The Wooden Prince (12 page)

Pinocchio sat in the jostling cart. The unrelenting pull of the fealty charm made him desperate to find his master again. The more ground Rampino covered, the farther Pinocchio got from Geppetto, the worse the fealty charm pulled on him. It focused his dull thoughts on his master.

As the cart bumped over a rocky patch of road, a memory bubbled its way through the thick mist filling his thoughts. Pinocchio suddenly recalled the last thing he had asked his master:
I'm meant to be your son?

Geppetto wasn't just his master. He was going to be his father.

In that instant, melodic bird sounds, loud and riotous, filled his ears. He felt the warm wind brush his cheeks. Pinocchio sat bolt upright with a gasp.

“Master Geppetto!” he murmured. “Father…where are you?”

“Quiet,” Rampino growled, threatening to poke him with the sword.

Pinocchio stared and stared, hoping to see his father, and knowing they had gone hopelessly far.

When they reached the walls of Siena, the guards waved them through cheerfully. “Light load, Rampino,” one called, nodding to Pinocchio.

Rampino smiled his crooked-toothed smile. “Yes, but we've got a fine one for the fire eater this time.”

The donkey cart stopped in a square with flapping banners showing, oddly enough, a snail. Rampino deposited his men at a stable and unlocked the cage to let Pinocchio out.

“Follow me,” he growled. “And no funny business or you'll feel my sword's iron.”

Pinocchio stepped down, his right foot giving a little spring that caused him to stumble. He was better at controlling the seven-league boots, but after all the riding, he had to remember how to steady the boots' tendency to bounce.

Rampino marched him through the crowded streets of neighborhoods with banners showing a panther, and deeper in the city, past banners with an eagle, until they came to an empty sliver of an alleyway. Pinocchio's captor rolled aside a barrel and they descended a hidden set of stairs. At the bottom, Rampino rapped at a cellar door. The loud clanking of hammers on metal sounded from somewhere deep inside. Finally, a small panel in the door opened and a dark eye peered out.

“I've got a new actor for Al Mi'raj's theater,” Rampino said.

As the panel closed and a series of locks began to click, Pinocchio desperately wanted to run, but before he could get up the nerve, the door opened. A boy in tattered leggings and a loose shirt stood before them.

No, not a boy, or at least not a human one. He was covered in fine, tawny fur and had long ears poking from the sides of his head, and was that a tail? This boy was a half-beast! He wasn't so terrifying. But Pinocchio had no time to stare before Rampino shoved him forward.

The room at the end of the long hall ahead glowed like an oven. Rampino opened his cloak and wiped his forehead. They entered a workshop filled with half a dozen open pits of burning salamanders. Tiny bearded workers, who looked more like molded clumps of earth than men, were busy with hammers and tools. Gnomes, Pinocchio realized.

A massive creature sat at a table in the workshop's center. He was bright yellow with black spots speckling his skin. A curved horn sprouted from one side of his head. The other horn was broken off behind his ear. He carved at a flaming salamander on his plate, forking bites into his fang-filled maw.

Pinocchio had never seen one before, but he knew this must be a djinni, a fire elemental.

“Greetings, Al Mi'raj,” Rampino said.

Al Mi'raj looked up from his meal, taking a sip of a thick black liquid in a goblet. A thin flame shimmered on the drink's surface. The djinni's eyes were as yellow as his skin, with a reptilian shard of black bisecting the middle.

“Just one?” Al Mi'raj's voice rumbled like a volcano.

Rampino shrugged. “Farmers are keeping their automa off the roads lately.”

“You'll have to venture out to new territory next time,” Al Mi'raj said, slicing the head off the salamander and crunching down on it with his jumble of teeth. He chewed disgustingly as he eyed Pinocchio. “He looks small. How much do you want for him?”

“Look closer,” Rampino said. “Very fine craftsmanship. He looks like a lad, but he's strong. We saw him scale a cliff with his hands. Fought like a tiger when we tried to cage him.”

Al Mi'raj grunted, unimpressed. “How did he get the nose?”

“Probably a malfunction. They get that way when they're not properly maintained. Your gnomes—er, your gnome will get him tip-top.”

Al Mi'raj surveyed Pinocchio. “He doesn't look like a farmhand. They make these boy models as parlor-room servants. I can't afford to have some don recognize his missing houseboy. Not interested.”

