exception.
"Are you really sure you'll be okay? Should I call Master?"
Ella had been permitted to leave after swearing to the director that she would keep the secret. Having never set foot in the exhibition hall to begin with, she couldn't be detained under the pretext of treatment.
"I'm honestly fine. Thanks to this, I've got a nice place to eat and sleep. I can keep viewing Christian's works here too. That's even better. Just give Master my regards and tell him not to worry."
Anna forced a smile. It stung—throwing away over a year of grueling apprenticeship so pointlessly—but there was nothing to be done about it.
Almost no one passes on their first try anyway.
I probably wouldn't have made it.
I'll just take the test again next year.
"Don't worry about me. Just go have fun."
So she soothed herself and sent Ella on her way.
But before long, a detail resurfaced in her mind: a clause stating that a disqualification—distinct from a mere low score—would bar a candidate from retaking the exam for three whole years.
If I'd known it would come to this, maybe I should have taken Troupe Leader Igor up on his offer.
Sunk in dejection, she stared blankly around the room.
Then a strange discrepancy caught her attention.
She approached the guard who was assigning rooms to the quarantined individuals.
"Excuse me. Is it safe to assume that anyone who was in the exhibition hall earlier and isn't here now has been infected with the Curse Plague?"
"That's correct. They're currently in a separate ward set up inside the infirmary."
Anna took her key from the guard and mentally reviewed the faces of the people filing out of the room to their assigned quarters.
Something clicked.
The people who had laughed at Igor earlier.
All of them—save for the poet Mull—were nowhere to be seen.