The Puppetmaster's Apprentice

by Lisa DeSelm

  Blinking, I rub the remains of sleep from my eyes, jittery from the nightmare. The sight of the open gate brings me to my feet. The guards from yesterday have been replaced with new ones. They all afford me the exact same look of disdain. I dispense it right back and step through the gate.

  “I must speak with Master Engleborden, the steward,” I demand again.

  The guard on the left, who has one good eye and one clouded and gray, clears his throat. He spits unceremoniously onto the stones at my feet. “Inside the common entrance, fourth door to the right.”

  I breeze past them, holding my head high as I walk the long, curving path to the common entrance of Wolfspire Hall. A barrel-bodied washer-woman, whose red face resembles a freshly peeled beet, hurries by with a heaping basket of linens on her head. I pass beneath the curved, stone doorway of the common entrance, which is marked COMMONERS in broad, chiseled engraving across the stone arch.

  “Perhaps the grand front entrance has ‘entitled imbeciles’ or ‘uncommonly arrogant’ carved upon its keystone?” I mutter. I wouldn’t know, for I’ve never been close enough to see it.

  Inside a long, dark hallway, wood-paneled doors are marked with important designations like “Office of the Chamberlain” or “Porter’s Ward” and other offices necessary to the running of a noble household. It’s not difficult to find the one titled “Office of the Purser” and rap my fist upon it.

  “Enter!” a muffled voice bellows.

  Inside, I’m greeted by the sight of a dour Baldrik Engleborden tucked behind a small table unsuited for his body.

  “Yes?” he says, not looking up while he briskly annotates paperwork, no doubt hard at work writing orders for other innocent Tavians to be brought in for crimes they did not commit or debts they do not owe.

  I thrust the notice I found at Curio under his beaked nose.

  “Where is my father?”

  He blinks, seeing me for the first time, and snatches the note from my hand.

  “In a holding cell. Awaiting the Margrave’s review, to determine proper compensation for failing to meet a deadline.”

  “That’s not right!” I burst out. “We still had days left—five days now—to complete this last order. We were nearly finished—”

  “The Purser’s Office is never inaccurate,” the giant says smugly. “He agreed to special terms—a rush order for double the pay—for this last dozen and did not comply.”

  I glare at him. Oh, why wasn’t Papa more realistic?

  “When did he agree to such terms?”

  “We paid him a special visit several days ago, after the Margrave realized he would need the timbered guards sooner than previously specified.”

  “But that’s impossible—we could barely meet this order such as it is. It’s not fair!”

  The steward purses his lips. “I assume that Gephardt Leiter, famed puppetmaster, knows his business and is of sound enough mind to enter into business agreements. Especially for double the pay. Is he not?”

  “Yes! Well, no, I mean …” I flounder, remembering my father’s recent state of feverish exhaustion. “He has worn himself to the bone to complete the Margrave’s order in such an unreasonable time frame. I’m worried for his health. Please! Let me see him. As his apprentice, I’ll find a way to complete the remaining soldiers that are left undone. In fact, I finished another just last night, and it may be picked up if you’re ready for it. Now there are only three. I’ll see to it myself. Please,” I beg.

  The steward sighs deeply, as though pained day in and day out by such pathetic appeals.

  “You may see him briefly this morning, but there is nothing to be done until he appears before the Margrave himself. The Margrave will mete out the appropriate sentence for recompense.”

  “Fine,” I say hurriedly, hoping that if I can just see my father, somehow this will turn out to be a terrible misunderstanding, something I can remedy. “Thank you,” I add begrudgingly.

  Baldrik draws himself up from his narrow chair and jangles a set of keys at his belt.

  “You will only be allowed a few minutes, apprentice. Though I doubt you’ll want to stay longer.” He smirks.

  ’Til now I’ve never stepped foot inside the Margrave’s estate, let alone the Keep. I know little of the Keep’s present reality except what’s murmured in the market when another poor sot is dragged from the streets after trying to make a living by stealing what they can. Be they Margrave or Margravina, the noble-in-residence has always used the Keep as a vault, a place to store those branded as thieves and embezzlers, those who shirk their taxes or owe great debts.

