The audience rumbled with boos.
The half-beasts snarled and circled in the enclosure. They were tough brutes, Pinocchio had no doubt. He wasn’t eager to fight them when it came his time in the show to turn sides.
“Siena, welcome your champions,” Punch bellowed. “Harlequin and his shimmering swashbucklers!”
Harlequin and the automa swordsmen and swordswomen marched lockstep out into the piazza. They wore glittering bronze armor. Their wood was plenty tough already, but maybe Al Mi’raj wanted to make sure his mechanical performers had additional protection against the half-beast warriors.
The metal enclosure lifted into the air, but the half-beasts didn’t charge out. They stayed clustered together. Pinocchio was trapped in the thick of the growling, sweaty mob. He heard Mezmer say, “Steady, darlings. Let’s wait to see what they have planned.”
The automa raised their swords and charged the half-beasts.
“Looks like they plan to massacre us,” Sop said, lashing his bristly cat tail.
The half-beasts drew tighter together.
“What do we do?” a boar-headed outlaw asked through a tusked mouth. “These automa can’t die. We’ll never be able to beat them.”
Others grumbled in agreement, fear evident in their animal faces.
“We might not,” Mezmer said. Her black-tipped ears twitched as she looked at each of them squarely. “But know this, all of you. We fight not for the pleasure of Venetian vermin. We fight for something greater. We fight against the imperial doge and his corrupt empire. And when we die on their puppets’ swords, we die knowing we struck fear in the doge’s heart. We die with bravery, like the glorious knights of old Abaton.
“The doge tore our families apart and stole our freedom. But we hold no fealty papers. We have broken our bonds of slavery. We chimera are not puppets of the empire! We might never see Abaton’s glorious shores, but our deaths will rally our kin to rise up against the doge.”
The half-beasts growled and cheered and clanked their weapons.
Pinocchio could not believe what he was hearing. He had thought these half-beasts were little more than runaway slaves who’d become common thieves. But Mezmer and her chimera seemed better than that. They were fighting for something greater: their freedom. Wiq and all the enslaved Abatonians deserved to be free—free from the hated doge and his empire.
Something stirred deep inside Pinocchio at Mezmer’s words. This was all the doge’s fault. He had enslaved these chimera. He had torn Wiq from his family. And it was this same doge who had ordered Geppetto’s family murdered. Hatred boiled in Pinocchio.
The automa charged. Battle erupted. Pinocchio hesitated before running at Scaramouch to begin sparring.
The half-beasts turned out to be very different fighters from the automa. While Harlequin did his usual acrobatics and the other automa fought with showy flourishes, the half-beasts fought defensively, pairing off back-to-back or working together in small formations.
A few automa lost arms. One got his head bashed around backward by a spiked mace. But they kept fighting, unlike in the earlier performances. They weren’t pretending to die when they got injured.
Punch signaled to Pinocchio. It was his time to turn against the half-beasts and help Harlequin. But how could he do that now?
The fox Mezmer’s speech might have rallied her companions for glorious deaths, but Mezmer wanted to prove something to the doge first. She needed her chimera to fight well. Pinocchio knew he had to help them.
On his seven-league boots, he sprang over clusters of fighters until he found Mezmer. The fox growled when she saw him and nearly skewered him with her spear. But Pinocchio blocked and quickly grabbed Mezmer’s spear, pulling her forward.
“Listen to me,” Pinocchio whispered urgently. “Your chimera have to stop Harlequin.”
“What?” Mezmer gasped, her orange eyes wide.
“He’s the best fighter. He’s the most dangerous. Take him out and you’ll have a better chance at beating the rest!”
Harlequin was already somersaulting their way.
“Here he comes!” Pinocchio said. “Chop off his head. If his head comes loose, his body will stop working.”
He shoved Mezmer back before moving away to clash swords with Columbine.
“The heads, darlings!” he heard Mezmer shout to her chimera. “Take off their heads!”
Harlequin landed, striking out wide with both his swords. Sop ducked under one of the swings, but a weasel-headed chimera lost part of an ear to the other.
Mezmer launched herself at Harlequin. She was amazingly fast with her spear, spinning it to block every one of Harlequin’s blows. But she wasn’t fast enough to take off his head.
