The Wooden Prince (25 page)

She swiftly cut a handful of the long blue locks from the side of her head. There was a collective gasp. Cinnabar looked like he might start spitting lava.

“Your Highness!” Maestro hopped back and forth from one of Pinocchio's shoulders to the other in a complete panic.

Lazuli dropped the tangle to the floor and collected another handful of hair from the other side of her head, raising her sword. “I'm not as vain as you might think. As Pinocchio said, I'll do whatever is necessary to rescue our fathers.”

She sliced through the hair, leaving behind a jagged patch.

The only one not staring at her in horror was Pinocchio. He was grinning—a wide, approving grin.

The next morning, after Cinnabar and Zingaro had departed for their masters' workshops, Pinocchio continued work with the others on the flying carpet. They wove Lazuli's long strands into a tattered rug they'd taken from the upstairs hall. Mezmer told the princess that the three of them were quite capable of finishing the carpet, but Lazuli insisted on helping.

“The sooner we finish,” she said, sending the needle and thin strand of her hair back and forth through the carpet, “the sooner we can leave.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Mezmer said.

Pinocchio thought that Mezmer was acting strangely, not her usual relaxed self at all. While Sop wasn't doting on the princess quite as much as Mezmer, he was obviously keeping his sarcasm to a minimum. And Maestro was constantly watching Lazuli, constantly offering to play her another song.

“Which one would you like to hear, Your Highness?”

Lazuli gave a polite smile. “Any of them will be fine, Maestro.”

“How about the Mist Cities Sonata?”

“That would be lovely,” Lazuli said, trying to concentrate on the weaving.

“Or if you'd prefer, I could play—”

Pinocchio dropped his needle. “Just play any song!”

Maestro gave him a withering look. “No need to be grumpy. I just thought Princess Lazuli would enjoy some music as she worked. I thought you enjoyed my music too.” Maestro turned away from him and started his sonata.

“I do,” Pinocchio murmured. Glancing up from his work, he thought Lazuli gave him a slight smirk, but an instant later she had her polite princess expression back on, as she continued sewing.

Pinocchio couldn't figure this princess out. It was as if she had two sides. One side was the royal daughter of Prester John, who commanded absolute respect from her subjects with that haughty jut of her chin. But there was another side that Pinocchio glimpsed too. A flicker of annoyance when Cinnabar groveled and bowed. A flash of something fierce when she spoke of her father. And when she ran her fingers through her spiky new haircut—which looked an even brighter blue now that it was short—she seemed concerned.

He wondered if all girls were this complicated.

“Mezmer,” Lazuli asked, clearing her throat, “how long have you and Sop been…well…?”

“Been bandits?” Sop asked.

Mezmer cut her eyes at him.

“I was going to say, been free of your bondage,” Lazuli replied.

“We escaped from our work gang here in Venice many years ago, Your Highness,” Mezmer said. “I couldn't stomach serving a corrupt empire. A knight only serves a just ruler and a just society.”

Lazuli raised an eyebrow. “A knight, are you?”

Sop chuckled. “Mez fancies herself a true Abatonian defender, a knight of the Celestial Brigade.”

Mezmer lowered her snout. Pinocchio had never seen her act so shy.

“I had no idea I was being joined by a noble knight,” Lazuli said, without the slightest trace of mockery. “I'm honored to have your service, Lady Mezmer.”

Mezmer was practically glowing. She leaped to her feet. “My spear is pledged to you, Your Highness.”

“I thank you,” Lazuli said.

Sop and Pinocchio exchanged a look. The cat rolled his one eye.

“Princess Lazuli,” Mezmer said, fumbling for the words. “When…well,
if
we are able to save His Immortal Lordship and reach Abaton, do you think…that I might be permitted to join the Celestial Brigade?”

Lazuli frowned. “I'm sorry to inform you, Lady Mezmer, that the Celestial Brigade no longer exists. It was disbanded centuries ago.”

