There’s a huddle of Cerels under an awning in one corner of the square. With a sinking feeling, I can tell it’s the puppet show. They move around the Cerel district, putting on shows for us. You never know when they’ll pop up next, keeping one step ahead of the authorities, and it’s not something I want Emee to see. The stories are too political, too charged, and I don’t like hanging round where there might be trouble. It’s the kind of thing Jorzy would get involved in, if he didn’t have such a strong feeling for self-preservation. The puppeteers have a reckless kind of energy that draws bad luck.

But it’s too late. “What’s that?” Emee asks inquisitively. She drops my hand and starts walking in that direction.

“It’s nothing really,” I mutter.

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she retorts. “Oh, Leho, puppets!”

There’s a makeshift booth hung with sacking. People are standing around with silly grins on their faces, so I’m guessing a story has just finished.

I tug at Emee’s sleeve. “The honey cakes are over here.”

“Hush,” she tells me, her gaze focused on the little stage of the booth where two puppets have appeared.

Despite my misgivings, I can’t help wanting to see what the story’s about. The last time I saw them, there was a Fonecian pirate with a hooked nose and a serving wench who beat him with a spoon. It was hilarious. Now there’s a man puppet in a suit waving a little sword, and an old woman puppet cringing at his feet.

“Please, good sir, don’t hurt me,” cries the old woman in a falsetto voice. “I was only gathering these acorns for my dinner!”

“Dinner?” roars the man puppet. “How dare you eat dinner!”

Laughter runs through the small crowd that’s growing as more people come to see what’s happening, and with dismay I see Marta Gayer frowning at the edge of the crowd. There could be trouble if she runs off to report the puppet show.

“How dare you eat acorns!” shouts the man puppet. “They’re my acorns!”

The old woman puppet cringes even lower. “Sorry! So sorry, good sir! I’m just a simple Cerel, trying to feed my family–”

“That’s no excuse,” shouts the man puppet, looming over the old woman. “Here, take that!” And he whacks her with the small wooden sword.

“Ow!” cries the old woman, wringing her puppet hands. “Ow, ow, ow!”