Chapter 142 The Puppet Master

The church stood at the head of the square, its steeple leaning like a tired man at day’s end. Its great doors hung open on a darkness, the thick bell rope swaying slowly although no wind touched it.

"Whoever holds six hundred strings must sit somewhere with a view, I would like to see him before he sees me," Zinnia said.

"We go in as a unit, shields forward, a Steelhorn never enters a trap sideways," Bruno rumbled.

Pipa checked the sling of her rifle, "Chat, I am taking the far pew, if anything shiny moves in the dark I shoot it first."

"Wires everywhere, stay careful," Zilch warned from the rack.

Nilo stepped through the doors with the lantern staff held low, tears running steadily down his chin. Squad Nine filed in after him, Brickle clutching the back of Bruno’s coat like a frightened child.

Every pew was full of villagers sitting stiff as dolls, their eyes fixed on the stage ahead.

The tall man in the mayor’s sash tipped his hat, "Ten paces from the door to the first pew, exactly as the plans promised, welcome to Halloway."

His seat was a carpenter’s stool, a folding rule hanging at his belt like a sheathed sword. His smile showed perfect teeth, the faint ring in his left eye turning once like a coin.

"Come in, come in, wipe your feet, class is about to begin," sang the woman beside him, laughing a half beat too late.

She sat behind a harp as tall as the nave, a thousand strings climbing into the rafters. Silver wire grew from her fingertips, threading into every string until the harp trembled with her breath.

"Mister Lathe and Miss Spindle, I presume," Zinnia said, one hand resting on her rapier.

"Two names, five syllables, you have done your homework, Miss Fox," Lathe replied, tipping his hat.

"You both wear the ring in your left eye, we watched that trick fail on Sweetwater in front of the whole city."

"Sweetwater was a fine tradesman, dear, but he never learned to stay out of the spotlight," Spindle said, plucking one wire.

Brickle crept out from behind Bruno, holding his clipboard up like a shield. "I demand to know on whose authority you have detained a Bureau Field Trial."

"On the authority of the audience, they voted six hundred to none."

"Forgive my colleague’s counting, dear, he measures the soup before he eats it," Spindle said, laughing late.

"A spoon is four inches, a bowl is eight, there is comfort in a number," Lathe answered mildly.

"Squad of four plus one examiner, average height five foot nine, combined weight eight hundred and sixty pounds, a lovely round figure."

"A mutual friend asked us to see how the Seatless dances under strings, he was quite curious, the poor man," Lathe added.

"Which friend?" Nilo asked.

"Oh, that would spoil the second act."

Lathe unfolded his rule one segment, then two, the hinges clicking like a rifle being loaded. He sat so relaxed that the stool seemed a throne, the ruined church a quiet garden.

"Seven steps lie between me and the young Steelhorn, a charge of roughly four hundred pounds, I do enjoy a measurable guest."

"Release these people or be broken, a Steelhorn gives one warning," Bruno said, squaring his shoulders.

"You have already spent it, dear boy."

Bruno charged with Toro blazing across his brow, the brass horns lowered at an angle fit for battering rams. The pews burst apart around him in a spray of splinters, yet the mayor never rose from his stool.

"Remarkable footwork for a man in such a hurry," Lathe observed.

The folding rule snapped open to the length of a fence rail, catching both horns on its hinge. One flick of Lathe’s wrist sent Bruno spinning over the stage, through two pews, into the far wall.

"Four hundred and twelve pounds, I was off by twelve, how embarrassing for a professional."

Zinnia cried out, "Bruno—"

Four copies of her surged across the nave before she finished, rapiers flickering in a ring around the harp. Spindle only closed her eyes, drawing one wire across her thumb until it sang a single pure high note.

Every copy dissolved like frost on a hot stove, leaving the real Zinnia alone in the aisle.

"Light cannot carry a tune, dear, that is the first lesson of the harp."

’Strings don’t cut light, they cut whatever light is bouncing off.’

Each plucked note rolled across the pews, the villagers swaying in perfect time like wheat in a mild breeze. Tears slid down six hundred faces, though not one painted mouth ever stopped smiling for even a single second.

"They sway in time with the notes, little one, every one of them," the Weeper murmured.

Pipa fired from the far pew, a husk round streaking toward the harp faster than any eye could follow. Spindle plucked a wire, catching the bullet with a bell-like ring, then flicked it back along the silver string.

