Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  Delighted, Hatta said, “You must be a bandersnatch!” The creature paused and inspected him, head bobbing slowly to get different perspectives. Under the creature’s scrutiny the mule, not yet tethered to the cart, bolted through the brush, braying and crashing as she ran.

  “How do?” asked Hatta. He wasn’t sure if he should extend his hand or tip his hat. Something tugged at the back of his mind, a warning Hettie gave him about bandersnatches, but the novelty of meeting the unique animal overshadowed it.

  “I greatly appreciate you not eating myself. Or the mule’s self,” he added, smiling. The bandersnatch was still, not responding in any way. Animals never actually spoke to Hatta, but their body language and actions were easy enough to interpret. Barks, chitters, tweets, neighs, and brays all had their own quality and tone that said just as much as words could.

  The bandersnatch circled to one side, still wary of Hatta. But you look like food, and you’re alone.

  Unfazed, Hatta shook his head. “I can assure you assuredly that I am not food.”

  As it continued to approach him in a circling pattern, Hatta noticed its sharp fangs. Fangs that would cause most men to fear and tremble. But Hatta never had trouble with any animal; this one would be no different.

  I hunger. You are vulnerable.

  Hatta ignored the posture. “How long have you lived? Where do you sleep? Do you ever have gatherings with many bandersnatches?”

  The bandersnatch paused. You are not running or fighting. Food runs or fights. It showed its fangs and snarled. Run or fight!

  With an outstretched hand, Hatta took a slow step toward the bandersnatch, causing the creature to crouch. It looked like someone loading a spring.

  “Is your skin smooth or rough?” He took another step, nearly close enough to feel the creature’s skin. “I predict it feels foresty.”

  The bandersnatch looked around the clearing and over its shoulders. The pale green skin took on a vivid red undertone and the eyes were now the color of fresh blood. Though the creature crouched, it seemed to be swelling in size.

  A trap. I will not be trapped.

  One more step. Hatta reached out and touched the bandersnatch’s short forearm. It was leathery and hot and verdant, but he didn’t have much of a chance to examine it before the creature spun and sprang out of the clearing. It moved so fast that for a moment Hatta wasn’t sure if it had been there or not. The mule-less cart in the clearing told him something had been there, and the blood-red eyes were so vivid in his memory.

  Yet as much as he loved colors, they often deceived him. That was the worst part about his mad thoughts—they came to his mind in exactly the same way the most vibrant colors did. It went beyond mere sensory perception; it was accompanied by joy and feelings of certainty. The fascinating experience with the bandersnatch fit that perfectly.

  The best experiences in Hatta’s life were indistinguishable from many of the imaginary thoughts that led him to act unstably. Colors were a source of his greatest joys, but often led him headlong into turmoil. They just weren’t trustworthy.

  There was nothing to it but to go look for the mule. He could ask her about the bandersnatch. The ornery thing probably wouldn’t deign to talk to him, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. And he could usually tell when animals were lying.

  With a smile and a whistle on his lips, Hatta went in search of the mule.

  Chapter 10

  Gap

  Clouds filled the sky and a light dusting of snow drifted as Quicksilver Squadron entered the lowlands leading to Serpent Gap. For five days Duke Jaryn, trained Militia, and the City Watch of Knobbes had kept up a tireless pursuit. Most of the squadron’s supplies and coins were still with the cooks and grooms back in the city, leaving Quicksilver Squadron limited to the small rations and coin each man carried. They would have enough to make it out of Far West Province if there were no delays. Once they were free from the Provinces and into the interior of the kingdom, the towns would sell food and supplies on credit. They just had to make it past Portal City, which lay at the far end of Serpent Gap.

  Five nights previously, the night they fled Knobbes, Lieutenant Fahrr had called Chism up in front of the squadron before allowing any of them to rest.

  “You acted rashly, once again, and drew a noble’s blood. That led to a mob in the streets and military actions by the Watch. We left people dead and injured in the streets. Not enemies, but citizens of Maravilla. You’ll face King Antion and his Council for that. But there is also the matter of endangering the lives of your squadron. You aren’t a boy anymore, Chism, even though you may be young. Every action affects each of us.”

