There had been a few short bursts of cold, sneering laughter, although the clown noted that the vampires were not adept at detecting punchlines. They had thrown a few things at her - mostly stale bread rolls, since there was little else available at the vampiric banquet that wasn't red and wet. As she bowed, there had been the faintest smattering of grudging applause. It had died quickly.

The vampires were not, the clown reflected, very different from any other bad audience. She was a good enough performer not to let a small thing like an audience full of blood-sucking fiends interfere with the act.

The clown sank back against the mossy wall of the outer castle. She was tired, and stiff with dried mud: it had taken an age of scrabbling in the dirt to free the tri-horned jester cap from its hiding place back at the slave village. Some malicious slave had wedged it under the wheel of a cart, and something that large, made entirely of iron, was a bugger to shift, she thought.

She pulled off the hat and rattled the crushed bells dejectedly, thinking about the slaves. They hated her as the clown. Entertaining vampires and living to talk about it afterwards was treachery. She didn't care for their theories on treachery - those silly, feeble little creatures, who bowed to the will of the vampires, who cowered before the werewolves, who shivered every time a shape-shifter smiled. All right, so maybe rebelliousness resulted in maiming or death - that was no reason to give up your identities completely. If only they made the effort to at least walk upright, without cowering. If only they would -

"Don't you have a job to do?"

The clown's head jerked up. She blanched under the mask of greasepaint.

~

Peregrine's breath caught in his throat when he saw the clown: a black-and-white pied harlequin of a figure, slouching in the shadows with insolent ease. He was ready to spit blood. How dare it stand there so calmly, after all the vulgar things it had uttered? Why wasn't it locked in the dungeons in the company of a jailer whose only known hobby was creative torture? Why was the slave's cocky rebellious attitude being allowed?

His anger and indignation toiled in an attempt to find something suitably caustic to say.

"Don't you have a job to do?" he managed finally, striding towards her. It wasn't what he wanted to say, but words were failing him in his extreme annoyance.

He watched, dumbfounded, as the human completely failed to look even slightly intimidated. His stomach turned over in protest as she slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Eh?"

The vampire choked. "What kind of way to address a superior is that?"

"The quick way?"

"You're not funny." For the second time that night, Peregrine was disturbed at the petulance creeping into his voice. "I didn't find any part of your … your act even remotely amusing."

"Oh." The clown nodded, apparently comfortable with this. "Well, don't worry, mister. If yer don't get the jokes tomorrow night, yer can always ask another bloodsucker to explain 'em to yer, all right, mister?"

Peregrine wondered for a moment whether this might all be a bizarre dream. Slaves did not speak to vampires in that tone of voice. "Mister?"

"You saying yer a girl?"

"What? No! I ..." He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, remembered that he was Peregrine Redfern. No slave could talk to him like that and get away with it. "Look. You don't ever speak to me in that … that inappropriate manner again, and I won't give the guards permission to eat your intestines, whilst you watch. All right, slave?"

~

The clown's blood was draining away under her makeup, though she sustained the flippant idiot character for the sake of appearances. You did not let them know you were scared. You made it clear that being ripped limb from limb, whilst messy and unpleasant, was not something of which you were afraid. You sustained your character. You upheld the act.

Otherwise, the buggers would get into your head, and everyone knew what they could do to your mind, if given half the chance …

"Sounds fair enough, mister. Inappropriate; intestines. Got it." She began to sidle away, she didn't like the look on his face. "Been nice talkin', but now I fink I'll go back to -"

His arm shot out to block her way. Her pulse quickened as she saw the moonlight glinting demonically off his eyes.

"You don't work like the other slaves, human. You are the Clown. Clown is what you are. That is your job, yes?"

"Erm. Yep?"

"So who the hell employed you?" he snarled.

"Dunno. Sorry, mister."

Oh bugger … he's going to get violent … I'm as dead as a really dead fing what's been dead for a really long time …

"You weren't assigned a job like the others."

"Nope."

"Someone chose you out of all the other dirty humans to put on a silly costume and play the fool."

"Yer could say that …"

"Who chose you?"

Her voice resounded in the night air several octaves higher than usual. "Dunno."

The vampire grabbed her shoulders, spun her around. She could feel his fingers clawing into her flesh. She found herself staring up into disturbingly dark eyes; haunted tunnels from which ghosts would emerge. Her smirk faded slightly.

"I didn't the like the way you ridiculed me," he growled, deceptively quiet.

Bloody hell … he's madder than the rest of 'em … They'll be picking bits of me off the bloody castle roof in the morning…

"In what way would yer like to be ridiculed, then?" She flinched even as the words left her tongue, but couldn't resist the retort.

The universe held its breath whilst the vampire struggled between manic murder and calm scorn.

~

Peregrine let go. He didn't like touching humans; they were so flawed, so impure. He didn't like violence either, unless it was someone else spilling blood all over their best shirt. The calm scornful nature took control once more.

"I'm going to find out who brought back the tradition of court jesters," he began, pinching the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor. His matter-of-fact tone was worse than the manic snarling.

"Oh no. Not jesters. So passé. Clowns, darling! Clowns are all the rage!"

He blinked. A flawless impersonation of the fashion-obsessed Lady Amber. He almost smiled. The only thing that held his severely solemn expression in place was the knowledge that showing amusement would only condone this human's vulgarity. He scowled and turned away, heading out into the night.

"I'm going to find out who employed you," he called over his shoulder in the same sadistically matter-of-fact tone. "Because I don't want to see you in the dining hall again. You'll go back to the proper service from which you came, human. You won't last long …"

~

The clown watched the young vampire man leave.

Tall, slender, tapering; the typical vampiric figure.

A sallow, tanned, skin; a faint sheen on the flesh that was common amongst the undead.

A gold hoop earring - the single elaboration to his costume, seemingly incongruous with the staid grey evening outfit.

Haunting eyes.

Such an intense stare.

Trying so hard to be authoritative.

So sincerely bewildered by a pinch of rebellion.

Sadness beneath the manic idealism.

And those haunting eyes …

"What a total and utter prat," the clown concluded, sauntering off in the opposite direction, back to the village of slaves.