My ears strain for the familiar chipping noises of the chisel or the soft scrape of sanding or the creak of a stool, but the workshop is dead quiet.
Perhaps he’s finally taking a break.
I run downstairs, quickly darting between the workbenches strewn with the remains of a soldier’s legs, the matched pair torn asunder at the hips. The lanterns burn low, like they’ve been on all night. I dash back up the stairs. The kitchen is deserted. Papa’s bed appears unslept in. Returning below, I wander around, looking for clues. He’s hardly left Curio in days. Last night, when I came up, he still labored over a new block of wood, just beginning to carve a soldier’s head.
That block is still in its vise, but now I see that it boasts an unfamiliar blade sunk deep into the newly carved forehead. I gasp, my heart beating in my ears; it’s a short, thick knife, made for utilitarian purposes, like skinning a deer or a gutting a pig. And beneath the blade flutters a note.
We, the Office of the Purser of the Honorable Margrave Erling von Eidle, do render our account with Gephardt Leiter, Puppetmaster, Proprietor of ‘Curio,’ null and void due to incomplete fulfillment of Order No. 009, for one dozen (qty. 12) full-size, timbered guards. Monetary payment for this order will be withheld until its completion. The proprietor has been summoned to Wolf spire Hall, and will be held in arrears, until such time as his order is completed, or the Honorable Margrave is satisfied at his recompense.
-Baldrik Engleborden, Steward, Office of the Purser
My eyes take in the arrogant scrawling signature. My father has been what—summoned? Taken? I didn’t even hear anything out of the ordinary this morning while I slept, I was so tired. And we still have several days left, according to the Margrave’s original order. We aren’t late yet. I am sure of it.
Aren’t I?
Nothing else in the workshop seems amiss, except for the foreign blade. Prying it from the head, I slip both blade and note into a deep pocket of my apron and scurry into the storefront.
Hastily, I scroll back through our worn ledger and can see no further notations about this order, no changes made in my father’s wiry hand. The order in the ledger still says we have nearly a week left.
Since we first received the Margrave’s commission and the promise of more, Papa’s been so obsessed with the idea of getting ahead, of putting money away for tomorrow that I fear he never actually thought what might happen if he couldn’t complete the task.
Behind the counter, I flip open a chest shoved in the back where my father keeps old paperwork as well as orders and bills of receipt. Rifling through the papers, my pulse plummets when I come to one from a few weeks ago. It’s the full order for the current batch of soldiers: Number 009. It was stuffed far down in the pile, a weak attempt to hide it from me. My heart drops.
Noted at the bottom in smeared ink, as if the writer couldn’t wait for it to dry, is an added clause in the steward’s hand. It adjusts the date and marks the order due today for double the pay.
Why did my father sign off on this? We could barely keep up with the demand as it was! Guilt washes over me. Why hadn’t I kept better watch on him? He must have consented to it when I was out to the marktplatz, for I would have pleaded with him to come to a more reasonable agreement had I been there.
In fairness, I’m not sure my father had much choice—those who disagree with Erling von Eidle don’t usually fare well. Though we’ve yet to receive a penny for this most recent order, I’m coming to understand the Margrave sees everything in Tavia as his already. He may consider us already in his debt.
What can I do? I cannot call for the Margrave’s guards, for they are most likely the ones responsible for taking him away. With shaking hands, I sling on my cloak and lock up Curio. I dart quickly past The Golden Needle, not wanting to bother the Sorens until I know more.
I run through the main thoroughfare, past the marktplatz, my anger fairly shimmering off me on the path to the lower gates of Wolfspire Hall. I’ve heard it said that long before this Margrave’s time, the first Margrave of Tavia kept wild wolves chained at the gates. Thus the name of the von Eidle’s inherited residence, with its towering black spires. These days, the wolves at the gates are long dead. Now I worry the real danger is alive and well within.
When I arrive, the broad gate is locked with a chain and a padlock the size of my head. The two guards standing at attention inside it eye me, clearly bored.
“I must speak to the steward. About Gephardt Leiter, the puppetmaster. It’s urgent.” I flash them the note.
“You’re too late,” one of them replies. “He was brought in earlier this mornin’ but the steward isn’t hearing any more complaints today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
I argue with the dimwitted guards, but in the end, the exercise is futile. This infernal gate is as close as I will get to Papa today. Banging my fist against it in exasperation, I do the only thing I can think of. I turn and run, as fast as my wooden-feeling legs will take me, back to The Golden Needle.
“But how could they take Gephardt to that awful place?” Gita says, aghast. “The good puppetmaster? He’s been looking so worn as it is!”
I drop my head, ashamed I haven’t kept a better eye on him, that I haven’t forced him take more breaks or seen that he actually ate. He’s always been the one taking care of me.
“We didn’t see the guards either, Piro, they must have come before first light, surprising Gep at his workbench. And if they won’t let you in, his own daughter, there’s nothing that can be done until tomorrow,” Tailor Soren replies, his lips tight. “I’m so sorry, Piro. It seems you might as well go home and rest. Gita will bring you by something to eat.”
“I don’t need to rest, I’m fine,” I say, and at those well-worn words, I feel the pinprick of a sliver nudge from somewhere inside my palm. Not a lie, exactly, but not the truth either, Pirouette.
I must slow down, be careful, mind my speech. I don’t want the tailor and Bran finding out anything they shouldn’t because I’m too weary to stick to the truth.
“There’s no shame in rest, Pirouette. You and Gep are more than entitled to it, after the hours you’ve been putting in. Rest a little,” he says, taking in the shadows under my eyes and the way I’m cracking my knuckles, snapping each joint like nervous twigs.
The tailor himself droops with weariness, more so than I’ve ever seen. It’s a strange sight for a man who normally flits around his shop with the stamina of a hummingbird, seeing to everyone and everything with a large dose of exuberance. I’ve been so caught up in our work that I forget others are spending late nights laboring over their own workbenches, backs similarly bent under the weight of the Margrave’s tasks.
“Thank you, but I must get back to the workshop. There are still four soldiers left to be finished, and if Papa can’t complete them, then I shall.”
“Piro,” Bran begins to scold, but is silenced by a sharp look from his father.
“Yes, Pirouette. If you feel ready, get a head start on your work for today. That will make Gep feel a little lighter when you see him tomorrow, I am sure.”
I nod at him, grateful he understands. I must finish the task set before us.