Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  Chism’s hands gripped the chains of his shackles and his shoulder burned. Not waiting for permission to answer, Chism spoke. “Jaryn violated the Circle. As an Elite it was my sworn duty to remind him of it using the Sword. I care no more for the woman than I do for Duke Jaryn. What I care for is the Circle and the Sword that I took an oath to defend.” He knew his voice was rising, but he didn’t care. “I’ll kill any bloated, self-important noble that—”

  “Chism!” Ander stepped forward. “Toes and odors! Think about what you’re saying, and to whom. A young lion doesn’t growl when the leader of the pack’s teeth are at his throat!”

  Lady Cuora raised an eyebrow, sending Ander sheepishly back into his place alongside Lieutenant Fahrr. Before returning her attention to Chism she graced him with a grin of amusement.

  “So you’re a hero? A defender of the people?” These were the type of rhetorical questions Chism knew he wasn’t supposed to answer.

  He’d never thought of himself as a hero, and couldn’t care less if other people saw him as one. It had been four years since Chism decided that he and his brother would never run and hide, only to await a more severe beating when they finally returned home. Never again would the man be able to torture a child over a trifle or on a whim. He said it would be the last time, and he committed his life to make it so. Not just for himself, but for anyone within the Circle who didn’t have the protection they deserved. If that meant death for him or anyone else, so be it. But he would never stand by while an innocent was abused by someone who should be a protector.

  Lady Cuora studied him silently as if trying to listen in on his thoughts, and Chism knew his fate was being determined at that very moment. He could handle anything but imprisonment. Whether in Cactus’ smokehouse, Tonin’s water barrel, or the cells of Palassiren, Chism had spent more time confined than he ever wanted to again. His sanity had been threatened by the tight walls that prevented him from pacing, practicing swords, or anything else to release the pent-up tension. Anything but imprisonment.

  “Marky,” said Lady Cuora, reminding Chism that two other judges sat in the chamber. “Do you want this Elite back?”

  Captain Markin sat up straight. He looked around as if someone in the room could give him the correct answer. His mouth moved but he didn’t get any words out before Lady Cuora came to his aid. “Of course you don’t. He’s too volatile to be in any squadron.” The man that Captain Markin had become since his association with the Council made Chism sick. Shifting her gaze to the young king she asked, “Are you going to demand his head, King?”

  The boy had a look of intelligence, and though Chism didn’t know what Lady Cuora was thinking, he had a feeling the boy knew. “I’ve always said that the headsman is overworked, Cuora. Do you have an alternate solution?”

  “I may be able to extend a slight mercy in this case,” said Lady Cuora in a forced, gracious tone.

  Chism’s heart sped, panicked at the thought of years in confinement. Shackled as he was, he would never make it out of the building. But there was the possibility of death in an escape attempt, and that was better than life in a cell.

  Cuora stood and walked a circle around Chism. “You returned to Palassiren to face trial solely on the strength of your word. You subdued an enemy soldier at personal risk, even though you had no duty.”

  I am a member of Quicksilver Squadron, he thought. Taking Cactus’s advice about forethought, he refrained from antagonizing Lady Cuora.

  Back in front of her throne she said, “I am in need of a hero, boy. You see I have a knave, and Brune is most knavishly delightful.” A grin split the mouth of the young man behind Lady Cuora, his eyes dark and cruel. “It would do to have some balance. Blackguard,” she motioned to the young man, “and white guard.” She indicated Chism. “Rapscallion and champion. A Knave, and a Knight.” The fire in her eyes brightened with each word.

  “Is the arrangement acceptable to all?” She looked around the room, collecting nods from Captain Markin, King Antion, Lieutenant Fahrr, and finally Chism, before announcing, “This Elite is hereby pardoned of all previous crimes, so long as he remains in my service or until this council decides to unpardon him. Release the prisoner.”

  Guards rushed to unshackle him.

  Knight? That beats rotting in a cell. .

