Stanley Chao stood on the edge of a flimsy wooden board perched atop a metal pole over a hundred paces above the ground. It swayed lightly, almost imperceptible except for the persistent sense of almost tipping over. The sensation was comforting, a whispered invitation that promised a shield of serenity against the noise and chaos below.
Dizzying spotlights roamed the earth far beneath him, revealing little more than patches of dirt and worn grass. A man stood center among the only three fixed spotlights, a gold trimmed red blur trimmed under the intense light. He gestured gregariously, sweeping his arm in a wide circle before raising it to point at Stan. Spotlights followed, blinding Stan from seeing anything else. The man bellowed something, but his words were drowned out by the roar of a crowd that pressed on him with an almost physical presence.
Stan tied a blindfold over his eyes with slow, exaggerated motions. He edged forward until half his toes dangled over the edge.
A chest-high swing rested horizontally on two wooden poles extended an arm's length beyond him. The swing’s seat was little more than a wooden rod, lightly polished from use. From it, the swing's ropes curved upward, swaying lightly in time with the platform.
Silence descended on the crowd as Stan waited an appropriate, dramatic moment.
He raised his hands to grab the swing. The tops of his fingers brushed the swing grip, pushing it off the poles before he could grab it. Confusion and panic painted his face as he reflexively grasped for the swing as it dropped, trying to predict where it would be. The motion pulled him off-balance, and he flailed a moment before gravity pulled him over the edge.
A collective gasp from the crowd touched his ears before the wind tore it away.
Stanley Chao was a dead man. He knew it; the man on the ground knew it; the crowd knew it. With nothing between him and an abrupt stop, his only hope sped away in a parabolic arc.
He began to flail in the air, arms stretching, fingers grasping.
Several in the audience jumped to their feet, looking as though they might rush to save him. Children's eyes were covered, who cried outrage at the injustice. Many in the audience had gripped their chairs, or spouses, or friends. A few looked skeptical and glanced around, looking for a net or something that might give away the trick. They found nothing.
A woman acrobat in a patterned red leotard stood on a stand that mirrored Stan's on the opposite side of the arena. She gasped loudly enough to draw some of the crowd's attention, shock and horror on her face. And then, in a seemingly futile act of desperation, threw her swing down, presumably in an attempt to save the doomed man.
More in the audience stood as it became clear her swing wouldn't make it in time. A different kind of silence fell upon the crowd, a memorial silence, the kind wrought from a tragedy unfolding. There was nothing to do but revel in the horror of a stunt gone terribly wrong.
They'd paid to see something fantastic, after all. The poster guaranteed it, or your money back.
When it had become clear that nothing could save the falling man, the woman did something even more desperate, something so insane that half the audience tore their eyes off the plummeting man to watch a new tragedy unfold.
She leapt, and somehow that leap contained all the grace one would expect from an acrobat at the top of their game.
It was conceivable that she might reach his swing before she hit the ground. The timing was tight, but possible, and more eyes were drawn to her. Stan's fate was all but sealed, after all, and very few wanted to see someone die, no matter how dramatic.
The next moment, Stan suddenly stopped flailing, and then…physics stopped making sense. The woman's swing turned glossy, reflecting more light than it should. Most didn't notice, eyes glued to either acrobat. Then the woman's swing suddenly sped up.
A trick of the light, or perhaps a trick of the mind. Most would never understand what really happened. Perhaps the woman's platform was lower? That might explain it, and many would claim it true. She'd jumped after him; the swing couldn't possibly make it in time. And yet, somehow, Stanley Chao grasped the woman's swing at precisely the same moment her fingers alighted on his.
The crowd watched in stunned silence as the flailing man transformed into an acrobat, mirroring the woman's grace. They crossed at the apex of their swing before using the momentum to double flip up onto their counterpart's platforms.
With a dramatic flourish, Stan ripped off his blindfold and bowed.
A roar of cheers and applause erupted. He nodded to his counterpart, and they both stepped off their platforms to begin a complicated dance of flips and tricks, all done to the thunder of an approving crowd.
Not all applauded. A man and woman dressed in sharply tailored suits of black and gray had watched the affair with detached interest. A bubble of empty seats surrounded them, and those on the edges of the bubble shot frequent uneasy looks at the pair, like one would at snakes sitting within striking distance.