Scaramouch was surrounded by a group of chimera. The boar-headed half-beast spiked his mace into Scaramouch’s leg, knocking the automa down. When Scaramouch fell, the bear chimera brought his ax down, popping Scaramouch’s head off.
“Not bad,” the boar said, whistling from between his tusks.
“That’s the way!” Mezmer said, struggling to hold back Harlequin. “Sop! A little help, darling. We’ve got to get this one pinned.”
The cat spun around from where he’d just sent an automa’s head flying, but before he could run to Mezmer, a group of automa blocked his path.
The badger and the crocodile tried to help Mezmer but kept getting driven back. Mezmer was struggling. She equaled Harlequin in speed, but Pinocchio could see she was tiring fast under his unrelenting assault.
With a grimace, Pinocchio bounded on his seven-league boots, knocking Harlequin down. Al Mi’raj wouldn’t like that! He dreaded facing the furious djinni, but what else could he do?
Before Harlequin could shove Pinocchio away, the chimera attacked. The badger’s war hammer pinned one arm. The crocodile clamped his jagged teeth onto Harlequin’s other arm.
“Now!” Mezmer barked. She spun her spear like a twirling scythe, and Pinocchio scrambled to get out of the way as she swiped the broad-bladed tip.
Pinocchio felt something brush past his feet. As he sat up, he saw Harlequin’s head rolling away. Harlequin’s eyes blinked wildly, malfunctioning. “Harlequin is not supposed to lose,” he complained.
The plan had worked!
Mezmer stood over Pinocchio, smiling down at him. “Thanks, darling.”
Pinocchio nodded, excitedly. The chimera had a chance now. They might actually beat the automa! Although the reality nagged at him: What good would it do? This wasn’t going to win them their free—
Columbine rushed up behind Mezmer.
“Watch out!” Pinocchio shouted.
Mezmer spun, but before she could block, Columbine’s sword drove into the fox’s chest. Pinocchio gasped as the tip of the blade came out the back of Mezmer’s shirt.
Mezmer choked and fell.
The audience screamed with delight as the battle raged on, but Pinocchio was frozen. He stared at Mezmer.
Sop appeared, hissing and spitting. He flipped Mezmer over and recoiled at what he saw. “No, Mez!” he cried. “NO!”
Mezmer gasped, clutching her blood-soaked chest. “There’s…no saving me, dear,” she sputtered. “Keep…fighting.”
Sop beat his fist against the cobblestones. Then he screamed a wildcat howl before charging Columbine.
Pinocchio didn’t watch their fight. His eyes were fixed on Mezmer. An awful feeling stirred his insides. The brave chimera was dying.
Pressure and horror and steam seemed to fill Pinocchio’s head. But through all that, he was remembering something. From the river. He had seen someone die before….
Captain Toro.
The airman had drowned. And yet, somehow, he’d come back to life. Pinocchio had brought him back to life.
Pinocchio pressed his hands against the fox’s wound. “Stay calm,” he said. “I can help you.”
“Stupid puppet,” she whispered. “I…can’t…be…h…” Her words dissolved into a hiss. She stared up, but no longer sa
w him. Mezmer’s life had spilled out of her too fast.
The clank of steel and the roars of the chimera echoed along with the crowd’s exhilaration.
Pinocchio felt something burning in his gearworks. It ran from his chest down into his arms, like a valve being released of its pressure. In the gap between his shirt cuff and his gloves, Pinocchio saw the flesh of his arms transforming. This time it was reversing. Grains of wood rose on the surface. His fingers grew stronger again, turning back into wood.
He yanked off the gloves. His pink fingernails were gone.
Mezmer’s eyes shot open, and she gasped an enormous breath, sitting up abruptly. She looked around in alarm and then stared, wide-eyed, at Pinocchio.
“What…?” Mezmer murmured. She looked down at the front of her jerkin. The white patch of fur that poked out was matted crimson with her heart’s blood. But as Mezmer felt along the sticky fur, she couldn’t find the wound.
