Set in the Belle Époque at a magical circus, The Game of Oaths by S C BANDREDDI follows a trapeze artist fighting to win a deadly tournament. Read on for an extract from the first chapter.

 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

It’s 1896. Beneath a hotel in the heart of Paris is the famed le Cirque des Ombres, led by ringmaster and Enchanteur Jean-Pierre. But behind the dazzling spectacles, the circus performers are bound by magical contracts, also making them potential players in the annual Game of Oaths, an underground bloodthirsty tournament watched by the wealthy elite. Twelve will compete. Eleven will die.

Seventeen-year-old trapeze artist Falan Sunkara is out for revenge. After her sister ended up as one of the unlucky eleven last year, Falan wants nothing more than to make Jean-Pierre pay for her death. When she’s chosen to compete in this year’s tournament, Falan is not above playing dirty and forging unlikely alliances. But to be the last one standing, she has to determine whom to trust and whose motives to question. But survival isn’t her only goal—she wants revenge.

A dangerous gamble – and in games like this, the house always wins.

 

**********

EXTRACT

 

Auparavant

 

The arena is packed tonight.

The normally empty hotel understory, made of stone and silence, is alive. A spiral of red and white has magically appeared overhead and cascaded down the walls; the audience feels like they’re in a genuine tent, rather than the bottom story of a towering hotel.

The ringmaster can just make out his beloved spectators through the darkness. He practices the dapper tipping of his black top hat; adjusts his red coat, although it already lies straight on his broad shoulders; checks his gold pocket watch despite knowing exactly when to start.

1:58. Two minutes to showtime

He feels the different bonds he has with each performer shifting as they rush around him, puppets on their strings hurrying to their starting positions. The spectators can’t see them yet, the preparations taking place around them made invisible by a shroud of darkness over the arena.

They can feel the anticipation, however. The echoes of harried footsteps pattering around them, the pumping of their hearts, the excited whispers fluttering among them like delicate butterfly wings, the crackle-pop of a piece of candied popcorn, the creak of bodies settling into their seats.

The performers, however, feel quite a different set of emotions. They smooth down their costumes, touch their faces to ensure their makeup is flawless, ready themselves to fly, dance, dodge, twirl, bend at the ringmaster’s will. All second nature, but the nerves have never disappeared. Some performers await with eagerness, craving the temporary euphoria they will feel once they step into the spotlight. Others are disgusted at themselves for the pull; the stage beckons them regardless.

One performer, a trapeze artist waiting in the wings high above, feels nothing at all.

At the stroke of midnight, a series of lights suddenly rise to the ceiling of the arena, emitting a collective gasp from the crowd. Then a single light shines down on the stage, illuminating the ringmaster. The crowd’s gasps turn to cheers, and the ringmaster basks in their glory.

‘Welcome!’ His voice booms around the room – the tent. ‘Welcome, all, to le Cirque des Ombres!’

The tent is an illusion. The lights above him are an illusion.

But the crowd’s admiration is not.

Although all of his puppets are waiting, ready at his beck and call, the ringmaster is the only true performer here. Without him, there would be no Cirque des Ombres. And all of his unfortunate puppets would be left to the glittering depths of Paris – the city would eat them alive.

The audience never fails to be dazzled by the spectacle before them, but its true nature is the same as everything else in le Cirque des Ombres.

 

 

PART ONE: The Reckoning

 

“The government allots certificates for trusted
Enchanteurs who use magic with care, men who
will not harm our superior society. To let anybody
inferior use such abilities freely is a thought
I can neither fathom nor support.”
— Guillaume Gallien’s Origins of the Arcane;
Ch. 1, p. 18 (1868)

 

 

November 6 1896

 

Falan Sunkara has never gambled in a grave yard before.

In her three years of scamming cercle patrons, her marks have usually insisted on meeting in underground bars, bouillons, even alleyways. But to be gambling in a place of old ghosts is a strange feeling; the prickle of the icy November air across her skin gives her the chilling sensation of being watched.

