But when Pinocchio reached the galley, it was empty. His father must have already gone to bed. Pinocchio was about to head back when his gaze caught on the open book on the table. He’d flipped through it earlier. Many of the pages were lavishly illustrated with colorful pigments and gold foil. Some contained strange symbols—a mouth, an eye, a feather, a flame. Most, however, showed pastoral scenes from around Abaton—elephant-headed chimera dancing on mountaintops or herds of one-horned horses galloping across rippling dunes.
But the illustration on the page his father had left open was not so tranquil.
The scene showed a battle. On one side was the towering Moonlit Court with rows of armored knights behind their leader, a fox chimera Pinocchio knew to be Mezmer’s ancestor, the legendary general Mezmercurian. On the opposite side, an army of monsters was charging toward them. They were a gruesome lot. Several seemed to be dragons. Others looked like flaming demons or skeletal ghouls. Lots of them were almost like chimera—hybrids of animal and human, although these monsters were much more beastly, often four-legged with massive claws and gnashing fangs, as the manticore had had. In fact, Pinocchio saw several manticores among the horde.
Pinocchio’s attention was drawn to a lone figure toward the front of the army who didn’t look nearly as monstrous as the others. He could have been a human or even a sylph, except that his skin was crimson red.
“Diamancer,” a voice said behind him.
Pinocchio turned. Cinnabar stood in the doorway.
“How do you know?” Pinocchio asked.
The djinni gave a shrug. “When I wasn’t fixing up this ship, I visited the palace libraries to fill my time. There’s quite a lot to learn, if I’m to understand my new home.”
Pinocchio turned back to the image of Diamancer. “He looks so ordinary,” he said. “Compared to the other monsters. He hardly looks a threat at all.”
Cinnabar chuckled mirthlessly. “Isn’t it surprising how ordinary the most powerful and dangerous look? You’d never suspect what they really are…unless you happened to know.” He seemed to emphasize his last five words.
Mezmer’s boot heels clunked on the deck up above.
Pinocchio frowned at Cinnabar. “Are you talking about Diamancer? Or are you talking about me?”
The djinni smiled, eyes narrowed. “It’s true, Your Majesty. You don’t seem dangerous at all to your subjects. If only they knew you as I know you.”
“I’m not dangerous!” Pinocchio said. “And I’m your prester. I don’t think you should be talking to me this way.”
Cinnabar bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Pinocchio felt his heart thundering against his ribs. He wondered again if the djinni had realized his hands were wood when he helped him aboard. “And, Cinnabar, you know you have to keep my secret. You promised before we arrived in Abaton that you would.”
“Yes, Sop’s colorful threats still paint a vivid picture in my mind’s eye.” He turned to go.
“Cinnabar,” Pinocchio said.
The djinni paused, impatience roiling on his face.
“I…I know you don’t like me,” Pinocchio said. “But I’m not your enemy.” How could he explain this? Pinocchio decided to pull back his sleeve, exposing the jasmine bracelet. “Do you know why I wear this?”
“Do tell me, Your Majesty.”
“Because I too left a friend behind in the Venetian Empire. I promised to rescue him. And I will! Along with your friend Zingaro and the others who deserve the goodness of Abaton.”
Cinnabar’s face was impassive, but something shifted in his eyes.
“So,” Pinocchio said, “I just thought you should know that…that you and I want the same thing.”
Cinnabar’s mouth twisted. “That might be, Your Majesty. But will you be able to save Zingaro and your friend and the others? I can’t help but wonder if the Ancientmost Pearl could be in better hands…so to speak.”
He slipped back into the darkened hallway.
Pinocchio lay in bed, unable to sleep as Cinnabar’s words churned about in his head. Despite the jungle heat that filled the cabins, he felt cold. Given Cinnabar’s choice of expressions about Pinocchio’s hands, he had to know what was happening under his gloves. But what would the djinni do about it?
He wondered if the truth behind Cinnabar’s hatred of him was that Pinocchio wasn’t what he appeared to be. That he was pretending to be human, when in reality he was an automa.
Was he really an automa masquerading as a living boy? Pinocchio rubbed his wooden hands together, hating their hardness, hating the awkward way the gears made his fingers move, wishing they were nimble and soft again.
