PULG'S GRAND CARNIVAL 
by Simon Ounsley
	
	The old man lay in a ditch at the side of the road to Krugenheim, his right hand clutching at the mortal wound on his chest.
	"Robbers," he whispered with his fading breath when Hans saw him lying there and ran across to offer help. "They took all my money, took my mule..."
	"I'll help you up," said Hans, appalled and flustered at the sight of the old man's wound. "We'll get a lift, see a doctor in Krugenheim..."
	"It's no good. I won't make it to the side of the road, let alone to Krugenheim." The ghost of a smile crossed the old man's face. "That's one thing to be thankful for, I suppose," he said. "I could never stand the place."
	"At least have a drink," said the youth, taking his water bottle out of his bag and holding it to the man's lips. A few drops ran into the parched mouth and the old man coughed and spluttered.
	"I don't suppose you have any ale, do you?" he said.
	Hans shook his head and put away the bottle. The old man looked sad and disappointed.
	Hans looked about him helplessly, at the muddy ditch, at the trees beyond. What now, then? What more could he do to help this dying stranger? He looked down and saw the blood-shot eyes staring back at him.
	"You're a pale sort of a lad," said the old man thoughtfully. "When you first appeared, I took you for the goddess Shallya come to visit me. I suppose, in a way, she must have sent you, though it's really too late and, heh heh, I could have wished for someone a little prettier."
	Hans blushed and clenched his fists. Always these jibes! All right, so he looked a little bit strange...
	"No, no," said the old man. "Don't get upset, boy. I'm glad you came along here and, who knows, maybe I can make you glad of it too. Here, feel inside my jacket..."
	Hans looked horrified. He sat there staring at the old man's chest wound: at the stained fabric, the ruptured flesh.
	"No, I don't want you to touch my wound. It hurts enough already, thank you. Look, see here, inside this pocket."
	Hans reached out and felt inside the pocket. He drew out a long piece of hollow bone with holes in its side. He was holding a flute. The old man's eyes sparkled.
	"There's something the robbers didn't get," he said. "Served me very well all these years, it has. And me an old man travelling alone with my wares on all the wild highways of the Empire. Protected me from evil, it has. Until now, of course. Reactions getting slow. Didn't have time to pull the damn thing out."
	Hans looked at the instrument doubtfully.
	"The flute? Protected you? How?"
	The old man spluttered and began to cough up blood.
	"Listen," he said. "Listen now, before I'm gone." His voice had grown fainter now. Hans had to lean forward in order to hear. He could feel the man's cold breath on his cheek and the stench of death in his nostrils. "Do you ever wish," the old man whispered, "that people would do what you tell them..?"
	Krugenheim was quite a sight.
	Hans just stood there on the great bridge above the River Glosch, staring at the view and shaking his head in wonder. The city was perched on the top of a hill which towered above the surrounding countryside like a monster over a mouse. With its high walls and proud flags flying in the breeze, it took his breath away. And it almost took away the thought of the sores on his feet into the bargain. It had been worth the trek all the way from Hazelhof just to stand here and look at the city for the first time. Travellers through his home village had spoken of Krugenheim as a small, insignificant city compared to such fabulous places as Altdorf and Middenheim, but it was the first city Hans had ever seen and it looked grand enough to him. He could hardly wait to walk through its bustling streets and be a part of it all.
	This is Krugenheim, he thought to himself. Things are going to be different here.
	Then he heard raucous, cackling laughter and turned to see two men on a cart looking across at him. One of them was talking to the other behind a cupped hand, but this meagre attempt at propriety hardly seemed to be worth the bother. It was quite obvious that Hans was the butt of their laughter.
	"A cream bun," he heard one of them saying, as the cart passed him by. "A cream bun with a nice dollop of jam." And they both started laughing again. The driver fell about and almost lost control of his donkey.
	Hans felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. This was the way it had always been. He wanted to cry. He wanted...
	Then he remembered, and took the flute out of his jerkin pocket. He started to play. He was no musician and the notes he produced weren't much of a tune but the old man had told him not to worry about such matters - the magic would work anyway.
	Right then, he thought: stop the cart!
	"Whoa!" he heard the driver call, pulling on the reins. The cart slowed to a squeaky halt and the two men just sat there, staring in front of them.
	Hans walked round the cart to take a look. They looked like two particularly stupid pack animals, he thought. He felt excitement rising inside him. It had worked!
	But what to do now?
	Ah yes - that would do. He thought the appropriate instructions and stood back watching in satisfaction as the two men climbed down from the cart, painstakingly removed their breeches, and threw them over the side of the bridge. The garments billowed out like strange grey sails as they drifted down to the river, far below.
	A crowd began to gather, laughing and jeering at the two men, and Hans drew back, trying to lose himself amongst it. When the men regained their wills and began to look about them in astonishment, he quietly slipped away and resumed his trek up the road to the city gate.
	Now, suddenly, he began to feel guilty. He remembered what the old man had said as he lay dying, about how the flute would lose some power each time it was used.
	"Magic isn't an easy thing to come by," he had said, "so don't go squandering it every time you get annoyed at someone. The flute will recharge itself but it takes a while. Three times a year is the most you should use it. Any more than that and it'll run out of magic."
	Just three times a year! Hans thought to himself. And he had used it once already. He would have to be more careful in the future...
	But then he thought of the two men standing there without any breeches on and began to feel happy again. It had been worth it just to see their faces. And, after all, the flute still had two of its lives left, didn't it?
	With rather more skill than he had managed for the flute, he began to whistle a jaunty tune.Yes, he thought to himself, pocketing the flute.This is Krugenheim. Things are going to be different here.
	Half an hour later, he was no longer so sure.
	Entering the city gate had gone well enough. He had arrived at the same time as a party of adventurers: a rag-tag mixture of a dwarf, an elf, a grey-bearded wizard and two halflings, between them loaded with enough weapons, treasure and suspicious-looking maps to keep the city guards busy for the rest of the day. So they had waved Hans through without any questions. And now here he was in Krugenheim at last, walking up a steep cobbled street and gazing in amazement to either side as more people than he had ever seen before thronged about him, walking, talking, dancing and shouting their wares. This is wonderful, he thought - this is where life is.
	So far, so good.
	And then he had felt hungry.
	The little inn had looked cheap and inviting enough, a bit like The Woodsman's Arms back in Hazelhof. It was good to be away from his home village at last but a few home comforts wouldn't come amiss, he decided. And he was very tired from his long journey. So, he had made his way down the narrow side street to the inn, never thinking to keep open a wary eye as he went...
	Wham! Thump!
	The blows seemed to come out of nowhere. Suddenly his head hurt and there were strong arms about him, the palm of a grimy hand pressed against his mouth. And then he was being dragged backwards, heels scraping across the cobblestones, the strap of his bag chafing on the skin of his arm as it was pulled away from him. He felt hands groping through his pockets, drink-sodden breath on his face. He saw a young face pressed close to his, and found himself staring for a moment into a pair of mean eyes and a drooling mouth which seemed to have every other tooth missing.
	The flute, Hans thought to himself, through the sickly haze which had suddenly infested his head.Don't let them take the flute! Then the restraining arm grew tighter around his body and the pain made the haze want to rise up and blot out everything else. Would they kill him, Hans wondered dimly as a film of black and white speckles swept across his vision.
	He was only barely aware of the crack of a whip and shrill cries as the arms finally released him. He felt a blow in the small of his back and then painful jolts to his arms and legs as the ground seemed to rise up and hit him. He lay there helpless while all the sores on his body clamoured for attention, trying not to be sick and listening to the boot-heels clattering away across the cobblestones.
	When he finally managed to focus his vision, he saw a pair of fine leather boots beside his head. Then there was a firm hand on his shoulder, helping him gently back to his feet.
	"Well then," said a voice in his ear, "what sort of a day have you been having?"
	He found it difficult to stand up at first. His vision began to grow dim again, and some sort of monster seemed to be writhing about in his stomach. But the arm was supporting him firmly and after a while he began to feel better, bringing his eyes into focus on his rescuer. He saw boyish, steely blue eyes set in a haggard face framed by a luxurious growth of greying hair and beard. Full, greedy lips were parted in astonishment.
	"Goodness me," said the man, staring at Hans with unconcealed fascination, "by Ranald's waxed moustache, what have we here? A thing of peculiar beauty, I do believe."
	Hans tried to pull away, unnerved by his rescuer's intense scrutiny, but he felt the dizziness returning and was forced to lean forward on the man's arm again.
	"I should stay where I was if I were you," said the man. "Oh yes - this could be the making of you, my lad." He cupped Hans' chin in his hand and examined him as though he were a pack animal at market. Hans no longer had the strength to complain.
	"Albino," said the man, running his fingers across the youth's face. "White hair, pale skin and yet here - " His fingers paused on Hans' right cheek, "a mark of great distinction. Red, wouldn't you say, my boy? Bright scarlet. Quite astonishing."