Nevertheless, le Cimetière de Passy is a clever choice for a covert game of poker. It’s closed off from the curious eyes of stray passers-by, yet open enough to flee at a moment’s notice if the authorities arrive. The tombstones scattered about the cemetery are dusted with a light layer of snow, just barely starting to melt in the winter dawn. It’s beautiful, in its own morbid, sorrowful way. But Falan’s eyes are fixed on her targets for the day, two occasional cercle gamblers named Clément and Dumas. They sit between the arches of a crypt on low stone slabs, using one as a makeshift table.

‘It’s your turn,’ says Dumas, looking toward the fourth player. Falan raises her eyebrows at Meera Kumar, otherwise known as Claude to the targets. Her roommate grins back, a devilish smirk Falan has come to know far too well over the years. ‘It’s a rather weighty decision,’ Meera says with a sigh, taking her time. ‘After all, it will determine the game.’

Clément and Dumas fidget beneath their thick coats and hats, expressions gritted with thinly strung patience. Meera’s smirk grows, and Falan knows their aggravation has just delighted her into taking a few more minutes.

Falan resists an eye roll. She did not ask her roommate to come along on this grift – not after the last time, when they narrowly avoided a beating after Meera turned over the table in a fit of rage after losing and tried to steal back her stipend – but Meera tailed her to the graveyard, introduced herself as Falan’s friend Claude, and sat down to play.

At least she had the sense to put on a good disguise. Falan herself is dressed in trousers and a loose shirt, her long black hair tucked up into a cap. She looks like a young peasant boy now, no more than fourteen, a good three years younger than her true age.

Most men will not gamble with a lady, but the idea of cheating a peasant boy out of his last few coins usually tickles them. Particularly if it’s somebody they think doesn’t belong in Paris. With their dusky complexions and thick, dark hair, Falan and Meera fall into that category.

‘Hurry up!’ Clément finally snaps. ‘Some of us have to work in a few hours.’

Falan passes Meera a bored look over her own fan of cards. She knows that her roommate’s hand is no good. Meera thumbs her deck when she’s possessive of what she has. Her fingers have barely moved in the span of her turn.

But still, Meera says, ‘I call,’ and pushes forward the meagre amount of coins in front of her.

Clément throws down his cards. ‘Bust.’

‘Flush,’ Dumas says with a satisfied smile.

‘Bust for me too,’ Meera says, laying down her cards.

The two men shoot her puzzled looks. ‘But you called,’ Dumas says.

Falan lays her cards face up. ‘Straight flush. I win.’

The men watch in shock as Falan scoops the francs into her bag. ‘The two of you are working together!’ Clément exclaims.

‘Is that against the rules?’ Meera asks languidly, flipping a stray coin in the air and catching it.

Clément scowls but says nothing.

‘And where did you learn to play like this?’ Dumas asks Falan sceptically.

Instead of answering, Falan tosses the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

‘Better luck next time, gentlemen,’ Meera says as she stands to leave, but she accidentally trips over her stone slab, knocking into Falan.

Five cards spill from Falan’s sleeve onto the ground – the same five cards she swapped out for a straight flush. She clenches her jaw. She could kill Meera, truly.

As Clément kneels to study the cards, Falan suddenly runs, Meera right behind her. She hears the men’s angered shouts for them to stop but only quickens her pace. She makes for the exit of the graveyard, Clément and his curses chasing after them. Her shoes slap hard against the packed dirt as she weaves through the path of gravestones

Falan wonders if ghosts feel it when somebody walks over their graves. As if to taunt her, a sudden shiver runs down her back, like if a spectre’s icy fingers had traced her spine.

‘My mistake,’ Meera says as they reach the street. ‘But at least I didn’t flip a table over this time.’

‘I should have made Ary tie you up so you couldn’t follow me,’ Falan snaps.

‘And disturb her sleep on this awful day?’

Across the road from Trocadéro Palace, Falan takes a second to glance back. Clément is rapidly catching up. In the growing light of the dawn, tailing them back to the boarding house would be all too easy. Quickly, Falan swaps her bag with Meera’s. ‘Go right. If you’re followed, bribe Erwin to lie for you. There are two cigarette packs in the bag.’

