Chapter 4 Ignacio
Ignacio
“The cheapest seat in the house is five hundred and twenty silvers,” a woman with magenta hair and a gravelly voice called down from the elevated ticket booth.
Ignacio gawked. “Five hundred and twenty bits?! For one ticket?!” He pointed beyond the entrance, toward the wagons, games, and roller coasters teeming with people. “Can’t I just enter to enjoy the sights?”
The woman shook her head while blowing a giant bubble of iridescent gum. With a single long fingernail, she pointed up toward the sign hanging above her head.
The Fun House, Giggle House, Tailor Virtuoso, Weather-Altering Tent, Siren Exhibit, Games, Treats, Foods of All Shapes and Sizes, Roller Coasters, Tonics, Ales, and All Other Unnamed Amusements are for guests with tickets to the Big Top show.
No exceptions.
Not even for handsome young men with light brown eyes and close-cut shaves.
Ignacio blinked at the last line. That was far too specific to not be speaking about him. Not that he was vain and went around thinking himself handsome. But he had caught the attention of a person or two in his day, and he did have light brown eyes and a close-cut shave.
Her bubble popped and glitter fluttered onto Ignacio’s shoulders and boots. Scowling, he tried to brush his clothing clean. His brows pinched together even closer than they already were when the damn glitter wouldn’t come off.
“What will it be, babe?” she inquired. “The show’s starting soon.”
“Hurry up, man!” A gentleman with cat whiskers drawn on his face called from the queue. “I caught a buggy from three towns over as soon as I heard the carnival arrived. Who knows when it’s coming back. I’m not missing my only chance at a bit of happiness because of you.”
Ignacio turned his head, eyeing the line of twenty or so people behind him.
A few had on extravagant costumes with pearls and gems sewn into the seams. The hardships of war clearly hadn’t touched their homes.
But the man with cat whiskers had holes in his slacks and dirt in his nails.
He also favored one leg, which made Ignacio wonder if the man had suffered at the front lines of the battlefield and lived to tell the tale as well.
Memories flooded Ignacio’s senses. The screams of the dying and pops of gunfire filled his ears. The smell of blood and dirt and sweat stung his nostrils. The acidic taste of bile as he realized what he’d done.
“Senor,” the ticket agent said sweetly, pulling him out of his miserable remembrances. “Are you going to pay or not?”
Ignacio chewed on his lip. Something was off.
Five hundred and twenty silvers was the exact amount he had in his coin purse.
Quite literally. Not a coin or bill more.
The Defiant—the small organization who dared to resist the king, the comandante, their confining laws, and the war they’d forced upon their people—had given him the sum for travel, shelter, and bribes, along with a falsified officer’s badge, while he hunted for clues to bring his father down.
How could the price of admission be that precise total?
“Hurry up before we miss the show!” a woman in line snapped.
Scowling, Ignacio retrieved his money and slapped it onto the tall counter above his head.
“Hold out your palm,” the ticket agent commanded. “And try to smile, for king’s sake. You’re entering an enchanted wonderland full of magical mysteries. What’s to be so blue about?”
Ignacio’s scowl only deepened. “I’m not the smiling type.”
“Then you have come to the right place because Carnival Fantástico always turns bitter frowns upside down.”
She spit her gum into her hand. Ignacio knew he made a face, but he didn’t care. That was absolutely foul. Quick as a viper, she bent over the booth and smashed the gum into Ignacio’s awaiting palm.
His jaw dropped. “What are you doing?!”
The young woman pulled her arm back. The bubble gum was gone. In its place lay a gleaming ticket with bell-shaped flowers drawn around the words.
Admit One: Welcome to Carnival Fantástico!
“Have fun.” She winked, chewing on something new, before yelling, “Next!”
Wiping his hand of germs, he stepped into the chaos. Music blared around him, thumping so loudly, he felt it in his solar plexus.
The air smelled of sugar and cinnamon. Bells clattered.
People twirled and laughed with unbridled joy.
In the distance, a wooden roller coaster shot people into the sky like a catapult.
There were no ropes or cords attached to the carts the guests were in, and he wondered where they’d end up as their screams and laughter faded into the night.
How in the world was his father linked to this sort of place?
Ignacio didn’t think Father even could consort with anyone from the carnival.
Because King Amadeo cut trade and supply chains between Costa Mayor and Dos Palos, the railroad tycoons were losing a hefty profit.
To reward their loyalty, the king turned a blind eye to all their other dealings.
Thus, Carnival Fantástico was free to move along the tracks of Costa Mayor and continue to propagate magic and mayhem.
So, what would Father have to do with anyone here?
Ignacio glared at the costumed people flittering around.
Who could the author of those notes possibly be? How did they know my father well enough to call him by his first name? How did they get that ink? Could it be her?
Fingers wrapped around Ignacio’s bicep and yanked him to the side.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Let me go!”
“Not until I’ve done my job,” a slight man sporting a goat mask said.
He thrust Ignacio into a dull-yellow tent. Masks of all shapes and sizes hung from the canvas walls, along with fluffy tails, feathered jumpsuits, and two bottom halves of what appeared to be a donkey’s ass.
“Didn’t Rosita tell you the rules?” the man asked.
Ignacio shrugged him off. “The ticket agent? She only told me I had to pay to get in.”
