No crowds or wandering performers, just the occasional scuffed step of a hired security guard. Maybe one light in five was on, and the place sang with the tones of stray cats and night birds and crickets—but no pixies—accompanied on occasion by a loud snore from the wagons and tents where the carnies bunked. The stench of the crowd, though, that lingered, as did the stink of various animals. And, if I’m bein’ square, so did more’n a few unpleasant memories of the last time I’d been here. The chintzy fence surrounding the property wouldn’ta kept out a determined tumbleweed, but I let Tsura guide me to a particular entrance—a wooden plank that rotated around the nail it hung on—rather’n finding my own way in. And no, I wasn’t just bein’ polite or makin’ her feel useful. I was sure she hadda better idea of the security guards’ rounds, or which of the performers were lighter sleepers. Yeah, I’da been able to handle any of ’em without too much trouble, but better to avoid discovery altogether, see?
