The Seminal Symposium of Magickal Arts was more than just an official competition; it was a chance for entertainers of all kinds to get together and show off. Only the wealthiest alchemists and first-billed magicians could afford the limited and luxurious accommodations in the city proper, but the sprawling circus camp that now stood in the valley of Skemantis rivaled even the best hotels for entertainment.
It was as if a small town had suddenly sprung up out of the marshland. Large, round circus tents and impressive moto-mansions stood side by side with cloaks propped up on sticks and brightly painted Romani vardos. A few local peddlers were selling lemonade, pastries, and beer from their stands, sounding the last call before they packed up for the evening.
Ignoring Carmer’s protests, Grit clambered up onto his shoulder and hoisted herself onto the brim of his hat. It offered her the best view of the camp (Grit was beginning to deduce that Carmer was quite short, for a human) and would have been perfect if he didn’t lurch like a lily pad in a rainstorm with every clumsy step.
“I’d take cover for a bit, if I were you, girl,” said the milkmaid marionette in her strange, hoarse voice. “There are more folk here as can spot you for what you are than you’d think.”
Reluctantly, Grit rapped on Carmer’s hat to be let down. After a moment, he scooped her right under it and placed that hat back on his head.
“Hey!” Grit was engulfed by darkness and a furry mess of boy hair that she had no choice but to grab on to in order to stay upright. “I can still stick my pin in you!” she warned, but Carmer was already talking to their puppet rescuer.
“Not to offend you, uh . . .” Carmer hesitated. How did one address a wooden milkmaid? He finally settled on “miss” and paused again. “We’re very thankful for your help, but . . .”
“Who are you and where are you taking us?” demanded Grit. She had cut herself a small hole in the already shabby hat to peek out of.
Carmer, who was not quite as accustomed to magic and automaton cats and talking puppets, cringed at the faerie’s directness.
“Patience, daughter of Lightbringer,” growled the puppet. Carmer felt Grit tense. They walked the next few minutes in silence, making their way to the very edge of the camp.
There, where the valley was at its most marshy and deserted, was a faded gray vardo that had clearly seen better days. The paint was peeling, the wheels needed aligning, and the mollycroft roof had several broken panes. A skinny black horse munched on the few blades of grass still struggling to survive in the mud. Carmer followed the marionette inside. The door creaked ominously and shut with a definitive thud behind them.
Carmer removed his hat. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he heard Grit gasp above him. A second later he realized why.
The inside of the vardo looked nothing like its ramshackle exterior suggested. The room they were standing in was about four times the size it should’ve been. Hardwood floors shone under a gigantic crystal chandelier that sent prisms of rainbow-colored light scattering around the room. Tapestries hung from every wall embroidered with fantastical scenes—leopards lunging at hunters, a unicorn with its head in a maiden’s lap, a three-faced man with eight arms and legs. Beaded curtains separated the lavish sitting room from the rest of the house. Carmer couldn’t understand how all of this could fit into one tiny wagon.
Dozens upon dozens of marionettes, much like the milkmaid, were mounted on wooden shelves all over the walls. Carmer had the distinct impression he had just interrupted their conversation—and then dismissed the thought as a figment of his imagination. But he was definitely not imagining their beady glass eyes that followed his every move.
“What is this place?” Grit wondered.
Carmer shook his head, nearly shaking her off in the process.
“It’s about time,” said the gritty voice of their savior. But it didn’t come from the milkmaid, as they expected, but from an old woman who had suddenly appeared on a divan in front of them. She was ancient and wrinkled, but the intricate braids that wound around her head and down her shoulder were dyed all the colors of the rainbow. She wore enough bangles and beads that Carmer was surprised her thin frame could bear the weight. Her ears were stretched low with equally impressive gold chandelier earrings. She gave a great sigh and heaved her feet onto a fur-covered footrest, which promptly jumped up with an indignant yowl and scurried away.
“Time for what, exactly?” demanded Grit.
Carmer was suddenly thankful for her forthrightness. His own meager conversational skills seemed to have escaped him somewhere between meeting a real-life faerie and being saved by a talking puppet.