“Ninety ducats,” Rampino said. “That's half what I sold you the last automa for.”

“Twenty,” Al Mi'raj said, reaching for a box on the table and counting out the golden coins.

Rampino spat. “I could get more than that if we sold him for parts.”

Pinocchio decided that was enough. He was not going to be disassembled into spare parts. Although he should have tried to get away when he was still outside, maybe he could make it to the door.

He shoved Rampino and turned to run, but Rampino regained his balance and swung the flat edge of his sword against Pinocchio's back. His gears froze and everything went black as he collapsed to the floor.

When Pinocchio was able to open his eyes, he found Al Mi'raj standing over him. The creature was massive. Terrifying. Worse than anything Pinocchio had imagined any monster could be.

The djinni smiled. “Yes, he has spirit, doesn't he? That'll make for a good show. I'll give you the ninety ducats. Find me more like this one, Rampino.”

Rampino stammered as Al Mi'raj deposited the coins in his hand. “Yes—thank you—I will.” He bowed before hurrying out the door.

“Bulbin,” Al Mi'raj called. “Set up our new performer.”

The group of gnomes around the workshop hurried over. As they approached, they collided into one another like they were made of mud. They merged together until they formed one slightly larger gnome, although Bulbin—or was it Bulbins?—still wasn't quite tall enough to reach Pinocchio's waist.

“My master will come for me,” Pinocchio warned Al Mi'raj. “He'll be angry when he knows what you've done.”

“He's not your master anymore,” Al Mi'raj said.

Bulbin took a ring of keys off his belt and began sorting through them, holding one up at a time and comparing the key against Pinocchio. “Vitruvian Moppet? A squint too tall to be that one.” Bulbin took another key. “Vitruvian Boymunculus? No. Vitruvian Pandroid? Close. Ah, here 'tis. Vitruvian Manikin. Palace servant, eh?”

“That's not my fealty key,” Pinocchio said, scooting away from the creature. “My master has mine. And he's an alchemist, mind you. Only he can control me.”

Bulbin snickered and then broke apart into about a dozen smaller versions of himself. Each one clambered onto the others' shoulders until they made a wobbling tower of Bulbins that reached Pinocchio's shoulders. The one on top tried to slip the key into the back of Pinocchio's neck, but Pinocchio twisted his head side to side irritably.

Al Mi'raj smirked. “Stay still for Bulbin. You'll want to stay on his good side, manikin. Unless you want him to rearrange you into a donkey cart. Or worse.”

Pinocchio remembered Rampino's donkey cart and wondered if that had once been an automa. “What could be worse?”

“How'd a talking chamber pot suit you, Al Mi'raj?” Bulbin asked.

Pinocchio froze.

The gnome laughed as he got the key in the lock and the tumblers clicked. He turned the key, and a strange sensation came over Pinocchio's body. A feeling that he was weightless, that he could just float away.

Then Bulbin said, “Al Mi'raj is your master now.”

It was as if lead anchors had snapped onto his limbs. He felt temporarily crushed. He fought against it, trying to think of Geppetto. He was his real master. Not this revolting djinni. But as Pinocchio felt his nose return to its normal size, he knew he had to obey Al Mi'raj.

The tower of gnomes toppled and collapsed into the larger version of Bulbin. “Done,” the gnome said with a satisfied clap of his hands.

Pinocchio stood, glaring at them. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Your fellow actors will explain. Wiq! Come show our newest member to his quarters.” Al Mi'raj strolled back to the table to finish his meal. Pinocchio eyed the smoking, half-eaten carcass with disgust. Fire eater, eh? Well, he hoped Al Mi'raj choked on the salamander's tail!

The half-beast boy who had answered the door appeared. “Follow me.”

Wiq didn't seem very friendly. In fact he seemed angry, although Pinocchio couldn't guess why.

“Doesn't Al Mi'raj have a master?” Pinocchio asked once they were down the hall.

Wiq didn't answer. Pinocchio thought that maybe the grumpy boy didn't understand why he was asking. “It's just I've heard that elementals like him serve alchemists—”

“Al Mi'raj and Bulbin don't work in a normal workshop,” Wiq said, his tail swatting side to side. “They run the theater for the lord mayor of Siena. They serve him, as the mayor serves the empire. Good, obedient servants. You know all about that, don't you, puppet?”

