The Puppetmaster's Apprentice
Page 15
“Your name does not begin with a ‘P.’”
“I am pleased you remember, since it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other,” he says with mock gravity.
“Is it for me?”
“Well,” he replies with a long exhale, “I was rather hoping that Prudence Shoemacher, the cobbler’s daughter, would want it, but alas, she has her eye set on the fetchingly large frame of the milliner’s apprentice. There’s no chance for me, a lowly tailor’s son and fledgling watchmaker with very slender shoulders to catch her eye. So, I suppose you could have it. Seeing as your first initial is also ‘P’. It makes sense.”
I snort. “Prudence Shoemacher has been sweet on you since you moved into The Golden Needle and you know it.” Her and every other Tavian girl with a pair of eyes in their skulls.
“Well, then Prudence Shoemacher will have to be disappointed,” he says with a look that causes my heartbeat to overflow into my cheeks, “because I made that watch for you, Pirouette Leiter.”
I look down at the watch again—it is a beauty.
“As much as I hate to disappoint Prudence Shoemacher,” I say, with a grin, “I will keep it. Thank you.” I nestle it into a pocket and reach again for one of his hands, eager to absorb some of his heat.
“You remember, Piro, what we talked about the night you finished the saboteur?” he asks, brushing my nose gently with his thumb.
As if it hasn’t been on my mind nearly every waking moment since, despite all the chaos.
“I’m so glad you told me. So many things about you make sense to me now.”
“Was I that confusing?”
He tips my chin up, so that my eyes are forced to meet his.
“Not confusing. Complex. I’ve never known anyone touched by magic before. But the way you work with wood and the way the puppets seem to come alive under your hands … that look you get in your eye sometimes when you’re carving, as if you’re hearing voices; it all makes sense now.
“What,” he prods gently, “was it like? Do you remember?”
“Before the spell, or after?”
“Both.”
“Ah.” I start haltingly, unused to speaking of such personal memories out loud. “I remember my father and how big he seemed, how kind. And my body, how strange it felt, to move and to walk—to go wherever I wished! People are always gallivanting about, chasing after things and looking after things. It all took a good deal of time to get used to.”
“And before?” His voice drops low, his breath on my ear sends a flutter down my neck.
“Before …” I remember back to what seems like eons ago, when I stood with roots and not feet, with branches bared beneath every storm and phase of the moon. A time when the passing seasons were the only clock I knew. A time that felt sacred. “Before, it was different. It seems that in some ways, I knew more, then. I understood things I’ve now forgotten—the language of the birds, the way of the flowers, the signals of the sky. So many things I’ve lost.”
He presses his lips to the top of my head. “When I was younger, I used to imagine that all of my lost things—a favorite rock, or a bit of paper, or my best sewing kit—had lives of their own that had just gone on without me. They weren’t lost at all. Perhaps that’s how it will be for us someday, Piro. We’ll realize the things and people we’ve lost aren’t really lost at all, they’ve just gone on journeying without us,” he says hopefully.
“Perhaps.” I squeeze his hand and nestle my head into his shoulder.
But Bran’s fanciful idea brings me little comfort. I’ve lost a father, a friend, and a masterpiece in the space of mere days. And now one of those has begun a journey into darkness beyond the limits of my imagination. Would that I could turn the clock back, to the time before we all were lost.
CHAPTER 17
THAT EVENING, BEFORE THE DUKE’S PROCLAMATION, I FORCE myself to go out to meet the makers, to warn them about the soldiers. To make my apologies for missing Emmitt’s burial. I watch the street corners warily, my eyes hunting for signs of approaching soldiers or a glimpse of the saboteur. But the streets are quiet tonight.
I am the last to arrive at The Louse and Flea, which is nearly empty. Without a word, I settle myself beside Bran and inspect each maker’s face. Fonso pours a mugful from his pitcher, Nan at his side. He appears calm, while she looks like a kettle ready to blow, eyes bright and furious, busily biting her nails. Tiffin looks glum, staring at the surface of the old trestle table as though trying to divine some mystery from its grain.