	"So I look a bit different," muttered Hans miserably. "So what?" His heart felt as sick as his stomach now. Would it always be the same? Would he never escape from the ridicule of his pale skin and his birthmark?
	The man seemed to be getting excited. "So what?" he said. "So what, the boy asks. So I can make a star of you, that's what. I must introduce myself. I am Hannibal Pulg, proprietor of the greatest show in all the Empire: Pulg's Grand Carnival, a display of diverse animals so unique and astonishing it will satiate the appetites of children and scholars alike. And you can be a part of it, my boy, yes indeed, perhaps even my partner before very much longer. Your qualities will stand you in good stead in this business, mark my words. It really isdifficult to get suitable staff these days. In other cities, I was able to employ genuine mutants but the authorities here tend to be sofastidious about that sort of thing..."
	"You want me as a freak!" cried Hans, as realization dawned on him. "You want to exhibit me!"
	Pulg applied a delicate finger to his full lips.
	"Hush, my boy," he said. "Steady yourself. I will help you to exploit your natural qualities to the full, that is all."
	"You'll display me as a freak," said Hans. "That's what I've always been. I came here to get away from that."
	"Did you indeed? And where did you come from, if I might make so bold as to ask?"
	"Hazelhof," said Hans. "I come from Hazelhof."
	"Ah," said Pulg, gazing off into the middle distance as though to bring the place to his mind's eye. "Far distant Hazelhof. About twenty-five miles away, isn't it? Aren't you the little traveller then?"
	"I walked all the way," boasted Hans, having failed to recognize the irony in Pulg's voice. Twenty-five miles was indeed a long way for him, futher than he had ever travelled before in his life. Kalbkopf the timber merchant had journeyed into Krugenheim twice a week on his cart but none of Hans' family had ever been offered the chance to accompany him.
	"So," said Pulg, "you walked all the way to Krugenheim and then, to celebrate your safe arrival, you decided to plunge into the centre of the most lawless district in the whole city and get yourself mugged - was that the plan?"
	Hans peered about him thoughtfully.
	"Well I didn't know," he said. "It looks all right tome round here."
	"Does it indeed?" said Pulg. "Well, let me set you straight on that point, my dear boy. This is the Untergarten, where the city watch never set foot in any numbers smaller than a snotball team. Pick up a stone here and you'll find half a dozen thieves hiding under it. You are lucky indeed that I was passing through this district on my way to conduct a matter of business or you would have been left for dead in that gutter down there."
	"I might as well have been," said Hans, miserably. "They've taken my bag and my money - I've nothing left."Or have I? he thought to himself, remembering the flute with a flush of excitement. He felt for the inside pocket of his jacket and - yes - it was still there.
	"What's the matter, my boy?" said Pulg. "A touch of indigestion?"
	"No, I mean yes, that is..." Should he tell Pulg about the flute? Hans decided it was better to keep quiet about it. "It's just shock," he said, trying to act casual. "It isn't every day I get attacked in the street."
	"Hmm," said Pulg, looking slightly suspicious. "Perhaps not in Hazelhof. But it might be a different story if you're left on your own in this city for very long. What are you going to do with yourself now? You don't have any money. Are you going to eat paving stones? Make a career out of lying in the gutter?"
	"I'll get a job," said Hans defiantly.
	"Oh yes," said Pulg. "No doubt you will. As a corpse working for a necromancer or some such sinecure. I'm offering you a more comfortable position, with the benefit of my guiding eye to oversee your interests. All this and a share in the future of Pulg's Grand Carnival. Fame and fortune can be yours. How can you refuse?"
	Well, thought Hans, looking about him at the grimy street and the hungry looks on the faces of the bedraggled passers-by, perhaps I would be better off as a freak in this man's carnival than as a penniless traveller alone in a strange city. As a temporary measure only, of course. Until I can think of some way to make use of the flute and improve matters...
	"All right," he said at last, even managing a feint smile for the benefit of his self-styled saviour. "I'll take up your offer."
	"Excellent, my boy," said Pulg, grabbing Hans' hand in his and tugging it up and down in a handshake of extraordinary exuberance. "In days to come, when you and I are co-proprietors of the greatest carnival in the history of the world, you will look back on this afternoon with particular fondness. And for the time being I can offer you a salary of ten shillings a week and all the food you can eat. Subject to availability, of course."
	"Now then, Folderol!" he bawled, mysteriously, turning away from Hans and admonishing the pavement with a mighty crack of the whip with which he had earlier, and so effectively, seen off the muggers.
	"I hope he hasn't gone wandering off again," he said, turning back to Hans. "Now then, we must get you some food..."
	"Look out!" said Hans, pointing in terror over Pulg's shoulder. "It'll kill us both! Run for it!"
	It was coming at them down the street: a great hulk of a creature with large ungainly feet whose talons scraped along the pavement as it came. It had a long lizard-like scale-encrusted body and a pointed tail which whipped out to either side as it took its lumbering steps. Its head seemed to consist mainly of a mouthful of sharp teeth which it displayed, row upon row, to terrifying effect. And then there were the wings - huge bat-like appendages which might well have smashed the windows of the houses on either side of the street had the creature chosen to extend them to their full span. As it was, it carried them folded against its body, waggling about in the air as it advanced, as though it was carrying a giant bat on each shoulder.
	Hans was ordering his legs to flee but for some reason they seemed rooted to the spot. In his mind's eye he saw the creature come for him and lift him up in that great mouth. He could almost feel the teeth piercing through his skin. And then, without conscious thought, his hand began to drift towards the inside pocket of his jacket. Of course, he realized, the flute! Did it work on animals, he wondered, or fabulous creatures like this one? He would soon find out. His hand closed around the smooth tube of bone...
	And then something so astonishing happened that he forgot all about the flute. He just stood there with his mouth gaping.
	Pulg had turned and approached the creature and begun to talk to it, grabbing hold of a length of chain around its neck, something Hans had previously failed to notice. The beast stood there peacefully with its head on one side, a long snake-like two-pronged tongue flicking out from between its teeth.
	"Well then, Folderol," said Pulg, scratching the creature's neck affectionately. "Would you like to meet this new colleague of ours?"
	"I like to have Folderol with me on my trips around the city," Pulg explained later, as they sat in The Purse and Pocket Inn. They were dining on cold meats and ale while they waited for Pulg's business contact to arrive. "It keeps the carnival in the public eye. Wyverns are dangerous creatures, of course, but if you catch them at an early age they can be trained well enough."
	"And did you train Folderol yourself?" asked Hans, incredulous. He was still astonished to think of how he and Pulg had walked through the streets to the inn with the wyvern at their side without causing mass hysteria. Passers-by had steered their paths well clear of the creature and some had looked very nervous, but no one had actually fled in screaming panic. He supposed that the citizens of a city were used to seeing all manner of strange sights in their streets.
	"I didn't train the beast myself exactly, no," Pulg admitted, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "It was, well, a friend. Well, a business associate, I mean. Ah, speaking of which..." He rose and beckoned across the inn to a thin weasel of a man who had just entered. "Herr Schickelzimmer!" he cried. "My very good fellow. Here - come and join us."
	The man approached the table warily, staring rudely at Hans, and shaking Pulg's proffered hand with no great enthusiasm.
	"Good day, Herr Schickelzimmer," said Pulg. "A fine afternoon, is it not?"
	The weasel sat down and seemed to consider Pulg's pronouncement doubtfully. "Perhaps," he said eventually.
	"Excellent," said Pulg, apparently unabashed, and, pausing only to introduce Hans ('my new colleague - a young man of great promise'), he launched himself into a detailed exposition on the subject of dung.
	The weasel began to show some interest now, making notes in a small leather book and interrupting occasionally on some matter of detail: "Fifty bucketsfull, you say? Is that compacted or uncompacted? Will you require the loan of buckets?" and similar enquiries.
	Hans soon decided he had little interest in the conversation and his attention began to wander round the room. The clientele all seemed fairly well-to-do: merchants and city officials or suchlike, he assumed them to be. They were sitting round in pairs or small groups, engaged in earnest conversations from which they only occasionally paused to take a bite of food or a thoughtful swig of ale. There was none of the raucous laughter and drunkenness which was so prevalent in The Woodsman's Arms back in Hazelhof. But then thiswas the afternoon, Hans reminded himself. Perhaps by evening, these merchants would be up and dancing on the tables.
	One group in particular caught Hans's attention: three men who looked particularly well turned out, in fine velvet jerkins and full cloaks, who were sitting over by the door. They seemed to be talking quite animatedly and they frequently glanced across at the table where Hans and Pulg were sitting. Their glances did not appear to be friendly.
	Hans decided he should think of some way to break into Pulg's conversation and discreetly mention these attentions. But he was never given the chance. At that very moment, the decorum of The Purse and Pocket was shattered by an outburst from the weasel, who stood up and began to shout at Pulg in a thin, reedy voice which was nevertheless loud enough to echo through the room and silence all other conversation.
