by Frank Beddor
“I think perhaps I too should congratulate you,” Bibwit said.
“Why does everyone keep wanting to congratulate me?”
Bibwit winked and nudged Alyss several times. “Why, indeed. I can understand your not wanting to make a grand announcement of it, Alyss. But I have not lived through untold generations for nothing, and I believe that even if the queendom weren’t dealing with its present problems, you would not have chosen to flaunt your disregard of a royal practice that Wonderland queens have abided by since at least the time of my birth.” He winked and nudged her some more, his ears flopping friskily atop his head.
“Bibwit, what are you talking about?”
“Although,” the tutor qualified, “if you do plan to marry below your rank, I think you can outrage history even more by choosing lower than a guardsman.”
Alyss blushed.
Bibwit leaned closer and spoke soothingly, sincerely. “Your recent displays of affection have been admirably subtle, my dear, but no longer hiding your feelings from yourselves, it’s impossible that you could hide them from the rest of us—or, at least, from me. I congratulate you on your engagement to Dodge.”
“Well, technically, I’m not sure we’re—”
“Technicalities are for engineers, Alyss. I approve your choice of Dodge for a husband, even if, technically, it isn’t my place to do so. But humor a wise, ancient albino, will you, and don’t chastise me for my approval.”
After some time, Alyss said, “Thank you.” Her thoughts had led her back to Hatter, to the possible reasons for his troubling behavior in Boarderland.
It has everything to do with Arch, I know it does.
Throughout their trial, the Lord and Lady of Diamonds had asserted their innocence, claiming that they had been set up by Boarderland’s king. The evidence said otherwise: So damning was it that even the Diamonds’ connections in court hadn’t saved them from being sentenced to the Crystal Mines for twenty lunar years.
“I doubt Lord and Lady Diamond were as innocent as they claimed,” Alyss said, “and yet…”
“You think there may be some truth in what they alleged of Arch?” asked Bibwit. “That it had been his idea to give Molly the mysterious weapon?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve discussed this, Alyss. As helpless as it makes you feel, when it comes to King Arch, nothing can be done. It wouldn’t be wise to accuse him of aggression against Wonderland, especially when we have only the Diamonds’ accusations to support the claim.”
“I know.”
Bibwit smiled—one of those sad smiles suggestive of a lifetime of accumulated knowledge, not all of it heartwarming. “But what you know and what you feel are two different things?”
She nodded.
“It’s a hard lesson,” said the tutor, “one of the hardest, to learn that with all of your imaginative powers, there are times when you can do nothing.”
CHAPTER 30
ARCH HAD long ago found that his best defense against enemies was to guard against what he would do if he were his own adversary. Putting himself in Hatter’s place—shockingly reunited with Weaver, his daughter held prisoner—Arch would have made the same choice the Milliner had made; he too would have joined the tribe. But, the king reminded himself, Hatter’s joining the tribe should not be mistaken for genuine allegiance. If he were Hatter, he would use it as a means of gaining time to learn what he could of Molly’s whereabouts, and to get reacquainted with Weaver. He would do all he was told until such time as he could effect Molly’s rescue. Convicting Hatter of his own counterplots, Arch did not allow the Milliner to go anywhere unobserved. Hatter took his meals with Ripkins and Blister and was given a cot in their tent. On the occasions he was granted leave to visit with Weaver, an intel minister was always close by, watching, listening. Was it reckless to let the Milliner converse with Weaver? Arch didn’t think so. If anything, the care he himself had shown to Weaver, and the “friendship” that had formed as a result, might confuse Hatter, chip away at his steadfast loyalty to the Heart clan until, for the security of his own family, he became more accepting of Arch as his king. Hatter might go from feigning allegiance to sincerely embodying it.
“Do you know what this is?” Arch asked.
He held the silken thread aloft, stretched taught between his hands. The thread glinted in the light. If the Milliner knew what it was, he didn’t say.