The pair watched with an unsettling intensity. Not as one would a performance, but calculating as one might to solve a puzzle. While Stan flailed about and people gasped, they paid close attention to how slowly he had accelerated. It was subtle, and in light of a 'tragedy' not something anyone would notice. But when compared to the woman's descent, Stan's drop was practically a leisure stroll.
"He's gotten better," the man threw the words like an argument, head tilted toward the woman.
She pursed her lips, annoyed, but said nothing.
Both of their eyes latched to the swing the moment it has glossed.
"Ah," the women leaned back slightly, "it is him."
The man snorted at the blatant observation.
They watched for a few minutes as the acrobats flipped through the air. There were no more tricks to be found, though. Nothing suspicious. Just a couple of acrobats performing to the delight of a crowd.
"Approach?"
The woman shook her head. "Not here. Too public. We'll take him when he's done."
"…alive?"
Her middle finger tapped against her thumb as she tensed.
"No. Too dangerous."
"He could be useful," the man said with worn words thin from overuse.
"As you said, he's gotten better." Her tone had become flat and cold, delivered from a tense jaw.
For a moment, the man looked as though he wanted to argue. He didn't. Instead, he sat back, his face settling into an annoyed resignation.
"Incredible!" Chi Wan clasped Stan's shoulder, squeezing. "You and Min blew it away. I swear, even I thought you'd courted death's embrace."
Stanley smiled politely and gave the younger man a stiff jerk of the head.
"You flatter me," Stan returned, polite but tense.
Chi had always been excitable in a way that made Stan uncomfortable, a rather odd irony. He could soak up thunderous applause all day, but individual adulation always made him feel awkward.
He continued walking through a narrow hallway of waxed canvas, the younger man only half a step behind. The pitter-patter of a light rain filled the brief silence as they both picked their way around puddles seeping in from under the folds of fabric.
"You know I don't. There's a performance, and then there's you two. You? You're…ah, I could only wish to be as good as you."
"Time and practice," Stan lied.
Stan had no doubt Chi would eventually become a great performer—the boy had a natural athleticism and talent coiled with an almost absurd core of boundless energy—but there was no substituting for Stan's…gift.
Or trick.
Because that's all it was. Stan's stomach churned at the thought of it, sapping the afterglow of his performance. He hated the trick. Always had. No matter how many seats it filled, no matter how loud the applause, that it came from a simple trick soured it all, poisoned it.
"But it's more than that—oh, I know, I know. You practice just as much—no, more than any of us. Right? I know you do. But you? You've got a trick or something," the boy said, wagging his finger in the air. "I couldn't do that, just…fall like you did. That…" he sighed dramatically, shaking his head, "that's something else."
Stan frowned at the boy's words but kept walking, silent. He was unable to condemn the boy for his enthusiasm, but also couldn't help but feel the kid had quite missed the entire point of all this.
Applause. Glory. Money.
Everyone wanted to be a star. Everyone wanted to soak up that thunderous roar, and Stan was hardly the exception. Standing there above with thousands screaming acclamation, there was an energy to it. Excitement. It grabbed you, filled you with adrenaline better than any drug, kept you wanting more.
And like most drugs, it felt so very thin afterward. A lie. A seductive lie, though, one that made you think it would stick the next time. But still, a lie.
The drab walkway gave way to a spacious tent filled with a riot of color and sound that immediately burrowed into Stan’s chest, forming a small ball of anxiety. He reflexively closed his eyes and stopped, shutting out at least half of the chaos that had stolen what remained of his performance afterglow.
“Hey!”
Stan’s eyes snapped open to see a pair of clowns on stilts glaring at him impatiently. Chi was giving him an odd look while occasionally glancing nervously at the clowns.
”Oh, right. Sorry.” Stan stepped aside to unblock the walk way, then pushed forward into the chaos.
Beyond the clowns was a staging area where upcoming performers stretched, practiced, or simply relaxed and socialized. They passed strange animals with their trainers enticing treats for tricks, performers twisted into convoluted shapes, clowns on stilts, and ever-increasing oddities.