	"I am a dealer in quality dung!" he cried, as though in response to some vast insult on Pulg's part. "I deal only in the produce of horses, donkeys and similar beasts of burden. I have no use for the droppings of griffons, manticores and giant frogs..."
	"But, Herr Schickelzimmer," Pulg protested, "on the best scientific evidence, the dung of a griffon or a manticore is equally suitable for most common household and agricultural purposes to that of a horse or a donkey. I would go so far as to say..."
	"Silence!" cried Schickelzimmer, so powerfully that Hans was frightened the thin reed of his voice would snap altogether. "I will have no more of this. You have been wasting my time, sir. All afternoon, we have been discussing details of a business arrangement and onlynow-only now do you disclose that the produce you offer is a hotch-potch of excrement from most of the animal species known to man. Some of these creatures are evil, sir. I will have none of it. Good day to you."
	And with that, the weasel turned and stormed away, though Hans noticed that the group by the door exchanged brief words with him as he went. One in particular, a short bald fellow, grabbed the man by the arm, staring pointedly across at Pulg, who was busy trying to play down the incident.
	"Such an excitable fellow," he was explaining to a man at an adjacent table. "We are discussing a simple matter of commerce and he carries on as though he has been crossed in love! Some of these people have no head at all for business."
	"Herr Pulg!"
	The cry came from the balding man, who had stood up and crossed to the centre of the floor. He now commanded the attention of the whole room. Pulg began supping with apparent nonchalance at his ale, but he was drinking alone. Everybody else was too eager to find out what would happen next.
	"It has come to my notice," said the balding man, "and I think I am not alone in having noticed" (he paused briefly here to turn and glance at his friends by the door) "that you are quietly and insidiously advancing the forces of darkness in this city."
	There were several audible gasps around the room. One young lad who had drunk too much became hysterical and had to be held down by his companions.
	"You exhibit evil creatures to honest citizens," the balding man continued, apparently encouraged by this response. "You attempt to seduce them with exotic and lurid malformations of nature. You encourage children - yes, poor innocent children - to ride on their backs."
	There were more gasps around the room.
	"Where did he study drama, I wonder?" Pulg muttered in Hans' ear. "He's wasted in here. He should be out in the street, selling things."
	But the bald man was apparently building to a climax now. He paused dramatically to wipe the sweat from his brow. "And now Herr Schickelzimmer, who has just departed The Purse and Pocket in justified outrage, informs us that you are planning to spread the produce of these hideous creatures throughout Krugenheim and its immediate vicinity. You have gone too far this time, Herr Pulg. People may be willing to overlook your seedy little sideshow but they will not permit the excrement of evil to be spread on their vegetables!"
	His voice had risen to a thundering crescendo by the end of his speech but in its wake there were as many sniggers as gasps of outrage. The balding man glanced about him nervously. It had been going so well. What had gone wrong, he wondered? Could some of the speech have been rephrased slightly?
	Pulg seized his chance to defend himself.
	"Thank you for that expression of your views, Herr Grunwald," he said, rising to his feet and walking at a leisurely pace across the room. "But I think you misinterpret my attempts toeducate the people of Krugenheim into the terrible threat posed by these creatures. Only through the study of the manifestations of evil in my carnival, I believe, can our citizens be made properly diligent in the battle against it."
	"I would have thought that as a teacher yourself you would have understood that," Pulg continued, as he drew alongside the balding man, "but perhaps you are too busy organizingsnotball contests to think very deeply about such matters as the rule of law." And with that he turned his back on Grunwald and swaggered away, scattering brightly coloured cards about the room as he went.
	"A few free tickets for Pulg's Grand Carnival," he called back, as he crossed the threshold of the inn. "Come and acquaint yourselves with the menace which threatens us all!"
	Grunwald was shaking with rage now, aware that the initiative had been snatched away from him.
	"I shan't let the matter drop!" he called after Pulg. "I warn you that I have great influence at the city council!" But his words were lost in the general commotion as people scrambled around greedily for tickets. Hans took the opportunity to sneak quietly away in the wake of Pulg.
	Outside, the street was a teeming mass of people. Hans was reminded of turning over a stone and finding an ant's nest underneath. He was worried for a moment that Pulg might have gone off and left him to fend for himself in the city but no, he soon saw the showman - conspicuous as ever. He was standing with two members of the City Watch beside the unmistakable figure of Folderol, who had been tied to a post outside the inn. The creature seemed to be amusing itself by sharpening its claws on the pavement and flexing its enormous wings. The sight was awe-inspiring but the Watchmen did not seem to fully appreciate it.
	"Oh, quite harmless," Pulg was assuring them. "A positively benevolent animal! Only the other day, he saved a young child who would have been run over by a passing carriage... Ah, Hans, there you are!" he said, noticing the boy's approach. "Come on, we must be getting back now - there is work to be done!"
	He untied Folderol's chain and began to lead the creature off down the street, raising his hat to the two Watchmen as he went. One of the soldiers saluted briefly in response but they were still looking very doubtfully at the animal.
	"I am not happy, my boy," confided Pulg, as he and Hans walked along the street, the crowds parting at the sight of Folderol. "I fear that the mood of the city may be turning against me. It was all smiles and welcomes when I first came here, bringing a lot of excitement into their miserable lives. Now perhaps the novelty is wearing off and certain people are seeing their chances to work against me."
	"Like that bald man, you mean?" asked Hans.
	"Yes - his name is Grunwald, a local busybody," said Pulg, with a snort of derision. "A teacher and politician and Ranald knows what else. He claims to be a good influence on the youth of the city and wants to teach them all snotball to bring out their better qualities. Personally, I think they'd be better off hanging around street corners. But that's why he's set against me - all that stuff about 'evil' is just a cover. He wants me out of my property so he can use it for his kids and their stupid snotball matches."
	"Whatis snotball?"
	Pulg raised his eyebrows.
	"Perhaps I was wrong about that village of yours," he said. "Perhaps it is in a forgotten valley at the other end of the world rather than twenty-five miles away. Well, you know what a snotling is, don't you?"
	"It's a kind of rabbit, isn't it?"
	"No, it's a kind of goblin - a small, smelly one. What they do is trap a snotling in a little wicker cage, the shape of a ball, and kick it around a bit on a patch of ground. It's supposed to encourage teamwork and good health, though not in the snotling of course."
	Hans was astonished to hear of such a complex sport.
	"In Hazelhof we just stand around and hit each other," he said. "It's called boxing."
	"Indeed?" said Pulg, betraying a frown. "Is there no limit to human ingenuity? Ah, here we are then - home at last," and he led the way down a flight of steps to an unmarked door. Folderol looked at the steps with suspicion, first bending to sniff at them, then descending slowly and uncertainly like a child or an old man, unfolding its wings slightly for balance.
	"If your claws weren't so enormous," said Pulg, scoldingly, as he unlocked the door, "you'd find you could get around a bit better."
	As they entered, Hans was overcome by a stench of dung and a noise of clamouring animals. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that they were in an enormous room, much like the timber storehouses in Hazelhof, but this one was lined along all its sides with cages. Numberless pairs of eyes were staring at them from behind iron bars.
	"The carnival!" Pulg cried, strutting across the floor, his cloak swirling behind him. "Ah, it does me good to be back here with these simple beasts, away from all the folly of humanity!"
	The beasts began to roar and howl and chitter as though in reply to their master. Having acclimatized to the smell, Hans walked over to the nearest cages, staring in delight at their captives. He recognized a few of them: the snakes and the tiger, and this big black one over here seemed to be a giant beetle, but others were unfamiliar. He was about to ask Pulg to guide him round when he heard the clatter of boot-heels and a young woman came into sight. She wore a short jerkin with a belt around her waist, and nothing at all upon her legs except a pair of high leather boots. Hans' mouth gaped open. He had never seen anything like this woman before - she was even more interesting than the animals.
	"We're not short of folly here either," the woman said, addressing Pulg. "Some of these animals are so stupid they can hardly eat and shit, let alone walk tightropes. And there are a couple of humans here too, in case you'd forgotten, who have to stay back and train the beasts while their master is away gallivanting about the city."
	Pulg suddenly looked a bit less happy.
	"A matter of business, Heidi," he said, in a tone which managed to be admonishing and placatory at the same time. "Only a matter of business would have drawn me away from here."
	Heidi shook her head.
	"But so often it's the business of getting thoroughly drunk at The Squandered Youth, isn't it, Herr Pulg? Well now you're here, you can take a look at the giant rat, if you'd be so good, oh master. I can't persuade him to jump through that burning hoop, no matter what I do to him."
	"Later, Heidi, later," said Pulg, dismissively. "Such matters can be sorted out in mere moments later on. First of all, let me show you the new creature I found languishing on the cruel streets of the city..."
