The Wooden Prince

by John Claude Bemis

  “I’ll need to see your uncle’s papers too,” Captain Toro said.

  Lazuli wished she hadn’t given Geppetto her sword. The master of ceremonies in her father’s court had told her she was the best he’d ever taught, although she’d never displayed her talents in any real combat. She hoped Geppetto wasn’t planning on doing something stupid and brave with her sword.

  As Lazuli fumbled through her cloak, Captain Toro snatched up his musket. The innkeeper and the men drew back from the bar. The frog and the ape chimera scrambled under a table.

  “Here they are,” Lazuli said with a laugh, holding up folded papers.

  The innkeeper exhaled with relief. The men chuckled nervously as they settled back to their stools.

  “Wish I were going to the fire eater’s show, like your master,” the innkeeper said to Lazuli. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about around these parts.”

  Captain Toro took the papers from Lazuli’s fingers.

  “The Magpie,” one of the men chuckled. “The automa who flies. The swordsman who beat—”

  “What did you say?” Captain Toro hissed.

  “W-what?” the man asked nervously.

  “Did you say a flying automa?” Captain Toro asked.

  The realization hit Lazuli like a thunderbolt. She tried to mask her surprise. The flying automa. Was it Geppetto’s automa?

  “The M-Magpie,” the man stammered. “That’s why we were asking you if an automa could fly without wings.”

  Captain Toro looked crazed. “You never said anything about an automa!”

  “All the fire eater’s performers are puppets,” the innkeeper said. “Haven’t you seen them?”

  “And he’s got an automa that can fly?”

  “Not fly, exactly. But I hear it can leap. Huge leaps. Almost like flying.”

  “The fire eater is in Siena?” Captain Toro demanded.

  “Of course, haven’t you ever—”

  Captain Toro was already headed out the door, his wings snapping open in the sunlight. Geppetto spun in his seat, looking from the door back to Lazuli with astonishment.

  “What was that about?” the innkeeper said as the crowd broke into noisy discussion.

  Lazuli smiled at Geppetto and pretended to wipe the sweat from her brow. As she headed back to her seat, the innkeeper picked up the papers from the bar.

  “Don’t forget your fealty papers.” The sheets unfolded as he held them out, and his eyes widened. “These aren’t fealty papers.…Hey! What’s this? Are you…outlaws?”

  The men at the bar got to their feet. They glared menacingly at Lazuli.

  Geppetto stood. “Gentlemen, we’re plainly not outlaws.” He pulled back his hood. “As you’ll see, I’m not a sylph or any other elemental or half-beast.”

  The innkeeper jabbed a finger. “Then why did she tell Captain Toro you were?”

  Geppetto looked at Lazuli and murmured, “I did think that was a risky thing to tell him.”

  Lazuli shrugged. “You weren’t exactly coming up with any brilliant ideas.”

  “Outlaws or not,” the innkeeper said, producing a blunderbuss from beneath the bar, “you thought you outsmarted Captain Toro. Thought you could lie to a soldier of the doge. We’re good citizens of the empire. Aren’t we, boys?”

  “Yes,” the frog chimera croaked. Even he and the ape chimera looked ready to spring into action against them.

  “Hands away from your sword,” the innkeeper said, nodding to the hilt sticking out from under Geppetto’s cloak.

  Lazuli and Geppetto raised their hands before the innkeeper’s blunderbuss.

  “Gentlemen,” Geppetto said, “this is a misunderstanding.”

  A cup flew from the bar and smashed against the bridge of the innkeeper’s nose. He howled and dropped the gun as he cupped his hands over his face. Lazuli snatched the blunderbuss. Wind whipped through the bar. More cups, plates, and wine bottles rose into the air.

  The men and the chimera stared at the hovering objects.

  “But—but you said you couldn’t lift solid objects,” one of the men stammered.

  “I lied,” Lazuli said, aiming the gun.

  The men trembled, panicked eyes locked on the weapon.

  “We’re leaving,” Geppetto said, pushing the barrel of the blunderbuss toward the floor. “And unless any of the rest of you wants a bottle to the head, you’ll let us walk out of here.”

  The innkeeper glared at them with watering eyes. Blood and powdery bits of the broken cup smeared his face.

