closer to the tent when they take him in to make him fly. It would be better if
at first they didn’t notice anything was going wrong …’
Aristarchus nodded. ‘I won’t escape till you’ve begun. Can I be of help?’
Wess glanced along the row of cages. ‘Could you – would it put you in danger to
free the animals?’ He was old; she did not know if he could move quickly enough.
He chuckled. ‘All of us animals have become rather good friends,’ he said.
‘Though the salamander is rather snappish.’
Wess wedged her knife into the padlock and wrenched it open. Aristarchus
snatched it off the door and flung it into the straw. He smiled, abashed, at
Wess.
‘I find my own temper rather short in these poor days.’
Wess reached through the bars and gripped his hand again. Near the tent, the
skewbald horses wheeled Satan’s cart around. Bauchle Meyne yelled nervous
orders. Aristarchus glanced towards Satan.
‘It’s good you’ve come,’ he said. ‘I persuaded him to cooperate, at least for a
while, but he does not find it easy. Once he made them angry enough to forget
his value.’
Wess nodded, remembering the whip scars.
The cart rolled forward; the archers followed.
‘I have to hurry,’ Wess said.
‘Good fortune go with you.’
She moved as close to the tent as she could. But she could not see inside; she
had to imagine what was happening, by the tone of the crowd. The postillion
drove the horses around the ring. They stopped. Someone crawled under the cart
and unfastened the shackles from below, out of reach of Satan’s claws. And then