	Heidi's gaze followed Pulg's outstretched hand, taking in Hans for the first time. The boy stared back, grinning nervously.
	"Hans has agreed to come and work for us," Pulg explained. "I think he will fit in well with the ethos of our little extravaganza."
	"Perhaps so," said Heidi, walking over to Hans, "especially if he can shovel dung." As she approached the youth, she crossed a beam of sunlight from one of the high windows which served to illuminate the hall. Her long dark hair seemed to sparkle and Hans felt his pulse racing. Uncertainly, he stretched out his hand to greet her. She came up and hit him over the head with a blow like the kick of a mule. He was knocked back against the bars of the cage. He felt as though he had been through a bout with Alexis Bosch, boxing champion of Hazelhof.
	He looked at Heidi uncomprehendingly.
	"Don't ogle me like that," she said. "I have enough trouble with the punters. I walk around half naked fortheir benefit, not for some puny little shit-shoveller."
	"I think that Hans has great promise, Heidi," said Pulg, approaching rather nervously and rubbing his hands together. "I think that some day..."
	"Some day he'll be co-proprietor, right, just like the rest of us?"
	"Well, yes, when the exigencies of business allow..."
	"In the meantime, it will be useful to have another downtrodden menial around to share the work, I suppose," said Heidi, with a faint smile. She held out her hand to Hans, who grasped it nervously. "Glad to have you around, Hans. Sorry about the head - just remember your place, that's all. Have you used a shovel before?"
	"Well, I..."
	"Don't concern yourself with things like that on your first day, my boy," said Pulg, putting an arm round Hans and leading him away, with a beaming glance at Heidi. "First I must acquaint you with the wonders of the carnival. You recognize these animals?"
	"Some of them," said Hans. "Others..."
	"Others are more exotic, of course," said Pulg. "Like this one," he gestured to the nearest cage. "Magnificent, isn't it?"
	Hans found he was looking at a huge lizard with eight legs and vague grey eyes. It flicked out a long tongue to grasp a passing cockroach but missed the creature byseveral yards.
	"Yes," said Hans. "What is it?"
	"A basilisk," said Pulg, "as terrible and glorious a creature as any I have met. One glance into its eyes and you can be turned into stone - quite an awesome capability, don't you agree?"
	Hans was too busy making sure he could move all his limbs to bother to reply.
	"Don't worry," said Heidi, who was following along behind them. "Herr Pulg has taken the precaution of blinding the poor creature."
	"Well, yes," said the showman, leading Hans onward. "A pity, of course, but quite a reasonable precaution in the interests of public safety. If only that idiot Grunwald knew the lengths to which I go to protect the public... Ah now, here is a magnificent creature, a bog octopus!"
	They were standing by a cage whose lower part had been lined with boards and covered in mud. Two huge eyes and several tentacles were poking out of the mess of slime.
	"One of my favourite beasts," said Pulg. "We might think of it as a sort of aquatic rhinoceros. But with more legs, of course. And here, here is a fen worm. Note its great length..."
	The tour continued past all manner of strange creatures, each one described in loving detail by Pulg, who would dwell on such matters as their natural habitat and noble disposition, while Heidi would provide additional comments, usually concerning their low intelligence or poor level of toilet training.
	Eventually they reached a fierce but strangely familiar creature which seemed infuriated at their presence. It snorted fire from its nostrils and flapped its great bat-like wings at them.
	"Folderol!" said Hans, "but, I don't understand..."
	"Oh no," said Pulg, with a chuckle, "not Folderol. He's rooting about here somewhere, free as the day he was hatched. No, this is another wyvern but this one is fierce and untamed as you can see. Folderol would be like this too, in his natural state."
	"Phew!" said Hans. "No wonder those City Watchmen didn't look happy."
	Pulg shook his head.
	"They just don't appreciate the majesty of these creatures," he said. "I'm proud to exhibit them, my boy, I can tell you that. Every one of them, from wyvern to fen worm. They are fine, magnificent beasts."
	"So just you remember that when you're mucking them out," said Heidi, "how magnificent they are."
	Pulg seemed very annoyed now.
	"Haven't you got that giant rat to see to, Heidi?" he said. "I've had about as much as I can take of your stupid comments. Why can't you appreciate the glory of this great enterprise of ours? Why must you always drag everything down to the level of excrement?"
	At that moment, a small red-faced man carrying a large pitchfork came striding across the hall. Everyone wrinkled up their noses and took a step backwards. He seemed to smell worse than the animals.
	"Right," said this newcomer, addressing Pulg. "That's all the dung I can pile up in the anteroom. Where do you want me to start putting it next?"
	He had not chosen a good moment to arrive. Pulg turned round and bawled at him.
	"Get rid of it!" he said. "Get it out of my sight!"
	"What?" said the small man, "all of it?"
	"No, you fool, every other shovel-full. Of course I mean all of it! What good it is to me?"
	"But I thought you were lining up a buyer..."
	"Well Iwas lining up a buyer, wasn't I?" cried Pulg, becoming hoarse, "but I'm one man battling against a chaotic world, aren't I? Don't you understand?"
	The little man looked nonplussed.
	"Well, er, no..."
	"You need not concern yourself, Wolfgang," said Pulg, his voice suddenly dropping, "with the machinations of a cruel world. Don't worry yourself about the idiocies of dung merchants and the overweening ambitions of snotball fanatics. Just get that dung loaded up on the cart and get it out of here, all right?"
	"Yes, Herr Pulg," said Wolfgang, looking positively terrified and scurrying away.
	"Now then Hans," said Pulg, taking the boy by the arm. "Come and see this," and he led Hans through a door into a second hall, almost as large as the first.
	"What do you think of that?" he said.
	Hans looked about him, at a vast cage containing a flaming hoop and a giant rat which was cowering away from the flames in the shadow of a raised podium. Behind the cage were benches, row upon row, stretching back to a pair of large doors which Hans assumed to be the main entrance to the premises. This, presumably, was where the performances were held. There were posters on the wall advertising forthcoming attractions.
	"Very impressive," said Hans.
	"Pathetic," said Pulg.
	Hans was taken aback.
	"Pardon?"
	"Pathetic," the showman repeated. "This poor cellar is wholly inadequate to the needs of Pulg's Grand Carnival. Come back here a moment," and he led the boy back into the other hall.
	"Look at these creatures," he cried, stretching out his hands and pacing across the floor. Sunlight coursed through the high windows, producing great angled beams of brightness, which lent the hall the atmosphere of a place of worship. The creatures produced a chorus of disparate cries in response to Pulg's antics. They paced about or climbed up the bars of their cages. The bog octopus rose up out of the slime, its great round eyes blinking as it peered at the showman.
	"Are the beasts not magnificent?" said Pulg. "Do they not deserve a better setting than a miserable cellar? There is a great stadium in Krugenheim. They use it for snotball matches and suchlike frivolities. But it is a fine stadium.That is where I plan to exhibit my carnival. And neither Grunwald nor paranoid dung merchants nor anyone else is going to stop me!"
	Pulg had raised a hand in the air, as though in some sort of victory salute. His eyes were alight with the fire of vision.
	Heidi could be heard sniggering in the shadows.
	"Oh no?" she said. "Well they've done a pretty good job of it so far, haven't they? Time and again they've refused you permission to play the stadium. They don'twant your animals shitting it up."
	Pulg shook his head, suddenly brought down to earth again.
	"No, Heidi," he said sadly, "of course you are right. That's because they are blind like you are, like I am for much of the time. They choose to be blind to life's realities. That is why they content themselves with foolish games like snotball. They think of life as like Folderol here." He crossed the floor to where the creature was sitting and preening itself and scratched its wings affectionately. Folderol flicked out its tongue and licked its master back.
	"They think of life as a tame, calm thing, whereas in fact it is more like that other Folderol in that cage over there - a thing of darkness which can flare up in a savage attack at any moment. You can see that, can't you?" he said, turning to Hans.
	"Yes, Herr Pulg." There was really nothing else to say.
	"Good boy. But I willmake them see reality. I will make them see the glories and the terrors of these beasts of mine. By Ulric, I will. I shall hold daily shows in the great stadium, and all of the Empire will come to see and be amazed!"
	He turned and walked out of a side door from the main hall, without a further glance at either Hans or Heidi. It was almost as though they were no longer visible to him, as though he was gazing beyond the room at a vision which only he could see.
	Heidi cleared her throat and turned to Hans.
	"Worked for a madman before, have you?" she asked.
	It turned out to be hard work at the carnival. The whole task of looking after the animals and much of the work of putting on the shows was split between just the three of them: Heidi, Wolfgang and Hans. Pulg just tended to strut around and talk a lot, though he introduced the shows and helped out Heidi with training the animals.
	But, as the weeks went by, Hans decided his new life wasn't really so bad.
