“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.
“We’re a small band tonight, aren’t we?” I ask, noting the empty places where my father, the tailor, and Bran would normally be.
“Say, where is the Golden Boy?” Fonso asks, looking to me for an explanation of Bran’s whereabouts. “And the tailor?”
“Don’t know.” I sniff, trying to act as if Bran’s location and occupation aren’t of great importance to me.
Nan’s eyes narrow. I haven’t spoken to Bran at all today, ever since I didn’t open the cupboard door. It’s killing me.
“No puppetmaster, no Bran or the tailor. This is a sad state of affairs,” Fonso grouses. “I come to The Louse and Flea to be cheered, distracted from my troubles, not to be thrust right back under a black cloud by you sorry lot.”
The glass smith scratches his chin, the bristles of his red beard gleaming like copper wire in the lantern light. Fonso is still attempting to grow in his beard and the fact that he’s managed a chin-full thus far is a point of great pride.
“It’s a black cloud out there all right,” Nan mutters, tossing a glossy braid over her shoulder. “I can hardly afford to enjoy the sun when it shines after the last set of taxes the Margrave levied. A working girl can barely make a decent living in this town!” she complains into her mug.
Nan owns the pottery studio and kiln at the end of our lane. Her small frame, black eyes, and pale skin bestowed by her ancestors in the East often lead people who didn’t know her to mistake her for a young apprentice at her own studio instead of the master that she is.
“I’ve a solution to that problem for you, Nanette Li,” Fonso says boldly.
Nan rolls her eyes. “Marriage to you isn’t the solution to my problems, Alfonso Donati.”
Fonso grins. “No? It would be a lot more fun than lower taxes or a sudden windfall of gold. I guarantee it,” he says, flirting shamelessly.
Emmitt snorts into his cup.
Nan kicks Fonso sharply under the table. “I’ll take that windfall of gold any day, thank you very much.” She sighs, tucking her small, clay-crusted hands deep into the pockets of her work apron.
I look to Tiffin, who is sullenly tracing patterns in the dew on his mug with a dirty finger instead of drinking from it. He looks particularly troubled, which is a change from his normal state of morose.
“Tiff? What’s eating you?” Emmitt beats me to the query, topping off his glass.
“Like the puppetmaster and the tailor, Mort’s had a bit of a windfall, too. A big commission from Wolfspire Hall.” Tiffin swallows, the sharp knob in his throat rising and falling against his collar.
All ears at our table immediately perk up.
“For what?” says Nan sarcastically. “New ironworks to decorate the Margrave’s billiards room? Life-size chess pieces, perhaps?”
The Margrave is an avid player of chess, backgammon, knucklebones, stones—any table game of skill or chance. Since the man isn’t blessed with physical prowess, he fancies using what he believes to be a great intellect to soundly beat his opponents.
“No,” says Tiffin, shaking his head and setting his tight-knit brown curls bobbing. “Weapons. And not the gaming sort.”
The rest of us sit with mouths open like the fishmonger’s morning catch of silvertail.
“Broadswords, longswords, rapiers. Knives of various lengths. One hundred of each.”
Something in my belly tightens like a screw. We’ve been commissioned now, after many months, to produce a hundred soldiers in all. Same for the tailor: a hundred uniforms, custom-fitted to my father’s creations. One hundred soldiers and uniforms, with a set of weapons to match.
“Well, throw me in the kiln and call me baked!” Nan utters.
The blacksmith has never had an order like that before and we all know it. At most, Tiff and Mort are shoeing horses, repairing farmer’s tools and working on a custom piece or two at a time. And that’s in a good month.
“Well, isn’t it about time?” asks Fonso. “The Guild is finally getting some francs from the Margrave. Heaven knows he’s as stingy as they come and it’s about time we started getting something back for all the taxes we’ve paid to cushion his overstuffed behind. Don’t suppose I could pop in to have a look?” asks Fonso. “I’d like to see what kind of armory is deemed fit to grace the Margrave’s walls.”
Tiffin chews on a worn nub of fingernail. “I’ve been pouring and striking for what feels like years, but it’s only been a week,” he says bleakly. “The only good thing is Mort is paying me overtime, to work at night. Otherwise there’s no way we’d be done in time.”
I nod. This is the way it is with the Margrave.
“I can’t wait to get my hands on one of them broadswords,” Fonso says eagerly, thrusting and parrying his mug like a blade.
“I’ll be staying far away from any establishment that gives you free reign on a pile of sharp objects,” Nan says.
“Looks are deceiving. I’m exceedingly coordinated, for one so large and strong.”
“You won’t get the chance,” Tiffin says. “The Margrave’s man comes and takes them away almost daily, when they’re barely even cooled.”
“I don’t
