The Show Must Go On

When he was fourteen, Hiero Payne, Magician's Assistant, decided to run away from the circus and find a home. He bid a heartfelt farewell to as many of his friends in the circus that he knew wouldn’t tell on him, Puello, the caribou that pulled the magicians supplies cart where Hiero slept, and Frieda, the patchwork bear he made out of discarded scarf tricks and kept in a hidden space in the carts’ wheel well.

He very intentionally did not tell his foster-sister Mirabell he was leaving, knowing she wouldn’t understand. She’d never wanted for a family who would love her unconditionally and not make her peel potatoes. He pointedly ignored the fact that she complained about her mother forcing her to help with the mending while showing off her many bandaged fingers where she pricked herself. She obviously knew nothing of how he felt.

He packed a bindle with some soft bread and hard cheese (because that seemed the thing to pack) and left under cover of night when most were asleep and the caravan guard was lax so near a town. It took him all morning to reach Vanderville but once he got there he stood, transfixed by the midweek market, not quite knowing where to start but determined nonetheless in his quest. He knew his parents had given him a name that foretold greatness in him and he wanted to use that greatness to bring himself back to them, for what was power and wealth beyond measure without those he loved to share in it with?

The stalls he wandered between trying not to gape were packed with the local wares, mostly produce and household objects (Though it being a spark town meant that the definition of household object had a slightly different meaning compared to more mundane towns). Cages of chickens were stacked next to cages of miniature cows (for all your personal milk needs!) Large bins of turnips, potatoes, and tomatonions (the local specialty) were side by side with spindles stacked with gears of increasing size.

Hiero, not having any pocket change, ignored all of this in favor of searching the faces of the crowd, looking for a familiar chin or nose or his particular shade of ginger hair. People watching was not a new activity to him, but he usually partook of it from on high, perched on the roof of one of the carriages and unseen by the crowd. Everything looked far too big from down here (they kept telling him he was sure to get a growth spurt soon but he wasn’t so sure).

He must have watched the crowds for hours, eating the modest snack he’d packed and waiting more patient than any kid his age had any right to be. He was an unusually pragmatic child, if still clinging to the vestiges of a childish naivety that allowed him to truly believe he would find his family in this town he’d never seen by sheer force of will and a nebulous, if desperate hope for something he had only a vague concept of.

Some undetermined amount of time later he was shaken awake by a gruff, familiar hand. The severe face of the circus master loomed grim above him, solomon like Hiero had never seen him. Mira’s father always had a grin that softened the sharp and intimidating figure he cut (their patrons assumed him to wear stilts of some sort but Hiero knew, like the rest of the caravan, about how he had escaped the spark that had so decimated his hometown when he was but a lad and experimented on him with little regard for something as banal as his comfort. Hiero had watched Mira’s mother massage his aching joints in the winter and when it rained).

Despite being cold and alone and aching with the loss of his family when he had been discovered by the genial ring master, he had never been frightened of Master Sacha until now. His pale blue eyes usually crinkled in mirth were hard and unforgiving as the tundra from which he hailed before his escape from the Polar Ice Lords insatiable greed. The young Hieronymus hung his head, quelled under his foster father's grim countenance, and, without a single chastising word being said, felt immediately regretful of his hasty actions.

What Hiero did not see was the bone-weary grief behind Master Sacha’s troubled eyes as he looked down upon his wayward charge. He took no pleasure in keeping the child from the search for his family, though Sacha knew there were none to find. Hiero was trembling slightly and it hurt Sacha’s heart all the more. He had no desire to frighten his charge, only to express upon him the seriousness of the situation.

“Hieronymus. You seek your family,” Master Sacha said delicately, “they are waiting for you at the caravan.” Hiero’s head shot back up, his eyes shining with hope,

“Are they really, Master Sacha? You found them?” Sacha immediately realized his mistake and could only hope the truth would not cause his charge more grief.

“Mirabell, as well as Vrebecca, Reece, Yvette, and the rest have all missed you dearly. I was forced to send them ahead, even as I came back for you.”

Hiero’s heart sank into his worn canvas shoes and the air felt colder, bereft of the brief flame of hope that had been snuffed out as fast as it was lit. He had no secret relative waiting to claim him, no distant uncle to take him under his wing and shower him with affection and gifts. Only a bunch of carnies who only kept him around out of a sense of responsibility, no more than a burden to them.

Yet all at once he missed them fiercely, Reece’s menagerie of affectionate creatures who were always ready to share in his snacks, Yvette’s keen eye that allowed her to con customers into thinking her psychic and always let her know when he needed some hot coco and a hug, Vree’s kind touch as she bandaged his knees and the warm honey sandwiches she made on special occasions, how Mira always included him in everything, even if he was younger and shorter and slower and not as good at games as the older kids.

Like a bolt out of the blue (and he had to check there were no sparks nearby, that was a very real option an uncomfortable amount of the time) he didn’t need a relation to tie him to these people. He loved them, very dearly, and would not want to leave them if he took a moment to think about it like Sacha has forced him to. His small hand wrapped itself around Sacha’s long, spindly fingers in a child’s grip and his eyes pleaded beseechingly at his Master, not wanting to embarrass himself further with an excuse he no longer believes himself.

___________________________________________

It took them three days to catch up with the caravan at the next village. It was different but pleasant to sleep under the stars, bedded down on pine needles and leaf litter with only the massive figure of Master Sacha keeping a quiet vigil through the night. He was so used to the hum of the magician supplies cart’s inner workings at rest as it keeps the cart at a controlled temperature and the hundreds of other small calculations and adjustments in the night.