	Back in Hazelhof, the dour woodsmen had mocked him for his strange appearance and his lack of physical strength. He had been an outcast there, where a man was considered of no use unless he could wield an axe. He had been reduced to doing odd jobs and running errands - for which no one ever thanked him. At least now he felt he had a part to play in life. He might get lumbered with some of the worst jobs - mucking out cages, for instance - but he also got some good ones, like giving out leaflets around the city, showing the punters to their seats, even taking part in the shows occasionally. And at the end there was always the applause of the punters - aimed principally at Pulg and Heidi and the animals, it was true, but he liked to think that he had earned a small part of it. And it was better than a clip across the head from an ungrateful woodsman.
	The part of his new life he enjoyed best, though, was after the shows were over: the job of escorting Pulg every evening to The Squandered Youth.
	"I'm getting worried about the public's attitude to Folderol," said Pulg, when he explained this new task to Hans. "That scoundrel Grunwald is looking for excuses to stir people up against the carnival. Leaving Folderol on his own outside the inn may not be a good idea at the moment."
	Hans couldn't understand why Pulg didn't simply leave Folderol behind if that was the case, but Heidi explained:
	"It's because he's always too drunk to walk home," she said. "Folderol knows the way and Pulg can ride on his back."
	So Hans had to wait with Folderol outside The Squandered Youth while Pulg was in there drinking. "Smile at passers-by," the showman told him. "Stroke the animal from time to time. That sort of thing helps to gain public confidence."
	But after a few days Pulg became more nervous still and decided it would be safer if they waited up on the inn's high balcony, where they would be safely out of sight altogether.
	At first, Hans was very reluctant to ride on the animal's back. He seemed to keep sliding off, and the smooth scales afforded no purchase.
	"Put more effort into it, Hans," Pulg scolded. "If I can ride him drunk, then I'm certain you can ride him sober. Put your arms around his neck! Pretend he's a beautiful woman."
	Hans didn't find this last advice very helpful. For one thing, it would be difficult to think of anything less like a beautiful woman than this scaly monster. For another, he had no more experience of beautiful women than he did of wyverns. But he persevered, and eventually he felt that he had secure enough a purchase to risk a take-off.
	"Right," said Pulg, clearing passers-by away with expansive, theatrical gestures. Even while trying to keep the wyvern out of sight, the showman in him could not be denied.
	"Take to the skies, Folderol," he cried, and the lumbering beast began an ungainly jaunt along the street, bouncing up and down and flapping its wings as it went.
	"This must be what an earthquake feels like," thought Hans, as he rode upon the creature's back, hanging on in desperation.
	And then all the buildings he could see around him seemed to be swallowed up by the earth and when he peered cautiously down, with his cheek pressed close against the scaly neck, he saw Krugenheim falling away beneath him, the streets and buildings dwindling to the size of a rabbit warren. At his side, Folderol's wings rose and fell like the breeze-blown petals of a strange black flower, creating cold gusts of air which swept across his back.
	The flight had wrested away all sense of caution and control. All he could do was hang on for the sake of his life, scared and exhilarated by the sheer helplessness of his situation. He just had to let go, he thought to himself, and he would be out on his own, floating through the air... He wanted to laugh, but the wind had taken his breath away.
	And then Folderol had swept round in a great circle and was coming in to land on the balcony of The Squandered Youth, claws scraping on tiles as it slowed its momentum on the building next door then leaping into space again to land on the high balcony of the inn itself, with a great jolt which took away the rest of Hans' breath.
	"Excellent," said Pulg, craning his neck and calling up to them. "I shan't be very long," and he disappeared into the inn for the rest of the evening.
	And so a daily routine was established. When Pulg finally staggered into the street again, Hans would remount Folderol and the beast would leap into space, gliding down into the street below, riding the cushion of air beneath its outstretched wings. Hans would then dismount and the drunken Pulg would have to be manhandled up in his place for Folderol to carry him home.
	Heidi would usually be sitting in the great hall with a mug of hot barley, ready with some witty remark about Pulg's condition as Hans assisted him across the threshold. The showman would either ignore her and stagger off to his bed or, on nights when he felt more spirited, he would get down on his hands and knees and beg her love and affection. She would tolerate this for a little while and then, if he still persisted, she would hit him over the head with a thick wooden stick which she kept handy for the purpose. She and Hans would then have to drag Pulg off across the floor to his bed.
	The next morning, he would emerge looking bright and healthy enough and make no mention of the night before. Hans decided he must have a very hard head - and a conveniently poor memory.
	"Why do you wait up for him?" Hans asked Heidi one day. "Why don't you stay out of his way?" Was she flattered by his attentions, he secretly wondered?
	Heidi pointed out herself, Hans, Wolfgang snoozing away in the corner.
	"Look at us," she said. "We work our backsides off so that Pulg can make money and throw it all away on drink. That's why I wait up for Pulg. I like hitting him. It's the only excuse I have to get back at the bastard."
	What Hans liked most about his evening visits to The Squandered Youth was sitting up on the high balcony looking out over Krugenheim.
	He had a fine view of the streets to the east, where the land fell away through the robbers' warren of the Untergarten to the wall and the gate where he'd entered the city. And over to the west, he could make out the law court and the stadium and the great turrets of the barracks where the Templars of the White Wolf from Middenheim were garrisoned, here to impose the sacred laws of Ulric in the city.
	The view was impressive, and it was somehow reassuring for Hans to see the same skyline day after day, sitting there on the high balcony with Folderol by his side. The wyvern, he decided, was his best friend at the carnival. The others were all right in their way, but they each had their drawbacks. Pulg was entertaining but so overbearing and unpredictable that it was impossible to relax in his presence. Heidi was probably nice enough at heart, but Hans found her constant sarcasm unnerving and he could still feel the blow on his cheek from their first meeting. Wolfgang, well, he tended to jabber on about dung a lot...
	Folderol, by comparison, was undemanding company, happily devoid of any irritating traits of conversation. He would sit there and listen - apparently - while Hans explained his plans to rise up and better himself. Hans had no guarantee that the beast could really hear or understand, of course, but with his head on one side and his great mouth hanging open as though with bated breath he did a very good job ofappearing to listen. And he seemed to understand well enough when Pulg told him to take to the air, didn't he?
	"Just think," Hans told the creature, with a sweeping gesture of his arm to indicate the whole of Krugenheim stretched out before them, "I could play my flute up here and everyone down there would stand to attention, waiting for me to tell them what to do. I could watch them all from up here and give them orders - wouldn't that be good?"
	Folderol apparently thought so.
	"Mind you," Hans admitted, "the effect does wear off after a while and I don't suppose the music would reach far enough..." and of course he could hardly risk using up the flute's magic just to test out its range. But he would use it when the time was right. The world might be full of dangers, as Pulg claimed, but Hans had the flute, didn't he? He had the flute to impose order, to regulate the world the way he wanted it. Someday, he would seize control of Krugenheim, or some small part of it. He would find a way to do it.
	"But don't tell anyone," he said to Folderol, looking the creature in one of its tiny eyes. "It's a secret, all right?" Another advantage of the wyvern, Hans decided, was that he could be relied upon not to go around gossiping.
	"It's not so bad," said Hans, sitting there thinking of future achievements. "It's not so bad, working for the carnival."
	But it couldn't last, of course.
	From that very first day in The Purse and Pocket, the figure of Grunwald had overshadowed the carnival like some spectre of doom. At first, this had shown itself only in the grumblings of Pulg, who would occasionally break off from a long diatribe on the subject of his great ambitions to make some disapproving remark about snotball.
	And then the summons had arrived.
	Hans himself had opened the door to admit the little man from the city council.
	"Herr Pulg?" the little man had said, squinting into the gloom of the hall and wrinkling his nose at the smell. "I have a summons for Herr Pulg."
	"I'll fetch him," said Hans, turning to go in search of Pulg. But then the showman himself came striding out of the shadows, descending on the little man like some enormous predatory bird. "A summons?" he cried. "A summons? What nonsense is this?"
	The little man uttered a squeak of alarm and held out a piece of parchment which Pulg immediately snatched from his hand.
	"Rodents?" cried Pulg, reading the document. "What does it say - an excessive level of rodent infestation?" He looked about him in disbelief and spread out his arms indicating the great hall. "But the building is in prime condition. I often eat my dinner off the floor here. Do you see any evidence of this 'rodent infestation'?"
	The little man adjusted his spectacles and peered about him critically, as though he was scrutinizing some legal document.
	"Well," he said eventually, clearing his throat. "There's one over there." He was pointing at the giant rat, which was peering back at him through the bars of its cage.
	Pulg was speechless for a moment. He closed his eyes for a short while as though to concentrate his reserves of patience.
	"That is not a health hazard," he explained, slowly and deliberately. "It is an exhibit. Surely this ridiculous summons does not apply to rodents which are displayed for the entertainment and education of the general public?"
	The man from the council sucked in his breath and shook his head.
	"I wouldn't care to express an opinion on that," he said. "And if you will excuse me now, I must return to my office..."