“Perhaps it won’t be so bad,” Nan finally says in a stilted voice.
“What?” Tiff asks.
“The proclamation. At least we’ll get to hear it for ourselves. The duke can be assured of his position, and then maybe we can all go back to normal. Sorry, Pirouette,” she says, reaching across to squeeze my hand. “As normal as we can, now, with fewer of us at the table. On the other hand, I’ve half a mind to come tomorrow with my pockets full of stones to take that gormless maggot down a few notches.”
“That’s my girl.” Fonso looks at her admiringly.
“Stoning isn’t painful enough for the likes of him,” Tiffin replies flatly. “Besides, your aim is too good, Nan. It would be over far too quickly.”
“True.” She sighs.
“You may want to save your rocks or whatever weapons you can lay your hands on for another foe. Rumors are flying thick as flocking geese about the duke’s soldiers,” Bran says. “Real or wooden, it’s all anyone can talk about, everyone that comes in the Needle. Troops have been seen gathering in the woods, setting up boundaries. Patrolling the edges of the territory. People can’t tell if they’re real men or not.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye.
Nan nods. “They’re afraid—afraid there’s magic at play, but everyone’s too scared to speak out or question it.”
“I’ve seen them,” I confess, dropping my voice low. “Our wooden soldiers. In the woods. Just a glimpse of them, but still. Somehow, they’re moving about. Wearing our uniforms and brandishing our weapons.” I look at each of them pointedly. “We could all be blamed for what’s to come.”
“Keep your voice down!” Tiffin whispers. “I say it sounds like you been seein’ things in the fog, Pirouette. A trick of the mist. You’d best keep those observations to yourself. It’s not safe to speculate otherwise.”
“What if he is planning to invade Brylov, to try and secure his place there, too, like we thought? We could all be conscripted to fight,” Fonso says bleakly. “I don’t want to leave Tavia.”
“Perhaps because we’re part of the Maker’s Guild he’ll excuse us from whatever he’s planning,” Bran adds, hope in his voice. “Without Tiffin and Mort in the smithy and Fonso in the glassworks, or my father and me in the tailor’s shop, what would people here do?”
Nan sucks her teeth. “You’re greener than grass if you think anyone is going to be ‘excused’ from what is to come. If the duke declares his intentions toward Brylov and needs an army, I guarantee that if you can lift a sword or tote a hatchet he’ll be putting your arms to his own uses. Meanwhile, Piro, Gita, and I will be left here to try and keep food in our mouths and the village from being overrun by outlander thieves and wandering vagabonds.”
Fonso reaches a hand out to steal one of Nan’s from being bitten to stubs. She stills and lets him hold it. Bran takes one of mine under the table, twining his fingers firmly through my own.
“Well, if anyone can scare away thieves and vagabonds, it’s you, Nanette Li,” Fonso says with a serious air.
Nan looks at him for a moment, unsure whether to take his words as a compliment or an insult, but in the end she bursts out laughing. Her laugh is contagious and the pressures of the last days burst in all of us, laughter spilling like a welcome flood across our parched table. We garner stares from the few other grim-eyed patrons of The Louse and Flea, but none of us care. Nan laughs until tears streak the corners of her eyes, and even Tiffin, who rarely even smiles, is
left clutching his stomach.
I marvel at the gift of small moments like these, despite all I’ve lost. They are all the family I have left now, these makers.
The next day finds me locking Curio’s door and heading to the marktplatz, to stand with the others in the shadow of the clock tower at the rathaus. I’ve never seen the village in such a state. People mill about anxiously in a din of angry whispers and worried glances. Guards—real men, thank the heavens—patrol about, keeping their eyes searching for any who might cause trouble.
I push my way through the crowd, searching for the makers, and quickly land on a familiar set of bulky shoulders sporting a shaggy red head. Fonso. Tiffin, Nan, and the Sorens are here, too. Nan stands at the far edge of the cluster, arms fiercely crossed, her face a storm cloud. Gita appears deep in an argument with her husband with the baby fussing at her hip and Bran’s sisters clinging to her skirts. Bran’s eyes light on me. He steps out of range of his parents’ squabble to pull me in close.
