CHAPTER 1
TAVIA’S MARKTPLATZ IS NEARLY FULL BY THE TIME I HITCH Burl to our custom-fitted theater wagon and find an unoccupied corner of the square. Merchant tables and tents unfurl in a patchwork of every kind of ware, both common and exotic, that a Tavian might desire. Burl stands placidly, a bastion of calm among the shrieks and high-pitched chatter of those bargaining their way to fuller stomachs and emptier purses.
“A puppet’s pull goes far beyond its strings,” Papa often reminds me. “Marionettes aren’t just for children. A story—a good one—will grip any audience, young or old.”
I desperately hope the audience will be gripped today. I’m already sweating and hungry as I set up our little stage. The ridgepoles snap neatly together, and over them I hang a tailored shade to hide myself and the marionettes, sleeping in their trunk.
I lower the side panel like a drawbridge, revealing rich velvet curtains dangling at the ready. The stage is eye-level for children, though as my father anticipated, adults linger in the back of the crowd to watch, too—a puppet show in the marktplatz is always a welcome diversion. Afterwards, the generous will show their appreciation by placing coins on a narrow ledge bordering the stage. On a good day, I scoop up francs by the handful before returning home. I need today to be one of those days—Papa needs more paint. Again.
Inside the wagon, spools of canvas swing from the ceiling, backgrounds that I can lower and change depending on the story. My fingers stroll through the scenes, each one bearing the evidence of my father’s skilled brushstrokes. I select one with a familiar-looking tower in the distance. The crest on the tower’s banner is indistinguishable, but the flaming red color means only one thing to me: The Margrave.
Tavia isn’t a particularly large territory. There’s the sprawling village and surrounding farms, then the inner district where the Maker’s Guild and other merchants live and work, all wrapped around the central marktplatz. The Margrave operates as overseer, ruling from his estate at Wolfspire Hall thanks to an ancient appointment of the von Eidle family bloodline. He answers only to King Nicos II, who rules our lands from a city I’ve only ever heard whispers of—Elinbruk. The king and his rules are so far from here they may as well not exist. Not for us. The Margrave is king here.
With the stage set, I close the curtains ceremoniously, giving a sly wink to the gaggle of children already gathering at the theater’s edge. Anticipation builds in me each time I perform, like steam swirling in a teakettle. I settle myself on a three-legged stool and slide open the locks of the trunk with a satisfying chink.
The marionettes I perform with are some of our best, each about the length of my arm, painstakingly carved and painted and fitted with costumes that rival any larger stage. Carefully, I lift each performer from the silk-lined depths of their resting place. I hang the ones I’ll need later from hooks to keep their strings from becoming tangled.
I select a marionette I carved myself a few years ago, a peasant girl. She’s rough compared to the work I can do now, but the unrefined quality of her face suits her. Tassels of dark yarn escape the kerchief around her head and a smattering of freckles dance across her nose. I choose her companion for my opening scene: a gray donkey whose head bobs on its own string.
It’s taken years of patient study to become a puppetmaster’s apprentice, to learn how to work with wood to produce the pieces I see in my mind’s eye. But putting on a show with marionettes, that comes as easy as breathing. I can almost feel myself slipping through the wooden controls, sliding down the strings into the armature. Voices bubble up out of their faces and, just like that, a story is born.
“Masters and mistresses, girls and boys, I offer for your amusement a tale that is sure to charm and delight. A story that will make you laugh and weep. A myth that will stir your very soul—”
“Oh, get on with it, ya laggard!” harps a man’s voice from beyond the curtain. “Before we’re all as old and gray as Wolfspire’s stones!”
I pause and grin. Without fail, there’s a heckler in every crowd.
While my audience cheers, I quickly draw the curtains closed. It’s important to never let them see the mess of props I must set to rights before the next show. “Hide the hands behind the strings,” as my father would say.
According to the sound of coins filling the wagon ledge, my tale hit its mark. When I reach out to gather them up, I can’t ignore small pairs of hungry eyes tracking my penny francs like slices of hot bread. I motion to two hollow-looking faces to join me at the back of the wagon and tuck a few coins into each open palm. Squealing, the children run, slipping away into the crowd. The stand of maple trees at the edge of the marktplatz murmurs approvingly, their gold-tinged leaves rattling like treasure in a tinker’s coat.
As I’m resetting the stage and carefully adjusting my puppets, four sharp taps sound at the wagon door.
“Pirouette? It’s me.”
Bran’s voice makes my pulse pick up. I unlatch the door, surprised to see his brown eyes flitting anxiously across the marktplatz. Instead of greeting me, he climbs right inside the wagon and snaps the door shut behind him. Though it’s only built for one puppeteer, there’s room enough for us both to crouch in the warm, dim interior if we squeeze together closely. I don’t mind.
“You had quite an audience going there, Piro.”
“Indeed.” I smile, shaking the bag of coins.
Bran’s handsome face is not smiling. “They’re still out there.”
“The little beggars?”
“No. The duke and his guards,” he says pointedly. “And that big man who’s always shadowing the Margrave—the one who does all his dirty work.” He leans in, talking low. “I made a delivery and saw you had the whole square enraptured, including the duke. Von Eidle had such a strange look on his face. Like a man seeing the sun for the first time. I don’t like it.”
“The duke is here?”
That’s one downside of puppeteering; I can’t see the audience while I perform. I’ve only ever seen the Margrave’s son, Duke Laszlo von Eidle, from afar. I glimpsed him once riding in the carriage procession beside his father, a pale shadow of a boy in a man’s body. As a child, the duke was sickly, never going anywhere without a nurse and a rasping cough. Some sort of lung-wasting disease, they said, the same that killed his mother. The Margrave kept his son confined on their castle estate, bringing in tutors and the best doctors while keeping the rest of Tavia at bay. Though that was years ago, he’s still widely assumed to be too delicate to rub shoulders with commoners. The duke is rarely seen beyond Wolfspire Hall’s gates, let alone watching marionette shows at the marktplatz.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Bran! Father is so busy and I must buy more paint—” I whisper. “The wooden soldiers for the Margrave are bleeding us dry.”
“I know, Piro.”
A tight, stubborn shame spreads across my face, which was so triumphant just moments ago. “It was just a theatrical.”
“I know,” Bran says sympathetically. “But you need to take care, Piro. Especially if you’re going to tell stories like that last one,” he adds, eyebrows raised.
It’s true that my new story could easily be interpreted as satire; a selfish king’s rage turns him into a wolf, and in the end the wolf is struck down by the peasant girl’s well-aimed arrow. The crowd loved it.