“My name's not Puppet. My name's Pinocchio.”

“Be quiet, puppet.” Wiq kept marching him down the twisting hallways.

“Look, did I say something wrong?” Pinocchio felt he must have offended the boy. “I'm sorry if—”

“I said don't talk to me, automa. I don't like your kind.”

Pinocchio frowned. “Well, it's a funny place to work, then, don't you think?”

“You think I choose to work here?” Wiq growled. He touched his hands to a metal collar around his neck. “I might be a slave, but I'm no puppet like you!”

Wiq opened a door, gave Pinocchio an abrupt shove through, and slammed it behind him.

The room was a large, vaulted cellar lit by pixie bulbs that were hovering up above like oversize soap bubbles. Wardrobes and chests lined the walls, along with racks of costumes and heaps of fabric. The room was crowded with dozens of automa.

They all stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him. Some had been sewing costumes. Others were sparring with wooden swords. Another was painting a mask of what looked like a hysterical rabbit. The closest automa seemed like he had been rehearsing some sort of speech, and he stopped midsentence with a hand flung up dramatically, before facing Pinocchio.

“How now, cousin?” he bellowed. “Good greetings. 'Twas fortune that brought thee to us, and fortune that will guide thee in our midst.”

“Uh, what?” Pinocchio said.

He'd never heard an automa—or a person, for that matter—talk like this. And what a strangely shaped automa! His belly had been designed to look like an enormous ball, and his face was painted bright red. He wore a tight-fitting black-and-white-checkered costume.

The automa flung an arm around Pinocchio's shoulder and gestured to the others. “Welcome…to Al Mi'raj's Grand Marionette Theater!”

The other automa placidly went back to what they were doing.

“Oh,” Pinocchio said. “Thanks.”

“I am Pulcinella. Thou mayst call me Punch.”

“Are you the chief butler?”

“No, lad, no,” Punch replied. “Methinks thou art confused. Speak I with the common tongue of an automa servant? Can thou not hear how the ingenious master gnome Bulbin has bestowed me with the vocalizing of a grand orator?”

“Is that why you talk like that?” Pinocchio said. “He won't do that to me, will he?”

“Nay,” Punch said. “Thou wilt be a performer. Through thy gestures and acting, thou wilt assist thy fellow performers in creating theatrical productions of high drama.”

“I wilt? I mean, I will?” Pinocchio said. “How will I know what to do?”

Punch motioned across the room. “Our star, Harlequin, shall instruct thee.”

Another automa was approaching. Unlike Punch, Harlequin was tall and nimble. His wooden face was painted midnight black, and he wore a costume of bright blue, red, yellow, and green diamonds.

He did a series of cartwheels, stopping next to Pinocchio. He produced a wooden bat from behind his arm. With a swing, he knocked Pinocchio in the back of the head.

“Hey!” Pinocchio said, stumbling forward.

Harlequin leaped over Pinocchio and, when he landed, bashed him in the waist, forcing Pinocchio into a bow. With an acrobatic twirl, Harlequin swiped Pinocchio's knees, spilling him flat to the floor.

Punch applauded approvingly.

Pinocchio stood up, grumbling, “What was that all for?”

“Entertainment, lad. Entertainment.”

Pinocchio frowned at Harlequin, but the automa simply stared back impassively.

“Is he going to just knock me around onstage?” Pinocchio asked.

“Most assuredly,” Punch said. “Tomorrow at evenfall, we perform. Thou wilt lend thy talents to our show.”

“What do I have to do?” Pinocchio asked. “Speak lines?”

“Nay. That would be most dull. Thou wilt fight.”

Pinocchio eyed the other performers. A female automa was touching up the paint on her eyebrows in front of a mirror. An automa with a comically sad expression carved on his face was stitching up holes in his floppy white sleeves. An automa wearing a black jaguar's mask practiced elaborate moves with a poleax. The blade on the end wasn't wooden. It was metal.

“Fight?” Pinocchio gave a shiver.

“How be thy skills sparring with a sword?” Punch asked.

“I've never tried.”

“Can thou swing thy arm?”

“Yes,” Pinocchio said.

“Marvelous!” Punch exclaimed. “Do so dramatically. Harlequin will rehearse with thee.”

Pinocchio glanced warily over at Harlequin, who handed Pinocchio a wooden sword.