  Chapter 18

  Angel

  Hatta swept his small shop for the third time, hoping a clean shop would show his mirrors in a brighter, more inviting manner, but it made no difference. The north-facing door just didn’t admit enough light to catch the shades and hues of his mirrors, and their perfect mix of haze and clarity. The poor lighting was why he hadn’t sold any in three weeks since opening the shop. It didn’t help that nearly all of his customers were patrons of the old tailor next door, and almost to a person they were middle aged or older, with stuffy tastes. Other than the tailor’s customers, only a handful of shoppers in a week found his out-of-the-way alley.

  To make matters worse, the purple was fading from his hair, and he had no dyes or berries to repair it.

  After three chaotic trips, Hatta never wanted to leave his alley again. Reports of the effects of the division in the kingdom came in bits and pieces from his few customers and the tailor. Apparently the entire economy of Palassiren, and of Maravilla as a whole, was in jeopardy. Part of the problem was due to the mass exodus of people, and part due to speculation on the future of Palassiren and the new kingdom of the interior. It was just another reason to hole up in his shop.

  The hard biscuit and dried apricot lunch spread in front of him represented the last of the food from Elora. More than two months of rent had already been paid, but that would do him no good without food. The city that should have provided him an audience to sell his mirrors would instead starve him. There was no way to forage within the walls, and if he went out to scavenge he couldn’t tend his shop.

  Today had to be the day he finally sold one, even if it went for a pittance. At least it’s Thursday. Seems like as good a day as any for people to spend money.

  Lifting the last bite of spongy apricot, he toasted himself in a violet-rimmed mirror. Squinting to see clearly in the diffuse light, a brilliant idea struck him.

  Leaving the elastic morsel behind, Hatta ran next door to the tailor’s shop. “Would you perchance have a saw I might borrow?” he blurted at the old man, who had his back turned.

  The tailor dropped the bolt of cloth he held, and turned, breathing rapidly and clutching his chest. “You should consider offering a greeting before startling one out of his shoes, young fellow.”

  Hatta shifted from foot to foot while the old man caught his breath. “A saw, you ask? I have a small one in the back.” The tailor shuffled away and Hatta heard the slow movement of boxes and other items.

  “Shall I lend a hand?” asked Hatta hopefully.

  “Patience, young man. Patience.”

  Hours seemed to pass as Hatta paced a short path between bolts of cloth and smocked mannequins. The jostling sound was replaced by shuffling feet and the old man emerged from the back of the shop, proudly carrying a narrow saw with a long wooden handle. It looked like something a farmer would use to prune trees, but it would work.

  After hurrying to retrieve the saw, Hatta thanked the tailor over his shoulder and added, “I’ll most likely bring it back today.”

  Stacking two barrels, Hatta climbed onto the roof of his small shop. Estimating the center of his shop, he pried half a dozen wooden shingles up in a square. There was no purchase point in the boards under the shingles, but one of them had a knot along an edge. Using the wooden end of the saw, he pounded until the knot fell into his shop, leaving a perfect eye hole into his shop.

  After descending to move his mirrors to the safety of the back room, he climbed to the roof and commenced sawing. The sun was still above the horizon when the hole was complete, but just barely, so he clamored down, knocking over the barrels in the process. He ran into the back room of his shop to retrieve
his mirrors and hastily leaned a few of them against the walls.

  When he stepped back to view the improvements, the fading sunlight reflecting from all directions brought tears to his eyes, and he knew the morning and midday light would be even more spectacular. He spun in slow circles letting his eyes drift from jade to violet to rose to sky to peach until the light gave out. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  After returning the saw to the tailor, along with his thanks, Hatta ate the last bite of apricot and went to bed. Just like the first night crafting mirrors in Shey’s Orchard, his excitement kept him awake for hours. Something good was coming soon.

  By the time the sun rose in the morning, Hatta was in front of his shop waiting for his luck to change. One mirror was all he needed to sell and he could earn enough to buy food for a couple weeks. Just one mirror.

