The Wooden Prince

by John Claude Bemis

  The cricket screeched, “What are you doing, you incorrig—”

  Pinocchio cupped his hands around Maestro and dropped back into the canal. When he landed, he sprang through the opening after Mezmer. Once inside, he realized the water was only waist deep in the pipe. He released the panicked cricket.

  Maestro shot to the ceiling. “You could have crushed me!”

  The others all whispered, “Quiet!”

  Pinocchio pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “Well, Zingaro’s an undine,” Sop said quietly. “Can’t leave the water. So this is his way in and out of his house.”

  “This pipe connects the canal with his room down there behind that naiad curtain.” Mezmer pointed to a faint light at the far end.

  Pinocchio eyed the light, not sure what a naiad curtain was. “Are we going into his room?”

  “Not unless you want to drown,” Sop said. He stretched up on tiptoes to push aside a grate in the top of the pipe. “We’ll go in the dry way. Cinnabar won’t mind. Too much.”

  Maestro gave an uncertain flutter of his wings against Pinocchio’s neck. “Who’s Cinnabar?”

  “Just a djinni who lives with Zingaro,” Mezmer said.

  “A fire elemental and a water elemental,” Sop chuckled. “Funny roommates. I guess no one else can stand to live with Cinnabar.”

  Mezmer gave Pinocchio a serious tilt of her snout. “Whatever you do, dear, don’t mention to either of them that you were an automa.”

  “Why?” Pinocchio asked.

  “Others…well, they might not understand.”

  Pinocchio wasn’t sure what she meant. Would they not believe he was human? He then remembered how Wiq had hated him at first, because of how the empire’s might was built on alchemical creations made by Abatonian slaves. He supposed Mezmer was right to be cautious, but all the same, it made Pinocchio…what was the feeling? Ashamed? Should he be ashamed that he was once an automa?

  Heart racing, he followed Mezmer and Sop up through the drain and into a narrow hallway of rough stone. He’d been scared before, but he’d never felt it in his body this way. It made his hands quiver, and he wished he knew how to stop his body from acting so nervous.

  “Stay close, darling,” Mezmer whispered, taking his arm.

  Sop stood before a door at the end of the hall, adjusting his eye patch and smoothing back his whiskers. With a wink to the others, he threw the door open. A djinni leaped up in fright from a table, nearly knocking over his flaming dinner.

  “Cinnabar!” Sop said. “Been too long.”

  Cinnabar slumped against the table, dropping his spoon and slapping a hand to his chest. “Great Abaton! Mezmer, Sop…? Where did you idiots come from?”

  Sop pulled off his drenched chameleon cloak and gave a shake of his head, throwing water from his long black-and-white fur. “We had to use the back door. Sorry we didn’t knock.”

  The djinni Cinnabar looked so different from Al Mi’raj, Pinocchio almost didn’t recognize him as the same race. He was tall and thin, proportioned much more like a young man than the hulking fire eater of Siena. His horns were only slight nubs protruding from the oily hair at his temples, just above his black-and-yellow-speckled pointed ears.

  Cinnabar gave Pinocchio a jerky bow. “Welcome, young master.” Then in an undertone to Mezmer he said, “What’s the human boy doing here?”

  Pinocchio felt a small thrill run through him. The djinni saw him as human.

  “We’ll explain it all when we see Zingaro,” Mezmer said, wringing out her cloak. “Is he around?”

  “Of course he’s around,” Cinnabar said. “Not all of us get to move freely about the empire.”

  “Moving freely and being free are far from the same thing, darling.”

  “Your uncle, were he still alive, wouldn’t agree, Mezmer,” the djinni said, wagging an accusing claw. “And after all you’ve done—or should I say, not done—you’re sorely mistaken if you think we’re going to help you and whatever shady scheme you’ve concocted.”

  “When have we ever asked for your help on a shady scheme?” Sop purred.

  Cinnabar began to count off on his fingers, but Mezmer interrupted.

  “We’re not asking you to help us this time,” she said. “You’d be helping Prester John.”

  This caught Cinnabar short, and his fanged mouth fell open.

  A low voice said, “I fear there is no helping His Immortal Lordship.”