A few minutes before noon, the duke’s black carriage arrives. People part like waving wheat to allow his retinue through. With great pomp, Laszlo von Eidle ascends the steps of the rathaus, one crisp boot-fall at a time. Before speaking, he gazes up to the clock tower and the glockenspiel, which is still frozen in the position it stopped in when Bran pulled the lever to shut it down. The duke smiles. Then he begins his proclamation, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant.
“Good people of Tavia, it is with great honor that I announce the end of our period of mourning for my father, Erling von Eidle, your late and favored Margrave. His tenure is now complete, and it is my privilege to announce that I shall ascend to his position as sovereign head of the margraviate of Tavia, as set forth in his final will and testament. This was my father’s greatest wish, being that I am his only heir.”
Anger vibrates from Bran, who squeezes my hand so fiercely I cannot feel my fingers. I glance at Anke, whose lips press so hard together they’ve disappeared in her distraught face.
“Henceforth, I endeavor to return Tavia to its former glory. The glory of an age before my father’s time, a time when we produced the kingdom’s finest goods, grew the finest crops, and lived with our enemies kept firmly in hand. Surely you know there are many who say our borders should be expanded; that the margraviates of Brylov and Tavia should be joined, to form a strong and solid southern seat in the kingdom. There are those who say only one such as I can unite them.”
“And by ‘those’ he means himself,” Nan spits under her breath.
“Time will tell,” he continues, “though my aspirations are great. I make no secret of that. If it becomes necessary to unite us through force, I trust every man and boy here will be prepared not only to defend Tavia on our own soil, but to take up arms in support of our unification.”
Distressed whispers scatter through the people like crumbs shaken from a tablecloth.
“You should also know I aim to keep the laws set forth from Elinbruk, and will tolerate no thieves or traitors among us. Nor will I allow any of the old superstitions, the old fabricated spells and magic to spring up under my reign, just as my father before me. Such things were banned by my elders for good reason. Those laws still stand. Elemental spells are pure wicked foolishness, and a danger to any man or woman who would let them pass their lips.
“In keeping with history, and as a demonstration of my commitment to a peaceful and law-abiding territory, let this be a warning to those of you who might endeavor to seek out the old ways.”
The trees begin to fret from their position at the edges of the marketplatz. Blood boils in my veins.
“We have among us one accused of such practices. Let it be known that I will not tolerate such flagrant disregard for the law.”
Baldrik, the steward, glares at me calculatingly from the duke’s side.
What is happening?
I grip Bran’s fingers harder, having lost sensation in my own hand.
“Bring me the puppetmaster’s apprentice,” Laszlo’s voice booms across the wide square.
CHAPTER 18
HORRIFIED GASPS ERUPT AROUND ME. BEFORE I CAN TAKE A breath, guards swarm me, their red jackets bleeding across the crowd like gashes. Rough hands pry me away from where I stand, still clutching Bran’s hand as if it were a string that could hold me fast.
No, no. This can’t be happening.
“Piro!” Bran’s little sisters cry. Nan claws at the guards, trying to grab me. Tiffin and Fonso hold her back. Bran pushes his way through the jostling crowd, following as I am dragged to the front, calling my name all the while.
My deepest fears are stripped and laid bare; years of suppressing nightmares of Old Josipa and the burn pile now rise to the surface. I failed my father in keeping our secret; now I’m cursed to be shamed in front of everyone. The trees wail in protest of my ill treatment.
The guards drop me at Laszlo’s feet, where he and the steward can better glower at me from on high. I see a blur of fear and fascination in the faces of the crowd. What I feared most, I have become: no longer one of them.
But how? Was I seen with the old tree woman? Did my father give our secret away during his time in the Keep? How has it come to this?
“If you’ve seen wooden marionettes afoot, waking and walking as men do,” the new Margrave pontificates, pointing a gloved fingertip at my nose, “she is to blame. The puppetmaster’s apprentice resurrected the old spells and bewitched the soldiers she made and delivered to me, hoping to harm me and cause dissention. They are enlivened by her charms, and have been set upon the village. It’s clear she hopes to exact revenge on any she can for her father’s death!”