  Backing to the door with Lazuli, Geppetto said, “You’ve all acted loyally to the empire. There’s nothing more you could have done. We bid you good day.”

  They stared as Geppetto and Lazuli hurried out the door.

  As soon as they were outside, Maestro sprang from under Geppetto’s cloak and chirped angrily at Lazuli, “Are you insane? I mean, are you insane, Your Highness? What were you doing back there?”

  “Saving our necks,” Lazuli said.

  Geppetto smiled. “Well done, Princess Lazuli. You continue to surprise me. Now let’s get out of here. If that flying automa is Pinocchio, we have to hurry. Toro will reach Siena first, but maybe there’s still a way to rescue the lad.”

  Pinocchio and Wiq had been sneaking up to the rooftop balcony every evening to see how many new Magpie paintings were showing up on the sides of buildings around the theater.

  The Magpie’s popularity was growing. Pinocchio had defeated Harlequin in the last three performances and had even been promoted to Scaramouch’s position as the head of the half-beasts. He and Wiq stayed up until nearly dawn, reliving the exciting parts of the show and even acting them out with wooden sticks for swords.

  When they tired of that, Wiq made up a game of tossing loops made from the jasmine vines that grew up the side of Al Mi’raj’s theater. They would try to catch the loops with the wooden sticks. Wiq was much better at it than Pinocchio, since Pinocchio threw it a bit too hard, and his loops kept flying over the side of the balcony.

  As Wiq fashioned a new loop for Pinocchio, he said, “I wish I could run away.”

  “Where would you go?” Pinocchio asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wiq replied. “Maybe to High Persia. I hear my people are treated better in the other human kingdoms. Although I’d really want to go to Abaton.”

  “Would you be a slave in Abaton?”

  Wiq lowered the loop of jasmine. “Of course not, you goof. There are no slaves in Abaton.”

  Pinocchio felt his face get warm, and he tried not to be a goof. “Why did your family come to the Venetian Empire, then?”

  “They didn’t,” Wiq said, continuing to weave the jasmine vines together. “It was my ancestors, way way back. Prester John sent them here, along with loads of other chimera and elementals. I guess he thought he was spreading goodwill and helpful Abatonian magic and all that.” He gave a snort and shook his head.

  “Do you think we could ever run away?” Pinocchio asked. “I mean do you think there’s a way to escape from Al Mi’raj’s theater?”

  “Not with this on me.” Wiq touched the collar on his neck. “And not with your fealty lock.” He sat up a little straighter. “But let’s promise that if we ever find a way, we’ll escape. Together. Do you promise?”

  “Of course!” Maybe Wiq could help him find Geppetto. Maybe his father could help take care of Wiq, too.

  Wiq slipped the jasmine on Pinocchio’s wrist like a bracelet. “This is our promise. And I’ll wear one too.” He put the other loop on his furry wrist, and held out his hand to take Pinocchio’s. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” Pinocchio said, smiling.

  Still clutching Pinocchio’s hand, Wiq said, “Your hand feels squishy.” He let go and pulled up Pinocchio’s sleeve. “What’s with your arm? It doesn’t look like wood.”

  Pinocchio jerked it back. He was tempted to lie or to find an excuse to leave, but Wiq was his friend. They were going to run away together. He had kep
t this secret from Wiq for long enough.

  “Wiq, I’m going to tell you something, but you have to swear you’ll never tell anyone.”

  “I swear,” Wiq said.

  Pinocchio’s gears felt knotted. He was terrified Wiq was going to hate him again if he knew the truth. But that voice inside him, his instinct, told him he could trust Wiq.

  “You know how I’m different from other automa,” Pinocchio said. “There’s a reason. Do you remember how I told you about my master? Well, he’s a friend of Prester John’s.”

  “His Immortal Lordship!” Wiq sputtered.

  “And Prester John turned me this way.” When Pinocchio had finished explaining how he was becoming…what, exactly? Flesh? Human? Real? Wiq wasn’t horrified. He was wild with excitement.

  “And if Geppetto is able to rescue Prester John,” Wiq said, “he might take us to Abaton. Oh, Pinocchio! We have to find a way to escape.”

  Over the following days, try as they might, the boys couldn’t come up with a reasonable plan to get away. And each day, Pinocchio was changing a bit more. Every performance put him more at risk of being injured—or worse, discovered by Bulbin and Al Mi’raj.