  It took Pinocchio a moment to figure out where the voice came from. But as Cinnabar turned, Pinocchio noticed a wall of shimmery fabric draped from the floor to the ceiling, almost like a sheet of immense glass. That must be a naiad curtain! The fabric enclosed the back portion of the room, which he now saw was filled with water.

  Mezmer walked toward the silvery curtain. “We know His Immortal Lordship is being held prisoner in the doge’s Fortezza. We’re planning on freeing him.”

  “Are you now?” the voice behind the curtain said, each word intoned with what sounded like bursts of bubbles.

  Pinocchio stepped closer. A dim light behind the curtain revealed a creature floating in the chamber of water. The undine was long and wispy, like strands of seaweed tangled together in the shape of a greenish man.

  “Following the path of the Celestial Order, are you, Mezmer?” Zingaro bubbled skeptically, his large unblinking eyes fixed on her. “Your uncle, rest his soul, filled your head with stories of the glorious Abatonian knights of old, hoping that you’d be the one to help free our people. What would he think to know you took up with Sop and his scoundrels instead?”

  “Scoundrels is too strong a word,” Sop said. “We’re more your garden-variety thieves. Still, better robbing villages than chained to the empire’s work gangs.”

  Zingaro shook his tendriled head slowly. “Why should I believe you’d really want to help His Immortal Lordship? Mezmer, who forsook her poor uncle. Mezmer, who left her people in Catchfools when they needed her most. You’ve only ever done what’s helped you.”

  Mezmer cast her eyes down.

  “That’s not true!” Pinocchio said. “Mezmer’s not like that at all. She’s a noble knight!”

  Zingaro turned his enormous, lamplike eyes to Pinocchio. “And who are you, young master?”

  Those eyes sent a little shiver through him, but he forced himself to meet the undine’s gaze. “I’m Pinocchio. My father is the former high alchemist Geppetto Gazza. And he’s being held prisoner in the doge’s Fortezza, along with Prester John. Mezmer has pledged an oath to help me rescue him as well as Prester John.”

  “Geppetto G-Gazza!” Cinnabar gasped. “The t-traitor? You’ve brought his son into our house? If the guards find out, we’ll be arrested! You idiots!”

  “Don’t worry,” Sop said, with a dismissive wave of his paw. “The guards won’t find out. We weren’t stupid enough to let ourselves be followed.”

  A bell attached to the ceiling jingled. Cinnabar looked at the bell and then glowered at Sop.

  “What was that?” Sop asked.

  “The front door!” Cinnabar snapped. “The door upstairs to the street. Someone just came in.”

  “Were you expecting company?” Sop asked innocently.

  “No, we weren’t expecting company! No one from Catchfools would be out at night. It’s the guards! They must have seen you in the canal!”

  They all stared at the door. Pinocchio held his breath, listening, but the house was silent. He drew his sword. Sop did the same, and Mezmer raised her spear. Cinnabar ran over to a cabinet and began rummaging through it.

  “Cinnabar, didn’t you lock the door?” Zingaro asked.

  “I locked it! Obviously whoever it is broke it open.” The djinni turned around, holding a small handheld crossbow.

  “Cinnabar!” Zingaro expelled a jet of bubbles. “You can’t attack imperial guards!”

  “It’s not for the guards,” the djinni said, fumbling to pull back the string and lo
ad a barbed bolt. “I plan to use it on these idiots and tell the guards they broke in to rob us. I won’t be implicated with—”

  “You wouldn’t,” Sop said.

  “I would! Unless you get out of here.”

  “Quick!” Mezmer said, flashing Cinnabar a reproachful scowl. “Back into the canal.”

  Pinocchio followed them out into the hallway when he remembered, “Maestro!”

  Mezmer and Sop kept going, but Pinocchio ran back into the room. “Where’s Maestro?”

  “GO!” Cinnabar spat.

  Maestro’s muffled voice came from the cabinet. “I’m not going into that canal.”

  “And I’m not going to leave you behind, you cowardly cricket!” Pinocchio said, opening the cabinet.

  “Idiot boy, I’m warning you!” Cinnabar aimed the crossbow pistol at him. “Do as you’re told!”

  “As I’m told?” Pinocchio scowled. Who did Cinnabar think he was? He wasn’t some automa who had to follow orders. He was a human boy now. But he pushed aside his anger, digging around the cabinet for Maestro.