“No!” I cry. The crowd answers in a wail of boos and hisses, some in fury, some in suspicion.
Bran’s face is a picture of devastation; it takes three guards to keep him from flinging himself at me.
“She’s just an apprentice!” a voice cries.
“Where’s your proof?” the tailor’s voice calls out.
“Proof? You want proof? The wooden men ambling about the village, that she and her swindling father made, aren’t proof enough for you?”
“We don’t believe it!” my makers call.
“I see,” says Laszlo, pacing back and forth in front of the podium, hands clasped behind his back. “It does seem unbelievable doesn’t it? Figurines of wood, coming to life? Well, in that case, I submit to you further evidence of her sorcery—a deadly creature made by her own hand!”
With that, he flings an arm up to the clock tower. As if by command, the clock strikes noon and the glockenspiel carousel springs to life, the creak of gears and wheels adding to the cacophony in the square. The bells, though, are silent. Emmitt never had the chance to fit that final piece.
The saboteur emerges from the tower, astride a wolf on one of the carousels. Springing from the wolf’s back, she descends the tower’s stones, nimble as a black spider, gloved claws sliding effortlessly over the stone.
How dare he use her to condemn me! He is the one using magic, not me!
I scream my innocence, but my voice is lost in the terrified cries of the crowd. No one has seen anything like her, awakened and moving. The saboteur slithers down the tower, dropping elegantly on the steps near the Margrave. She crouches with her hands on the stones, a waiting gargoyle. The crowds push back, giving her a wide berth.
She is still under his spell.
I waver, wishing I knew how to rip her from his control and fearing what her sudden appearance means for me. Laszlo holds up his hands to calm the crowd. He whispers a few commands out of the side of his mouth that fall on the wind.
Can they not see? It’s all him! Practicing the very thing he’s accusing me of.
“Fellow Tavians, do not fear. I have this situation well in hand. I will keep the soldiers, both man and wooden, under my control. For your protection, the puppetmaster’s apprentice will be taken away to the Keep. No more will she be allowed to threaten my sovereignty or ensnare our
children with her witchery! For I am certain that she spews out evil magic and ancient curses with her paltry puppet stage, all while her listeners remain unaware! Have your children been seen acting strangely after hearing one of her little plays? Taken a fit the next day? I’ve seen it myself! That is all her doing. She is a public danger!”
“No!” call the voices of my friends against the recoiling crowds.
“Let her go!” Bran yells. “She hasn’t done anything!”
Laszlo turns to address him directly.
“Hasn’t she though? Did she not make these wooden creatures with her father’s help? Did she not deliver them directly to Wolfspire Hall, planting them in our midst, to ensure they would rise up to hurt me and my late father the moment she let loose her vile incantations? I have only narrowly escaped harm myself, thanks to a remedy I found in an old book in the annals of Wolfspire Hall. Alas, such countermeasures were not discovered soon enough to be of benefit to my father, who I suspect died at the hand of one of her unlawful brutes.” Laszlo motions to the saboteur and glares at me accusingly.
He aims to lay blame for his father’s death on my back?
“No! She’s done nothing!” Bran yells again.
“If you are so certain of her innocence, perhaps we should let the apprentice speak in her own defense. Hear from her own lips what menace she’s brought upon us all.”
The guards force me to stand, where I gaze miserably at the crushing throng of Tavians. This is how it must have been for Old Josipa. I just know it.
“Tell us, apprentice, how you came to live in Tavia! What is the lineage of your mother? Let us hear about your fraudulent father, a shirker who failed to complete his work and pay his debts. Tell us how the two of you schemed to use these dangerous figures to your advantage, to strike at the margraviate!”
He folds his arms across his chest, looking as if he has all the time in the world, delighting in my agony. The masses fall quiet. All I can do is blink at my feet and grind my jaw. Every fiber of my being wants to tell the tale of my fabricated family origins and declare my innocence. But I cannot speak the truth without betraying Papa. I cannot defend myself. Not like this.