  Those branded as practitioners of the old spells might also find a home in its depths, if they’re lucky enough to escape the burn pile. The Keep is for any who dare to mar the placid tranquility with which the Margrave paints Tavia to the King in Elinbruk.

  I follow the towering back of the steward down a warren of narrow passages, some dark, some lit with orange smudges of torchlight. Daylight is not a thing that keeps company down where we are going. I try to mark my way, just as I would in the forest, noting each turn and hall in my mind. It would be easy to get lost down here; I don’t entirely trust the steward not to abandon me to the maze.

  We stop short at a reinforced door, whose curving metal crossbars remind me of sword blades. Baldrik nods to the guards stationed at the entrance and pushes it open.

  “Your father is in 24. All the way down at the end. We’ll ring the bell when your time is up,” he says, roughly prodding me through the doorway with a leer. The heavy door closes soundly.

  My heart races. Here in the depths of the Keep, the inhabitants reside in two stacked rows on either side of a narrow walkway. I can’t help but feel like a spectator at a traveling show, walking through a brackish menagerie of caged beasts. Torchlight ekes out every few cells, just enough greasy light to see my hand in front of my face. My feet shuffle on the moldy stones that pass for a floor. I don’t know whether it’s better to go slowly or hurry toward Papa’s cell, but in trying to lick the sudden dryness from my lips I realize I can smell them all before seeing them, the people who languish down here like rotting meat.

  The stench of human waste and the acrid burn of urine makes my eyes overflow. I pull my apron up to cover my nose and plunge on, hardly daring to look to my right or to my left, fearing what I will see. Yet, as I stumble my way to number 24, I can’t help but see and hear them.

  As I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, their manic whispers bleed slowly beneath the cries for help. They are the whispers of those talking to themselves, the endless shuffle of raw feet back and forth. Most cells contain barely human shapes, bundles huddled in corners, eyeballs gleaming yellow in the torchlight. I clasp my hands tighter to my apron, feeling disgusted with myself, realizing I am scared of them, these pale specters with matted hair and grasping fingers. Their clawing need is overwhelming.

  And what did they do? I wonder, creeping past the rows of hollow eyes and carved-out mouths. Palm a loaf of bread? Fail to cheer loudly enough from the front row of the Margrave’s last feast day promenade? Neglect to contribute to the shares the Margrave insists we pay the King at the end of each harvest after a bad growing season? Find themselves unable to meet some absurd deadline to deliver to him what he already decided was his? Surely they don’t deserve this. No one does.

  Trembling, I reach the end of the row and drop to my knees in the damp in front of number 24. My father is curled up on his side, his immense body small in the encompassing dark. A wheezing cough rattles his chest.

  “Papa,” I call out to him, reaching a hand through the grimy bars.

  He doesn’t hear me at first, not above the din the other prisoners are making and the thundering of his own cough. I can reach a hand just far enough in to squeeze one of his.

  “Papa.”

  His eyes open and search the gloom for my face. When he finds me, I can tell he doesn’t know if I’m truly here. He sits up and comes closer, reac
hing for me through the narrow spaces between bars.

  “Pirouette? I’m so sorry. There wasn’t enough time to leave you a note, he wouldn’t let me.”

  “I’m here to see about getting you out. Why did you agree to do the last order, to rush it? Why, Papa?” My voice breaks.

  One lens of his glasses is cracked, but still he pushes them up from where they’ve dropped low on his nose. The sight of that simple, familiar gesture squeezes my heart like a fist.

  “I thought if I just worked a little harder, a little faster—I’ve always been able to meet my orders. And for double the pay! Why, think of what we could do with that money!” Fever coats his eyes and it terrifies me. His cheeks are frighteningly sunken.

  “But, Papa, we could never finish that many in such a short time, even with both of us working around the clock. It’s impossible. And now what do I do, Papa? How can I get you out of here? This place is …”

  “Vile,” he croaks and then breaks into a deep cough. “I know, Pirouette. But I’m sure it’s just temporary. If you can finish the soldiers—”

  “I will. I will, Papa!”

