I reach deep in my memory for a fable I once heard from a wandering tinker on a wood-gathering trip, one surely retold countless times under ebony skies filled with stars. It’s a grim tale from long before my time, one I guess the elders in the crowd will recognize. I’ve never forgotten it. Ignoring the worried grousing of the trees at the edges of the marktplatz, I make my voice strong and alluring as a town crier’s and plunge headfirst into a story I’ve never told before.
It’s just a story, I tell myself, to remind them all that the magic still exists. That there is more going on around us than meets the eye. To remind myself of that fact.
By the end of the tale, I realize I have scarcely breathed the whole time. When the dark fairy reveals that the bread the innocent beauty had eaten was conjured from rocks, hisses emanate from the crowd. With the maiden’s belly weighed down by stones, the devastated prince cannot carry her; she is far too heavy to rescue. Instead, the cruel fairy binds the maid to her donkey, cursing them to walk to their deaths, the donkey dragging the poor maid behind him like a millstone round his neck.
The crowd calls out warnings as the fairy carts the prince from the stage, selfishly determined to keep his love to herself. With great flourish, I shutter the curtains to their titillated cries. I am exhausted, but empty of regret.
“Reckless!” a few voices cry above the clapping—though that may be the trees.
My elation is high when many coins, which I know are increasingly difficult to spare, fill my ledge. Performing the tinker’s risky story gives me the same morbid satisfaction I feel after a splinter, as if I deserve the torment of my lie. But I know the truth of this tale all too well. Just as quickly as magic may conjure a new gift, it may also weigh the bearer down with a belly full of stones.
That night, I ignore the signaling knock from the other side of the cupboard. I can’t bring myself to open it; Bran doubted I could step into my father’s shoes and complete the work waiting for me in Curio below. How could someone who belonged from the moment he first squalled in his mother’s arms know how it feels to come from something rather than someone? How could he understand this impossible chasm between what I am and how I came to be? The distance between us wraps around me like the cold weight of a dead man’s embrace.
CHAPTER 7
THE NEXT EVENING, DESPITE MY EXHAUSTION, I ABANDON MY tools for an hour to join the Maker’s Guild at the usual place. It’s true The Louse and Flea isn’t much to look at, and neither are its regulars, but the smell of the tavern gives me a rush whenever I step in. I don’t much care for the foamy beers or dark bottles that keep men planted in front of them until their heads no longer sit upon their shoulders by their own strength, but I love the way the years of soaked barrel staves, rich hops, and laughter coat the very walls in a thick, smoky layer of comradery. Well-worn tables take up most of the pub’s dark interior, tables at which many a pair of dirty elbows have ground divots into the wood while eager hands lifted a pint of diversion with friends.
I step inside and nod to Gert, the barmaid, as she expertly wipes mugs with a damp rag and a practiced hand. I wind my way around the narrow common room, having to twist and turn to fit in between the bodies at their stools. Back in a corner, I see them gathering like a brood of hens to cluck and fuss: the Maker’s Guild.
Bran’s father was responsible for first gathering us together after he came to town, hoping that if we worked as a collective we could share the hardships of our respective crafts and generally look out for one another. If Gephardt Leiter became my father through a bit of magic and love, the Guild has become my family through a stroke of sheer luck. News of my father’s stay in the Keep already reached the Guild, thanks to the tailor.
Nan’s eyes brighten and she shoves over, making room for me by knocking right into Tiffin and spilling the contents of his mug. Irritation flashes across Tiffin’s narrow face, but he moves down and continues silently brooding into his drink. The tall, brown-skinned blacksmith-in-training is built like a marionette, all lanky limbs and loose joints.
As the blacksmith’s striker, Tiffin spends his days hefting the heavy hammers that Mort, Tavia’s blacksmith, uses to forge metal. You wouldn’t think him fit for the job by looking at him, for Tiffin appears to possess the strength and disposition of a string bean left too long on the vine. But his nimble hands work marvelous magic with metal. The young smithy has dreams of one day setting out on his own to be a traveling tinker, free from the confines of our staid village.
Nan fills my glass from a waiting pitcher of water. I shoot her a grateful look and gulp it down. I land my empty water glass on the table a little more forcefully than intended.
“Easy there, Piro, wouldn’t want to get too crocked on the first cup!” chortles Fonso, who by now already has a mug of ale too many down his own gullet. His beefy shoulders shake while he laughs at his own joke, his massive hands thrumming the table. His stocky fingers are crisscrossed with a litany of white and pink scars, remnants of blowing glass over the unearthly temperatures of the furnaces in his workshop.
“I’ll try to slow down, Fonso, so you can keep up,” I say, filling my water glass a second time. He winks.
“Long day, Piro?” Nan pipes up. The slender potter is wedged into the corner closest to the fireplace. Her dirty boots are slung up on the hearth as she leans back in her stool, exposing an indecent length of clay-spattered red stockings beneath dusty skirts.
“Long year, actually. I needed a break.”
Nan raises a pair of black eyebrows, more expressive than I could ever manage with a brush. Her dark eyes are probing and don’t miss much.
“Well, I’m tired of looking at Tiffin’s long face over here,” says Fonso. “So thanks to the rest of you showing up.” He nods to me and Nan and Emmitt. “At least I’m not having to suffer that burden alone anymore.”
Tiffin takes a rebellious swig of Fonso’s mug.
“I just got here, too. We’re all late, except Tiffin, who has an uncanny ability to be on time even though the forge doesn’t keep a clock.” Nan eyes Tiffin suspiciously.
“Mort says it would melt in the heat. Not good for the gears,” he mumbles.
“True,” Emmitt agrees. “Heat is no good for a timepiece.”
“Sorry I was late, too.” I sigh. “I’m up to my ears in wood chips and soldier parts. I can’t stay for long.”
Everyone instantly grows sober at the mention of the wooden soldiers.
“How is ol’ Gep? Have you had word?” Emmitt asks, deftly rolling a small clock gear back and forth between the knuckles of his right hand. The nimble trick reminds me of our younger days, of the way Emmitt would pluck wee gears from behind my ears as though they’d sprouted there, or conjure extra sweets to tuck into my pocket. Emmitt was always easy to love—tall, dark, and rugged, a visibly healthier specimen than his nearly translucent half-brother up in Wolfspire Hall. Foolishly, I used to wish Emmitt might become my real brother, but over time I understood Papa and Anke’s hearts are too tightly tied to their first loves to ever be anything but friends. Thankfully, Emmitt and Anke remain part of my Guild family.
“Papa will be out soon,” I say as convincingly as I can. “I’ll finish this last dozen. Then I can bring him home to rest.” Their eyes fill with hope for the puppetmaster, though the workload still lies heavy on my shoulders. Nan pats my arm and pours me another glass.