The light of day played across Asmodeus’ dusty cabin, reaching across the window sill, past the darkly upholstered settee, and onto the richly tapestried rugs. Slowly it crept across the old wooden floor boards to caress the cracked leather of the carven armchair, strategically positioned in the center of the room at the large oak worktable. A slight breeze whispered incessantly outside the cabin, punctuated by the songs of birds without and a soporific wheezing within.
The cause of this noise was the current occupant of the armchair. A very rumpled Asmodeus lay sprawled across the seat, one leg stretched across the armrest, the other hooked over the chair’s back, with his head lolled back over the other armrest, the sun tickling his face, causing him to stir in his sleep; in his left hand, reaching down to rest upon the rug, an empty wine bottle.
A sharp rapping suddenly came from beyond the cabin door. It was a constant rapping; the kind of repetitive pounding that usually evokes images of angry mobs or relations. To Asmodeus, it evoked hundreds of mallets playing The Anvil Chorus, syncopated, in his skull. He awoke in this state with a start, rolling head first out of his seat, a close encounter with the table leg setting more empty bottles clattering against one another, tumbling and rolling to shatter upon the floor. The pounding continued.
Asmodeus dragged his body from the floor, one hand initially planted on the sturdy table for support, the other, decanter included, clutching his throbbing forehead. He staggered a few uneasy steps to the love seat, bracing himself upon its back. “Look, I’m coming. Lay off it!” he wanted to shout, though truthfully the best he could manage was some unintelligible mutterings.
Marie heard a crash, then a scuffing sound, accompanied with incoherent mumbling, gradually becoming louder and closer. The latch jiggled briefly, Asmodeus seeming to have an unusually difficult time mastering the complex operation of opening a door. Finally, the lock slid out of position, and the door swung slowly open with a hard ‘click’.
Marie retreated a step, grimacing in fright at the disheveled and haggard creature teetering before her. His clothes still bore the marks of blood, soil, and smoke as a testament to the night’s melee. His shirt, equally stained, was left open, flapping like a thing alive, looking to escape. Greasy hair reached out in several directions at once, crowning a drawn visage that peered out at her through bleary eyes squinting at the newfound sunshine. With one arm stretched out to push against the jamb, Asmodeus propped his back against the other side of the frame, looking down at the waif but not really seeing her. After blinking several times, and wetting his lips, he spoke. “Wassit, who?”
Marie recovered from her surprise, and cocked an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Mmm…”
“Asmodeus, we’re in a bit of a fix.”
Asmodeus head drooped, and he let out a long groan. “Why so early?”
“It’s almost noon,” Marie replied directly. She looked him over, and sighed. “You look worse for wear.”
Asmodeus shot her a grin, and tossed his head, the hair flailing about him, landing mostly in front of his face. “Am I pretty now?”
“Hardly, but that’s beside the point. You see, Colette’s been throwing things, and yelling, and Alexandra yelled back, and Tom picked her up, not Alexandra but Colette, he’s very strong, you know…” Asmodeus, at this point, rolled his eyes to the heavens and shuffled back to his table, Marie two steps behind him, slamming the door absentmindedly behind her, inducing a severe wince out of Asmodeus.
“…though he doesn’t look it, I guess that’s why the stagehands look up to him and all, but anyway a messenger boy came with a letter for the ringmaster…” Maybe more wine will help my head, thought Asmodeus, as he searched the intact bottles around the table, lifting this one and that with a firm shake, every time disappointed of his desire, tossing the useless bottles dejectedly aside.
“…which is Colette, and I know I shouldn’t have, but since she’s locked in her room, I tore it open and read it, and now the police chief’s coming, and we need someone to smooth things over with him, and I came to ask you, because you’re usually very good with people...”
Asmodeus’ eyes lit up as he plucked a bottle from the floor, its precious contents still intact, albeit in a diminished quantity. Marie raced around the table, hands braced, a look of intensity chiseled on her face as she stared up at Asmodeus. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?!”
Asmodeus shut his eyes tight, motioning her to calm down. “Yes, yes, of course. Do you have to shout? What’s so important, what?”
It had been a hectic morning. Marie had run across the circus several times, been involved in stressful situations, and now was facing the one person she felt could rectify the situation… and he was incapacitated. It was too much, too fast.
Asmodeus tilted the bottle back towards his lips but it never made it there. Quick as thought, Marie snatched it from his grasp, draining what was left of the ruby liquid in a single draught before shoving it back into Asmodeus’ fumbling hands. He stared crestfallen at the now-empty vessel clutched in his fingers.