“It is silk produced by one of Wonderland’s six caterpillar-oracles,” Arch explained. “This one, I believe—it’s hard to see in this light—is orange. I know you’re familiar with the power of caterpillar silk, Hatter, so there’s no use pretending.”
“My hat is, in part, made of them.”
“Yes. Your hat contains threads from the blue and purple caterpillars and it is these that account for the hat’s remarkable characteristics as a weapon. You see that I know things you would not expect me to know. The spinster who taught Milliners to manufacture their hats in just such a way, what was her name?”
“Miss Hado.”
“Miss Hado, that’s right. Poor Miss Hado. Once Redd took control of Wonderland, she didn’t survive much longer than Queen Genevieve. But as determined as Redd was to eliminate Milliners from existence, she was somewhat lax in the disposal of their headgear. Had you managed to avoid Redd’s Glass Eyes after her coup, Hatter, you could have gone around to Wonderland’s many purveyors of contraband and bought up the headgear of your assassinated Millinery colleagues. You would’ve had to be quick about it, though, as you wouldn’t have been alone. The supply of Milliner hats, never abundant, became more and more limited as Wonderlanders unraveled them, trying to discover how the caterpillar threads worked. No one succeeded in this, I assume, or we would’ve known it by now.”
“You must have succeeded, Your Majesty,” Hatter said, “or I wouldn’t be here.”
Arch toyed with his caterpillar thread, coiling and uncoiling it around a finger. “You will not provoke me into telling more than I wish. I unspool this information to you a small amount at a time, much as one of your caterpillars spools silk out its spinneret. You will be told as little as is necessary for you to perform the task I require of you. Now let’s see, what else do I know that might surprise you?”
In trying to surmise the details of Arch’s plan, Hatter had concluded that it had been an accident. Arch could not have lured Weaver to Boarderland as part of his present scheme. To do that, the king would’ve had to know about his and Weaver’s relationship before she left the Everlasting Forest’s Alyssian headquarters for Talon’s Point. The king would have either had to induce Weaver to abandon Molly at the headquarters and risk a journey to Talon’s Point, or he would’ve had to know, not only that she would do such a thing, but when she was going to do it. And as clever as Arch was, none of these was possible. Ripkins had stumbled upon Weaver at Talon’s Point and Arch, learning who she was, had cultivated a relationship with her in case it might one day prove useful. Which it obviously had.
“I know,” Arch resumed, “that when using caterpillar silk to make a Milliner’s hat, the mix of colors and the amount of each color used have everything to do with the powers produced. I know that the stitch in which the threads are bound are equally important. I suppose what I’m saying is that different combinations of caterpillar silk produce different weapons. For example, were you to take a bit of green thread and a pebble-sized wad of yellow thread and weave them together in a butterfly stitch, you’d better be sure to have a zincon-lined container to put them in, because you’ll have produced something not unlike what recently upset Wonderland’s Crystal Continuum. I also know that each of you Milliners was taught to manufacture your own hat, as it was believed you should give birth, so to speak, to the weapon that would become an extension of yourself.”
“Your knowledge befits your authority, Your Majesty,” Hatter said.
“And every Milliner’s hat contained no more than a couple shreds of caterpillar thread. Often they contained no more than
one color. Isn’t that right?”
“As far as I know. I only have experience with making my own hat.”
“Hatter, what if I told you that I had enough silk from all six of Wonderland’s caterpillar-oracles to produce many generations’ worth of Millinery hats?”
Hatter said nothing, hoping Arch would answer his own question. It couldn’t be that he wanted the foremost Milliner of the age to sit around manufacturing top hats for Boarderland forces, could it? “Are you sure they’re not counterfeit, Your Majesty?” Hatter asked.
“I’m sure.”
They sat looking at each other.
“You haven’t asked me how I came to possess so much caterpillar silk, Hatter.”
“It’s not my business, Your Majesty. My business is for me to do as you command, to prove my loyalty to you and thereby earn my daughter’s freedom.”