  “Then perhaps the Margrave will let me go.”

  “I will do whatever I must, Papa. It won’t be long.” It couldn’t be. Another week in this air and I feared he would no longer be able to draw breath.

  “Now, Piro, you’ll need to find more halsa, and of course, don’t forget to—”

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Above the murmurs and cries, Wolfspire Keep’s bell sounds, just as Baldrik promised. A cold hand closes over my collar and I am dragged to my feet.

  “I will!” I yell back to my father again, a promise that fades into the dank blackness as I’m hauled away from the dismal sight of number 24.

  I will.

  I feel that truth deep in my marrow. My pledge to my father is confirmed when no shard of wood comes jarring out of my body in contradiction.

  I make a beeline for The Golden Needle, still in shock from what I’ve seen and heard in the Keep, my cloak reeking of the foul atmosphere in its depths. I interrupt the Sorens at tea.

  I made a deal with Baldrik to complete the final three soldiers and have them done within five days, to meet our original deadline. We certainly could have used double the pay—I understand by the empty space inside my father’s coffer why he was tempted by such a hollow promise. But if I complete the current order, I will receive only my father in return. Baldrik made it clear no gold francs would pass hands. I will do it for my father. I could live with little and do without many things, but I can’t do without him.

  Bran’s face is a patchwork of worry and anger. The tailor’s mouth sets itself in a grim seam over the prospect of what I face to set my father free.

  “We’ll help you, Piro,” Bran offers quickly, his flock of sisters gathering around me while Gita presses a steaming mug into my hands. “We all will. Even if we’ve never picked up a chisel before, surely you can tell us what to do.”

  “It’s not that simple, Bran,” I say, my mind frantically ticking off all that must be done to complete the Margrave’s order. “We need more halsa, so I’ll have to make another trip to the wood. I need more paint—” My voice falters and I find myself blinking back tears to keep them from dripping in my tea. “If you aren’t trained, it will take me more time to teach you how to do things properly than it would for me to just buckle down and work on them myself.”

  I stand up hurriedly, nearly spilling my cup. “I must get started right away,”

  “Please, Pirouette, let us help you. I’ll bring a bite over later—you mustn’t neglect your meals,” says Gita firmly.

  “I’m coming with you,” says Bran, buttoning up his gray vest that had been hanging open over a crisp, white shirt.

  The tailor nods. “Of course. I can handle things here.”

  “I’ll help with Bran’s work while he’s helping Piro, Papa,” Lottie, the next oldest, says swiftly. Bran’s little sisters chime in in agreement, crowding around me.

  I look at them all, such hopeful, helpful faces. They have never seen the inside of Wolfspire Keep. For all our sakes, I hope none of us will again.

  “No,” I say, the word coming out more harshly than I intend. “Thank you, but I need a little time to get things sorted. To figure out what to do first. On my own.”

  I don’t want the distraction of Bran to compromise my planning. There’s too much riding on me completing this order.

  “At least let me see you home,” Bran insists.

  Back in Curio, I immediately pick up my chisel and hammer and set to work.

  “You know, Piro, if Gep doesn’t return for some time—”

  “This is temporary.” I don’t let him finish. “I’ll get him back.”

  “Right. But, if something happens, if he takes a turn for the worse, I—”

  “He won’t,” I say sharply. At this, a splinter prods the skin below my ribs, just under the surface, threatening to poke through.

  Blast it all, Piro, I think. Watch your tongue. It isn’t fair, I can’t even hope out loud without being reminded of my curse.

  Bran chews on the inside of his cheek. “You can’t possibly do it all on your own. Finish an order this size, I mean,” he adds hastily, seeing the indignation that colors my face. “Saints and stars, Pirouette! These soldiers are bigger than you are! It’s a lot to do in five days, even for one as skilled as the puppetmaster. Maybe you can alert the Margrave’s man again … or beg for more time? You can’t go on like this or you’ll wind up in a cell right along with him.”