  “Couldn’t Harlequin and I…uh, be on the same side?” Pinocchio asked Punch one afternoon.

  “Nay. ’Tis the lord mayor’s continued wish to see you defeat Harlequin in new and dramatic feats.”

  “But…” Pinocchio searched for a way out of this. “Wouldn’t the audience prefer to see half-beasts lose and humans win?”

  “The lord mayor prefereth that the performance stoke anger against the half-beasts and remind his citizenry of their threat. Adieu, Magpie.”

  Pinocchio sighed as Punch waddled away.

  As Pinocchio waited that night for Wiq, he never came. How late was it? The clanking hammers from Bulbin’s workshop had been quiet for some time now, so he decided to look for Wiq. He tiptoed down the hall toward Wiq’s bedroom. As he rounded a corner, he bumped into someone.

  A feline face with a patch over one eye snarled at him, exposing gleaming fangs. Pinocchio stumbled backward in alarm.

  A half-beast!

  The hallway outside Al Mi’raj’s workshop was filled with half-beasts. And not ones like Wiq. These half-beasts were monstrous, with animal heads on human bodies, all claws and fangs and ferocious demeanors.

  Was this an attack? Were these outlaws trying to rob Al Mi’raj?

  The cat half-beast was shackled at the wrists. So were the others. A few glanced at Pinocchio: a fox, a burly half-beast with the head of a bear, even a crocodile.

  Pinocchio stared at the one-eyed cat he’d bumped into. He had long black-and-white fur, even on his humanlike hands. A bushy tail swished from the back of his coat. He was a little fat in the belly, now that Pinocchio was noticing, but this half-beast looked fierce.

  “Planning to paint my portrait, puppet?” the cat growled. “Keep staring. I’ll show you my best side.”

  He snapped his teeth at Pinocchio, but the chain connecting him to the next half-beast clanked tight and stopped the cat from reaching him.

  The fox half-beast chuckled. “Be sweet to the puppet, Sop.” The fox’s voice definitely had a feminine quality, even though she was dressed in men’s clothing: a leather jerkin, leather pants, and tall boots. “After all, you might be fighting it tomorrow.”

  “Quiet back there,” a voice called. An imperial airman began pushing his way down the line. For half a moment, Pinocchio was frightened that it might be Captain Toro, but fortunately it wasn’t.

  Farther down the hall, raised voices came from Al Mi’raj’s workshop. The djinni was saying, “General Maximian, I run a theater, not a gladiator pit!”

  “These orders come from our lord doge,” a voice replied. “I suggest you remember your place, fire eater….”

  The airman finally made his way back. “What are you doing here, automa?” He whacked Pinocchio against his head. “Go!”

  Pinocchio ran back to the cellar. He tried to tell Punch about the half-beasts, but the automa didn’t seem to care. Pinocchio sat the rest of the night next to Columbine, watching her sew. Where was Wiq? He was desperate for his friend to explain what was happening.

  But Wiq never appeared.

  Al Mi’raj appeared later instead and spoke quietly with Punch. Deep lines pinched the djinni’s yellow brow, as if he was troubled.

  When he left, Punch clapped his hands to get their attention. “Majestic marionettes! The slightest of changes to our performance. A gang of half-beast rogues hast been captured by the doge’s airmen. The lord mayor wishes to have them join our performance. Naturally, they shall play half-beasts. All of you, with the exception of our star the Magpie, will join with Harlequin’s swordsmen. You shall be the victors. No longer will Magpie be the leader of the half-beasts, but a turncoat who assists Harlequin in defeating the rogues.”

  Fight the half-beasts! Pinocchio clutched his hands together nervously. How could they beat half-beasts? These weren’t actors. They were real warriors.

  Harlequin did a double flip, spinning a pair of blades when he landed.

  Pinocchio sighed. At least he’d be on the same side as Harlequin.

  The next afternoon, to Pinocchio’s immense horror, Al Mi’raj collected him without a word and delivered him to the squad of airmen, who marched him, along with the half-beasts, out into the middle of the piazza.

  The piazza was empty except for workers setting up stands for the evening’s performance. A metal pen had been erected, and once Pinocchio and the half-beasts were led inside, it was locked.