“I don’t know why you insist on believing your daughter’s freedom is mine to grant,” Arch said with a scowl. “One thing remains to be done if WILMA is to be fully operational. You’ll soon serve your purpose, Mr. Madigan, and then we’ll see how far your loyalty to me extends.”
The bodyguards’ tent was typical of Boardertonian bachelors—the cots covered with quilts of unicorn skin, the furniture all silver alloy and animal hides. Taking up most of the tent was an entertainment matrix, complete with virtual reality booth, 360-degree holo-screens, a game-controller body suit, and enough buttons, knobs, and switches to dizzy even the most technologically savvy.
Hatter was washing up at the water basin, in preparation for a night out, while Ripkins watched him, lounging on his cot with feet crossed and hands clasped behind his head.
“You sure she doesn’t have any friends?” Ripkins teased, swinging his feet to the floor and reaching for Hatter’s top hat, which rested innocently on the Milliner’s cot. He examined its lining as if he were a haberdasher inspecting a competitor’s wares. “’Cause I’d give anything to find a meaningful, long-term relationship like the one you and Weaver have. Wouldn’t you, Blister?”
Blister, sitting at the dining board amid take-out containers and dirty plates, pinched dead the last leaf of an olive branch poking out of a vase. “No,” he said.
“How do I look?” Ripkins asked, plopping Hatter’s top hat on his head.
Hatter spun, slapped at the hat’s front brim; it flipped from Ripkins’ head to his own. “It looks better on me.”
“You should probably know,” Blister said to him, “we took it easy on you back at Sin Bin.”
“Did you?” Hatter said. “That’s ironic, since I took it easy on you.” And with that, the Milliner stepped from the tent, out into the Boarderton night.
Weaver was waiting for him outside the Living Room Tavern, so-called because its tables and chairs were as alive as its patrons. Hatter held the tent flap open for Weaver and—
“Ah, the Madigans,” their usual table said as they entered. “Where should I position myself this evening? We have some space by the mullet-hawk buffet.”
Made of hydroponic barks particular to the marshy regions of Boarderland, the furnishings at the Living Room Tavern used the exposed roots at the bottom of their legs to get around, steeping these root systems in tubs of water whenever they weren’t catering to customers. Two chairs approached. Crossing paths with other similarly engaged furniture, one of the chairs carried Hatter to the riverfront buffet, which featured thirteen different species of fish from the Bookie River, while the other chair carried Weaver to the salad bar. They then convened at the usual table, which had stationed itself near the mullet-hawk buffet.
“Has there been any progress concerning your daughter?” the table asked.
“Not enough,” Weaver said, with a pointed look at Hatter.
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” said the table. “But I’m sure things will turn out all right, particularly with King Arch aiding you. Now what would the two of you like to drink?”
Hatter and Weaver were again carried into the traffic of crisscrossing chairs and tables to fill their glasses. When they were returned to their meal, their table stayed quiet, respecting their right to privacy while they ate. But Weaver seemed bent on respecting her own privacy, silently forking salad into her mouth until her utensil at last clanked down on her plate.
“I know you’ve been doing your best and these Ganmedes are being ridiculous in their demands…”
Hatter’s face showed surprise.
“Arch keeps me informed,” Weaver explained. “Anyway, I know you’re not used to negotiating as much as you are to…fighting, but I think we should at least have daily proof of Molly’s well-being, don’t you? Especially because the Ganmedes’ demands are so extreme.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Hatter said, not daring to tell her that the only Ganmedes he’d seen were a couple of Arch’s tailors and that, as yet, he’d negotiated with no one, not unless he counted his recent meeting with Arch. So while Weaver did her best to be upbeat, talking proudly of Molly’s maturity and good looks, and of how nice it would be when the three of them were living as a family for the first time, the Milliner retreated into his thoughts…
Assuming that Ripkins had come upon Weaver by accident at Talon’s Point, the question was, What had the bodyguard been doing there in the first place? Spying on the nearby military post? Possible, but not likely—not when there were so many other Wonderland outposts Arch would have deemed of equal or greater strategic value.