Whether Cinnabar could be trusted to keep his secret worried him, but what kept Pinocchio tussling in his sheets and unable to fall asleep was the fear that maybe Cinnabar was right.
Laughing voices on the deck above woke Pinocchio. Pink morning light was coming in the porthole window. He sat up. So he had managed a bit of sleep. It certainly hadn’t been a restful night.
A sharp thunk sounded. He heard Mezmer cry out, a merry note in her voice. And then someone else replied, a voice he didn’t recognize.
Pulling on his tunic and boots, Pinocchio opened his door to find his father emerging into the hallway. “What is going on up there?” Geppetto grumbled.
They were joined in the galley by Lazuli pulling a robe over her nightgown. Pinocchio pushed open the hatch just as the stranger was saying, “That, my friends, was not dumb luck.”
Stepping out on deck, Pinocchio tried to find who was speaking. He saw Mezmer and Sop grinning wildly as they rummaged through the broken boards. Cinnabar was there too, looking grumpy as usual. Otherwise they appeared alone on the deck.
Then Pinocchio heard Lazuli gasp. Something swooped past the ship, a blur of feathers and fur. Was that a griffin?
On the creature’s back rode a sylph, dressed in a riding suit of blinding white. He drew back a long curling bow. With a laugh, the sylph said, “I assure you this one will not be a lucky shot either. Go ahead, General Mezmer. Toss it.”
Mezmer held up a chunk of wood no bigger than a tea saucer before pitching it off the starboard side. The sylph archer took aim.
Pinocchio thought the target too small and moving too fast to be hit. But with a thunk, the arrow sank into the chunk of wood before arrow and target spiraled down into the treetops below.
Mezmer applauded. “A perfect shot, dear! Never seen one better.”
“Uh, Mezmer,” Pinocchio said. “Who is this?”
The griffin landed on the quarterdeck. The sylph leaped lightly off its back, making a bow.
“Rion of the Mist Cities, Your Majesty. Here to enlist, if my presters will allow me.”
As Rion rose, Pinocchio saw now that although he was tall, he was still a youth, not much older than Lazuli.
“Enlist?” Lazuli asked. “Enlist in what?”
Rion waved a hand at Mezmer. “Why, the knights of the Celestial Brigade, Your Majesty. I set off on my griffin as soon as I heard what happened at the Moonlit Court.”
“And you found us…here?” Pinocchio asked.
Rion gave a loud bark of a laugh. “No, Your Majesty. I was headed for the Moonlit Court when I ran into this venerable cricket who alerted me to your need.”
Maestro fluttered onto Geppetto’s shoulder.
“Did you know he composed the first cantata to include soprano mosquito?” Rion made a gesture as if tipping a hat. “Surely you’re a genius, Maestro.”
“Some think so.” The cricket sighed.
Sop folded his arms with a smirk. “Oh, yeah. Who else?”
“General Mezmer shared the ill news of the storm,” Rion said. “And of your quest to locate the infamous prison where Diamancer and his traitors are escaping. So my arrival could not be better timed. I am here to serve, Your Majesties. Your champion has arrived.”
Mezmer was grinning broadly, beside herself with excitement. Pinocchio felt it too. He was de
finitely going to get Rion to show him how to shoot like that.
Lazuli was eyeing Rion suspiciously. “Do you know my aunt?”
“Why, of course,” Rion said. “Who in Abaton doesn’t know Her Graceful Commander of the Winds, the High Lady of the Sylph House, the Noble Elemental of—”
“Did she send you?” Lazuli asked flatly.
Rion froze. Ever so slowly a guilty look melted over him. “Your Majesty, Lady Sapphira was concerned about you joining Prester Pinocchio on this dangerous journey. I…I hope that you won’t refuse my services.”
“Refuse!” Mezmer barked. “Darlings, who said anything about turning away a willing knight? Prester Lazuli, surely you wouldn’t—”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lazuli said. But Pinocchio noticed a hint of annoyance pulling at the corners of her otherwise poised expression.
Rion smiled in relief. “Very good! Most grateful. Now…” He clapped his hands together and peered around at the ruined deck. “Let’s just see about some ropes.” He gestured to Cinnabar. “Good sir, the rigging by your foot. Can you bring it here?”
