Hatter (13 page)

The landlord glanced over his shoulder at the cart. “Is that refuse? For two more coppers I’ll haul it away for you.”

Hatta was stunned. He shoved past and stood protectively with his back to the mirrors.

“Your pardon, landlord, but what you thought was refuse is my wares. If you would unlock the shop,”
my shop,
he thought, “I’ll fain unload them.”

Producing a key ring from inside his coat, the landlord said, “I’ll let you have the honor.” He removed a steel key from the ring and placed it in Hatta’s trembling hand.

Feeling more adult than he ever had, Hatta strolled to the door of his shop. The solid key smoothly operated the mechanism, revealing a plain room with unfinished pine walls. It was only a few paces across and half a dozen paces deep, but there was enough wall space for his twenty-some mirrors.

The landlord relaxed in the tailor’s shop while Hatta carried his creations, one by one, into his shop. The last mirror, his masterpiece, was double wrapped. He carried it to the small room in the back of the shop, which held only a small cot.

As soon as the cart was empty the landlord came to collect it. Hatta bid farewell to the boorish mule with a light scratch behind the ear, but she merely twitched the ear and turned her head away, as if to say,
Good riddance.

Hatta hated to part under such circumstances but he had done as well as he could. After watching the cart and mule follow the landlord down the alley, Hatta joined the old man in his shop.

“Swylin is ever shrewd, but you made it effortless for him today.”

The old man still had a friendly expression and pleasant eyes, but the criticism was distressing. Hatta fingered his hat, examining the shades of purple.

Still waiting for objection or explanation, the old tailor continued. “You could have gotten six months if you’d pressed him.”

“I,” Hatta was flustered. “I need to visit, that is, there’s a, uh…” Hatta didn’t want to lie, but at that moment couldn’t tell the old tailor where he was going. “I’ll be leaving this city now. For a few days anyway. Might I pay you for the meal?” He reached for his purse and found it missing.

Flushing, he told the old tailor, “I might, but I’ve parted from my purse. I…”

“Consider it a gift. A token of welcome for my new neighbor.” The old man’s smile was genuine, but Hatta still had to get out.

“I thank you.” He placed his traveling hat, tipped it, then strode quickly out of the tailor’s shop and toward the gates of the city.

Navigating the streets of the city was easier without the ill-mannered mule, but the clamor of Palassiren still rattled him. The plaza in front of the gate was especially busy and Hatta put his head down as he scuffed toward the open gate. The gray slate leading to the gate seemed a dull mirror reflecting the dreary mood of the evening. He kept his eyes just high enough to avoid running into anyone, and after some time the crowd thinned.

Hatta watched the slate change into a multi-hued gray gravel, which gave way to the dark cinnamon clay of a road. He was finally out of the city. Daring a glance up from under the brim of his hat, Hatta realized he was some distance from the gate. In fact, the Hub was only a few dozen paces away.

The eight major highways of Maravilla, the Spokes, converged at The Hub. Hatta couldn’t read the signs, but it mattered little. The name of the road Tjaden had mentioned was no longer in his head. There was nothing to do except try them all. He ruled out the Spokes that led to Palassiren, Shey’s Orchard and Frenala, then picked one at random.

With a whistle on his lips, and finally feeling like the day might turn out for the good, Hatta set out to find the Cheshire Cat.

Chapter 12

Friend

Hunger, cold, and worry mounted as Chism ran through the night. His boots and uniform provided excellent protection from the elements, but the night was long and the miles stretched unnumbered behind him. Seventeen thousand, four hundred and fifty steps, but with his limping gait it was impossible to measure. A bandage circled his thigh, and the leg of his pants was tucked into his boot in an attempt to trap the trickling blood, but he still left incriminating streaks as a beacon for Jaryn’s men.

The sunlight framing the mountains to the east was a welcome sight as he ran through ankle-deep snow across the flat grasslands. But when it lit the blanket of snow, any relief Chism felt fled immediately. Stretching back to the base of the mountains was a slim vein in an otherwise undisturbed mantle of white. More disturbing still was a thin column of smoke less than two miles to the east, most likely from Militia scouts. They’d spot his trail within minutes.

There was no point in running faster. Limping faster, actually. He was miles away from cover. Plodding on, Chism waited for the inevitable pursuit.

It didn’t take long. A quarter hour after Chism noticed the campfire, a small group of men on horseback gave chase. The group consisted of four men—Provincial Militia judging by their dark cloaks. Their pace was steady but not reckless. They knew the landscape offered nowhere to run.

Duke Jaryn doesn’t know me well enough if he thinks patrols of four will take me easily.
Five or seven might be too many, but four was manageable as long as they didn’t all carry bows. With no cover and only a pair of throwing knives for projectile weapons, he’d have to resort to artifice.

Slowing to conserve his fading energy, Chism began to meander slightly in his path. When the men were a few hundred paces off, he stumbled repeatedly, and allowed himself to fall into the snow twice. By the time the group was close enough to yell an order to halt, Chism lay curled up in the snow sobbing. He cursed silently when he saw four arrow points trained on him.

One of the men came close while the other three spread out, keeping their bows at the ready. “
This
is the boy the duke wants?” asked the closest man in a raspy voice. “Calling him a thirteen was giving him too much credit.” The other three soldiers chuckled at their leader’s words.

Chism rose to a lazy seated position, but kept moaning. He hoped the melting snow on his face would pass for tears. In a faint voice, he muttered, “I don’t wanna be here. I wanna go home.” He hated the pathetic pretense, but already the soldiers were visibly relaxing. They’d pay for making him act weak.

“Put a rope around him and drag him back to camp,” said another soldier.