As Pinocchio watched this, a strange sensation came over him. Just as it had after saving Captain Toro, Pinocchio’s head seemed to fill with a thick mist. The desperation and fear and wonder that were brimming moments before began to vanish. He had only a moment to consider how odd this was. What had he just done? His nose twitched, telling Pinocchio he had done something bad. No, it had not been bad, he reminded himself. He had been trying to help….
The fealty lock in the back of his neck suddenly sparked with energy. He was to obey, not question. Pinocchio rose with a jerk, his thoughts evaporating.
Silence blanketed the crowd. Mezmer climbed to her feet, peering around with disbelief. One by one, the chimera and automa lowered their weapons and stared at Mezmer…and then at Pinocchio.
Sop came forward. “How can this be?”
Suddenly a pair of airmen landed. Mezmer reached for her spear.
“Don’t move!” one ordered.
Other airmen landed, training their muskets on the rest of the chimera. “Back!” they shouted. “Drop your weapons and get back to the pen!”
Al Mi’raj was storming across the piazza, looking anxiously up at the doge.
An airman shackled Mezmer and called to the djinni, “We’re taking them inside. Find a place to hold them.”
Al Mi’raj stood gaping at the fox and then over at Pinocchio. “What have you done?”
Before Pinocchio could answer his master, an airman grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him forward. “I’ve been hunting for this one.”
The airman from the river. Captain Toro.
Pinocchio glanced back at the chimera. The metal poles of the pen were lowering around them. The crowd was murmuring, and airmen were ordering the piazza cleared. Pinocchio was not concerned with how his thoughts were dimming. There was such panic and fear in everyone around him. But not in Pinocchio. He had nothing to fear. This was what it had been like before…before Prester John.
With a last glance, Pinocchio spied the doge staring down at him. The lord mayor was talking rapidly. The doge, however, was ignoring the mayor. His eyes were locked on Pinocchio.
Pinocchio felt no concern. Why should he? That part of his thoughts had vanished. He was back to being a good, obedient automa.
Once inside, Captain Toro hauled Pinocchio into the workshop. The airman remained at the doorway, guarding the entrance.
“Over here,” Bulbin said to Pinocchio, leading him as far from the door as possible and pointing to a chair. “Sit down.”
Al Mi’raj looked back over his shoulder at Captain Toro before whispering to Pinocchio. “Did you do that to the fox?”
“Do what, Master?”
Al Mi’raj was breathless with disbelief. “I saw her run through with a sword. A chimera can’t survive that. No one can.” He stared at Pinocchio. “Did you?”
Pinocchio sat rigid in the chair, unable to sort out the question. “Did I what, Master?”
“I’m asking you if you…” Al Mi’raj looked over at Bulbin, who was frowning, before taking a deep breath and whispering, “Did you bring the chimera back to life?”
Pinocchio didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what he had done.
Bulbin didn’t wait for his reply. “We all seen it! All Siena seen it!”
“But how?” Al Mi’raj said. “How? I wasn’t born in Abaton, but I know about the magic of our homeland. You do too, old friend. Have you ever heard of raising the dead? I haven’t. How could an automa possess this power?”
“Resurrections en’t impossible,” Bulbin said.
“No, but that is the work of Prester John! Only he gives that gift.” Al Mi’raj looked back at the airman standing in the doorway. Then he leaned close to Pinocchio to whisper, “I’m ordering you to tell me. Explain how you brought that chimera back to life!”
“I do not know, Master.”
Bulbin crossed his arms. “There’s been something higgledy about this one. I thunk it was just his model. These Vitruvian Manikins can be a wee queer. But now I seen, there’s something more to this one. Someone tinkered with him, eh? I don’t know what’s been done, but I’ll just open him up and see what’s going on.”
Bulbin split into two identical, if slightly smaller, versions of himself. The other Bulbin ran over to get his tools.
The gnome’s words awakened something deep in Pinocchio’s mind. Fighting against the fogginess, Pinocchio glanced down at his hands. They’d been different before. Weak and squishy. But now they were strong again. And Bulbin was so small….
“No,” Pinocchio managed. “Do not do that. If you touch my panel, I have a charm that commands me to defend myself. You serve Master Al Mi’raj, and I know I should not hurt you. But I would not be able to stop myself.”
