Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

No. Eight days. I’m sure I can make it eight.

  One thing was sure—Duke Jaryn wouldn’t give up the hunt. He had to know Chism was somewhere in the Province and had proven that he would spare no resource in pursuit. Within days Chism would be the most infamous fifteen year old in Far West history.

  Moving slowly, he emerged from the nook where he’d rested. Sentries could appear anywhere, and Chism wanted to avoid killing any hapless soldiers. The duke would not fare as well if they ever met again, but Chism had no desire to shed innocent blood.

  The barren landscape was perfectly still. Occasional sounds from the men that guarded the pass carried across the countryside. A single rock rolling or falling against the stony ground would be as good as an alarm for the soldiers.

  Hour after painstaking hour Chism worked his way west. Both of his legs burned – the right from his injury and the left from compensating as he marked a ponderous, controlled pace. Somehow he sweated, despite chilled extremities and his clothes dampened with sweat, which only made the cold more bitter.

  All of the sneaking could have been avoided by heading south when he split from Quicksilver, but witnessing Jaryn’s frustration was so fulfilling he didn’t regret his decision. And there was always the chance of traveling Serpent Gap without an ambush, in which case Chism would have joined his squadron immediately.

  The ground flattened out eventually, but it took almost the entire night to reach the foothills. He found another crevice to shield him during the day. The erratic snowfall had been insufficient to whiten the ground, and Chism hoped it would stay sparse. He could deal with the cold, but all of his clothes were dark and he knew of no way to hide footprints in the snow.

  Dawn was still an hour away and he was too energized to sleep, so he ate a bit of food. Whittling was a bad idea, even if he could find wood in the inhospitable terrain. He took his leather from the pouch at his waist and stroked it with his right thumb one hundred times then passed it to his left hand. One hundred times and back again. The leather was the only thing that kept him sane.

  By the time the first rays of the sun shone into the fissure where he was sheltering, he had switched hands thirty-two times. His thumbs were both raw, but not bloody. Yet. He finally felt calm enough to sleep.

  It was hard to get comfortable in the narrow crevice, but Chism slept as long as possible. It was better than rubbing his thumbs raw, and he didn’t dare venture out until night had fallen. Luckily, winter afforded him hours of extra traveling time.

  As soon as the sun fell below the horizon, Chism poked his head out. The guards at the pass, now south and east of him, were out of his view. Nothing stirred and he was tempted to start the next part of his journey. But he had waited all day, and could wait another half hour.

  When full dark fell, Chism ventured from his self-imprisonment. Cloud cover hid the stars and half moon; there was no way he would be seen tonight. In less than a quarter mile Chism reached flat ground and increased his speed. He wanted to jog, but knew it would be impossible to hear anything if he did, so he contented himself with a quick walk.

  After a mile to the west, Chism turned south. Less than a mile later he crossed the road that led to Serpent Gap. After waiting to ensure no eyes were on the road, Chism crossed it slowly. He didn’t know if it would fool trackers, but he walked backward when he crossed it and continued south in the same manner.

  He was less than a dozen paces from the road when he noticed what looked and felt like cold moths all around him in the still, shadowy night. In horror he realized they weren’t moths, or any other kind of insect. Fat snowflakes fell in excess and immediately began to gather on the ground.

  It couldn’t have happened at a worse time, this close to the road. Abandoning his backward strategy, Chism turned and fled at a full run, ignoring the tearing pain in his leg. He had to get as far from the road as possible before the snow was thick enough to take tracks. His pack was tucked under one arm while the other held Thirsty’s scabbard so he didn’t trip. The snow at his back would hide his tracks at first, but in snow more than a few inches deep the depressions of his footfalls would be seen for hundreds of paces.

  The stitches in his leg pulled with every stride. Reaching down he felt warm moisture on his pant leg. If his footsteps didn’t give him away a trail of blood certainly would. Even if the Militia was color blind like him, the dark line would be obvious.

  Into the cold night Chism ran, cursing the feathery snow. Too worried even to count the steps he took.

  Chapter 11

  Swylin

  The capital city seethed like a thousand swarms of bees competing for the same hive. Everywhere Hatta turned, crowds of people pushed and chided and cursed and rebuffed. The mule and cart seemed as unwieldy as a full team and wagon. His traveling hat was already as low as possible on his brow, and he tried as hard as possible to be invisible. It wasn’t working.