  After an hour, a servant from one of the palaces visited the tailor. He was dressed in a dull red-trimmed vest. It had probably been bright at some point, but now showed months or years of use. As soon as the man exited the tailor’s shop, Hatta approached him.

  “Would you spare a moment to look at my fine mirrors?” he asked, reaching to corral the servant toward his shop. He’d never been as forward with any potential customers, but he was in high spirits.

  The man allowed Hatta to lead him into the shop where the new light shed life onto his creations. But to his amazement, the servant wasn’t interested in mirrors, stating that his errand was for cloth. The servant left Hatta standing flabbergasted, staring around the room at his mirrors.

  Sometime later Hatta heard another voice coming from the tailor’s shop and his expectations rose again. After shaking his head to clear it, he went to gather another customer but was disappointed to see it was only the landlord.

  “Hatta,” said the large man in a booming voice. “How goes your business?”

  “Greetings, landlord. Business goes well. I feel I’ll sell my first mirror today. Would you be in need of a mirror perchance?”

  “I’ve already got a mirror, but I’ll take a look.”

  After bidding farewell to the old tailor, the two walked toward the shop.

  “You’ll see they’re very unique,” said Hatta as he followed the landlord into the shop. The man stopped suddenly and Hatta walked into his back.

  He must be shocked by my inimitable mirrors, thought Hatta, smiling. But the landlord wasn’t even looking down at where they leaned against the walls. Mouth hanging open, he stared through the hole in the roof.

  “My shop…” His mouth moved but it took him a moment to form words. “What have you done to my shop?”

  “It’s for the light, you see? That’s why I couldn’t sell any mirrors. Light just couldn’t get in.”

  The landlord’s gaze shifted to Hatta and his eyes narrowed. He had always been a shade of green, but in a matter of moments Hatta saw a red undertone, just like the bandersnatch before it ran.

  Frumious landlord, thought Hatta. I’d rather be back with the bandersnatch.

  “You cut a hole in my roof for these?” His mouth formed a frown around the last word and he picked up the lavender framed mirror and threw it toward Hatta. Luckily his anger blinded him, and he missed, but the mirror struck the doorframe with the tinny sound of a too-thin bell. None of his mirrors were made of glass, but the metal was badly dented. Hatta went to retrieve it, but the landlord grabbed him first.

  “You’ll pay for this, you tweedle-headed cretin!” Spittle flew from his mouth and using the lapels of Hatta’s coat he slammed him against the wall.

  “But I haven’t money.” Hatta wanted to crawl into a ball in his back room until the landlord went away, but the large man’s grip was much too strong.

  In a quieter, but much more threatening voice, he said, “You’ll pay if it has to be paid in blood.”

  Ducking and raising his arms above his head, Hatta wriggled out of the maroon coat. There had to be a way to make it right, smooth things with the landlord.

  “I can…I can fix it.” He would flee the city, but he couldn’t bear to leave his mirrors behind. The tailor’s door was closed, no relief there. Hatta hurried to where the barrels lay toppled in the street. As he started stacking them, the incensed landlord stormed after him, throwing Hatta’s coat into the street with a yell.

  “Don’t fear, I’ll just start right away.” With shaking legs Hatta started climbing, but he was no further than halfway up when his legs were pulled out from under him. He fell faster than he thought possible and struck his chest on the lower barrel.

  Pain filled his upper body. All the air in his lungs was forced out and refused to come back in. Heavy fists and feet pummeled him, even as he struggled for a single breath.

  I’m going to die.

  Even worse, his killer was angry with him and he’d never have the chance to make things right. Coarse words singed his psyche as blows bruised his body. Just when he needed distraction more than ever, Hatta couldn’t think of a single rhyme.

  The blows unexpectedly stopped, and if not for intense pain and lack of air, he would have thought himself dead. Opening one teary eye, he peeked past his own protective arm.

  The landlord lay face down alongside him in the dirt of the alleyway, struggling against two red-clad soldiers or guards. He was ranting about the roof of his shop and blood payment. Hatta knew he should feel safe, but couldn’t bear to come out of his defensive posture. Gasping breaths along with profuse tears caused him to choke and cough, but he didn’t dare come out. Silently he longed for the safety of his town hat.