“You two have been showing up in my cards for months now!” groused the old woman. “Though of course, I couldn’t be sure if it was really you at all. It’s easy enough to tell the customers, ‘You’ll meet a tall, dark stranger’ and leave it at that—everyone likes a little mystery—but when the existence of Faerie hangs in the balance, well . . .” She fanned out a yellowing set of tarot cards on the table before her; they looked almost as old as she did. “Most folk’d have the decency to turn up by now.”
Carmer plucked up his remaining courage. “Pardon me, ma’am, but . . . who exactly are you?”
The crone sat up straighter, pushed her half-moon spectacles up her crooked brown nose, and tossed her rainbow braids over her shoulder. “I am Madame Euphemia de Campos,” she declared, “Possessor of the Second Sight, the finest puppet mistress in the New World, and”—she dropped her voice and winked at Grit—“Friend of the Fae.”
In a flash, Grit hopped down to Carmer’s shoulder and scurried down his arm like a spider. She vaulted onto the table and stared unblinkingly at Madame Euphemia. “Are you really?”
Carmer could hardly blame Grit for her suspicion, after the events of the day.
“I was named Friend by your grandmother, Princess Grettifrida. Back before Oldtown was Oldtown, when the Arboretum was still trees as far as the eye could see. Queen Willowright ruled then with her paramour, the Thorn with Wings.”
Willow whites? Thorns with wings? Paramours? Carmer’s head was spinning. He took a seat across from Madame Euphemia without being asked.
Grit, on the other hand, looked somewhat mollified. “It was your puppet that was following me last night,” she said. “Wasn’t it?”
“These old bones don’t move like they used to, that’s for sure,” Madame Euphemia said with a wink. “When my faerie friends started whispering about these Free Folk disappearances, I sent out my extra eyes and ears to keep watch where they could.”
“Thank you for saving us,” Grit said. The milkmaid, who until now had stood as still as stone, curtsied. “But how did you—”
“Well, now all the apple polishing is out of the way, it’s time to get down to business,” interrupted Madame Euphemia, all traces of her brief mystical air vanishing.
Grit’s eyes looked like they might pop out of her head. A red flush crept up from her neck to the roots of her fiery hair.
“I would appreciate it,” Carmer said plaintively, “if someone would tell me exactly what is going on here?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Carmer III,” said the old woman.
Honestly, it was starting to seem like everyone he’d never met before somehow knew his name.
She waved her hand, and a puppet butler appeared carrying a tray of tea and snacks. “Have a cookie.”
Suddenly, Carmer remembered the old stories they used to tell the children in the orphanage about little boys and girls trapped forever by old witches in gingerbread houses. It was with great trepidation that he took a small wafer from the proffered plate.
“Now, it seems that Princess Grettifrida—”
“Grit,” Grit said through her teeth.
“—has mistaken you for a Friend of the Fae. That is to say, a human given the privilege of open knowledge of the fae.”
“And their magic,” said Grit pointedly, looking askance at the rows of pupp
ets.
“But even though she was mistaken,” continued Madame Euphemia, “fate has thrown you two together for a reason. I’ve seen great changes coming to Skemantis, as fast as its train in the sky, but my cards tell me I’m not the one to bear witness—not this time. Perhaps that honor belongs to you.”
The look Grit gave Carmer said just how much stock she put into fate.
“Or,” said Madame Euphemia, “You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That happens, too. At any rate, you’re in the weeds now, as they say!” She chuckled.
Grit ignored her. “But what does that have to do with the thing that attacked us?” she asked. “What even was it?”
“An automaton,” Carmer answered. Finally, a question he knew the answer to. “It had to be. But . . .”
“Powered by faerie magic,” finished Madame Euphemia, “I saw it clear as day.”
“No faerie could build those . . . auto-whatsits on their own.” Grit shook her head. “And they’d never make a Friend out of anyone who would. At least . . . not willingly.” Grit thought of Echolaken’s shredded wing and suppressed a shudder. “Those cats have been attacking the street fae,” she continued. “But why?”