Al Mi’raj and the Bulbins exchanged looks. The second gnome dropped the tools.
“Have you ever heard of a charm like that?” Al Mi’raj asked.
“No,” Bulbin said. “But it could be done. I could imagine how. But who’d bother putting such a thing on an automa?”
“Who put this charm on you?” Al Mi’raj asked Pinocchio quietly. “Answer me.”
Faint memories bubbled from the thick recesses of his thoughts.
“It was a prisoner,” Pinocchio replied. “Someone named Prester John.”
The Bulbins sprang together into a single astonished gnome.
“His Immortal Lordship?” Al Mi’raj gasped. “Imprisoned?”
Voices carried from down the hallway as a group was approaching the workshop.
“But what’s Prester John done to this automa?” Bulbin hissed.
“Whatever it is, we can’t let the doge discover it.” Al Mi’raj rose to greet his masters.
At the doorway, Captain Toro stepped aside, bowing his head as the crimson imperial guards entered. “The lord doge of Venice,” one announced through his helmet.
Al Mi’raj and Bulbin bowed. Pinocchio just sat there, waiting for orders.
The doge marched in, draped in heavy red-velvet cloaks trimmed in thick fur. His face seemed to have far too much flesh, a saggy face with bulging eyes and wads of loose skin flapping from his jowls.
The lord mayor said, “My doge, this is the djinni Al Mi’raj, who runs our theater company.”
Al Mi’raj bowed lower. “Your presence is an honor, my doge.”
The doge pursed his droopy lips distastefully at Al Mi’raj. “What have you discovered about what that automa did out there?”
“Nothing, my doge. We cannot figure out how he did it.”
The doge glared at Pinocchio. “Where did you get this automa?”
“We’ve had him sitting around for ages, my doge,” Al Mi’raj said. “Only recently has Bulbin had time to get him operational. Clearly something is still not working right.”
The doge turned to the lord mayor. “Do you trust this monster?”
“Y-yes, my doge,” the lord mayor said, nodding vigorously. “Al Mi’raj runs a reputable business and theater. I can assure you. He and his gnome have fealty papers and have been nothing b
ut loyal servants to me and their empire.”
“Liar!” a voice cracked.
Everyone froze, their attention turning to the airman standing in the doorway.
“What are you saying, Captain?” the Mayor said, affronted.
Captain Toro’s face was a bright shade of purple, his dark eyes locked on Al Mi’raj. The captain’s voice shook as he spoke. “That fire eater is lying!”
“Signore, I am an ever-loyal servant to Venice,” Al Mi’raj said, smiling through his fangs.
“You are a liar and a traitor,” Captain Toro spat. “That automa does not belong to you. I know this automa. It is the one that was sent to Geppetto Gazza.”
The doge’s bulging eyes grew wider. “Ever-loyal servant, Al Mi’raj, tell me again where this automa came from.”
Al Mi’raj exchanged a glance with Bulbin before saying, “I don’t remember. We must have bought him years ago from a trader—”
“He’s lying!” Captain Toro shouted. The imperial guards pushed him back with their spears.
Al Mi’raj stammered, “M-my doge, we purchase disassembled automa all the time, and fix them up for our theater. I swear to you that this automa—”
The doge snatched Bulbin by the throat, lifting the tiny gnome off the floor.
The hand that gripped Bulbin was no ordinary hand. The doge had lost his hand when Geppetto cut it off. In its place was a hand cast of pure lead.
The metal went to work at once on Bulbin. The brown gnome began to turn a dusty gray, like moist earth growing parched. The gnome gasped, his black eyes rolling back.
“Swear to me, do you?” the doge asked, spittle frothing on his lips. “Do you swear upon this disgusting little clod of filth that you’ve had this automa for years?”
“No!” Al Mi’raj cried. “I remembered wrong. I was confused! Please let him go.”
Bulbin went limp in the doge’s grip and began to split apart. Little versions of the gnome peeled off like flakes of ash, crumbling to the floor.
“When did you get the automa?” the doge asked calmly.
“Not a week ago, my doge! I don’t know where the trader got the automa from.”
The Wooden Prince Page 13