The round shattered the scope, spinning the rifle out of Pipa’s hands.

"Chat, I think I have been graded," she whispered, clutching her stinging cheek.

"Are you hurt, young lady?" Brickle called from the rafters.

"Only in my professional pride, Examiner."

A wire hummed overhead, and Brickle left the floor with a yelp, dangling by one wrist from the rafters. His clipboard clattered down the aisle as his legs kicked, a marionette with the dignity of a boiled egg.

"Please note that I am being lifted without authorization, this is a gross violation of the Field Trial protocol," he squeaked.

"Noted... noted," Spindle sang, her laugh arriving late again.

Bruno rose from the splinters, shaking dust out of his hair, his pauldron cracked down the middle. He wrenched a pew from the floor, planting his feet and hefting it overhead for the throw.

"A Steelhorn does not stay down, madam... I merely paused to appreciate the architecture," he said.

"Charming, dear, but class is not dismissed yet."

A silver loop dropped from the rafters around his wrists, drawing taut until the pew slipped free. Bruno roared as it hauled him into a kneeling bow, his twin horns dimming like candle flames.

"Class, observe how a child struggles on a string, the harder he pulls the louder he sings."

He strained against the silver loop until the veins stood out on his neck, but it held.

Nilo stood in the aisle, the Weeper’s voice rising softly in his ear. "Little one, these two feel nothing at all, the wires pass through them like water through a sieve."

"That’s not the comforting way to put it," he whispered.

"Seventeen years old, five foot eight, one hundred thirty pounds, a mask with no grade at all, how unusual."

Spindle plucked a wire, "Weeping masks are my favorite, dear, they play themselves."

"Do try not to drip on the boards, dear boy, wet pine swells and sticks," Lathe added.

"Young man, I propose we stop talking and begin removing things," Clangor said from the rack.

Zinnia dashed past him in a streak of gold, Reynard’s speed carrying her across the nave. Her rapier reached for Spindle’s throat just as three wires crossed ahead, singing a sour chord.

"Too fast, dear, a string never needs to chase anything, it simply waits."

The light bent against the strings, spilling her onto the boards with a bright gash across her cheek. A silver line whipped from the harp, looped around her wrist, then dragged her bodily down the aisle.

’Lathe measures, Spindle plays, neither of them in any hurry.’

Nilo’s grin died on his face, the tears still running while his eyes went flat as winter slate. Every mask on the rack fell silent, Jingles stopping in the middle of a pun that never arrived.

"Put her down," he said.

Nilo launched across the aisle, the lantern staff blazing gold, tears flying off his chin in a glittering arc. Lathe finally rose from his stool, the folding rule coming up to meet the staff with a single crack.

"Four feet, eleven inches of reach, a respectable swing for a man in mourning."

"Seven steps to the stage, five to the harp, two to the mayor, I prefer a very tidy room," Lathe went on, striking the floor with the rule.

Walls of splintered pew rose from the boards with a sudden rattle like a thousand falling dominoes. They sealed Bruno in one pen, Pipa in another, Zinnia in a third, her wire snapping loose.

She shouted through the planks, "Nilo, the walls are closing, I cannot find a seam!"

"Watch whoever laughs late... that one is the player," she added, quieter.

"I am merely resting, a Steelhorn rests with great dignity," Bruno bellowed through the planks.

"Chat, if the dangling man is the bait, I formally withdraw from baiting," Pipa called.

’Three pens, one rafter, two Visages, and one very wet boy in the middle.’

"A pity about the squad, Mister Nilo, but we only booked the one guest."

"Please take a seat in the aisle, class will begin as soon as everyone is settled," Spindle added, laughing a beat late.

"I’ll stand, I tend to stand when someone cages my friends."

"Standing is ten percent less stable than sitting, but it is your funeral, dear boy."

The last wall slammed shut behind him, shaking dust from the rafters onto his shoulders like ash from a funeral.

The harp let out one low note that shivered through the floorboards, rattling every loose nail in the nave.

"Is it a bad time to mention that I make a terrible hostage?" Jingles squeaked.

"Darling, the acoustics in here are an absolute crime against music."

"Little one, there is a rhythm under the notes, listen for the place where it stumbles," the Weeper whispered.

"Now then," Lathe said gently, "shall we begin the second act?"