“He’s just a little guy,” answered the leader in his hoarse voice. The man had wide-set eyes and lips that angled downward at the corners. His cheeks hung over his jaw line, giving him a fish-like appearance. “I’ll tie his wrists and he can walk back. I bet the duke gives me a bonus for bringing him in healthy.” Fishy quivered his arrow, hung his bow, and dismounted a few paces in front of Chism. “Drop your sword, boy.”

After feigning two failed attempts, Chism drew Thirsty and let it slip out of his grip into the snow at his feet.

“Now step away from it,” said Fishy, holding his own sword.

Well that changes the plan.

Three soldiers still had bows ready. That was too many. With a backward step, Chism stumbled, but caught himself. He was only two steps from Thirsty, but Fishy motioned him back three more steps.

After retrieving a length of cord from his pack, Fishy approached. With a heavy nudge to Chism’s side he ordered, “Give me your wrists, boy.”

Whimpering, Chism lifted his arms unevenly then let them fall as if from exhaustion.

Fishy turned to one of his companions. “Get down here and hold his wrists so I can tie them.”

After putting his bow away, the man obeyed. Two soldiers stood in front of him, while two archers sat on horseback fifteen paces to the sides. The leader, Fishy, stuck his sword in the ground to free his hands while the second man reached for Chism’s wrists. The instant before the soldier touched him, Chism sprang into action.

Jumping at an angle, Chism used the soldiers to block one of the bowmen while drawing a knife. An arrow landed in the snow where he had knelt, a reflex shot by the bowman on his right. Chism threw the knife, striking him in the shoulder. The man screamed and his bow fell to the ground.

Fishy’s sword was in Chism’s hand and he struck the back of the shielding soldier’s head with the hilt. He fell like an empty suit of clothes. Fishy reached to his scabbard before realizing Chism held his sword. It was the fool’s own fault for underestimating him. Raising the tip to the leader’s neck, Chism kept hidden from the other bowman.

“Drop the bow,” said Chism, no louder than necessary.

Nobody moved.

“You can both die or neither of you can die.”

Again stillness followed.

“Your choice, not mine,” said Chism.

After drawing his second knife with his left hand, he brought the sword back to strike Fishy. The motion was enough to prompt the bowman into action. He threw both bow and arrow to the ground and raised his hands high. A wise choice.

With a sword at their leader’s throat it was a simple matter to get them dismounted and unarmed. After separating them from their arrows, he ordered them to break the bows. Without ranged weapons they weren’t a true threat. In one last effort to discourage pursuit, he took their cloaks and tunics. They wouldn’t freeze, but the shirtless walk back to their camp would hopefully take what fight was left in them.

With fresh horses and extra cloaks, Chism rode south at a fast trot, leading the spare animals by the reigns. After half a mile he slowed to a pace the horses could maintain. As he rode, he worked on a plan but couldn’t come up with any way to escape Far West Province on horseback. He would be too conspicuous, especially mounted on the fine steed of a soldier. The cloaks were useless to him. Without a company of men no border guard would believe Chism was a soldier.

Exhaustion was setting in, but if Chism stopped to rest he might be overtaken. There were no signs of pursuit, but it was inevitable. Fitful naps as the horses plodded on had to suffice.

The snow on the ground thinned as Chism traveled south, and a change appeared in the landscape. A fuzzy line of low trees in the distance cut a path through the endless pasture land. He longed to race the horses for the trees, but kept them at a steady walk. A plan was beginning to form.

As Chism hoped, the trees bordered a creek, barely a trickle at its winter low. The horses didn’t need to be urged toward the water. Each found a small pool among the boulders.

Chism leapt off his horse, careful to tread only on large, lichen-free boulders. Avoiding the silt and sand, Chism located a pool of his own and drank deeply. The frigid water invigorated him. After filling his waterskin, Chism allowed the horses to drink their fill, then approached them while drawing Thirsty. With a sharp yell, he slapped the nearest horse’s rump with Thirsty’s flat side, startling the four southward.

They were reluctant to leave without encouragement, so he urged them on with a few stones. A hundred paces away they slowed to a walk, but it was the best he could do to create a false trail.

There were enough large boulders in the creek bed to travel without straining his injured leg with any long leaps. If it started bleeding again a child would be able to track him.

***

Full dark came an hour later. Chism nestled himself under the protective hood of an old hollowed river tree and slept almost immediately.

The smell of smoke surprised him when he woke, and he wondered if he was being smoked out of his hole. But there was no heat and the smoke came from all around, a faint haze that hung in the air under a diffuse grey sky. Chism inched out, watching for soldiers. He snuck upstream and after fifty paces spotted a house on the far outskirts of a village.

The closest building was a smokehouse. Tiny specks of flame showed in one corner through gaps in the log walls. The fire must have been lit recently because very little smoke escaped, but it poured out of the chimney of the house. Between the smokehouse and the farm home was a drying frame full of clothes. Chism acted while the yard was empty.

Removing the Fellow’s uniform was easy. It didn’t compare with giving up the Circle and the Sword, and he was still a member of Quicksilver Squadron no matter what he wore. He folded the uniform precisely and concealed it far under the lip of a large boulder then crept, sword in hand, to the drying frame wearing nothing but his unders and boots. He smelled pipe smoke as he leaned Thirsty against the frame and held up the clothes.

“You know there’s a ‘
13
’ on your back, lad?”

Chism spun and raised Thirsty, but saw only an ancient man, wrinkly as a targus, smoking a pipe in front of the smokehouse. He spoke again. “You don’t look like a runt, but I guess that depends on your age. Under fourteen—not a runt. Fourteen or over—runt.”

The old man’s hair was wispy and thin, reminding Chism of a shaggy cactus he saw once in a covered garden in Palassiren.

Cactus was quick to continue speaking. “But I’ll give you one year for the sword and up to two more depending on your mettle. You got spunk, boy?”