  The small crossbow trembled in Cinnabar’s outstretched hands. “You have to leave before—” The djinni’s words broke off. “Oh, no!”

  Pinocchio reared around and saw the handle turning. They were here! Pinocchio hesitated half a moment before an idea struck him.

  It was a positively insane idea. But it might just be the perfect thing. If he and his friends were planning to sneak into the Fortezza to rescue his father, then what better way than disguised as imperial soldiers? And here was at least one soldier on their very doorstep. He only hoped it wasn’t a whole squadron.

  Pinocchio flattened himself behind the door as it began to open. Cinnabar was practically frothing from his fanged mouth as he raised the crossbow pistol.

  Don’t! Pinocchio mouthed at the djinni. Trust me.

  Pinocchio drew a deep breath. From behind the slowly opening door, the tip of a sword emerged.

  Pinocchio grabbed the door handle and pulled it so hard, the person on the other side came tumbling in. The cloaked figure made a deft roll, coming back to his feet and charging Pinocchio. They clashed blades before Pinocchio made a swift circle with his sword, catching the attacker’s cross guard and sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Pinocchio leaped at the attacker, knocking him to the floor, his sword aimed at his face.

  Not his face, Pinocchio realized in surprise. Her face. And she definitely wasn’t an imperial guard.

  The girl had a long curtain of blue hair—the color of a perfect midday sky—but the angry eyes boring into him were a darker blue, a midnight blue, and they glowed like luminous gemstones. Didn’t sylphs have blue…?

  She kicked him in the stomach so hard he flew against the wall.

  Mezmer and Sop raced back into the room ready for battle, but at the sight of the girl, they lowered their weapons.

  “Who is she?” Mezmer asked.

  “No idea,” Cinnabar said, coming forward with his crossbow pistol raised.

  The girl stood lightly and straightened her cape. Slumped against the wall, Pinocchio tried to suck in a breath but found that the best he could manage was an embarrassing little gulp. Whoever this girl was, she sure knew how to kick.

  Maestro sprang from the cabinet and landed on the girl’s forearm. “Your Highness!” he squeaked. “Princess Lazuli. You’re alive!”

  “Princess?” Mezmer asked. “Princess of what?”

  “Of Abaton, of course!” the cricket said. “She’s Prester John’s daughter.”

  Mezmer’s and Sop’s mouths fell open.

  Cinnabar dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Your Highness!”

  Lazuli looked around the room, her eyes narrowed. “Where’s my father? I thought…I was certain he was here.”

  “He’s not, Your Highness,” Maestro said. “And I…I thought Captain Toro killed you.”

  “I’m not that easy to kill,” she said, still looking around as if she half expected to find Prester John hiding under a table.

  “But I saw you get shot,” Maestro said. “How did you survive, Your Highness?”

  “Fortunately for me, Captain Toro’s musket ball hit this.” She pulled a necklace up from the collar of her shirt. On the end was a glass orb, about the size of an apple. A chunk was missing, and the rest of the glass was cracked in a spiderweb network.

  “Your Hunter’s Glass, my princess,” Maestro said sympathetically. “It’s broken.”

  “Better it than me,” Lazuli said.

  She gave Pinocchio a look. It was definitely a scowl. He had disarmed her, after all, and nearly stabbed her in the face. Not his best introduction, especially to a princess. He wondered if all princesses in Abaton were this lovely. He realized he was staring at her rather stupidly and tried to undo the expression by giving her a scowl back. She looked away, unimpressed.

  “After I escaped Siena, I thought the powers of the Hunter’s Glass were destroyed,” Lazuli said to Maestro. “Until I reached Venice. After I lost you and Master Geppetto, I decided to come here, to see if I could find any of my father’s undines still in the lagoon. I was hoping if any had survived the attack, they might have discovered where Father was. But I found none of his undines, and when I reached the city, the Hunter’s Glass began glowing. It seemed to be working again, and it led me here. I was sure my father was being held in this house!”

  “You thought His Immortal Lordship was being held in Catchfools?” Cinnabar said. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but this is the last place the doge would hold Prester John. Your father was held in the Fortezza until just a few days ago—”

  “Where is he now?” Lazuli demanded.