Marie’s eyes were alight, and every syllable dripped from her voice like a lead weight. “Now look. This is how it stands. It has been a very trying morning, and we have a serious problem, and I have come to the one person who I feel is, at present, capable of handling things. I will not allow anything to happen to this cirque; my friends and family. If your wit is half as nimble as those fingers of yours, then I suggest you clean yourself up and greet the chief of police when he arrives. Agreed?”
Asmodeus set the bottle down on his work table, and rubbed a pensive hand across his chin. They were a sort of family, after all. “Well, if that’s how you feel abou… wait, what chief of police?”
Marie let out an exasperated sigh. “I already told you. The Paris police department sent a letter. The police chief is coming here today, and he wants to meet with Colette.”
Asmodeus rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was far too early for this. “Okay, then. Where’s Colette?”
“In her cabin.”
“Why doesn’t she meet with the authorities?”
Marie threw herself into the armchair. “Trust me, we do not want that.”
“Oh?”
“Jacque will be there.”
Suddenly Asmodeus understood. “Oh.” He slid down into a nearby chair. “I’m really wishing you’d let me have that drink.”
Marie hopped up and, taking his hands, dragged Asmodeus from his seat. “No time for that now. You’ve got to make yourself presentable. In the meantime, I’ll keep watch for this police chief.” And she skipped out the door, letting it slam shut behind her, leaving Asmodeus to cringe in pain in solitude.
****
A very rumpled suit laid spread out on the bed of the ship’s cabin when Asmodeus walked out onto the deck, fastening his second cuff link in place. A sharp whistle caught his attention and his head whirled around to see Marie, perched not too far away on a nearby ship’s rigging. She hung upside down, legs wrapped up in the ropes of the balloon, her arms free to wave frantically about, which they did. She pointed insistently across the field to a pair of figures making their way hastily across the grounds. One was in a long frock, spectacles gleaming from beneath the brim of a bowler; Jacque had returned. He had one arm around a large man in a crisp dark uniform, the epaulettes identifying him as the head of police in Paris, the other arm pointing straight at Colette’s cabin. Asmodeus snatched his cane from where it leant against the railing, and hopped down to intercept the two.
The first thing he noticed was a thick Irish brogue, reminiscent of a time long past. “Well, sir, which cabin is it again?”
Jacque’s arm pointed again to Colette’s dwelling. “It’s that one right there,” he sneered, and his footsteps hastened as he steered the officer in the direction of his outstretched finger.
He had only gone two steps when an elbow seemed to materialize from the air, taking his breath and his balance. As Jacque toppled to the grass, clutching his ribs, Asmodeus slid into his place, simultaneously throwing his arm about the chief’s shoulders, steering him in a full one-eighty before he knew it. “Ah, the voice of a fellow countryman. Bless me but it’s pleasing to hear your voice, constable.”
The big man frowned, marked only by the contraction of his thick eyebrows and the sudden droop of his bushy red moustache, which threatened to consume, not just his mouth, but the entire lower half of his care-worn face. The moustache wriggled as a sound, like stones grating together, emanated from it. “Sir, you have me mistaken, to call me countryman. The Empire had no love for me; didn’t want me. I have no love for it.”
Asmodeus’ lips cracked into his typically mischievous grin, as he replied, “Well, then, what do you suppose I’m doing here myself?”
Jacque had recovered his composure, and his upright stance, and catching up to the two, interjected, “Causing trouble, that’s what these hooligans are doing!” A second jab of the mighty elbow cut short any further outburst.
“So constable,” Asmodeus continued, jovially, “what brings you to our lovely shanty town? Come for tea? We have this fortuneteller, brews up the most amazing tea you’ve ever tasted. And then she can tell you how you’ll die after you drink it!”
“Well, actually…”
Jacque’s head floated in between those of Asmodeus and the chief, and chimed in, “The prevote and I were on our way to discuss certain damages, and repayments…” His comment dissolved into a look of anguish. Jacque had deftly avoided the infamous elbow, but received a well placed foot quite squarely. Asmodeus continued.
“Repayments? For our hospitality? Certainly! How about I buy you a drink?”
“Um…”
“My treat; no arguments. Bet you can hold your own at the pub, eh constable?” Asmodeus nudged the giant playfully in the side, augmented by a sly wink.
The police chief glowered, and rose to his full height, if it’s possible to imagine the Colossus of Rhodes getting bigger. “Sir, I don’t know why you insist on calling me constable, but I am Patrick O’Brady, the prevote for the Prefecture of Police of the city of Paris, second only to the prefect himself. I am here on official business, and I must speak with your ringmaster. Immediately.”