Cinnabar picked up a tangle of rope that had snapped when the sails came loose in the storm. “What for?”
“Why, to tow your ship to the gnomes for repairs.” Rion flashed a winning smile. “The quest must go on!”
Rion’s griffin—who turned out to be named Quila—beat the air with powerful strokes of her wings. The lines stretching from the bow to her harness creaked under the strain. Quila was a stout, muscular creature, however, and her hooded amber eyes betrayed no complaint as she pulled the ship.
Rion lounged in the saddle, half-turned so he could address the audience gathered at the ship’s bow. Pinocchio leaned forward on the railing with Mezmer, listening raptly as Rion spoke. Arms folded, Lazuli had put on that aloof royal demeanor she often wore when she was around her subjects. Pinocchio wondered if he’d be more presterly if he tried it once in a while. But for now, he was too fascinated with Rion’s lesson.
“You see, it’s not about making the right aim. It’s not about letting go when your arm is steady. It’s about allowing the arrow to reach the target. It wants to hit that target! You must feel when the arrow is ready, then release it and let it follow its desire.”
Sop gave a doubtful snort from where he lounged on the deck. Pinocchio cut his eyes at the cat. But Rion continued as if he hadn’t heard.
“Yes, learn to communicate with the arrow.” Rion patted the feathers protruding from his quiver. “And I guarantee, you’ll soon be shooting nearly as well as I do.” He flashed another smile.
“Where did you learn?” Pinocchio asked. “I thought there weren’t any trained warriors in Abaton.”
“Archery is a popular sport in the Mist Cities, Your Majesty,” Rion said. “I do not claim to be a warrior. Simply a lad with good aim and a sense of duty to his homeland…and to his presters, of course.”
Pinocchio looked over at Lazuli with a grin. But her expression hadn’t wavered. Wasn’t she even a little impressed with Rion?
The bubblelike aleya who had given Pinocchio the spiceberry had been tagging along since the ship set off, bobbing beside Rion like an overly friendly puppy. She made a musical chime. Rion chuckled. “Thank you,” he said to the aleya.
“You understand her?” Pinocchio asked.
“Only a bit of Aleyan,” Rion said. “I pride myself in picking up what phrases I can from the lesser races of Abaton.”
Pinocchio sighed. He could speak to aleyas. He was an expert archer. What else was this Rion good at?
As Mezmer began asking Rion about archery in the Mist Cities, Lazuli turned to Pinocchio and said quietly, “You do realize all that letting the arrow follow its desires is nonsense?”
Pinocchio scowled. “What are you talking about?”
Lazuli rolled her eyes. “He’s a sylph. He’s just controlling the wind to guide the arrow.”
“He’s still really good.”
“I’m not saying he’s not,” Lazuli replied.
“But you don’t like him.”
“I’m not saying that either,” Lazuli said. “It’s just…he’s a bit of a show-off—don’t you think?”
Pinocchio’s scowl deepened. He didn’t see what was so bad about Rion teaching them a thing or two about archery, especially when he was so good. In fact, he hoped Rion could give him some lessons, maybe when they reached Grootslang Hole.
Lazuli looked back at Rion. “It’s strange, but he seems familiar….”
“You’ve met him before? Seems like you’d remember someone you thought was a big show-off.”
Lazuli gave him a smirk. “Forget I called him that.”
“Look at Mezmer.” Pinocchio waved a hand toward her. “See how happy she is. She’s found exactly the kind of knight she dreamed of for the Celestial Brigade. If only we had more like Rion.”
Lazuli gave a little nod of reluctant agreement.
Pinocchio couldn’t help but think that Rion was going to be dead useful when they faced the manticore again. Maybe—was it too much to hope?—he might even help with their rescue mission back to Venice. Assuming they got this monster problem contained first…
Sop, yawning with exhaustion from all-night guard duty, said, “Come on, Mez. Let’s get some snore-time.”
Mezmer sighed, reaching out to help Sop to his feet.
“Yes, go and rest assured, General,” Rion called. “Quila and I will guard the presters against any dangers.”