“Why’re you shaking your head, Hatter?” Weaver asked. “Won’t you even consider living in Boarderland? I know you have responsibilities to Queen Alyss and the Millinery, but maybe we could live here part of the year?”
“Maybe.”
Hatter guessed that it had to do with WILMA, that Ripkins had probably been on Talon’s Point preparing WILMA to go online. He himself had seen nothing irregular when he’d lived on the Point, but then, he hadn’t exactly been on the lookout for caterpillar silk. But why was he even thinking about this? It wasn’t as if he could set out on a reconnaissance mission to Talon’s Point; that would bring Arch’s displeasure down on him and jeopardize Molly’s life.
“I’m sorry,” Weaver was saying. “I don’t mean to whine and crab at you, it’s only…I’m so worried about Molly. Our lovely little Molly.”
“I know,” Hatter said. “I know. Me too.”
He had no choice. He had to stay here, trapped between duty to his family and duty to the queendom, at present unable to fulfill either.
CHAPTER 31
EVER SINCE Redd and The Cat had leaped into the Heart Crystal, card soldiers had been posted at the Pool of Tears in case anything from Earth resembling them, physically or in spirit, were to surface. But card soldiers were not enough to deter inconsolable Wonderlanders from throwing themselves into the pool. Criminals, runaways, bankrupts—every so often, down-and-out Wonderlanders made runs for the pool, sprinting past the patrolling soldiers and plunging into the water.
Before Jack of Diamonds used the last of his pocket crystal to bribe a border guard and reenter Wonderland, he passed through satellite encampments of the Gnobi and Scabbler tribes where, on repeated newscasts and to his extreme humiliation, he learned that both of his parents had been convicted of conspiracy to murder Queen Alyss Heart. The moment the white knight had shown up to arrest him and his father, he’d known King Arch had been setting them up the entire time—using them to deliver his weapon to Homburg Molly, disposing of them once they’d served their purpose.
“Probably never intended to give us back the Diamond Hectariat,” Jack grumbled. “If I had even four pocketfuls of crystal, I’d set him up! I’d show him what happens to anyone who plots against my family!”
But that was the problem: Though he was now in Wonderland, he had no access to the family accounts, the vaults of rubies and emeralds and crystals. As a fugitive from the law, he could not return to the family’s estate, nor was there a single Wonderlander he trusted to offer him refuge.
&n
bsp; “Why’d I ever bother coming back here?” he groused.
Without riches, he could not help his parents escape the Crystal Mines, nor could he avoid the authorities for long. Not knowing what else to do, Jack of Diamonds sulked his way to the Whispering Woods and stood peering out at the card soldiers who patrolled the cliff overlooking the Pool of Tears.
“Why, why, whyeeee!” he moaned. “Why’d Arch have to ruin my life? What’d I ever do to him?” After a considerable time spent pulling his hair in disbelief over his reduced state, he sighed, “Here goes,” and made a break for it, running as fast as his flabby legs could carry him toward the cliff’s edge.
Strange. Here he was, a high-ranking escaped convict, and not only were the soldiers not trying to stop him, they didn’t even notice him, too intent on staring down at the Pool of Tears with their crystal shooters and AD52s at the ready. Jack slowed to a jog. Still no one noticed him. When he reached the edge of the cliff, he stopped. Together with the soldiers, he looked down at the bubbling, roiling water. Whirlpools were forming—first one, then another and another.
Someone was coming.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 32
REDD WAS in the Medieval Court at the Crystal Palace, reclining on a stone bench and flipping idly through the pages of Alice in Wonderland while she exercised her imagination; all around her translucent Redd Hearts performed knee bends, toe touches and hamstring stretches, but they were shooed into nonexistence when The Cat bounded in with a large burlap sack over his shoulder. Without so much as a meow, the feline assassin untied the sack and dumped its contents at his mistress’s feet. A man tumbled out, glancing wildly every which way and cowering as if he expected to be hit. At the sight of Redd, he hugged his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible, and began mumbling in constant prayer.