  Lieutenant Fahrr paused momentarily then continued in a more formal tone. “Would you like to state your position before the squadron discusses punishment?” He sounded hopeful and in the firelight his eyes pleaded with Chism to defend himself.

  Chism nodded and turned to face the Elites and Fellows. Making his chest as prominent as possible, he strode along the line of soldiers allowing each man to study the Circle and Sword embroidered on his chest.

  “Every one of you risked your life for me and I’ll never forget that. You deserve an explanation.” He didn’t have Lieutenant Fahrr’s talent for speeches. Hopefully they would catch at least a portion of the emotion he felt.

  They should understand the sanctity of the Circle without the youngest of them giving a lecture. He attempted a restrained voice. “I shouldn’t have to say this. The Circle – it represents a sacred connection between every person in the kingdom. From the meanest farmer to the highest noble. A farmer raises a chicken and sells it to a trader. The trader carries it to a city and sells it to a cook who feeds an earl, a duke, or king. To complete the Circle, the king offers protection, stability, and the rule of law. The Sword sustains the Circle.”

  Chism motioned to the Sword in the center of the emblem, which transected the Circle vertically, as if supporting it. The hilt rested on the bottom of the inside of the Circle and the point touched the top. “The purpose of the Sword is to defend the Circle, to ensure abuses are not committed by those who feel it’s their right to be in power. To defend against foreign threats. And to punish criminals who would endanger a peaceful way of life. It’s a fact that without the Sword, the Circle collapses.” By now he was pacing and his words were clear and sharp.

  “Each one of you has taken the Sword in defense of the Circle and it is your duty to protect its integrity. Every cruelty, neglect, crime, or exploitation by a noble, parent, villain, or soldier is an offense against the Circle that connects us all.” He continued, forcing each word through clenched teeth. “And I will never stand idly by.”

  He wanted to shout at his squadron, make them understand. He wanted to shake or strike them.

  Ulrik was the first to speak. “You have the gall to lecture us on the Circle and the Sword?”

  Ander, always fair and rational, stood to diffuse the tension. “There are recourses, Chism. Mayors, magistrates, nobles, and councils to hear disputes and decide impartially.”

  “The magistrates can rot with the nobles.” Chism spat in the dirt. “Most care only for themselves and their friends.”

  Ulrik said in a near shout, “But it’s their job and their duty to enforce the law. And it’s yours to follow orders.”

  “And what happens when they think the law isn’t for them or they won’t punish a family member?”

  “Occasionally that happens. It’s a sad fact of life and it becomes their superior’s responsibility,” said Ulrik.

  Chism hated to share details from his past, but he didn’t know any other way to make them understand.

  “That’s not good enough. A woman in a small town with a son and a bottle-loving husband can’t leave because she fears for the life of her boy if she tries to run. Despite almost daily thrashings the town’s magistrate does nothing because the drunk is his brother. The woman is with child again, but that doesn’t stop the beatings and one day he beats her into laboring
on her deathbed. Though she hasn’t reached her term, somehow the baby survives by the mercy of the magistrate’s wife, but he’s severely undersized, and…damaged.” Chism’s voice had an edge that stung with every word.

  “But does the man take responsibility for his son’s flaws? Not a chance. He blames the boy for the mother’s death and one drunken night he brands his one-year-old son with a 13. Underfed and unloved, the boy grows up hearing he’s a runt, useless, not worth the slop he’s fed. The proof is right there on the boy’s back. And the beatings continue and everyone turns a blind eye. The older brother learns to hide and the younger brother learns to fight because no one else is going to protect him.”

  The tears in his eyes infuriated him. He thought he was past crying, and doing it in front of the Elites, even by torchlight, made it worse. But the story needed to be told. He threw his cloak in the dirt and in one motion swept off his tunic and turned his back to the soldiers. A mark he’d kept secret since joining the Elites was displayed in ragged numbers covering the lower half of his back. 13.