A music box spun out thin notes that quickly succumbed to the din of chaos. Beside it, a pair danced, their motion syncopated and complex as they counterbalanced in twirls, revolving and flowing in a way that tempted one to think they danced on air. Lead and follow became blurred as they traded off guiding one another on cues only they knew, their steps intricate, intimate.
There was nothing grandiose in what they did. If anything, their motion was the opposite, efficient, almost subdued. Little flairs were thrown out here and there, accenting their motion and subtly drawing the eye, but these were more expressions of personality coming out naturally than things designed for entertainment.
This was a dance the crowd would never see.
Stan slowed as he neared the pair, then stopped. A hint of longing tainted his expression as one woman closed her eyes, face serene and content, fully trusting her lifelong partner.
"You miss the point," he said distantly. "The trick is just that, a trick. It grabs the attention, but that is all. This," he nodded to the couple, "is true art."
He turned fully to the boy. "Do not pursue the trick. Pursue the art."
"Yes, yes, of course, I understand. I will—I do pursue it every day."
He did not. The boy practiced, certainly, but his eyes were still blinded by the glamour of too many spotlights.
Stan's lips pressed. "Before you pursue anything, though, I believe Mrs. Chen will have your hide if you're late to the walks?"
"The wha—oh!" The boy's eyes widened comically. He spun to leave, then jerked back to Stan. "Oh, uh, thank you!" He half bowed, turning it into a twisting motion as he tried to turn and run all at the same time.
Stan watched the boy rush back with a small smile. The smile fell off when he turned back toward the couple. He watched them for a few seconds more before it became too much. He turned from his regret and continued his way toward the back of the tent.
The Reislin Travel Troupe was a world phenomenon. At least, that's what they claimed. They may not be the best troupe, but they did travel the world, albeit slowly. An entire circuit could take well over a decade. But they were at least enough of a phenomenon to afford certain niceties that smaller troupes could never justify.
Even if they weren't large enough to frequent the best sites in the biggest cities, compared to smaller troupes Stan had the pleasure of working for, the amenities this one offered felt positively luxurious. Like the massive, two-story tent surrounding what at times felt to Stan like a small city of personal tents. It was still nothing compared to the movable cities of the largest troupes, but Stan wasn’t sure he could even stand to be in one of those. Even this strained his tolerance for chaos.
The arrangement of tents was chaotic and unorganized at first glance. And second. There was some organization, and it was one that naturally followed an implicit system of seniority and favoritism. The largest and most elaborate of tents were always closest to the arena. Some were even multi-storied monstrosities, more like a fabric colored building than a proper tent. The often brushed the outer tent ceiling. Those who'd been there longest and those who were the main attractions—often one and the same—had larger tents closest to the arena.
As Stan wove his way through the city of tents, those erections of fabric became smaller and more pedestrian. Having only worked at Reiling for just over a year, Stan barely rated on the social ladder of prestige. Despite his bombastic performance, he was too new, too uncertain to rank any higher than the near back of the city.
It was only a trick, after all. And once people realize that, well…what was left? Just a pair of acrobats flipping through the air. Hardly worth mentioning.
But still worth a mention at least. He and his partner had 'graduated' from the back wall at least.
"Min Li," he said as he sat down on a stool in front of a mirror ringed by inert lights. He reached over and fed a small panel his graescence until the lights brightened enough to highlight his face. He began checking over his makeup.
"Stan-Li," she replied belatedly, using a more traditional pronunciation of his name instead of the one his parents had given him.
"You did well," he said, trying to infuse genuine warmth into his tone, yet uncertainty tainted his attempt. He never could figure her out.
"Of course," she replied, giving him a false smile.
He tried to think of a response, but nothing came to mind and after a few seconds he realized whatever chance he had to break the ice between them was gone, again.
On stage, they were synced in a way few could attain. He could never understand why she hated him for it. He wasn’t even sure she did hate him, or if he imagined her aloofness as hate.
He stripped off his leotard, leaving him clad only in tight underwear. She soon mirrored him with the same practiced movements. A few moments later, they'd managed to pry a matching set of unitards over their skin, covering most of their body without adding any modesty whatsoever. Modesty was a long-running joke in a troupe like this.
Their next performance was his favorite, a dance in the air among silks. Designed to blend in with the streamers, their costumes would serve to obscure their movements without detracting from the grace of the dance.