“Who are the street fae?” asked Carmer.
“None of your business, human boy,” snapped Grit.
“These automata are undoubtedly the ‘Wingsnatchers’ that have been taking the Free Folk,” Madame Euphemia agreed. “Though to what end is a mystery.”
It was probably none of his business—why should he get involved with missing faeries?—but both Grit and the old woman seemed to be missing something very important.
“But . . . someone must be behind the cats,” Carmer told them. “Even if these things do run on . . . magic, like you say, someone needed to build them in the first place. And I doubt they’d let machines like that out into the world without looking after.”
Madame Euphemia looked at him appraisingly. Carmer tried his best to hide behind the lock of hair hanging in front of his face.
“The human boy is right,” she said, with a small smirk at Grit. “To stop these Wingsnatchers, you’ve got to find the proverbial man behind the curtain.”
The man behind the curtain. Carmer’s stomach nearly dropped out from under him.
“The magic show!” he exclaimed, jumping up. “Tonight’s the first round of the competition, and I’m going to be late!”
7.
THE MASKED MAGICIAN
With only ten minutes until curtain, it seemed like every one of the Orbicle’s three thousand seats was filled. In the closest sat Skemantis’s elite in their evening finery, along with the thirteen judges who would be scoring each magician. The members of the more average populace lucky enough to snag tickets took up the higher tiers. It was a veritable sea of humanity. Carmer had never even imagined himself performing in front of an audience this large in normal circumstances, never mind with an angry faerie under his hat.
“Take! Me! Home!” Grit had raged at him as he sprinted to the theater a few minutes before. “You promised!”
“And I will,” Carmer assured her. “But I can’t miss this show for anything!”
Much to Carmer’s surprise, Madame Euphemia had refused to take Grit home herself. She only chuckled and muttered something about not being much of a “welcome face” in the Arboretum. Carmer had a feeling that much like her magical vardo, the old woman was more complicated than she appeared. So despite Grit’s many protestations, she was in Carmer’s custody until the evening’s entertainment was over.
Carmer thought of leaving Grit in the dressing room during the performance, but decided against it. The Amazifier would be sharing the space with several other magicians, and the idea of Grit being spotted under some assistant’s powder puff was not an appealing one. He rushed through his own preparations with great haste, sparing only a few seconds to brush the dust off his suit. He raced from the dressing room, taking great care to keep his top hat firmly upon his head; Grit was still clinging to his hair like he was an unruly horse she couldn’t tame. He bumped into several performers on his way backstage, whispering apologies and asking whether anyone—anyone—knew where Antoine the Amazifier was waiting.
Backstage left, a slender hand shot out and gripped Carmer’s shoulder so hard he felt the nails dig in.
“Ow!”
“SPIRITS AND ZITS, FELIX CARMER.” Kitty Delphine stood between a snake charmer and a dwarf giraffe, looking murderous. One of the stagehands who dared to shush her received a death glare of his own and quickly backed away. Carmer wished he could do the same.
“You, uh, you look nice, Kitty,” said Carmer. It was true; she’d spent the afternoon sprucing up her shiny gold costume with the better materials the city had to offer, and her hair was a more startling shade of white blonde than he had ever seen it.
She clocked him over the ear. “Where have you been?” she hissed, pulling him in line to straighten his tie with much more force than necessary. “What were you thinking? Of all the times to—”
“I’m here now, all right?” Carmer was beginning to sweat with nerves. This was not the way he’d pictured starting the most important performance of his life.
The snake charmer was called onstage. He pulled the miniature giraffe on a short bejeweled leash behind him. Kitty shuffled out of the way, still glaring daggers at Carmer. Above him, Carmer heard Grit let out a small, self-satisfied snort.
“Keep quiet,” warned Carmer. He realized his mistake a second later.
“What did you say?” Kitty looked ready to smack him around the head again.
“N-nothing!”
“Two minutes, Amazifier and company!” the stage manager whispered from just inside the wings.
