Dale found himself fascinated by the spectacle taking place high up in the air, close to the roof of the arena. This wasn't like him at all. He didn't even like redheads, but the music made it impossible to fight the attraction.
Below the golden cage that enclosed a bird-shaped prop—the symbol of The Nightingale Circus—the body covered in a flesh-toned costume looked naked in the spotlight as she hung on long, red silks. The men in the audience had to be imagining doing things to it—maybe a few women, too. The vocals put ideas in his head, and he was unable to break free until someone pulled on his jacket sleeve.
A midget stood by his side, still dressed in show clothes. "Monsieur Renard will see you now."
The short man hurried along the row of seats, not waiting for a reply, and Dale followed him, grateful for the distraction. When he threw one glance back, the woman with the red silks had lost her appeal. She was just another pretty girl put on display. Shaking his head, Dale stepped into the darkness.
He had expected more light, but they had left the tent through a back exit that took them away from the agitation of the fair. The train cars weren't far, though, and that was where the midget took him.
The logo painted near the door differed from the one he remembered seeing on the side of the other car he'd visited. He didn't have time to wonder why before they walked inside. Renard was splayed in a heavy armchair that had seen better days while Rake and Spinner were propped against the walls, both busy playing with their knives. After seeing their act, Dale didn't doubt they could kill him in a second, so he stopped by the door.
"Mr. Armstrong, we seem to have run into a bit of a problem," Renard said.
Dale stared at the magician's gloved hands resting on the armrests of the chair, fingers tapping lightly at the scratched leather, and waited to see blue light, but the magician had apparently used all the magic during his act. The silence prompted him to speak. "Is there something wrong with my friend?"
"Not exactly ..." Renard nodded at Spinner.
"The nerves aren't growing as fast as we'd hoped," Spinner said. "It's not only the forearms, but the upper arms, too, although they were less burned. We've started working on the muscles, which are growing nicely, but the nerves ..."
"Isn't there anything you can do?" Dale asked.
"There is something we can do. It's not what you wanted, but it might help." Spinner hesitated.
"Meaning?"
"We could transplant nerves from his legs. Being his own, there's no risk of rejection. However, it will render the legs unusable."
"We can give him back some of his mobility," Rake said, "but if he's needed for a certain operation, I'm afraid it won't be enough."
"Well ... that won't do," Dale said, coldness seeping into his voice. He'd been so close to succeeding. Images of armies walking out of bot factories flashed in front of his eyes, and he clenched his fists.
"We thought it might not." Spinner nodded. "So we're ready to offer a solution for that, too."
Dale's eyebrows rose. Renard sat impassively, as if it wasn't his problem they discussed. In a way, it wasn't.
"We can carry him," Rake said. "We have enhanced people capable of carrying great weight. Moving him around will not be a problem. We'll take him anywhere you need him to be."
"That wasn't part of the deal," Dale said.
"No, it wasn't," Renard said, uncrossing his legs. "But it's the only way we can accommodate you. It's either this, or there's no deal at all. We'll do our best, but it won't be of any use to you."
First, the Golden Lady got involved, and now this. With the increased number of people, Dale risked being exposed and losing the advantage of the time window. "You want in." It wasn't a question.
"Yes. We. Do." Renard punctuated each word with a nod.
"You don't even know what this is about."
"True," Spinner said. "But we did a scan of his brain, and the highest amount of activity is located in the most interesting places. Whatever this is about, we want in."
"I see ..."
"We're not imposing, Mr. Armstrong," Renard said. "We are simply stating your options."
"The Golden Lady warned me you might," Dale said.
"Miss Aurore is a smart woman." Renard smiled. "But I wouldn't call her that to her face if I were you. She has strict beliefs regarding what's proper and what's not, and you don't want to cross her."
"I figured as much," Dale said. "So, I guess this means we're stuck with each other."
"We can proceed with the nerve transplant?" Spinner clapped his hands. "Wonderful!"
"You have done this before, haven't you?" Dale asked, the concern hitting him as an afterthought.
"Yes ... on horses," Spinner deadpanned, putting on an idiotic smile.
"He's joking," Renard said with a roll of eyes. "Of course we have done this procedure before, with a great rate of success. We're not endangering our clients' health. It would be bad for business."
As true as that sounded, Dale was still not reassured. "I'd like to talk to Cole first and see what he thinks. And then we need to do some planning."
"We keep him under strong sedation to spare him the pain," Spinner said. "Even if he was clear-headed, communicating with him would be difficult."
"Which means we can jump straight to planning." Renard gestured for Dale to take a seat.