“Perhaps the grand front entrance has ‘entitled imbeciles’ or ‘uncommonly arrogant’ carved upon its keystone?” I mutter. I wouldn’t know, for I’ve never been close enough to see it.
Inside a long, dark hallway, wood-paneled doors are marked with important designations like “Office of the Chamberlain” or “Porter’s Ward” and other offices necessary to the running of a noble household. It’s not difficult to find the one titled “Office of the Purser” and rap my fist upon it.
“Enter!” a muffled voice bellows.
Inside, I’m greeted by the sight of a dour Baldrik Engleborden tucked behind a small table unsuited for his body.
“Yes?” he says, not looking up while he briskly annotates paperwork, no doubt hard at work writing orders for other innocent Tavians to be brought in for crimes they did not commit or debts they do not owe.
I thrust the notice I found at Curio under his beaked nose.
“Where is my father?”
He blinks, seeing me for the first time, and snatches the note from my hand.
“In a holding cell. Awaiting the Margrave’s review, to determine proper compensation for failing to meet a deadline.”
“That’s not right!” I burst out. “We still had days left—five days now—to complete this last order. We were nearly finished—”
“The Purser’s Office is never inaccurate,” the giant says smugly. “He agreed to special terms—a rush order for double the pay—for this last dozen and did not comply.”
I glare at him. Oh, why wasn’t Papa more realistic?
“When did he agree to such terms?”
“We paid him a special visit several days ago, after the Margrave realized he would need the timbered guards sooner than previously specified.”
“But that’s impossible—we could barely meet this order such as it is. It’s not fair!”
The steward purses his lips. “I assume that Gephardt Leiter, famed puppetmaster, knows his business and is of sound enough mind to enter into business agreements. Especially for double the pay. Is he not?”
“Yes! Well, no, I mean …” I flounder, remembering my father’s recent state of feverish exhaustion. “He has worn himself to the bone to complete the Margrave’s order in such an unreasonable time frame. I’m worried for his health. Please! Let me see him. As his apprentice, I’ll find a way to complete the remaining soldiers that are left undone. In fact, I finished another just last night, and it may be picked up if you’re ready for it. Now there are only three. I’ll see to it myself. Please,” I beg.
The steward sighs deeply, as though pained day in and day out by such pathetic appeals.
“You may see him briefly this morning, but there is nothing to be done until he appears before the Margrave himself. The Margrave will mete out the appropriate sentence for recompense.”
“Fine,” I say hurriedly, hoping that if I can just see my father, somehow this will turn out to be a terrible misunderstanding, something I can remedy. “Thank you,” I add begrudgingly.
Baldrik draws himself up from his narrow chair and jangles a set of keys at his belt.
“You will only be allowed a few minutes, apprentice. Though I doubt you’ll want to stay longer.” He smirks.
’Til now I’ve never stepped foot inside the Margrave’s estate, let alone the Keep. I know little of the Keep’s present reality except what’s murmured in the market when another poor sot is dragged from the streets after trying to make a living by stealing what they can. Be they Margrave or Margravina, the noble-in-residence has always used the Keep as a vault, a place to store those branded as thieves and embezzlers, those who shirk their taxes or owe great debts.
Those branded as practitioners of the old spells might also find a home in its depths, if they’re lucky enough to escape the burn pile. The Keep is for any who dare to mar the placid tranquility with which the Margrave paints Tavia to the King in Elinbruk.
I follow the towering back of the steward down a warren of narrow passages, some dark, some lit with orange smudges of torchlight. Daylight is not a thing that keeps company down where we are going. I try to mark my way, just as I would in the forest, noting each turn and hall in my mind. It would be easy to get lost down here; I don’t entirely trust the steward not to abandon me to the maze.
We stop short at a reinforced door, whose curving metal crossbars remind me of sword blades. Baldrik nods to the guards stationed at the entrance and pushes it open.
“Your father is in 24. All the way down at the end. We’ll ring the bell when your time is up,” he says, roughly prodding me through the doorway with a leer. The heavy door closes soundly.
My heart races. Here in the depths of the Keep, the inhabitants reside in two stacked rows on either side of a narrow walkway. I can’t help but feel like a spectator at a traveling show, walking through a brackish menagerie of caged beasts. Torchlight ekes out every few cells, just enough greasy light to see my hand in front of my face. My feet shuffle on the moldy stones that pass for a floor. I don’t know whether it’s better to go slowly or hurry toward Papa’s cell, but in trying to lick the sudden dryness from my lips I realize I can smell them all before seeing them, the people who languish down here like rotting meat.
The stench of human waste and the acrid burn of urine makes my eyes overflow. I pull my apron up to cover my nose and plunge on, hardly daring to look to my right or to my left, fearing what I will see. Yet, as I stumble