  After a few moments to compose himself, his voice was controlled and emotionless. “Years passed and that boy practiced every weapon he could get his hands on. He lived for the local competitions in javelin, archery, staves, and daggers. It was all he cared about, and one day he challenged his father.

  “The man died and the boy never felt bad about it one day in his life. But suddenly the magistrate cared. He couldn’t have boys killing their fathers in his town so he planned to hang the boy.

  “Two days before the scheduled execution, a squadron of Elites happened to pass through. The lieutenant was willing to defer to local justice, but one outspoken sublieu named Fahrr demanded the boy be taken before a district council. The boy’s life was spared by one rotting vote.

  “Your magistrates, nobles, and councils can burn. The Circle is more vulnerable than any of you realize and I’ll defend it with my last breath.”

  In a tone just a touch softer than before, Ulrik said, “You can’t deal with your own issues by assaulting every authority figure you meet, Chism.”

  “This isn’t about me!” Try as he might, Chism couldn’t believe his own words entirely.

  “We all have scars, lad,” said Ander.

  A heated discussion ensued, some arguing that Chism was justified, others claiming he was out of control. But self-control wasn’t the issue. He could school himself as well as anyone. Better. But in cases of violation of the sacred Circle he would act every time.

  Near dawn they reached a consensus. In an unprecedented arrangement, Chism would be stripped of the Circle and Sword but would remain a member of the squadron. The Elite emblem was his life, and he only took solace in the fact that he’d be a member of the Quicksilver Squadron until he stood trial. The loyalty of his brothers-in-arms was something he’d never experienced or imagined.

  Hile’s Fellow, a small man named Firan provided Chism with his spare tunic and cloak and Chism reluctantly donned the emblemless uniform.

  The squadron slept very little over the following four days leading up to Serpent Gap. Despite a pace that pushed the horses to near exhaustion, Duke Jaryn’s men had narrowed the gap since the night of their escape. There was no way hundreds of men could cover that much ground so quickly without leaving a trail of dead horses behind them. And any town near their path would be forced to surrender food, horses, and men to the hunt.

  Chism was right about Duke Jaryn; he cared nothing for the Circle. He only cared for himself and his cursed pride. Thirsty was forged for men like him.

  Serpent Gap was the only pass between two steep mountain ranges—the Wasteland Mountains to the south and the Antidiniss Mountains to the north. The gap started wide, but cinched into a trail no more than ten paces across in some parts at the bottom of the valley. The four mile pass wound blindly like a snake, offering countless sites for an effective ambush.

  Ten squadrons of men could easily hide in the pass. Unfortunately, the only way to find out if word regarding the skirmish in Knobbes had reached Portal City was to spring the trap.

  The Elites and Fellows had their hoods drawn, but not because of cold weather. If they marched into an ambush, the enemy would wonder which one was Chism.

  With Lieutenant Fahrr in the lead, fifteen Elites and Fellows entered the gap. It was only a few miles long, but each step could lead into an ambush. From where he sat, Chism felt nervous sweat drip down the insides of his arms.

  Pale sandstone cliffs hedged the squadron in on the right, black granite crags on their left. If danger arose in the Gap, there would not be time to retreat. Duke Jaryn’s men would reach the western end of the trail before Quicksilver could escape.

  The first mile passed uneventfully and Chism breathed easier, starting to think the squadron might make it through the remaining three miles without incident. But by the time he noticed the ambush, there was no time to give warning.

  Within a matter of a dozen heartbeats, men appeared on the trail in front, and in the cliffs that lined the trail. At least a hundred men, all armed with bows or stones, but Chism couldn’t get an accurate count because some blended into the rocks. In a fight the Elites were accustomed to ten-to-one losses, but the ten were usually on the other side. Fleeing would only expose their backs to the Militia’s arrows, and they would have to pass under scores of men who lined the canyon along the means of retreat, only to meet Jaryn’s men at the entrance to the Gap.