The griffin gave a shrill note of agreement. The call was not nearly as majestic as Pinocchio had imagined, especially given how tough the griffin looked. Quila sounded more like a squeezed chicken.
Rion pursed his lips with seriousness at Pinocchio and Lazuli. “I want to apologize, Your Majesties, for not bringing other recruits from the Mist Cities. Many are afraid to travel, given the current situation. My grandfather is contacting the heads of several chimera clans he has dealings with, and hopes they’ll—”
“Is your grandfather Zephyr?” Lazuli asked.
“Why, yes, Your Majesty,” Rion said.
“You came with him to the Moonlit Court.”
Rion gave a chuckle of embarrassment. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that, Your Majesty. It was many years ago, and we were just children.”
Lazuli laughed, her regal demeanor falling away. “Oh, yes. I recall I followed you around everywhere, begging you to play with me in the gardens.”
“I fear I wasn’t too polite to you then,” Rion said. “But I swear, Your Majesty, it was only because I was painfully shy as a child.”
Pinocchio had a hard time believing Rion had ever been shy.
“Wasn’t there an old gnome at the dinner who fell out of his chair?” Rion asked.
“Oh, right! I think the chair broke. And do you remember the cake Cook made?” Lazuli asked, beginning to chuckle.
“The one that exploded!” Rion barked, joining Lazuli in laughter.
“Why did it explode?” Pinocchio asked eagerly.
But the two were laughing too much to answer. He wished one of them could stop for half a moment to let him in on the joke.
As Lazuli finally took several shuddering breaths and wiped her eyes, Pinocchio tried again. “So why did the cake explode?”
“Oh, I—I don’t know,” she said. “She mixed up the ingredients. Something she accidentally put i-in it, I suppose.”
“Pixie eggs, don’t you reckon?” Rion asked.
Lazuli’s eyes grew wide, then once more, they burst into fits of renewed hilarity.
Pinocchio crossed his arms. “I don’t get it,” he said flatly.
“P-p-pixies don’t lay e-eggs,” Lazuli gasped between laughs. “It’s…it’s this old…ex-ex-expression.” She doubled over. “It’s…just what we sylphs…say when something surprises us.”
Rion gulped a deep breath and said quickly before he started laughing again, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I guess you have to be a sylph
to get the joke.”
“I’m not a sylph,” Pinocchio said. Maybe he should take this as his cue to leave these new friends to their old jokes.
Lazuli caught his eye. He could see that she recognized his irritation and was trying to stifle her mirth, but that only made Pinocchio more annoyed. He hated to feel like he was spoiling Lazuli’s good time.
“I’m going to go check on my father’s research,” he said, turning on his heel.
“Don’t be cross, Your Majesty,” Rion said, straightening in his saddle. “We’ll stop talking about the cake.”
“I’m not cross,” Pinocchio said rather crossly, despite his best efforts. “Talk about your pixie eggs all you want. I’m sure it’s much funnier when you don’t have to explain the joke to me.”
“Pinocchio,” Lazuli said softly, reaching out for his arm.
But he evaded her grasp, and made his way to the gangway with as much casualness as he could muster.
Pinocchio found his father sitting at the galley table with Maestro on his shoulder. Geppetto looked up from his books. “What’s all the laughter about?”
“Nothing,” Pinocchio said, flopping into a seat. “Father, I need to ask you something. Do you think I’m funny?”
“Funny?” Geppetto raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by funny?”
“Do I make you laugh?” Pinocchio searched his father’s tired face. “Do I make…others laugh?”
Maestro flittered. “Being funny is far too overrated, in my opinion. I, for one, take great pride in avoiding the temptation of humor whenever possible.”
“You have a lot to be proud of, Maestro,” Geppetto said drily.
“I do,” the cricket agreed. “I really do.”
Geppetto scooted his chair closer until he and Pinocchio were knee to knee. He gave a gentle smile. “Why are you asking? You have a wonderful sense of humor, son.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my father.”
Geppetto chuckled. “You’re right—a father always sees his child in the best light.”
“In the best light?” Pinocchio wasn’t sure what that meant.
“I always see the best in you,” his father explained.
Lord of Monsters Page 7