“Thank you, two,” replied Carmer automatically. He thought he might vomit all over the audience. He squinted to the other side of the stage and could just make out the Amazifier’s worried, wrinkled face waiting in the wings. But the Amazifier wasn’t looking his way, and there was no time for Carmer to race all the way around to the other side.
He rushed off to the trap room, where a young stagehand handed him a black box labeled “Amazifier” that Carmer had prepared earlier, filled with props he’d need for the act. He could hear the audience applauding for the snake charmer. Apparently the dwarf giraffe, whatever its purpose, had been a success. For a brief, mad second, Carmer considered revealing Grit to the audience during the routine—a miniature person was surely more impressive than a tiny giraffe—but dismissed the thought just as quickly. Grit hadn’t chosen to be here, and she’d just as likely make herself invisible and leave him standing there with an empty hat, looking the fool.
In no time at all, the announcer was calling their act onto the stage.
“Thank you, thank you, to Kernzi and his little friend, Giovanni the Giraffe. And now, may I present the legendary Antoine the Amazifier!”
Grit had absolutely, positively no idea what was going on. They had entertainment in the Seelie Court, of course—seed singers and minstrels who played the bluebells or the reeds and such. Faerie revels were legendary; Fair Folk and Free Folk alike just couldn’t resist showing off when they got together. But as far as she could tell, there was nothing magical about this magic show at all. From what she could hear from the footfalls above, it was mostly just standing about and gesturing grandly.
Grit peered out from the hole she’d carved in Carmer’s ridiculous hat. They were under the stage in a poorly lit compartment barely tall enough for a man to stand in. Carmer crouched underneath a trapdoor that lead to the stage above, ready to aid in whatever silly sleight of hand these people thought passed for magic.
“Prepare . . . to be amazed!” declared the Amazifier above them.
“Not if I can help it,” Grit muttered. Just as Carmer lifted the latch on the trap door, Grit dug her fingers into his hair and pulled with all her might.
“Argh!” grunted Carmer. He stumbled and failed to catch the h
andfuls of billiard balls tossed down from above. They clattered and bounced along the staircase with merciless little pops that surely echoed to at least the front of the theater. Grit was pretty sure that wasn’t part of a successful magic trick.
“Not to worry, ladies and gentlemen!” covered the Amazifier as a murmur swept through the crowd. “Oftentimes the energies around us react unexpectedly when manipulated!”
Carmer whipped his hat off and clamped it over some of the rolling billiard balls, scrambling to catch the rest before any more sound could leak out. He pried Grit off his head like a stubborn leech and hung her by the back of her vest from one of the pegs in the wall. She waved her fists ineffectually at him, swaying to and fro.
“Don’t,” Grit whispered savagely, “mess with a faerie princess!”
The next few minutes seemed interminably long as the Amazifier tried to salvage his routine. When he finally ended the performance in an admittedly pretty shower of coppery sparklers and peppermint-scented smoke, Grit was relieved. Kitty and the Amazifier took short bows and hurried off the stage. Carmer yanked Grit off the peg with a little more roughness than necessary.
“Master Antoine, I’m sorry—” Carmer pleaded in a whisper once they were all backstage together.
But the Amazifier held up a hand to silence him, shoulders stooped in defeat. “Of all the days, Carmer . . .” He wandered off into the hallway beyond, leaving Kitty behind to glare at Carmer.
“I can’t believe you, you know!” she said, her eyes full of tears. She scurried off after the Amazifier.
Carmer didn’t follow. “Are you satisfied?” he asked, and even under the hat, Grit knew he was talking to her. Suddenly, her vengeance didn’t seem quite as sweet.
“Take me home,” Grit replied, “and I will be.”
Someone informed Carmer they’d be receiving their scores by a posting in the camp the next day, but Carmer was barely listening. He took a cage of doves and the Amazifier’s other instruments from the harried props master without comment, unsure of what to do with himself. If he went back to the dressing room, Kitty and the Amazifier would probably still be there, and he wasn’t sure he could face them again just yet. He made do by retreating to the stables, where Eduardo was waiting, looking doleful at the prospect of being loaded up again.
The Wingsnatchers Page 6