It was one of the few performances that required no tricks of him. Just beauty; just art.
It wouldn't last; he knew that. The performance, while beautiful, just didn't grab the attention well enough. The owner's long-standing policy to always allow a performance enough runs to ensure success or failure had allowed Stan to continue to enjoy it but…it was already known as a failure. The crowd longed for the loud and the bombastic. They did not long for beauty. Not really.
He glanced at his unwilling partner, but she was staring at the mirror with a blank expression.
A commotion behind them drew their attention. Min Li spun on her stool, then jerked as though struck. A small gasp escaped her lips, eyes wide.
He slid off his stool and with a couple of steps stood beside her. A pair of men walked towards them, their eyes locked on Min Li. They were extremely well-dressed, dangerously well-dressed, the kind of dress most people in Stan's economic class learned to avoid. Dark red and green silks wrapped their upper bodies, flaring into loose-fitting pants that flowed around their steps. From their back fell a thick gray cloak, hoods pulled back and still shedding beads of rain. Strapped to each of their waists was a wooden sword.
Just one of those swords could fund the Reiling troupe for a decade.
But why a pair of Royals would degrade themselves to walk among a lowly troupe like this, he had no idea.
He turned back to Min Li to ask one of about a dozen questions suddenly crowding his head, but the words died on his lips. Beyond her, down a suddenly empty isle perpendicular to the one the Royals walked, walked another pair. Their eyes locked on him. His stomach churned acid at the sight of them, a man and women, both dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit covering gray silk beneath it. The way the black cloth seemed to both drink in and shimmer beneath the light was unmistakable, as was the antiquated cut of long split-tails that trailed their legs.
Inquisitors.
There was only one rational action when a pair of Inquisitors had you in their sights.
"Run," he whispered.
Min Li started at the sound, then followed Stan's gaze toward the Inquisitors.
"What? Impossible. Why would they…"
She turned to Stan, her expression turned deeply incredulous, which was fair. Inquisitors were generally known to only address issues that threatened the stability of the Empire and, by extension, the world itself.
"Min Li," he gave her a small bow, "it has been a…well, something, but I'm afraid this is where we must part."
He turned to run.
"Oh no you don't." She grasped his forearm with startling strength.
She glanced down at his hand, which was shaking.
"I am…um." He squeezed his hand into a fist, trying to squeeze out his rising panic as his eyes jumped between her and the Inquisitors. "I…I," his voice came out breathy. "I don't think you quite understand the—"
"I understand enough. You will take me with you."
"What?" Only the suicidal came within striking distance of the Inquisitors.
"Was I not clear? I'm coming. Now," she glanced at the pair of Royals approaching, "what is your plan of escape?"
"My plan of what!?"
"Your…" her face tightened. "Surely, you have a plan."
He snorted. "Yeah, sure. I'll just—oh, too late. She's gonna jump."
The female Inquisitor had drawn a wooden knife from her jacket. Experience had taught him that once they drew their knives, it was usually too late to run.
Stan braced himself.
The woman disappeared within a shimmering distortion. The next moment, a loud crack filled the tent, drawing every eye to them and causing Min Li to gasp.
The woman had appeared behind him, her knife reflecting the green glass wrapped around the blade wood. Her strike, aimed precisely at the back of his neck, struck a crystal dome that had folded around both Stan and Min Li. The glass around the knife shattered, filling the tent with a loud crack and infecting the crystal dome with a green tint that radiated outward from the impact.
Stan purged the green from his crystal, stabilizing it back into a clear, almost invisible shield.
He turned to face his attacker. The Inquisitor gave Stan a dry smile filled with malice. She pressed her shoulder into the dome. Stan braced himself again, pushing back to keep his place. Green once again infected the crystal, radiating outward from the woman's shoulder and deepening in saturation far too quickly for his comfort.
It was not possible to overstate just how much he hated those jackets. Little else could do so much damage to crystal.
"You're a…shaper?" Min Li asked in a baffled tone. She reached out to touch the crystal but stopped short.
"Not the time," he replied through gritted teeth as he leaned in further against the woman, straining.
The woman Inquisitor, on the other hand, had no trouble pressing in. The Inquisitors were strong. Unnaturally strong.