  Pinocchio eyed the half-beasts cautiously. There were about two dozen in all, mostly with the heads of animals and fur-covered humanoid bodies, although he spotted a few like Wiq, with human faces and some animal features, like ears and tails. One looked completely human until it came near, and Pinocchio saw that the half-beast was covered in tan scales. It hissed a forked tongue at him.

  They looked like a vicious lot, no mistake about it. If he played the witless automa, maybe they’d leave him alone. Pinocchio found a spot toward the center and stood as still as he could.

  The cat with the patch over his eye approached him. “And why have they put you in here with us, puppet?” His voice was rough and full of spittle.

  Pinocchio shrugged. Then, remembering too late that automa didn’t make those kinds of gestures, he said, in as flat a voice as he could manage, “I do not know.”

  Pinocchio was already in his costume, but he held his mask in his hands. The cat ran a finger along the beak. When it reached the end, a retractable claw opened, scratching the paint.

  “I like birds,” he purred. “They’re tasty.”

  The fox sauntered over, the hint of a smile curling on her snout. She was tall and slim, although quite muscular beneath her orange fur and sleeveless jerkin. One of her arms was bandaged, and Pinocchio wondered if she had been injured by the airmen.

  “Quit teasing the automa, Sop, old darling. I doubt his sort is designed to appreciate your twisted sense of humor.”

  “It looks so real.” Sop tapped a claw on Pinocchio’s cheek. “More real than most of the humans’ toys. Don’t you think, Mezmer?”

  Pinocchio tried to keep looking straight ahead, but noticed out of the corner of his eye how the fox was inspecting the airmen up at their posts atop the piazza’s buildings and testing the bars of the pen. Pinocchio guessed she was clever, this Mezmer. A strategist. She was thinking of a plan for escape.

  “This one’s an expensive model, that’s why,” Mezmer said, turning back to Pinocchio.

  “An expensive scratching post,” Sop chuckled. The cat extended his claws, bringing them to the top of Pinocchio’s shirt, as if to shred his costume.

  Pinocchio dropped his mask to the ground. His hands instinctively shot out and grabbed the cat’s wrists. Sop hissed, his whiskers and ears flattened ferociously. He twisted his hands free and backed away.

  Mezmer laughed. “You can’t sc
are these automa, old friend. Leave him alone. We have plans to make.”

  As the two walked away, Pinocchio realized how easily the cat had escaped his grip. He looked at his own gloved hands. They weren’t as strong as they once were. The transformation was more than just on the outside. His gearworks must be changing too.

  As the sun set and the crowds began filing in to take their seats, airmen guards opened the pen so a troop of Bulbins could push a wagon piled with weapons inside. The half-beasts shoved one another to get the best weapons. They spread out in the pen, getting the feel for whatever bronze ax, sword, or spiked mace they had chosen. While Sop grabbed a sword, Mezmer chose a spear, giving it a deft twirl to test the weight.

  Pinocchio put on his magpie mask and touched his sword nervously. It was nearly time. Where were the automa? Punch and Al Mi’raj waited in the courtyard. And there was Wiq, too. Pinocchio had to stop himself from waving to him.

  He wished they were together on the rooftop again. Wiq could have bolstered his courage, maybe even helped him plan a strategy to beat these half-beast warriors. He ran a finger along the jasmine vines around his wrist.

  The cheering of the crowd broke his thoughts. Punch took his place atop the tall podium in the middle of the piazza.

  “O humble citizens of Siena,” he announced. “Welcome dons and donnas, and lord mayor, but especially our most illustrious guest…the doge of Venice.”

  A wave of gasps swept over the audience. They craned their necks to look to the top of the Palazzo Pubblico. Beside the lord mayor sat another man, crowned and wearing robes of deep scarlet. He stood. The entire crowd bowed in reverence.

  Pinocchio could not help but stare, openmouthed. The doge! And there were mechanical Lions on either side of him, sparkling bloodred from their armored manes to their folded wings. Once the doge took his seat, Punch continued.

  “Lord Doge, we have something quite special for thee this eve. Thou wilt not only be entertained by the marvelous marionettes of Al Mi’raj’s theater company. Thy pleasure shall be multiplied by the introduction of new performers…recent captives from a vicious nest of half-beast ingrates.”