‘I thought you’d be more generous on Le Jour de L’Élu,’ Meera says critically. ‘Even the possibility of being chosen for death doesn’t soften—’

‘Your death will no longer be a possibility but a reality fulfilled by me if you don’t go,’ Falan says coldly, and Meera finally runs.

Falan turns her attention to Clément, waiting for him to come closer. When he is mere feet away, she bolts down the left path, leading him deeper into the streets of downtown Paris. The city is still dreamy with slumber, lagging behind the breaking dawn. Its clouds look like they should belong to another morning, light and airy, and the glow from the arc lamps lining the path is soft against the pinkening sky.

The alley coming up on her right is a good spot to take to the roofs. But as Falan runs into the passage, a stray brick flies past her face and just barely misses her, crumbling against the opposing wall.

Clément stands at the far end of the alley, panting, a hand held out in front of him. How did he—

Falan swears. He’s an Enchanteur.

But this is not the first time a grift has gone wrong. A few of her past marks who caught her cheating were also Enchanteurs, and she was able to handle them.

‘You made a mistake,’ Falan says coolly. ‘Using magic without a cert? I could easily turn you in to the authorities.’

This is when her past marks have usually faltered. Certificates aren’t commonly given; only a handful of Enchanteurs are allotted the privilege of using their magic for public benefit, usually for entertainment or military purposes. Every other Enchanteur risks incarceration if discovered using magic without a cert.

So when Clément pulls something small and rectangular from his coat pocket, Falan tenses.

‘Oh, but I do have a cert, mon cher.’ Sunlight plays over the wax seal on the card. ‘Try turning me in and see how that goes.’

‘You used magic to attack me,’ Falan says, taking a step back. ‘That can’t be under your allowed usage.’

‘You’re worried about laws when you’re the one scamming me, you little thief?’ Clément says.

He’s right. Anybody could argue that using magic to catch a thief was necessary, even noble. If he turns her in, on the other hand, she’ll be in much larger trouble for theft. It will be his word against hers.

Falan swivels and bolts back down the alley but manages only a few steps before something hard hits her in the back, sending her onto the ground. The cobblestones scrape her palms and knock the air out of her lungs. Before she can get her bearings, Clément has already caught up. He yanks her to her feet, his fingernails digging into her arm.

‘Now give me back my money, or I will show you what magic can really do,’ he snarls. The fingers of his other hand curl, and the stones and debris in the alley start to rise around them.

In response, Falan yanks herself away. The cap on her head falls off, sending her long, black hair tumbling down her back.

‘Mon dieu,’ Clément says with a gasp, so startled the debris drops to the ground once more. ‘Tu es une fille?’

His surprise gives her the few seconds she needs. Falan scoops up the cap and shoves her elbow into the man’s face. He crumples back with a howl, clutching his bloody nose as she sprints for the alley wall, then grabs its protruding slabs of brick. By the time Clément’s broken nose stops distracting him, she’s halfway across the city, jumping from roof to roof, scaling buildings.

Fervour rushes through Falan’s veins, pumped by the near capture. To soar between rooftops is more thrilling than any performance she has ever done at le Cirque des Ombres. On Paris’s rooftops, the world changes around her in a smear of colour; nobody is watching, nobody is waiting. Today, however, she’s quicker than usual, eager to put distance between herself and Clément.

Falan eventually pauses atop one of the buildings on Avenue des Champs-Élysées to catch her breath, letting the breeze blow her unruly hair back as she settles on the roof’s edge. Normally she would need to rush back to the boardinghouse and get to practice for the Cirque’s performance that night. But not today. Today, Falan has a bit of extra time to gaze out at the cityscape, drinking in the sight of Paris rousing to life. Even at dawn, the city has no shortage of tourists, especially prevalent during this time of the year.

With the Game of Oaths rapidly approaching, every aristocrat is hungry for a coveted ticket.