  Bristling at his words, I turn away and resume pounding the handle of my chisel with fresh vigor. He’s never seen the inside of Wolfspire Keep, those emaciated bones reaching through bars, begging for the smallest scraps of human dignity. Well, I have. It’s my skin on the line now, my father’s life at stake.

  “Easy for you to say! I can’t ask for any more than I already have, Bran. The steward thinks he’s doing me a favor by even allowing me the honor of finishing this order in Papa’s stead. He doesn’t trust me as it is, can hardly believe I’m the puppetmaster’s disappointing choice of apprentice.” I sniff indignantly. “Nice to know you feel the same.”

  “No, Piro, that’s not—I’m just worried for you,” he pleads above the noise I’m making to drown him out. “If you’d let us, we could help.” He picks up a piece of sandpaper. “The whole lot of us. It’s too much for one person. Now’s not the time to be a martyr!”

  I grit my teeth, needing to feel the chisel bite the wood at every sting of the hammer. Bran doesn’t know the first thing about suffering. How could he? He’s known about the village as the Golden Boy, what with his handsome features and sweet nature. Everything comes easily to him; everyone loves him. Bran has no secrets to hide. No past shadowing his future.

  “As you’ve already said so plainly, I have a lot of work to do.” I fume over the noise of my hammering. I refuse to look at him.

  A moment later the door bells jangle. He’s gone.

  They probably all doubt me. But I will complete my father’s work. I must.

  The size of the pieces don’t intimidate me, nor the number. The clock on the wall strikes a new hour, as surely as if I’d used my own hammer to sound the chimes. Time. The one thing I can’t control, can’t wrestle with my hands and pin into place. Yet I wouldn’t be Gephardt’s daughter if I didn’t try.

  I need money for paint and supplies, and I thank my fortunate stars Papa’s given me a way to make some. Bran’s warning from weeks ago, the first time I saw Laszlo out walking the marktplatz, lingers in my mind as I arrange the wagon stage.

  “Take care, Pirouette. Take care.” For all the good that did! Father ended up in Wolfspire Keep anyways, didn’t he? And Old Josipa still ended her time on the burn pile.

  Instead of taking care, I align the marionettes and settle my shaking grip on the crossbars. I am tired of hiding. If I dare to tell a tale that reeks of the old magic, of a blood
sacrifice and cruel fairy folk and magic gifts, the likes of which people here haven’t heard in an age, perhaps I’ll be able to earn a little more today. The crowd is always thirsty for new stories.

  I reach deep in my memory for a fable I once heard from a wandering tinker on a wood-gathering trip, one surely retold countless times under ebony skies filled with stars. It’s a grim tale from long before my time, one I guess the elders in the crowd will recognize. I’ve never forgotten it. Ignoring the worried grousing of the trees at the edges of the marktplatz, I make my voice strong and alluring as a town crier’s and plunge headfirst into a story I’ve never told before.

  It’s just a story, I tell myself, to remind them all that the magic still exists. That there is more going on around us than meets the eye. To remind myself of that fact.

  By the end of the tale, I realize I have scarcely breathed the whole time. When the dark fairy reveals that the bread the innocent beauty had eaten was conjured from rocks, hisses emanate from the crowd. With the maiden’s belly weighed down by stones, the devastated prince cannot carry her; she is far too heavy to rescue. Instead, the cruel fairy binds the maid to her donkey, cursing them to walk to their deaths, the donkey dragging the poor maid behind him like a millstone round his neck.

  The crowd calls out warnings as the fairy carts the prince from the stage, selfishly determined to keep his love to herself. With great flourish, I shutter the curtains to their titillated cries. I am exhausted, but empty of regret.

  “Reckless!” a few voices cry above the clapping—though that may be the trees.

  My elation is high when many coins, which I know are increasingly difficult to spare, fill my ledge. Performing the tinker’s risky story gives me the same morbid satisfaction I feel after a splinter, as if I deserve the torment of my lie. But I know the truth of this tale all too well. Just as quickly as magic may conjure a new gift, it may also weigh the bearer down with a belly full of stones.