“There’s that, yes, of course. But you cannot go any further without donning a disguise. It’s the rules! Lucky for you, you’ve come to the right place.”
“I had little choice in the matter.”
The man waved him off. He cleared his throat and raised his arms. “Welcome to the prodigious tailor virtuoso!” He cupped his mouth as if telling a secret and whispered, “That’s me.
” He raised his arms once more. “Everyone must wear a disguise while on these unsanctimonious grounds. That is the second and most important rule, in my not-so-humble opinion.”
“Why?”
The tailor blinked. “Why not?”
Ignacio’s already frayed nerves were starting to split. “I have no more money to give.”
“What of that ring on your pinky?” the tailor asked.
Ignacio’s fingers instinctively traveled to the ring in question. Protecting it from the man’s greed-filled eyes. “Absolutely not. It was my mother’s.”
She had been the king’s comandante nearly twelve years ago.
She was killed on her journey back from Dos Palos, where she had gone to discuss new trade agreements on behalf of the king.
Within hours of her murder, Dos Palos closed the borders between itself and Costa Mayor, then claimed they would no longer trade goods with Costa Mayor unless they could inspect every shipment entering or exiting its lands.
King Amadeo took her death and the new barriers as a sign of deepest disrespect. And thus, the war began.
The tailor tapped on the temple of his porcelain goat mask. “What about the tin box in your coat pocket?”
Ignacio balked. “How did you—”
“Or what about that badge hanging around your neck?” the man queried. “Though, I don’t suppose it’s worth much. Might want to hide that, matter of fact. You officers are unwelcome here.” He put a hand to his heart. “Not by me, certainly, I welcome all. Especially if they pay well.”
Ignacio stuffed the aforementioned badge inscribed with the king’s crest beneath his shirt.
“What about the shiv at your hip, then? That seems like a nice compromise.”
A deep unease clenched Ignacio’s gut. How did this man know what he had hidden in his clothing?
This place was off. Wrong. He felt dirty for even being there.
The faster he found whoever wrote to his father and used that mysterious ink, the faster he could leave.
The war was continuing; more lives would be lost if he didn’t give the Defiant some sort of damning evidence against his father and the king to print up and share with the world.
And if he also found out where the ink came from, maybe, just maybe, he could find his way back to her.
Though, he had no clue why he would even want to see the girl who had decided he wasn’t good enough to love.
He unsheathed the dagger. The tailor virtuoso plucked it from his grasp and flung it into a wooden box as if it were scraps.
Ignacio scowled. That dagger wasn’t cheap. The blade was specially made for the Blackbirds and was nearly indestructible.
“Now to spiff you up.” The tailor spun and scampered to the wall of masks.
“Perhaps you can help me with something?” Ignacio asked.
“It will cost you,” the tailor said over his shoulder.
“That was an expensive piece of weaponry. Surely, it’s worth more than a silly costume.”
The tailor held up a finger. “You get one question.”
Ignacio clenched his jaw. He turned his face away, trying to calm his temper.
A poster lay face up beneath the counter.
A young man with a curling mustache winked up at him from the parchment.
Ignacio balked. He rubbed his eyes. The young man was gone.
In his place glistened sentences written in the exact ink he was searching for.
He raced to the poster and snatched it up.
“Who wrote this? Where can I find whoever used this ink?”
“That’s two questions,” the tailor said.
Ignacio grasped the tailor and whirled him around by the collar of his goat-hair cape. “Tell me…now.”
The tailor giggled boyishly as if this were all some sort of game. Ignacio’s grip tightened.
“All right,” the tailor said. “Kindly unhand me first.”
Ignacio released him.
The tailor hopped onto a small crate and cleared his throat.
In a theatrical fashion, he announced, “You will find your answers with our beloved ringmaster. But he is neither here nor there. He is everywhere and all at once. He is the carnival. ángel Veracruz, inventor of the most fantastical carnival there ever was, is a wonder. A friend to the gods. A magical provocateur!”
Outside the tent, a woman dressed as a chicken clucked and pecked at the empty peanut shells on the dirt. A man in a rooster costume tried to stop her to no avail.
Ignacio shook his head. I’ve got to hurry this along.
He refocused on the tailor, who was still going on about the glorious ángel Veracruz.
“Where might I find this magical provocateur?” Ignacio asked.
“Let me think.” The tailor rubbed his chin. “Where does one find a ringmaster, I wonder?” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Where might a ringmaster be found? Somewhere with a center ring perhaps.”
“The Big Top.”
“He’s handsome and intelligent, folks!” the tailor yelled out.
He held his hand to his ear. “Sounds like the show is getting ready to start as we speak. Perhaps if you stay and watch the performance, making sure to ooh and aah at all the right parts, our Senor Veracruz will feel generous enough to meet with you after.”
“Perhaps?”
The tailor nodded. “He’s a very busy, very important man.”
Ignacio cursed. This wouldn’t do. He needed answers now. During his last correspondence with the Defiant, they’d told him the debtors’ prisons had been emptied out and the prisoners carted to the front lines to take over for the fallen officers. They weren’t soldiers. They had no place in battle.
“Better scram before you miss the show.” The tailor shoved something into Ignacio’s chest.
A mask made to look like a weasel.
“Is there deeper meaning to you giving me this animal in particular?”
He looked up then, but the tailor was already walking away, getting ready to wrangle some other sucker inside his buttercup-colored tent.