  A woman’s harsh voice cut in, making Hatta retreat further into the safety of his arms. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The landlord finally spoke in coherent thoughts. “He cut a hole in my roof, Lady. He’s a dimwit, true, but he has no right to ruin my shop.”

  “A hole in a roof isn’t justification for a hole in a man’s head. That’s why we have magistrates, fool. Now it’s you who’ll be judged, not him.”

  Breath returned in racking sobs, but Hatta didn’t dare uncurl from a fetal position. He felt a hand on his shoulder and cringed, but it was a soft, supportive hand.

  “Let me see you,” said the woman’s voice in a commanding but gentle tone. For some reason her small kindness caused renewed blubbering.

  “Are you the mirror maker?” she asked. She had his full interest and with a deep breath he was able to control his sobbing.

  “He’s a menace is what he is!” shouted the landlord, but the woman’s touch was a shield.

  Knowing she was there, he found strength to open his eyes and slowly lower his arms. Through tear-blurred eyes, he looked into the face of an angel. Twisty black hair fell in thick strings around a simple face with fiery brown eyes. And her cloak was more vivid than a fresh strawberry.

  It took a moment to remember what she had asked. “Um, yes, I would be the mirror maker.” Pain registered from somewhere, but it was a dull feeling somewhere in the background.

  “How badly are you hurt?” she asked. “I haven’t seen anyone smitten that soundly in some time.”

  “I’m definitely smitten, but I don’t think I’m hurt.”

  If the startled grin on her face was an indication, she caught his meaning. “Well then,” she cleared her throat and stood, “let’s see to this situation.”

  She walked confidently into the shop, considering the hole in the roof and the battered mirror in the doorway. Hatta watched her with wonder; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  In a matter of moments she was satisfied with her assessment of the scene. Ordering one of her attendants, she said, “Pay the landlord damages for the roof, minus the cost of the ruined mirror, then take him to the magistrate. And let the magistrate know I won’t be disconcerted if he spends a few days in a cell before trial.”

  The guards pulled the landlord up roughly and bound his arms. Hatta turned away from his hateful glare. He doubted the man would ever forgive him.

&
nbsp; As the guards led him past the Lady she stopped them with a small signal and addressed the landlord. “Count yourself lucky my Knave is on errand with my Knight. He’s not nearly as gentle or forgiving as I am.”

  Just like his conflict with the mule, part of the weight lifted off Hatta’s shoulders as soon as the landlord turned the corner. When the Lady spoke to him, he forgot the rest. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve sought you, mirror maker?”

  “Hatta,” he managed, finding it difficult to speak in her presence. She was red. Not in color, but in personality. As red as anyone he’d ever met. She turned slowly toward the shop. It was easier to speak to her back. “And what would your name be?”

  “I am Lady Cuora.” She was in the shop, but he couldn’t muster the courage to follow. Rejection and even scorn from other customers bounced off like hail on a turtle’s back, but Cuora had come specifically to see his mirrors. He had never felt so…he wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling. Vulnerable? Indebted? Adoring? An overwhelming connection and yearning.

  Hatta was more than smitten. He might be in love, and it was new territory. The darkest day of his life had suddenly become the most vibrant, and the price he paid to meet Cuora was worth ten times the beating.

  But he still couldn’t bear to watch as she inspected the mirrors. She had delivered him once today; hoping for more would be unreasonable.

  I should run, he thought. Better to carry the memory of rescue than rejection.

  Half a dozen retainers and guards stood in the alley waiting, but only gave him infrequent glances. One of them was the servant who had been in his shop earlier that day.

  That would be how she found my shop. But how did she know to look in the first place?

  Then he remembered a black-haired Lady in red, brusquely inspecting Elora’s mirror before she left. That was a convoluted route.

  Though it hadn’t been long, the distraction was enough to keep him planted until Cuora came out of the shop. When he saw her, he was unable to flee.