	"But what should I do?" said Pulg, distraught. "I have not had a chance to read the small print..."
	"Three days time," said the little man. "There will be an official inspection in three days time. If you fail that, we shall have to close you down." And then he was gone.
	Pulg was left staring at a closed door, remembering Grunwald's final words that day at The Purse and Packet: "I have influence," he had said, "at the city council."
	"Yes," muttered Pulg. "It seems as though he does have influence." But he did not seem to be too discouraged.
	"Three days," he told Hans, speaking with renewed confidence. "There won't be a rat within five miles of here in three days time."
	Hans watched in mounting excitement as Pulg's hired wizard entered the hall and began setting out his magical artefacts: black candles arranged in a circle and, in the centre of this, a pedestal on which he placed the rotting corpse of a venomous toad.
	Heidi, characteristically, was less impressed. She stood there with folded arms, shaking her head.
	"Why don't you just give up?" she asked Pulg. "It's hopeless. Grunwald is a determined man and has great influence in the city. If he doesn't get the council to close you down, he'll just try something else."
	But Pulg hardly seemed to be listening.
	"Look," he said, as the wizard began to chant, his arms weaving around, describing intricate arabesques in the air above him. "What an impressive sight! There won't be a rat alive in this building before long."
	"I'll believe it when I see it," said Heidi.
	But by nightfall the giant rat was dead on the floor of its cage, covered in great red weals.
	It was Heidi who discovered it. She ran tearfully to Pulg with the news and the showman broke into a broad smile.
	"Why, that is excellent news," he said. "If that great beast is dead then its lesser relatives will certainly have perished also. Now - you and Hans and Wolfgang must clean the place out from floor to ceiling. All rat corpses must be taken out and burnt."
	"But I nurtured that animal," Heidi sobbed, "I nurtured it with my own hands!"
	"It died a noble death," said Pulg, with quiet satisfaction. "It died so that the other creatures might live. When the men from the council come, they will not find a single rodent in the carnival!"
	"Not unless they bring their own," Heidi muttered.
	But Grunwald's plan appeared to stop short of such outright trickery. The men from the council came and poked around for hours, examining the floor with great looking-glasses, but they could find no evidence with which to close down the carnival.
	When they had gone, Pulg opened a bottle of wine and fetched his staff tiny glasses, which he filled almost to the brim.
	"A toast!" he announced. "I propose a toast to the ruination of Grunwald and his petty machinations!"
	As they raised their glasses, there came a knock at the door.
	"Get it, Hans," said Pulg. "Let us hope it is not the men from the council, come back for a closer inspection."
	As Hans moved towards the door, he felt his elation slipping away from him. He was overcome with trepidation. He felt as though he would open the door and find the very doom of the carnival standing there on the threshold.
	But it wasn't the men from the council. It was Grunwald himself.
	The snotball impressario came swaggering in, with several of his cronies behind him.
	Pulg drained his wineglass in a single gulp. Then he stood there without a word, waiting for Grunwald to speak.
	"Nice of you to clean the place up for me," said Grunwald, casting a casual eye about the hall. "Now you've had a taste of the kind of influence I exact in the city, I expect you'll be ready to sell to me, won't you? Does five thousand gold crowns sound like a fair price?"
	"It sounds a bit like getting mugged in the street," said Pulg, gesturing for Hans and Wolfgang to come to his side. "There's a big wooden box in my room," he whispered to them. "Bring it in here, will you?"
	"Gone to fetch your cash-box, have they?" asked Grunwald, as they ran off.
	"Not exactly," said Pulg. "It is something that I think will interest you, however. A recent invention of which you may have heard. I'm told it has potential sporting value, but I myself have purchased it for a different purpose."
	"Oh yes?" said Grunwald, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as Hans and Wolfgang carried in the heavy wooden box.
	"Just put it down there," said Pulg, and he bent to open the lid, taking out a long metal tube with a flared end. "It works like this," he said, "you take some of this powder and put it down the barrel. Then you take one of these balls of lead..."
	There was a cry of panic from one of Grunwald's cronies. "It's a blunderbuss, a gun. He's going to shoot us all!" And the deputation began to edge back towards the door. Grunwald held out his arms in a gesture of restraint.
	"This will not help your case," he said. "The penalty for murder is a heavier burden than mere business relocation. Perhaps I can suggest an alternative property. I have a grocer's shop..."
	He didn't bother to continue this business discussion. Pulg had raised the blunderbuss to his shoulder, as though about to fire it.
	"Don't do it!" cried Heidi, "don't be so stupid, Pulg!"
	But her warning was no longer necessary. Grunwald and his friends were gone. Pulg was pointing his blunderbuss at the back door, which was swinging open in the breeze.
	"Let's see him bring his influence to bear on this!" he said, laughing wildly.
	"Right - that's it," said Heidi, whispering to Hans. "He's gone too far, this time. I'm getting out."
	After that, Hans noticed that attendances at the shows began to drop. And people would turn and whisper in the street as he and Pulg and Folderol walked along. Hostile glances were commonplace.
	"Keep that creature out of the way now," Heidi advised, taking Pulg on one side, but the showman ignored her. He alone seemed unaware of the strength of feeling that was rising against the carnival.
	"Pulg's out of touch," said Heidi. "Grunwald is too powerful. He's gradually turning the whole city against us but Pulg doesn't seem to realize how serious it is. He thinks he can shoot down public opinion with that stupid blunderbuss of his."
	Then, one day, Hans was chased through the streets by a mob of youngsters. He had been handing out leaflets for the carnival when the group of louts had seemed to emerge out of nowhere, throwing stones and calling him a fiend and a mutant. He had taken quite a battering.
	"Don't you see what's happening, Pulg?" said Heidi, as she bathed the cuts on Hans' head. "Soon it won't be safe for any of us to walk the streets."
	"We're going through a difficult period," said Pulg. "But don't worry - the public will fix their attention on some other poor scapegoat in a month or two. You mark my words."
	"I'm more impressed by the marks on Hans' head," said Heidi. "It really is time we got out," she whispered to Hans. "We may not have the chance for very much longer."
	The next day, she told Hans she was definitely leaving.
	"I've got a new job," she said. "Barmaid at the Happy Haddock Inn. Much the same sort of work, really, but I'll show less legs and more cleavage. I'll miss the animals, though." "I wasn't sure you liked the animals," said Hans. "You complain about them so much."
	"I complain because I hate being exploited by Pulg," said Heidi. "But I like the animals all right. They're the only reason I put up with it."
	She was pacing up and down, eating sweetmeats compulsively from a big bag. Hans had never seen her look so nervous.
	"It's Pulg," she said. "I haven't told him yet. I was going to do it at lunchtime but he presented me with a legal document making me officially second-in-command of the carnival. Can you believe it? The first step to a partnership, he said, beaming all over his scheming face."
	"Congratulations," said Hans.
	Heidi snorted.
	"Hardly," she said. "Obviously it's got through to him at last that I'm not too happy with the way things are going and he's done this to try to bring me round. But it's too late. I'm definitely leaving."
	"I suppose you're right," said Hans, dolefully.
	"Iknow I'm right! But I still feel I'm letting him down. Ridiculous, isn't it?"
	Hans could understand that. He would feel the same way himself.
	"I like Pulg," he said.
	"Yes," said Heidi. "I suppose people do like him. That's why he can get away with so much. I liked him once myself, before I got to know him better. But he's good for nothing, Hans, believe me. He's nothing but talk."
	Hans thought this was going too far.
	"But the carnival," he said. "It's Pulg's carnival. It must have taken some effort to assemble all those animals."
	"Of course it did. But not on Pulg's part. From what I've heard him babble in his drunken moments, his mentor got the carnival together. Pulg was an orphan you see, brought up by a powerful magician. Pulg showed no facility for magic, too busy pulling the tails of dogs and the legs off spiders, so the wizard fixed him up with a tame menagerie for his livelihood. All that Pulg's done since is to drag it round the Empire, persuading fools like us to do all the work for him."
	Hans was silent for a moment.
	"I still like him," he said, defiantly.
	Heidi gave a long-suffering sigh.
	"But you have to leave here," she said. "Pulg isn't going to get away with things for much longer. If you stay around, he'll just bring you down with him."
	"When will you tell him you're going?" asked Hans.
	"Later," said Heidi, popping another sweetmeat into her mouth. "I'll tell him later."
	Hans felt terrible that night, as he walked beside Pulg to The Squandered Youth. The showman was full of himself, telling all the old stories, about staging shows at the stadium, about how he and Hans would one day be partners. Hans wanted to blurt out that Heidi was leaving and be done with it. He hated himself for bottling it up like this, when he knew that Pulg should really be told. How would the showman react, he wondered? How could he get by without Heidi?
	Despite all his fears, Hans found that as he walked on and listened to Pulg's great plans, his mood began to lift a little. He didn't really believe any of Pulg's wild plans any more but he found that the patter was infectious. He could almost believe, as he walked down the street with Pulg and Folderol, that everything was going to turn out all right.