This last word was spoken with such insistence that Asmodeus shuddered in spite of himself. He would have been nervous being stared down by such an imposing figure, but something about the man’s name struck a bell in his memory. Asmodeus decided to take a chance, and asked, “You seem like a man who knows how to handle himself. I’m guessing you’ve spent time in Her Majesty’s armed forces?”
Patrick threw him a side-long glance, and merely grunted a reply, as if to affirm Asmodeus’ suspicion. Asmodeus persisted in his interrogation. “You’ve no doubt been involved in the Moorish invasions of India, defending Kashmir?”
At this quite specific insight, O’Brady’s brows lurched up onto his forehead. “How did you know that?”
“Do you remember a certain night, when your regiment rendezvoused with Godwin’s Light Horse Regiment in a small café outside of town? It was a pretty crazy evening, so you might have some trouble recalling it.”
Patrick’s eyes grew wide, and his scowl dissolved into a beaming smile. “Asmodeus,” he cried, embracing him in a vice grip that would have injured a lesser man. “You old bastard, how the hell are you? I thought for sure you’d be dead by now.”
“Still very much alive, though not for Fate’s attempting.”
Jacque stood a few paces off, arms crossed. “This reunion is touching, but we really do need to speak with Colette. Don’t we, Prevote?”
Patrick frowned slightly and sighed. “He’s right. I have a duty to perform.”
“Well,” Asmodeus responed, “maybe I can assist you in that endeavor. For you see, I am currently the spokesman for our cirque.”
Jacque arched an eyebrow. “You? What of Colette? I’d really rather speak with her.”
“She is currently indisposed. In the meantime, you will be dealing with me. That is, Prevote, if that is acceptable with you?”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders, hands spread before him. “I have no qualms. Let’s get to business. We’re…”
“Here because of allegations of violence voiced by a certain shady performer standing near at hand?” Asmodeus interrupted, glancing at Jacque.
“You have it precisely. Further, he says he has witnesses.”
I’ll bet he does, the snake, Asmodeus mused to himself. Aloud, he commented, “Patrick, I know you have a job to do; keeping the streets of Paris safe. I wish for no less. I’ll only say that this man has been instigating the encounters, beginning by disobeying an unwritten code of honor among our kind.”
Patrick stiffened at the word ‘honor’. He was a man who lived by his code of honor, as was Asmodeus to an extent. He understood what it meant when another breaches these ethics; what measures were required. “I see. And you, too, have witnesses?”
“Naturally, and my word, as a gentleman, a man of action, and your friend that we did only what was necessary.”
O’Brady scratched his head in indecision. “Well, you know I believe you, but I’m afraid there are still the allegations. There needs to be an investigation, a report; there’s a procedure I can not violate.”
Asmodeus reached into his waistcoat pocket, drew forth a small bundle of bills, and laid it in the Prevote’s palm. “Perhaps this will help you find a way past the bureaucracy?”
Jacque’s jaw hung slack, mind groping to put thought to word. After a moment’s sputtering, he exclaimed, “But, Prevote, that money rightfully belongs to me and my circus. These people are thieves!”
A wicked grin briefly stole across Asmodeus’ face at the mention of ‘thieves’, but was replaced with a look of solemnity just as fast. “If you check our bookkeeping, you will see everything is in order. This money was honestly earned by last night’s sales. This is my share, and should help to cover any damages and inconveniences we have caused, with a little extra for you, Patrick.”
O’Brady looked at the bribe in his hand, weighing it both physically and mentally. He looked at Jacque, seeing a look of hungry anticipation as to the Prevote’s response. At length, he took a deep breath, and said, “You know, Asmodeus, if there’s no circus to investigate, there’s no investigation.”
Asmodeus gave him a knowing look, and extended his hand. “That seems like sound logic. It was good to see you again.”
Patrick took his old friend’s hand and shook it heartily. “Maybe we’ll have that drink one day, under better circumstances.” The Prevote turned and left, Jacque trailing after, spouting protestations to deaf ears.
Asmodeus stood amidst the bustle of the cirque for a moment, watching the two leave, then turned around and almost tripped over Marie, who had crept up unnoticed during the preceding discussion. She peeked past Asmodeus. “You never told me you were in India.”
Asmodeus tousled her hair as he walked past, which he did often. “You never asked.”
Marie fell in step with him. “I guess that explains a few things. Still, giving away money like that isn’t like you.”
“True enough, but he’s a friend. Also, I neglected to mention how I found twice that amount in the pockets and purses of the show’s attendants.” At that, he merely smiled and patted his other waistcoat pockets. He continued, “I guess you heard how it is?”
Marie nodded. “Do we really have to leave already?”
“I’m afraid so. Go spread the news to the others.”
Asmodeus’ footsteps steered him toward his ship to begin preparations for departure.
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