  The few people he dared talk to pointed him in the direction of the craftsman’s market, but it was impossible to find. Every time he coaxed the mule into the street someone yelled at him to move faster or decide where he was going or get out of the way. Hatta tried to do as he was told, but conflicting commands sent him in varying directions and often onto the wrong streets.

  Enough of cities and crowds, and enough of surly traveling companions. Hatta was ready to be with his mirrors.

  By the time he reached the craftsman’s section of the huge market, he was almost ready to find a quiet corner and curl into a ball. He spied a narrow street with very little traffic and directed his mule toward it. Small shops lined the street—a woodcarver, a candlestick maker, two painters, and a shop that sold wall mounts and torches.

  Continuing down the alley, Hatta discovered a dead end to the left. The only merchant open for business was a tailor. Next door stood a locked shop that had a sign with a goblet and platter. It didn’t appear to have seen use for some time.

  The tailor, an old man with dark brown eyes that somehow seemed bright, came out of his shop and greeted Hatta. “Those are remarkable vestments, young man.”

  “What? Oh, I thank you.” He glanced down at his outfit and silently agreed with the old man. The maroon coat and apricot pants made an extraordinary pair.

  “I especially admire your hat. What an exceptional pattern.”

  “And craftsmanship,” said Hatta. “The hatter in Frenala is the best I’ve met.”

  “He must be a master indeed to fashion such a superior piece. I myself have never had skill with hats.”

  “I do,” said Hatta. “Not skill perhaps, but knowledge at least. The hatter in Frenala, he taught me.”

  “So you’re Frenalan then?”

  Hatta shook his head.

  “Might I ask from whence you originate?”

  “If you did ask, I’d say T’lai and Frenala and Shey’s Orchard. I’m a mirror maker, most recently.”

  “And you’ve brought your wares to Palassiren to secure your fortune,” said the old man, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “No, I’ve come to sell my mirrors.”

  The old man had such an inviting air that Hatta wanted to tell him about his destiny, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. The tailor was a warm yellow, and yellow people were often garrulous. He might tell someone that shouldn’t know the truth about him and his mirrors. But he did care for the old man a great deal and wanted to stay near him.

  An idea struck him. “Would that shop be rented?” He motioned to the closed up store.

  “It’s available, but it’s no place for a young craftsman such as yourself.”

  Hatta couldn’t disagree with him more. What could be more fitting than a quiet street and an agreeable neighbor?

  As if he knew Hatta’s thoughts, the old man said, “There’s scant foot traffic in this back alley.”

  “How do you find who to sell to? If it’s not a rude question.”

  The old man chuckled and his eyes brightened even more. “I’ve been here as long as the city itself
, and this wasn’t always a dead end. My customers know where to find me, and my needs are small.”

  Hatta was undaunted. “Where might the landlord be found?”

  “I see you’ve decided already, but I still advise against it.”

  He seemed to be waiting for Hatta to reconsider but the more Hatta thought about the location the more perfect it became.

  Hatta offered a crooked smile.

  The old man shrugged and said, “If that’s how it is to be. The landlord is in the habit of calling on Fridays in the afternoon.”

  Hatta furrowed his brow. “I don’t keep days, when would Friday be?”

  “Why, today is Friday.”

  “Wonderful!” The evening was not far off. “And what shall we discuss in the meantime?”

  “I need to attend to a stew I put on.” The man turned to enter his store. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Stew would be a fine dinner after a day such as this,” said Hatta. He tied the mule to a post and followed the tailor into his shop. True to his word the old man had an aromatic stew over a pile of coals.

  The tailor’s prediction regarding the visit of the landlord also proved accurate. A couple hours after their meal, he arrived. A tall man who filled his coat, the landlord appeared strong but soft; as if he could work and work, but avoided it whenever possible.

  Most likely a shade of green. Olive, Hatta decided.

  Despite his quick smile and offered hand, he intimidated Hatta. But the allure of the secluded shop gave him the courage to inquire.

  “How much rent can I buy with this?” He offered his coin pouch to the man.

  “Anxious, aren’t you?” As he greedily counted the money, Hatta saw that the man deepen in color. More of an asparagus color.

  “One silver and nine coppers. Almost enough for two months rent.”

  “And the mule and cart?” asked Hatta.

  The landlord looked behind him at the animal and small cart. “What about them?”

  “Are they worth two months?” Hatta smiled hopefully.

  “For them plus the coins I’ll give you three months.”

  Hatta nodded anxiously. “Yes, I’ll buy three months.” They struck hands and Hatta breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have to venture back into the market in search of an open shop.

  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.