“Oh,” Mezmer said, sagging noticeably. She slumped back down and picked up her needle. “What happened to it?”

“Abaton has been a peaceful island for ages,” Lazuli said. “There's no war, no bandits—”

Sop gave a cough, like he was getting a hair ball.

“No threat that has needed the Celestial Brigade's defending,” Lazuli continued. “I suppose my father felt the brigade was no longer necessary.”

Mezmer sewed in silence. Lazuli looked sadly from Sop to Pinocchio.

The cat shrugged. “At least you can say I was wrong, Mez. I always thought your uncle made those stories up, but you were right.”

When Mezmer didn't reply, Pinocchio felt a pang in his chest. Mezmer was hiding it well enough, but he knew how upset she must be to have her dream dashed.

“I suppose,” Lazuli began, “Abaton is indeed in danger again. If ever there were a need for a knight of the Celestial Brigade, I would say it is now. As the princess of Abaton and the daughter of His Immortal Lordship, I declare that you, Lady Mezmer, are the first in the renewed order of the Celestial Brigade. May your spear and your courage bring peace and safety again to Abaton's shores.”

Mezmer looked up, a fierce and determined expression on her fox face.

“Thank you, my princess!” She began sewing as fast as her needle could fly.

When Cinnabar and Zingaro returned that evening, they found the flying carpet finished. Cinnabar closely inspected their work, tracing his claws over every inch of the fabric. The carpet was relatively large—at least ten feet by twelve feet—and while it was grungy and so worn that its pattern was long faded, bright blue strands now sparkled throughout its surface.

“Sloppy knot work here,” the djinni declared. “I told you that the automa would make a mess of it.”

Pinocchio opened his mouth to argue, but Lazuli cut him off. “I believe I worked on that portion,” she said calmly. “Despite my palace tutors' best efforts, I'm afraid my sewing skills are hopeless. Will it fly?”

Cinnabar gritted his fangs and refused to look at Pinocchio, much less apologize. “Of course, Your Highness. You'll be able to leave us tonight.”

“Won't you come?” Lazuli said. “I've noticed you wear no fealty collar.”

“None of the djinn or gnomes of Venice have to wear collars,” Cinnabar said. “We're imprisoned on an island, after all, Your Highness. No djinni would be mad enough to risk getting wet!”

Pinocchio wasn't sure why this was, but he supposed it might have something to do with Cinnabar being a fire elemental. Whatever the reason, he wasn't sorry to leave the djinni behind.

“But this is your chance for freedom, old friend,” Mezmer said. “This is your chance to help rescue His Immortal Lordship and save Abaton.”

Cinnabar shifted uncomfortably.

“Scared of a little water?” Sop teased.

“It might just be a little water to you!” Cinnabar snarled. “But if I fell off that carpet, it would be like you falling in a sea of fire. Princess Lazuli, I beg that you understand.”

She nodded, and Cinnabar gave a sigh of relief.

“Besides, the more we have aboard, the slower we'll travel,” Lazuli said. “But the real problem is that carpets like these only go as fast as the breeze. How fast do you think the doge's fleet is traveling, Zingaro?”

“Faster than that, I'm afraid.” He stroked the seaweedlike tendrils coming off his chin. “A flying carpet alone won't be swift enough to catch up with the doge's fleet. But…yes, there might be a way.” Zingaro gestured to Cinnabar. “What about one of the projectiles your master designed? The new propulsion device for the Fortezza's missiles?”

“What is this device?” Lazuli asked.

“It looks like a simple stone pot with a narrow mouth,” Zingaro explained. “But if a highly combustible substance, such as powdered salamander, is burned inside, it forces a jet of hot air out the mouth. Creates a sort of rocket.”

“Call me crazy,” Sop said, “but I'm not sure anything combustible is the best thing to have around a carpet. Especially a carpet that's holding us up.”

“It would need to be secured to the back,” Cinnabar said. “That way the carpet would be safe from the flames. But that's not the problem. The amount of powdered salamander you'd need for a voyage this long would be too heavy, Your Highness. It won't work.”