Min stared for a second, confused as she watched Stan hold off an Inquisitor, likely something she'd never thought possible. Most would be dead before they even realized an Inquisitor was in the room.
She shook herself, then seemed to recall that the Inquisitors weren't the only one here. Her eyes darted between Stan and the Royals pursuing her, though they'd halted, looking rather like startled deer in the presence of a predator. Or maybe more like wolves who’d come across a dragon and realized they’d gone from predator to prey in a matter of seconds. One had even taken a step back and half turned as though to run.
She settled her eyes back on Stan.
"Why are you here?"
In this place, she meant. As opposed to making an obscene amount of money doing…anything else. Anything at all. Shapers were as rare as they were desirable, and the idea of one hiding in a troupe was almost as absurd as the idea of Stan single-handedly holding one—nope, now two Inquisitors off.
Stan was saved from responding by the arrival of the other Inquisitor, who mimicked his partner, pressing his shoulder in from the opposite side of his partner, although with an odd lack of enthusiasm.
He stumbled from the shift in pressure, but quickly regained his balance. The entire dome glimmered green, except for where their shoulders pressed into blue as the integrity deteriorated further.
It would have been a lot easier if the man would spend just a little more effort to balance out his partner's pressure.
"Dammit, dammit," he growled between his teeth.
His crystal wasn't crystal anymore. Instead, it was mostly green glass that deepened into blues and even violet where the Inquisitor’s jackets were pressed into his dome. Their physical pressure was taking a back seat to the amount of graescence he was forced to pour into his shield to keep it stable. He had only seconds before the entire thing collapsed.
Which, on second thought, was a good idea.
He collapsed the dome into strips of dissolving glass that reflected a riot of color. At the same moment, two small crystal balls folded into form just above the eye level for each Inquisitor, virtually invisible amidst the temporary chaos.
The Inquisitors stumbled forward as the crystal shield unraveled. Stan shoved shot the balls into their foreheads.
Their heads snapped back, and both Inquisitors collapsed, unconscious.
"Did you just—"
"They're still alive," Stan said, annoyed, and then amended under his breath, "I think."
Not that he intended to hang around and find out.
Min Li narrowed her eyes at him, which he studiously ignored. He'd just single-handedly taken out two Inquisitors, lifting him to the dubious heights of being one of the few absurdly dangerous people who could do something like that.
She wasn't the only one watching. Over a dozen wide-eyed performers stared at him with expressions ranging from awe to outright horror. This was, ironically, the most exciting thing they’d probably ever see. If Stan could turn it into a performance, they’d be throwing one of those two-storied fabric monstrosities at him to keep him here.
He guffawed out a giggle at the thought before a wave of anxiety ruthlessly shoved out the situation’s humor. If this were a story, then he was the monster here. He was the one needing to be put down.
The pair of Royals had regained their wits, but still looked uncertain between him and Min Li, probably trying to figure out how he fit in with Min Lin.
He turned to her. "I believe this is my cue for a timely—"
"I'm coming."
"Are you insane?" he hissed between his teeth, "Inquisitors don't stop, ever."
”No, that’s suicide.”
"I'm coming," she repeated, then glanced at the Royals. "Better than the alternative."
"How is that better—” he glanced at the Inquisitors. “I cannot argue right now. Fine, you know what, crazy woman? You wanna commit suicide by Inquisitor, feel free. Follow me."
He stomped his way toward the back of the tent without checking to see if she would follow. Blades of crystal formed before him, which he sent out to slice open a hole large enough for them to walk through. As the blades dissolved, a half dome of crystal folded over their heads. Rain pattered lightly on it.
His secret was out now; might as well be dry. Or most of him, anyway. Mud had already pressed in between his toes unpleasantly.
Forsaken gods, but he could have used a little warning, if only to don a proper pair of boots.
They made it about a dozen paces before a shout behind them pierced the rain.
"Min Li Ch—"
"No!" she shouted as she spun back around to face the Royals who had apparently regained their wits. "I will not go back. You tell her I will never go back."
"And she will never stop, Min Li," the man replied in a tired voice. "You know this."
"I will never go back," she repeated, threading her arm through Stan's and drawing him close.
"Uh…?"