The Game of Oaths has always been an open secret among the Parisian upper class, an annual underground tournament for their entertainment. However, when many from all over the world came to Paris for L’Exposition Universelle in 1889, aristocrats from beyond city borders were invited to view the Game. Over the past seven years, it has only increased in popularity, fuelled by the rich’s insatiable appetite for bloodshed.

Falan lingers on the rooftop for a bit longer, watching the sun rise higher in the sky. She’s not quite ready to go back to the boarding house yet. But, even today, she can’t stay out too long. With a flourish, she gets to her feet and runs.

On a normal day, the boarding house smells like stale bread and ash. The smothering scent of cigarettes seeps through every room of the building, day and night.

Today, however, the boarding house smells like nothing at all.

Falan descends the wall from the boarding house’s roof into her tiny bedroom window. Swinging into the room and onto her bed, she finds Meera counting her money on the bottom of the opposite bunk.

Ary Chea, their other roommate, is watching her from the bed above but gasps softly, startled at Falan’s entrance. ‘Falan.’

‘You look far too unhappy for somebody whose belly is going to be full for the next week,’ Meera says as a greeting.

Falan throws Meera’s bag at her. “I didn’t want you coming with me.

‘That’s rude. I am wonderful company,’ Meera says. She doesn’t take her eyes off the pile of francs, her black hair falling in unruly waves over her hunched shoulders. ‘Besides, today’s targets seemed to be bigger fools than usual.’

‘Not quite as foolish as you,’ Falan says cuttingly.

Meera laughs. They all know the cercle is abundant with the same overly indulgent, witless individuals as the Cirque’s spectators. Owned by luxury hotel le Palais Blanchet, both the Cirque and the clandestine gambling club are two of the most frequented attractions in Paris. The cercle opens after sunset, and the Cirque’s shows are held at midnight. While the Game of Oaths may be an under- ground spectacle, the Cirque is not. A government-issued certificate approves Jean-Pierre, the ringmaster, to use his magic for entertainment purposes.

Unfortunately, as Falan has come to know, life as a performer is not quite as magical as the shows they partake in. Their stipends are barely enough to pay for one meal a day, so finding other means of making money is essential. Public gambling is prohibited in Paris; due to their role at le Palais Blanchet, performers and cercle dealers alike are strictly forbidden to gamble at the hotel, so Falan holds her games outside with those who are greedy enough to disregard the law.

But, like this morning, grifts can sometimes entail a few snags. ‘You got a rip there.’ Meera gestures carelessly to the scrape on Falan’s knee, where her trousers tore

‘Does it hurt?’ Ary asks. Her dark eyes, large and inquisitive, survey Falan’s grazes.

‘No,’ Falan says shortly, then asks Meera, ‘Were you followed?’

‘Don’t think so.’ Her nonchalance annoys Falan further. ‘I didn’t bother to bribe Erwin, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Good,’ Falan says, resting on her back. She has a bunk all to herself, since the bottom bed has been empty this past year. ‘And fool or not, Clément nearly got me in the alley. The bastard was an Enchanteur with a cert.’

Meera smiles, but nothing about it is humorous. ‘Imagine if we had that magic.’

Falan shakes her head. ‘I’d rather not. We’d be worse off trying to hide it.’

The Enchanteur population is a strange paradox of both rare and common – rare enough to be vastly outnumbered by non-magic individuals, but common enough to not be a mystery. Not that it matters; even if she were an Enchantresse, someone like her would not be given the privilege of a cert.

‘At least if I were an Enchantresse, I’d stand a chance of ripping up Jean-Pierre’s cert,’ Meera says.

‘Meera, don’t say things like that!’ Ary whispers furiously. ‘She’s right. You never know who could be listening,’ Falan says, even though it’s an unspoken rule among those who live in the boarding house not to leak information to Jean-Pierre.

Meera scoffs. ‘Let them listen. The bastard can’t control what we say today.’

She has a point, but Falan doesn’t bother to respond as she leaps down from her bed, takes her bag back from Meera, and checks inside for the cigarette packs. Even though Meera didn’t end up bribing Erwin, Falan still needs to give him his payoff.

