Page 59 of The Neverfear

‘Did they say you were called Troxartes?’ said Christopher.

‘They did, sir. Can I assist in any way? I do so love to assist.’

‘Could you tell us about the race? We’re … strangers here,’ he said.

‘Oh, it is a fearsome thing! The prize this year is twenty thousand Lithian bullions, and a golden apple from the Garden of the Hesperides.’

‘And where does the race go?’ said Christopher. ‘And how long is it?’

‘And what can you ride?’ said Anya.

‘One question at a time, dear customers!’

‘Sorry,’ said Anya. ‘You tell us, in your own time.’

‘A pleasure!’ He beamed with delight, showing long rodent teeth. ‘The only rule is that your steed must not be capable of flight, but everything else is permitted. I believe one winner some years ago rode a rogue behemoth, and trampled the others. The race was made illegal after that, but it still flourishes. Some of the most notorious vagabonds and wild-girls in Glimouria turn up for our event. There is wagering, and people come from across the islands. Every few years, someone loses a limb or ends up a little dead. The Gardai look the other way, for this one night.’

‘What about the course?’

‘It leads through the great square in the centre of the city, around the city walls, through the river and back over the bridge.’

‘And what kinds of creatures tend to win?’

Troxartes considered. ‘Last year it was a young twrch tryth, I believe. This year, the betting was on the Ceryneian hind, from this island. A deer the size of a bull, antlers of gold. There are perhaps three dozen in the whole Archipelago.’ He moved closer, like one about to impart gossip. ‘She was to be ridden by the jockey Tatenda Ajmal – he’s famous across the islands. But that is no longer possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just yesterday, someone broke into her enclosure: a masked man, clipping hairs from her tail. Tatenda chased him off but it spooked the hind. When Tatenda mounted, she bucked him off and savaged both his legs. They’re wild, the hinds. They can’t be in captivity. They die or kill – or both.’

‘Right,’ said Christopher. ‘Thanks, Troxartes. That’s helpful.’

‘Helpfuls, albeits horrifying,’ said Ratwin.

‘I’m not horrified,’ said Jacques. ‘I never am at accounts of death or bloodshed.’

‘I know you’re not,’ said Christopher. ‘But sometimes, I reckon you should consider trying. Just to be polite.’

He looked at Anya, and she nodded at him. They had had the same thought. ‘The hind,’ she whispered. ‘That’s your mount.’

‘We’re coming into sight of the square now,’ said the mouse, and bustled away to ask the tall woman in the hood to stop trying to jump out without paying.

The centre of the city was an enormous square, one side of it a palace, eroded by time but still beautiful, a site of ancient authority. As they pulled up, two centaurs passed by its soaring red-stone clock tower, deep in conversation.

‘Out you get. Here’s your return ticket.’ The carriage driver handed them red slips of paper. ‘We’ll take you back after the race.’

‘There’ll be padded carts too,’ said Troxartes, ‘for anyone who loses a leg if there’s a stampede of riders, or gets their hair burned off. But they cost extra.’

There was a raucous carnival feeling in the square. Around the sides were rides: a carousel, in which the metal horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads; a Ferris wheel that went double speed. There was a sign reading Reglio’s Phantastical Flying Rig, next to which small children, tethered to a rope, were soaring and somersaulting through the sky.

There were stalls everywhere: wine, cake, one at which young men looked admiringly at a group of young women selecting centaur-made sweets. It was presided over by a man with a mouth full of gold teeth. His voice boomed over the crowds: ‘Toffee apples! Sweet rose sherbet! Airbonbons! Float in the air as you suck them. Candy fingernails! Chew your nails to your heart’s content! Underarma violets! Makes your armpits smell like flowers. You, sir –’ he nodded at Christopher – ‘you look like a young man who could do with an upgraded armpit.’

‘Rude-impertinent,’ said Ratwin. ‘Albeits true.’

A man walked past, calling out, ‘Pie? Meat pie, fish pie, cheese pie?’

Christopher realised he was famished. He was about to hand over three coins when Ratwin shook her head. ‘You know Nighthand’s eel and jam pie? Worses than thats.’

‘I’m starving though.’ He bought peanuts instead, wrapped in a twist of paper, salty and still hot from roasting.