	Later, sitting up on the balcony of the inn, he found himself confused by the twin feelings competing inside him: Pulg's optimism and Heidi's despair. He turned to old reliable Folderol, sitting there beside him, and scratched the creature's scaly hide beneath his chin.
	"What's going to happen to us, Folderol?" he asked. As usual, the creature did not reply.
	Hans sighed and thought back on all the times he had sat up here, feeling so secure in his new life. Now it was all so different. He was almost afraid to look out at the skyline of Krugenheim, in case he saw it change before his very eyes. He still had the magic flute, of course, but how could he use it to help matters?
	Then he looked down at the street and saw the soldiers approaching.
	At first, he took them for a pack of beasts, but as they separated out from the passing crowds he saw that the bestial heads were sitting upon human ones. Hans did not find this reassuring. These were the Templars of the White Wolf, he realized, the ruthless soldiers of Ulric - each resplendant in a swirling wolf-skin cloak, complete with head for hood, and fashioned - it was said - from beasts killed by the soldiers themselves in single combat. When they marched up to the door of the inn, Hans didn't stay around to watch what happened. They had come for Pulg, he realized, incensed by all the talk of heresy that Grunwald had put about. He found a window that was sitting ajar, wrenched it further open and climbed through into the inn.
	Now he was in the large room that the landlord hired out for private functions - not long since vacated, it seemed. There was a smell of stale beer and a pool of vomit on the floor. He ran across the room, colliding in his haste with a stack of chairs which fell crashing to the floor around him, and tried a door on the far side. He was lucky - it wasn't locked.
	"I must get downstairs and rescue Pulg," he kept thinking to himself. "I must get down there and warn him before the soldiers get to him." But there wasn't much time.
	Which way now?
	He was in a corridor, with no sign of a staircase either way. He guessed the direction and turned left, rushing past the closed doors of guest rooms and turning a corner to find a small cat, cornered against a wall, baring its claws and mewing in hurt outrage. He had come to a dead end.
	Hans retraced his steps, panting now, bemoaning the lost time, back past the door of the function room. Was there any point now? Surely he must be too late. Perhaps he could use the flute... Then he rounded a corner to find a staircase and Pulg running up it.
	"Quick!" said the showman, "the balcony!"
	They hurried back along the corridor and through the function room. There were clattering noises behind them. Were the templars giving chase?
	"Who put those bloody chairs here?" cried Pulg, as he tripped and went sliding and crashing about the floor.
	"Watch out," said Hans, as he helped Pulg back to his feet again, "there's a pool of vomit over there."
	"Somehow," muttered Pulg, "I feel this whole businesses beneath me."
	But then they were through the window and out onto the balcony and Folderol was there waiting - stretching his wings.
	"Right," said Pulg, climbing on the creature's back. "Climb on behind me - hang on to my waist!"
	"He'll never take the two of us," cried Hans, but he did as he was told, pulling himself up across the rough scales of the creature's body. He could hear the soldiers crashing through the chairs in the room behind them. He looked round and saw one of them lose his footing and slide through the vomit.
	"Pay attention!" cried Pulg. "Hang on to me, you idiot!"
	There was the usual sinking sensation in Hans' stomach as Folderol leapt off the edge of the building. But this time it was no gentle glide down into the street. Folderol flapped his great wings, straining to keep all three of them aloft. But they still seemed to be losing height. Hans could see some of the soldiers in the street below, running along beneath them, waving their swords - their cloaks swirling in the air behind them to make them look more than ever like a pack of wolves. Very much lower and those great swords of theirs would almost reach...
	Then Folderol seemed to be gaining height at last. Hans saw clear sky around them as he lay there with his head pressed against Pulg's back, watching those great wings rising and falling, rising and falling, beating through the air beside them.
	"Well done, Folderol!" said Pulg. "Well done, my boy! There'll be an extra steak for you for dinner tomorrow if we make it."
	Then he shouted over his shoulder to Hans: "I'm only glad those templars didn't call any later in the evening. Another few mugs of ale and I'd never have noticed them outside the inn, never mind made it up all those stairs."
	"But what are we going to do?" shouted Hans. "Surely they'll just come after us at the carnival!"
	"We'll barricade ourselves in there, my boy," said Pulg. "There will be a siege of historic proportions. Don't worry - I've prepared for this eventuality. I've got enough food in store to keep us for months."
	Hans didn't think this idea sounded very promising. He could imagine day after day stuck in that dark smelly building, while Pulg strutted about feeling grand and making rousing speeches. Hans could think of better ways to spend his time. And he hoped that this "food in store" of Pulg's didn't refer to the animals - he didn't fancy eating them. He began to wonder what a bog octopus would taste like...
	"I'm going," he said suddenly, almost without thinking. "As soon as we land, I'm heading off. I'll take my chances alone."
	Pulg didn't have time to reply at once. Folderol was descending now and they could see what was waiting for them at the carnival.
	"Right," said Pulg. "So it's not going to be as easy as I thought..."
	There were templars outside the carnival - all grey cloaks and swords and grim faces. They had Heidi and Wolfgang with them, apparently as prisoners.
	"We could both fly off, I suppose," said Pulg, quietly scathing, "we could just fly off and leave our friends to the templars."
	But Folderol continued to descend. There was a great bump and then a series of judders as the creature ran across the ground to slow himself. When they came to a halt, Hans found that he wanted to stay where he was, clutching the body of the wyvern for reassurance. But Pulg was sliding to the ground, pulling Hans down after him.
	"All right then, boy," he said, "time for you to scurry off."
	Even if he hadn't already been shamed out of it, Hans wouldn't have had the chance to get away. The templars were coming towards them, dragging their prisoners along as they came. Heidi was protesting with great animation, shouting obscenities and trying to land punches on the templars - it was taking two of them to hang on to her.
	"You see what you've led us to, Pulg?" she cried. "Didn't I tell you it would come to this?"
	"Quiet yourself, Heidi," said Pulg calmly. "We have nothing to gain from making the task of these gentlemen more difficult. This is a misunderstanding, nothing more. It will soon be cleared up."
	"Are you Herr Pulg?" asked one of the templars, apparently an officer, stepping forward from the rest.
	"I am..."
	"In that case we must take you into the custody of the Templars of the White Wolf," said the officer, giving Pulg no further chance to speak. "You are charged with heresy for organizing public displays to promote evil in the city of Krugenheim. You will be tried and, if found guilty, you will be sentenced to death by burning. These, your accomplices, will perish with you."
	Pulg edged backwards. Several templars drew their swords, ready to block a possible escape.
	"I am a simple showman," said Pulg, "you must have the wrong man. Where is your written authority?"
	"We have no need of written authority," said the officer. "We are the Templars of the White Wolf. Our authority stems directly from Ulric and He has no need of pen and paper for men to bow and obey Him. Now, kindly step forward and submit yourself for arrest. Or must we use our teeth to enforce the will of Ulric?"
	All eyes were on Pulg. Would he come forward? Would he try to run? Heidi saw that this was her chance to escape. An elbow to the stomach and a kick to the groin and she was free, dashing away across the street.
	"Catch up with her!" the officer cried. "Put her to the sword!"
	Hans had drawn back to stand by Pulg. Here it was at last - the time to use the flute.
	"Put your fingers in your ears," he whispered to the showman.
	Then he drew out the flute and began to play.
	The templars froze in mid-action. The ones that had begun to chase after Heidi were standing in mid-stride, like statues in extravagant poses.
	This is it, thought Hans. I've saved Heidi. We can all escape now! I'm a hero!
	Then it happened.
	Folderol came lumbering forward with a great bellow, flapping his wings and leaping in amongst the templars, knocking them over like so many skittles. Some of them he tore at with his talons; others he took in his mouth, biting through wolf skin and human skin alike until the bones began to fracture.
	Mesmerized by the flute, the templars had no chance to defend themselves. They just lay there and died as the wyvern tramped amongst them, tearing them apart like stuffed dolls.
	It was all over in a few moments. The templars, poor Wolfgang among them, were lying dead in spreading pools of blood. Folderol stood in the midst of the carnage, claws in among the torn flesh, blood dripping from his gaping mouth. He began to look around him, wondering what to do next.
	"Folderol!" Hans cried, wondering what had happened. Had the creature gone mad? He turned to see Pulg's reaction but the showman was no longer there. Had he seized his chance to run away? Then Folderol turned and began to move towards Hans, the tongue flicking in and out of his bloodied teeth.
	He did not advance very far.
	There was a small explosion and a blast of smoke and the creature fell to the ground, thrashing about in agony. And there was Pulg, over by the door to the carnival building, standing with the blunderbuss in his arms, hurriedly reloading.
	"Stand back, Hans!" he cried. "Keep out of his way till I finish him off. He's not in a very good mood."