Zingaro gave Cinnabar an urgent look. “Unless you were willing to go with them, Cinnabar. If you produced the flame, there would be no need for powdered salamander.”

Cinnabar began shaking his head violently. “No! I thought…but we agreed…I know djinn who have died from falling in water!”

“You won't fall,” Sop said. He extended his feline claws to snag Cinnabar's shirt. “I'll hold on to you. I promise.”

“It's no good discussing this,” Cinnabar said firmly. “We don't even have this projectile. It's locked away in my master's workshop. So you see? It's impossible.”

Pinocchio opened his mouth, but Cinnabar jabbed a claw at him. “Don't even start on how nothing's impossible, puppet.”

“We could break into your master's workshop,” Sop suggested.

Cinnabar spluttered, “You mean…steal it? Do you know what would happen to me if I were caught?”

Mezmer waved a hand around at the others. “We're all taking risks, Cinnabar. We need your help if we're to rescue His Immortal Lordship.”

Pinocchio didn't want the djinni to come. Cinnabar would never see him as more than just a “puppet” to be tormented. But if it meant the difference between reaching his father in time or not, he could put up with the obnoxious djinni.

“Don't be afraid—” he began.

“Don't you call me a coward, you charading contraption!” Cinnabar's yellow eyes blazed. “How dare you taunt me? What would your kind know about courage? I would give up my very life to save His Immortal Lordship and to protect Princess Lazuli!”

Lazuli raised an eyebrow. “Then you'll come?”

Cinnabar's mouth opened and closed before he managed, “Of course, Your Highness.”

C
innabar tried to use the excuse that there was no way to reach his master's workshop at night, but Mezmer had the solution: her chameleon cloak. There was still the obstacle of the gates on all the Catchfools bridges being locked, but Sop had the answer here. Being a thief had its advantages. He volunteered to go along, picking the necessary locks and keeping an extra eye out for trouble.

Pinocchio almost wished he could have joined them. To see the majestic city of Venice by night, especially sneaking along its canals and bridges under the cover of chameleon cloaks, sounded thrilling. But that would have meant accompanying Cinnabar. And that sounded about as thrilling as picking out those little crusty brown things that kept mysteriously showing up in his nose—another of the strange aspects of being human.

So Pinocchio had to wait while Cinnabar and Sop set off on their mission to steal the propulsion canister. At first, he and the others were all so preoccupied with final preparations—packing food, attaching the frame that Zingaro had built from stiff strips of naiad scales onto the carpet to support the canister, getting everything up to the rooftop for departure—that worrying about whether Cinnabar and Sop would get caught was pushed aside.

But once everything was completed and they gathered to wait on the rooftop terrace, with the night getting later and later, apprehension began to creep over the group. Mezmer sharpened her spear, casting glances to the street below every few moments. Maestro flittered anxiously from one side of the terrace to the other.

Pinocchio peered down at Zingaro, who was swimming in the canal. When the undine gave a quizzical look up from the surface, eager for news of Cinnabar's return, Pinocchio just shook his head.

Lazuli was lost in thought, pacing circles around the hovering carpet.

“You think they ran into trouble?” Pinocchio asked.

“What?” Lazuli looked up abruptly. “Oh, Sop and Cinnabar? No, I'm sure they're fine. At least I hope so.”

“What were you thinking about, then?” he asked. He glanced at the carpet. “Worried if this flaming, rocket-propelled carpet will work?” He had his doubts.

“I'm sure the canister and Zingaro's naiad-scale frame will be perfect. It's just…”

“What?”

“It's the Deep One.”

Pinocchio frowned. “The sea monster that guards Abaton? What about it?”

“If we don't reach the doge's fleet before they get past it, our voyage will be blocked…or worse.”

“It wouldn't eat us!” Pinocchio said. “I mean, you're Prester John's daughter; you're the princess of Abaton. Surely it would let you—”