  “Gone,” Cinnabar said, splaying his clawed hands.

  “What!” Lazuli and Pinocchio shouted at the same instant. They scowled at each other.

  Pinocchio rounded on Zingaro. “You didn’t mention they were gone!”

  “I was just about to explain before Princess Lazuli arrived,” Zingaro said from behind the curtain.

  Lazuli blinked at the silvery curtain, as if just noticing the undine.

  “Your Highness,” Zingaro said, “it is a great honor to meet you. A great honor indeed to have Abatonian royalty in our home. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Zingaro, and this is my partner, Cinnabar.”

  He gestured with a webbed hand to the djinni, who gave Lazuli another bow. “We serve in the workshops of the alchemists in charge of the imperial armories,” Zingaro continued. “In this position, we are privy to occasional news from the Fortezza, news we overhear from our masters.”

  “We heard when your father was taken captive by the doge,” Cinnabar said. “How the lead chains the doge was using to hold His Immortal Lordship were weakening him. He’s been dying, Your Highness.”

  Lazuli gritted her teeth and looked away, but not before Pinocchio saw the tears spring to her eyes. He’d never been around any princesses before, but he could tell from the way everyone was acting that royalty was supposed to be treated differently from others, with a certain dignity, not gaping at them when they were on the verge of tears.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Cinnabar said, gaze lowered. “But this has to account for why His Immortal Lordship has done it.”

  “Done what?” Lazuli asked.

  Zingaro gave a burst of bubbles. “Three days ago, the doge departed Venice with his imperial fleet. A dozen onyx-class flying warships.”

  “But why?” Mezmer asked.

  “Can’t you see?” Cinnabar said. “His Immortal Lordship was left with no choice. The lead chains. He wouldn’t have survived otherwise. He’s…being forced to bring the doge…to Abaton.”

  Maestro burst into a flurry of bewildered chirps. “Abaton! But…but that would mean…!”

  “Are you saying my father is allowing the doge to invade Abaton?” Lazuli said, anger flashing in her luminous eyes. “This simply cannot be. He would die first! He would never—”

  “I’m
afraid he is, Your Highness,” Zingaro said.

  “But what about my father?” Pinocchio interrupted. “Is he still in the Fortezza?”

  “Your father is the only Venetian in centuries to have visited Abaton,” Zingaro said. “The doge naturally would have brought Master Geppetto with him.”

  Lazuli spun around to Pinocchio, blinking hard as if coming out of a daze. “You! You’re the missing automa.”

  Cinnabar began a forced laugh as if trying to play along with the princess’s joke. “The young master’s no automa, Your Highness. He’s Geppetto Gazza’s son. Look at him. He’s plainly human.”

  “You’re Pinocchio, aren’t you?” Lazuli asked. “The automa my father sent to Master Geppetto.”

  Cinnabar gave a few more dry laughs, but then saw Princess Lazuli’s serious expression, and his yellow jaw dropped.

  Pinocchio felt as if a cold and crushing slab of silence had fallen on the room. No one said a word.

  He took a breath. “Yes. I am.”

  Lazuli instantly regretted that she had revealed the boy’s secret. She could see the panic in his eyes as they flickered from Cinnabar to Zingaro. She had just been so shocked that this was who—what—he was. With his mop of sandy hair and his funny pointy nose, he looked nothing like an automa. He looked real.

  Sop started cackling, clapping a hand across his belly as his whole body jiggled. “I wish you could see the look on your face, Cinnabar,” he said, wiping a finger under his eye patch.

  “You knew!” Cinnabar snarled.

  “Of course we knew,” Mezmer said coolly.

  Cinnabar slithered around Pinocchio, staring at him with fiery yellow eyes. “So this…this is nothing but an automa contraption?”

  Lazuli could see that Cinnabar had an unmistakable hatred for Pinocchio.

  Pinocchio reared up, nearly eye to eye with Cinnabar. “I’m no contraption!”

  Cinnabar jerked back before circling around Pinocchio, scrutinizing his face. “Where are its seams?” He touched a finger to the back of Pinocchio’s neck. “Look! There’s a mark here in the shape of a keyhole! Where his fealty lock was.”