  Lieutenant Fahrr called a stop. Words were spoken by the Elite Lieutenant and the leader of the Militia, but Chism was too far to hear. It didn’t take long for Lieutenant Fahrr to order the Elites to drop their weapons. Fifteen swords, spears, and bows fell to the rocky trail—Quicksilver Squadron was in the power of the Militia.

  Four men were dispatched from the Militia’s front line. With all the confidence their stratagem afforded them, they approached each Elite and Fellow, roughly removing hoods, searching for a boy soldier. As they neared the end of the formation, Chism hoped fighting wouldn’t break out.

  After unsuccessfully searching the entire squadron, the soldiers returned to their leader.

  Chism smiled wryly from his concealed location half a mile up the mountain. The Militia wouldn’t find what they were looking for.

  Though no horsemen had passed them with news of the events in Knobbes, messenger birds must have reached Portal City days before Quicksilver Squadron entered the Gap. Lieutenant Fahrr had been unwilling to risk Chism’s life on the slight possibility of Duke Jaryn not dispatching birds, and his decision had proven accurate. Without Chism, the Militia had no reason to detain the squadron.

  The night before Quicksilver reached Serpent Gap, Lieutenant Fahrr asked Chism to swear an oath that he would go to the capital straightaway, and Chism obliged. Under Lieutenant Fahrr’s advice, Chism didn’t tell anyone his exact plan for the days following their split. The Elites and Fellows pitched in a few coins and whatever food they could spare to give Chism a chance to escape. Even Ulrik shared his rations and opened his coin purse.

  Then they parted. A full squadron could never escape undetected, but a lone boy could slip through. Chism’s plan was to double back into the Province, sweep around one of the mountain ranges, and cross into the interior from there.

  Chism spent the night climbing into the mountain, searching for a point that gave him the best view of the gap. It wasn’t possible to travel between the mountain ranges without entering the gap itself, but Chism made it far enough to gain an acceptable outlook.

  Below him in the gap, a second group of Militia was sent to examine the Elites. But even someone who had never glimpsed Chism could see immediately that he wasn’t among them. A few Elites had dark hair, but none the color of a moonless midnight, with eyes to match. And while Chism never had the need of a razor, every other member of the squadron had significant stubble to show for the five days with limited supplies.

  Once it was clear that his squadron was in no danger, the scene amu
sed Chism. A third, and eventually a fourth, contingent of the Militia proceeded to inspect their prisoners. One zealous soldier even looked in saddlebags and under cloaks. Satisfied that the boy they sought had truly deserted Quicksilver Squadron, the dark-cloaked Militia led the Elites up the gap toward Portal City. Duke Jaryn would have words for Lieutenant Fahrr.

  Hopefully just words, thought Chism.

  A group of forty eight militia detached themselves from the main group and walked down the pass tracing the path the Elites had taken. They wouldn’t find him. Even if they had the best trackers in kingdom, the ground was too rocky to track anyone trying to hide a trail.

  As soon as his squadron was out of view, Chism saw Duke Jaryn’s soldiers enter the Gap and meet up with the Militiamen from the ambush. Even from the distance the Duke’s flailing arms and outraged behavior was apparent. With a smile, Chism settled into his craggy hiding place. Eventually, his uniform would be a beacon as he tried to slip out of Far West Province, but for the first couple of days it would blend perfectly with the dark granite.

  When Chism awoke from his nap there was just enough light left to survey Serpent Gap. Other than the six Militiamen guarding the lower entry, the pass was clear. He used the remaining light to plan an approximate route of escape. The dark Antidiniss Mountains offered good cover but he didn’t want to risk moving during the day. The night would have to be his camouflage.

  He ate while waiting for night to fall in full. If he stretched his rations, they would probably last a week. Living off the land was not an option—he had no skill at foraging and carried only Thirsty and his throwing knives. The leg injury would make traveling fast impossible, and he didn’t have enough food to travel slowly. At most he had seven days until he had to find another resource.