‘So, breakfast?’ Meera says with a smile that’s far too cheerful. ‘I don’t know if I have the stomach for it today,’ Ary says.

Indeed, it looks like she might be sick.

‘That’s all right, Baby Bird. I’ll eat your portion,’ Meera says good-naturedly.

Falan rolls her eyes. ‘I’m leaving in ten seconds. Make up your mind.’

Ary leaps down from her bunk. Meera stands, slinging an arm around Ary’s shoulders, and walks to the door with her. ‘Did you really mean that, about eating my food?’ Ary asks Meera anxiously as they exit the room.

Falan throws her bag over her shoulder and follows them, slamming the door behind her. As she walks down the stairs, she brushes her hand against the pockmarked wall. The boarding house isn’t the prettiest place – Falan has not once seen Erwin pick up a broom or cloth in the five years she’s been here – but even if it were not mandatory for them to live here, Falan knows far too well that there are worse places to reside.

Their proprietor may be just like the building he runs – dirty, harsh, and in violation of many laws – but his penchant for accepting worthy bribes has allowed her to get away with far more than most do. For instance, two cigarette packs a week equals freedom; none of her unapproved trips are written in the logbook, where Erwin notes the name of each cercle dealer and Cirque performer and their reason each time they leave the building.

Meera opens the door to Erwin’s office at the bottom of the stairs, and they walk in to find him slumped over his desk, indulging in a glass of some sort of liquor rather than his usual cigarette. The tiny room, cramped with only a bed to accompany the desk, reeks of spirits and stale ashtrays.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Erwin,’ Ary says politely while Meera’s nose wrinkles at the smell.

Erwin tips his head in greeting.

‘A drink that tastes of smog is no substitute for genuine smoke,’ Falan says pithily.

Erwin flashes a rare smile at her, deepening the wrinkles in his face. ‘I will not be indulging in smoking until after the Game of Oaths,’ he says.

An odd tradition of his, it’s one Falan usually dreads. The scent of cigarette smoke indicates normality.

Meera and Ary leave after telling Erwin they’re heading out for breakfast, which he notes in the logbook, but Falan stays behind. As soon as the door shuts, Falan pulls out the cigarette packs from her bag and tosses them on Erwin’s desk. ‘Alcohol is easier to get,’ she says. ‘Perhaps you should stick with it.’

Erwin leans back in his chair, which creaks tiredly. ‘I’ll tell you what: If you are chosen tonight as a player, you can go wherever you want until you’re taken into seclusion. No cigarettes needed.’

‘Feeling compassionate today?’ Falan says with a ghost of a smile.

‘You won’t be picked anyway. People want to place their money on the strongest. Cunning as you appear to be, you’re a tiny thing.’

Falan’s expression turns to stone. Perhaps before last year, she might have agreed with him. But with the spectre of a familiar voice whispering in her mind, having haunted her for the past year, she’s less inclined to believe the Game’s usual patterns anymore.

‘That’s what people said about Lavanya,’ Falan finally says. ‘And look what happened to her.’

Erwin falters for the briefest of moments. ‘You’re right. I suppose at this point, one can’t predict an outcome.’ He doesn’t add anything more, but Falan remembers the pitiful remarks after last year’s Game.

It’s such a shame

Lavanya didn’t deserve this fate

I’m so sorry

Erwin says one can’t predict an outcome, but for this year’s Game of Oaths, Falan is sure of it. By the time the tournament is over, Jean- Pierre will find himself with nothing. And then Falan will finally do to the ringmaster exactly what he did to her sister.

Murder him.

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S C Bandreddi is a writer who hails from Northern California, where she grew up scribbling stories deep into the night and hasn’t stopped since. When she’s not writing, she’s usually puzzling, gaming or at an arcade trying to win as many plushies as she can. The Game of Oaths is her debut novel.

Visit S C Bandreddi’s website here

Follow S C Bandreddi on Instagram here.

Read more about The Game of Oaths on the publisher’s website here.