The next scheduled town on their circuit was Canterberg, a medium sized town whose main export was all things equine from stirrups to the largest and strongest pack horses in all of Europa. They used to be much more profitable a town but with Sparks stronger than ever clanks were on the rise, though most Canterbergers would tell you that no rust bucket could ever outdo their prize draft horses. In fact, it was such claims that brought them from the brink of poverty as they installed the first ever open competition that accepted both bred animals and clanks. They’d just recently started debating whether or not to include constructs and spark created hybrid species in the competition.

The gate to the town past the produce and equestrian training fields was drawbridge style, open across an expansive trench to let in the shallow trickle of traders and serfs and abnormally tall circus masters carrying wayward magician's assistants to the inner city. They passed the turret like watch towers flanking the gate and into the body of the town looking for the nearest tavern. Master Sacha knew that the first thing his circus did when they arrived at a new town was get friendly with the local entertainment under the guise of getting hammered to get a feel for the tastes of the town so they could tailor their acts accordingly. It wouldn’t do to put on a set of death defying tightrope stunts if the town was one where the major method of transportation was a complex series of ziplines, they’d learned that the way you might imagine.

They found themselves in The Maid and the Mare, an out of the way place that would more appeal to locals than the tourist crowd and Sacha almost turned right around, thinking them in the wrong place. The mood was sober, in a depressing fit of irony, and he could see several of his troupe gathered around several circular, wooden tables in the back, sharing heavy sighs and nursing their steins in a manner most unusual for them. It was Reece who spotted him first or rather, Reece’s goldfinch spotted him first and tugged on the animal tamers forelock until he lifted his eyes from where they had been staring intently and morosely into his mead.

He looked up to see Master Sacha standing there in the doorway and grew even paler than his already tan-less face. He looked down quick and nudged Sacha’s wife, Vrebecca, who was quietly sobbing into an oversized handkerchief. It was not so much his wife’s tears that sent ice down his spine but the fact that she was in the tavern at all. He rushed to her side, setting Hiero down to hold her hands in his.

“Vree, darling, what has happened? Where- where is Mirabell?”

Vrebecca tried to respond but choked on her tears and buried her face again in her handkerchief, her hands still cupped in his. She waved shakily to her left and Mira’s sweet little head popped up from under the table, her curls bouncing and her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She took one look at her father and ducked right back down, under and out, to rush into his open arms. Confused, Sacha wrapped his arms around his arms around his darling daughter and looked to the others around the table for some sort of clue whether he should be strong for his family or upset himself.

Georgi Rollandanski, the troupes traveling hostler, took his hat into hand and stood from the table, his chair screeching loudly on the riveted floor. The bar went quiet, no local would make such a faux pas, even drunk as most of them were at any given time in the establishment. George coughed, embarrassed at the attention, and focussed his attention away from his intimidating ringmaster.

“Good to see you safe n’ sound, young Hieronymus. Y’had us worried, there, lad.” He shuffled his feet, clearly avoiding eye contact with the increasingly annoyed Sacha. Someone on Georgi’s left elbowed the flustered groom and he gave his throat another unnecessary clearing to buy some small amount of time,

“M-master Sacha, sir,” his voice had a faint tremor to it and Sacha moved Mira into one massive arm, supporting her on his hip, freeing up a hand to wipe at his brow. He knew he wouldn’t like whatever was coming.

“The thing is... you see... it’s-”

Vrebecca slammed her handkerchief clutching hand onto the tabletop, starling Georgi out of his stuttering explanation and nearly upsetting her tankard. She grabbed it by the handle, slammed it back, head held high and toward the sky, and dropped it onto the table, dabbing at her upper lip with her tear stained handkerchief. Her sad, steely eyes met her husband's.

“It’s Nero, bublik. Nero broke through”

Nero, their eldest, at nearly twenty three, was the one they sent out to scout out the next towns on their circuit for possible trouble and to gauge the temperament of the towns while also practicing his cartography as he built up his portfolio before finding a master. Nero, who had always been level headed and the quietest out of all of their brood, keeping to himself and always running off, climbing trees to be by himself and see as far as he could.

Mira made a small sound of discontentment, amplified only by the silence laying heavy over the tavern. Sacha loosened his grip on his youngest, having tightened his grip out of fear of the words his wife spoke.

“What- what did he make?”

Vrebecca let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a sob, “He made a map. A thrice damned map that draws itself as it crawls over the landscape, oh bublik you should have seen it. He put your crest on the side.” Her voice near broke at the end and she held back a fresh torrent, closing her eyes tight.

“And... what happened to him?” Sasha said with a growing dread pooling in the very pit of his stomach. The table suddenly looked that much more like mourners, “Vree, Is he...?”

Vrebecca, eyes still clamped shut like a vice, nods her head like it pains her. It probably does. Sasha gropes with his one free hand for a sturdy chair so he may fall into it, burying his face in Mira’s curls. His massive shoulders shake and Hiero, forgotten in their grief, starts to feel as he did before he ran away.

This wasn’t his family to mourn. He hadn’t even known Nero, he felt no great personal loss. The space between him and the master feels more like a chasm. His hand is cold where the master dropped it. He wants to cry for the loss but feels all the more guilty seeing their tears and yet doesn’t think he can help it. He wants to run away, not to find family, but to lessen the burden on the one he has. But the master would come after him again, or worse, send one of the others. He’d cause them even more trouble in their heartache. So he sat in a chair, near enough to be in sight. He sat and cried and let them think he cried for Nero.