The man sneered at her, or him. It was hard to tell.
"Deal with them," she said in a flat tone.
"Deal!? What? I am not your personal—"
"Just do it, or do you want them showing your Inquisitor friends exactly where we've gone?"
Stan rolled his eyes, but still formed a pair of crystal spheres, virtually invisible in the rain. They shot out toward the pair of Royals, glinting first green and then blue as they passed beyond his range and began to deteriorate.
The Royals saw it coming and tried to dodge, but it was far too late. Even as deteriorated glass, both balls struck hard enough that the sound made Stan flinch.
"Gotta figure out a better way to do that," he half mumbled to himself, hoping that crack he'd heard wasn't their skulls actually breaking.
Min Li quickly untangled her arm and leveled at him a strange look, like someone trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Or maybe a cat attempting to figure out how to pounce on a tasty morsel that just happened to have legs. Whatever the look was, it was unsettling.
Stan suddenly became very aware of the mud pressing up between his toes. Running barefoot through the forest was a bad idea for so many reasons, but a solution had rather conveniently presented itself.
"Just where do you think you're going?"
He ignored her, already jogging toward the pair of men he'd just knocked unconscious. He knelt, first checking to make sure they were still alive. They were—thank the Mother.
Then, he robbed them. Not everything, of course—this wasn't about greed—and he didn't leave them naked or anything so crude. Both would wake up just fine. Only a little lighter, missing their cloak, money clip and, most importantly, boots.
When he turned back, all his newly acquired contraband placed in a crystal box floating chest level, he found Min Li glaring at him with a flat expression that promised murder.
"…oh."
He immediately formed a new umbrella of blue glass over her head, the best he could do at that range, but the damage was done. Her hair had plastered to her head and face. Her leotard had turned a full shade darker. Water dripped from her nose.
"If you're done pilfering the defenseless, perhaps we should leave before the Inquisitors wake up?"
His glass shifted to green as he approached, then lightened until it was crystal again. He dissolved it and expanded his personal umbrella over both of them.
"Please tell me you have some sort of plan," Min Li asked.
He handed her one of the stolen cloaks. She took it, but hesitated, something like disgust flashing across her face for a moment.
“I can give it back if you want,” he offered.
”No…” She donned the cloak, grimacing.
"For Inquisitors?" He shook his head. "There is ever only one plan for them."
”And that is?”
He threw the second cloak over his shoulders and walked away without a word, trudging barefoot up a long slope that led to the tree line. A few seconds later, he heard a muttered curse before she caught up to him, cowl pulled over her head and dripping with water. He extended his crystal umbrella over her with some reluctance. He’d half hoped she’d go off on her own now that he’d dealt with her Royals.
Once hidden within the canopy shadows, he turned back to watch a renewed bout of rain assault another home lost.
The Reiling troupe had backed themselves against the base of a foothill that led first into the Shan'Shi foothills before giving way to the full mountain range dividing the Rhian province from its neighbor, Sutan. A small stream wound through the adjacent field beyond the living tents and arena. Intricate wooden bridges straddled it at regular intervals. Surrounding all that was a complex mess of food stands, attractions, and rides.
A very deliberate mess, strategically laid out to feel cozy and winding, with delights around every corner.
He watched for a moment as a team of laborers erected waxed canvas over one of the walkways, cleverly latched on to light posts that would let the festivities continue into the night. In another section, a boardwalk was being finished. When all was said and done, the festival attendees could walk dry, safe from the distraction of rain and mud, while they spent money on curiosities and entertainment.
A strong sense of melancholy mixed with relief washed over him. He was on the run, again, from the most deadly organization in the Empire. Yet he couldn’t say he wasn’t deeply relieved. The troupe was everything he could hope for, the best of his dreams. It was a place he could express the beauty of performance.
And it was exhausting.
Flashes of movement could be seen through the hole he'd carved in the tent, drawing his eye. He felt a stab of guilt over that. Those tents weren't cheap, and he knew they'd be cursing his name.
Still nothing of Inquisitors yet. It wouldn't be long, though. Inquisitors were tough, unnaturally so. He wasn't sure something like a concussion could even happen to them.
He’d already wasted too much time. Except this time it wasn’t just him alone. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.