	But Hans just stood there stunned, looking on in horror as his old friend rolled around in his death throes, tail and wings whipping hither and thither in a tortured frenzy as another ball, then another, then another, tore into his body from the blunderbuss, Then, finally, the tail thrashed its last and the creature lay still.
	Hans wanted to cry.
	"What have you done?" he shouted. "What have you done to him?"
	"What haveI done to him!?" said Pulg, throwing the blunderbuss aside and dashing across to seize Hans by the hand, pulling him over to the door of the carnival building. "What haveyou done to him, you mean, with that stupid artefact of yours. Come on - get inside. There'll be reinforcements."
	He pulled the boy through the door and locked it behind them.
	"Now then," he said. "Show me that thing!"
	He had to shout to make himself heard. The hall was ringing with a great hubbub of baying, roaring animals.They must have caught a scent of the blood, Hans realized,and they want a share for themselves. Reluctantly, he held out the flute for Pulg's inspection.
	"Where did you get it?" said the showman brusquely. "Why didn't you tell me you had it?" He took it in his hands and examined it, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the bone.
	"It's none of your business," said Hans defiantly. "An old man gave it to me."
	"If he was old, he should have accumulated more sense," said Pulg. "Then we might have avoided this dreadful mess. I think I could have beaten off that trumped-up heresy charge but I won't get away with the brutal murder of half the Templars of the White Wolf. Come on, we have to get out of here."
	"But I don't understand what happened," said Hans. "Did Folderol go mad?"
	"No," said Pulg. "He simply came to his senses. I thought you would have realized that Folderol was bonded to me by magic." He dashed across to his office and began to rummage through drawers.
	"But you trained him," said Hans, following on behind. "You said you trained him."
	"I may have hinted at that," said Pulg, "for the purpose of public relations. But training could never have reduced a wyvern to such a docile state. No - there was a magic bond. Here, take these and put them in that bag over there, will you?"
	"You're a magician then?" said Hans, staring wide-eyed.
	"No, but let's just say I knew one once. He was very good to me. Look - get a move on and pack that bag, will you?"
	"Whatis all this?" said Hans. "What are we doing?"
	"These are just a few essentials I keep for emergencies," said Pulg. "Salt meat, a few candles, a small tent... Here, put this on." He handed Hans a grey, hooded cloak and began to put on a similar garment himself. "We are druids," said Pulg, "on our way to a solstice ceremony in the Laurelon forest. Just remember that in case anyone asks."
	There was banging and shouting at the outside door. The animals, who had been settling down a little, began to roar and shriek and chitter with renewed vigour.
	"Listen," said Pulg, "you hear that? The sound of Chaos. It lay dormant in Folderol just as it lies in the rest of us, ready to break from its leash at any moment. It is a dark world, Hans. We must always prepare for the worst!"
	"This cloak is too long!" Hans complained.
	"Just be thankful you have any cloak at all," said Pulg. "Gather it up in your hands as you walk. Quick - this way." He led the way back towards the door. There was more banging. Someone shouted Pulg's name. The animals leapt at the bars of their cages, struggling to break free.
	"The templars are there!" cried Hans. "We must go through to the front entrance."
	"I think we'll be surrounded by now," said Pulg. "There's only one way out. Have you got your bag with you? Good." And, to Hans' amazement, he unlocked the door of the basilisk's cage and walked in. The animal turned its head, vaguely sensing his presence.
	"Come on, my boy," said Pulg. "Basilisks are very slow animals. And we fed her only yesterday." He strode through the cage and opened a second door at the far side, revealing a further door in the wall beyond. "Mind you," he said, "it's a pity we can't stay around and see what the templars make of her when they break in and find her loose."
	The door in the wall led into a dark passageway, sloping gently downwards. Pulg had to light a candle to show the way.
	"There are store rooms along here," he said, "and a secret exit out of the building. Between you and me, I think these premises must have been used by villains once upon a time..."
	"I've been thinking about the flute," said Hans, as he closed the door and followed the showman. "I think its magic must have interfered with Folderol's bonding somehow or other."
	"Well," said Pulg, "what a bright little spark you are, to be sure. More precisely, it cleared Folderol's stupid little brain, didn't it? Like it did all those other dummies. And it cleared the bonding away with it."
	"I'm sorry," said Hans, lapsing into a shamed silence. Behind them, they could still hear the cries of the animals, faint and distant.
	"Well they might complain," said Pulg. "From what I know of those templars, the creatures will be burned alive before long. It took years to build up that carnival. Now it's all up in smoke..."
	"Look, I'm sorry," Hans complained. "But it really wasn't my fault. I didn't know you'd used magic on Folderol."
	Pulg suddenly turned round. There was a manic grin on his face. His eyes glinted like pits of fire in the candlelight.
	"Don't worry, my boy," he said. "We must put the past behind us now. Think of what's ahead of us instead. All the excitement! All the adventure! Things can only get better..."
	He proceeded to outline a brilliant future for them both, full of great riches and spectacular achievements.
	We should be going, thought Hans, standing there helplessly listening to Pulg's exposition. If we don't hurry, the templars will catch us!
	In the distance, the cries of the carnival creatures came louder again, as though they too had been listening to Pulg's words.
	They put their trust in Pulg, thought Hans, and look where it's got them. Then he remembered something.
	"You've still got my flute!" he said.
	"Our flute," Pulg corrected him. "We're partners now - just as I always said we would be!" Then he turned and pressed his hand against the wall beside him. A large slab gave a creak and a judder and slid away to one side, revealing a narrow street beyond. It was dark now. Hans felt a cold breeze on his face, a welcome change after the dank smell of the passageway.
	"See - the wide world awaits us," Pulg exclaimed. "I shall show you it, my boy, in all its splendour!"
	He stepped out into the street with a triumphant swagger. Then he started in alarm. A dark figure was walking towards him.
	"It's one of the templars!" whispered Hans in dismay. "They've found us."
	But it wasn't one of the templars. As the figure stepped forward into the light of the candle, Pulg and Hans both gasped in relief at the sight.
	"Heidi!" cried Pulg, recovering himself. "How splendid to see you! So now we can bethree partners seeking our way in the world..."
	Heidi did not look impressed with the idea. She seemed to be shaking with anger.
	"And Wolfgang," she said, "what about him? He's not a partner, is he? Did you see what that creature of yours did to him?"
	"Oh, my dear. An unfortunate accident..."
	"All because you liked strutting around showing off with that beast at your side. And what about the other animals? You left them to die, didn't you?"
	Pulg held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
	"What could I have done to help them?" he said. "What can any of us do now? Look, I'll see if I have a spare druid's cloak in my pack for you, Heidi. We mustn't stand around here talking like this. The templars will catch us if we're not careful."
	Heidi suddenly took a pace backwards.
	"Yes," she said. "Perhaps they will."
	And out of the darkness the templars came, like a pack of wolves descending on their prey. Pulg had no time to struggle. Within moments, they were all around him, pinning his hands behind his back, dragging him away. He looked back at Heidi in astonishment.
	"You betrayed me!" he cried. "You told them where to find me."
	Heidi turned her face away. There were tears on her cheeks.
	"I had to do it," she said to Hans. "They would have burned the animals alive. It was the only way I could save them."
	Hans was aghast, rooted to the spot. It had all happened so quickly...
	A templar came up and spoke to Heidi.
	"Remember," he said. "One day. You must be gone from the city in a day."
	Heidi gave a silent nod and the templar left, following his comrades and their prisoner along the street. Hans caught a last sight of Pulg in the light of a brand one of the templars was carrying. He seemed to look back and catch the boy's eye and - what was that? - was it a wink?
	"I made a deal," Heidi was saying. "I told them where to find Pulg in return for the freedom of you and me and the animals. They swore a binding oath to me, and it suits them really. It's Pulg they wanted, and this way they don't have the inconvenience of destroying all the animals."
	Hans was hardly listening. Had Pulg really winked at him just then? And if so, why?
	"But we have to get the carnival out of the city within a day," Heidi was telling him. "Come on - do you hear what I'm saying? We have to get what money we can from Grunwald for the hall and use it to get ourselves on the road."
	Hans looked at her and wondered what to say. He wasn't sure he wanted to go with Heidi.
	Suddenly, she looked afraid and desperate. She started to cry.
	"I did the right thing, didn't I?" she said. "I'm sorry about Pulg but he was a bastard and I warned him often enough. How else could I have saved the animals?"
	Hans looked doubtful. Then he realized what Pulg's wink might have signified. He began to brighten.
	"Yes," he said. "Don't worry. You did the right thing."
	"We can still call it Pulg's Grand Carnival," said Heidi. "The name can survive."
	Yes, thought Hans, and Pulg has a good chance of escaping from the templars. He was trying to remind me that he still has the flute!
	Perhaps Pulg too would survive...
	"Come on," said Hans. "Let's go and see Grunwald and try to get this money."
	They had a carnival to run.