Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  “With this remarkable mane?” said Ander, with a shake of his head that caused his hair to brush Hatta’s. “I stand out like a new coin. It’s only a matter of time until someone recognizes me. My only chance is if they don’t link me to Chism.”

  The odd rabbit grinned a toothy smile, apparently enjoying Hatta’s double conversation. “They won’t see me. I’m much too quick. Besides, I’ll be going soon.”

  “Why?” asked Hatta, disappointed. When the rabbit left, so would the only distraction from his contemptible fate.

  Ander spoke. “He didn’t tell you, but Chism made serious problems with a duke in Far West Province. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a high price on his head still.”

  With no warning, the lime-colored rabbit dashed into the brush and disappeared, immediately followed by the crunch of approaching footfalls. An angry man with white stripes on the shoulders of his uniform ordered, “On your feet.” A handful of guards followed silently.

  Using each other’s backs to push off, Hatta and Ander shimmied to a standing position and turned to face the officer. Ander was as relaxed as a cat in a tree but Hatta felt more like a bird in a cat’s mouth. “Would obtaining my hat be a possibility?”

  The request drew much more of the man’s attention than Hatta wanted. The strong-jawed officer glared into Hatta’s eyes, forcing him to drop his head and look away. He regretted not pressing Cheshire to teach him the disappearing trick, and had to be satisfied by scooting behind Ander’s shoulder.

  In a growl, the officer said, “You’ve got bigger problems than your hat. The boy who fled this morning—who was he?”

  Hatta squeaked, “He would be my…” but Ander’s voice rode right over him.

  “He said his name was Chism. From T’lai if I’m not mistaken. Said he was looking for adventure.”

  The officer’s attention whipped to Ander. “And who is he to you?”

  “A helper, that’s all. I make fabrics, and my friend here mines mercury. The lad worked for us.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “A month, maybe two. Just since he showed up at our hut.”

  How did Ander lie to the man’s face without any outward sign? Even listening to the lie made Hatta fidget, but only slightly more than before.

  “Describe him to me,” ordered the officer.

  Ander tried to pull an arm loose, forgetting the bonds. “Up to my shoulders in height, hair as black as burnt charcoal, with eyes nearly as dark. Thin jaw line that’s never seen a razor. If I’m being honest, the lad was troubled, Sir. Never talked about his past, but I could tell it was murky.”

  “Is this him?” He signaled to a soldier who presented a parchment with Chism’s likeness. The rough drawing disturbed Hatta. The artist had drawn his brother with unforgiving eyes and a frightening scowl. Words and numbers were written in fancy letters above and below the sketch, but they meant nothing to Hatta.

  “That’s him, or I’m cousin to a clownfish,” said Ander. “Is there really a reward for his arrest?”

  The officer grunted. “Before lamenting the missed reward, you should consider your luck that you didn’t end up dead.”

  “But he’s just a boy,” said Ander with genuine shock. It looked genuine anyway, but Hatta had seen him lie once already.

  “That boy is a rogue Elite. He nearly assassinated a duke in Far West Province.”

  “Dimples and dandruff! It appears we owe you our gratitude for scaring the runt off.”

  I thought Ander loved Chism, thought Hatta. More lies?

  “Say nothing of it.” A meaningful grin showed on the officer’s face. “That’s what brothers-in-arms do for one another. You’re members of the White Queen’s Army now, after all.”

  Hatta felt his face pale and he pulled against his bonds, looking for something to lean on. “No, we can’t be. I…I…” Everything was turning black again; he had no defense against such plainly spoken truth.

  What a shame that the dirt in the road was so uniform in color. Even the gray gravel on the road outside of Palassiren contained shades of gray, as well as the occasional bluish pebble.

  Umber. That’s not distracting in the slightest. The thought of life as a soldier wilted his spirit.

  Offering a shoulder for support, Ander came to his rescue once again. “Pardon my sensitive friend, Captain. What he’s trying to say is that we are already in the service of Lady Queen Palida.”

  The captain looked amused. “Is that so? In what capacity?”

  “Craftsmen. As I mentioned, I work in textiles and he makes mirrors.”

  “Yes, Palida cared for mirrors a great deal,” said Hatta. Now that was a decent topic of conversation. “Did you know she never looks directly at anyone?”

  “Of course I know that,” said the captain. “Anyone who’s ever seen her knows that.”

  “Yes, well we’ve secured the supplies we needed and we’re traveling back to her now,” said Ander.

  “Surely you carry a writ from the queen or some other proof?” With an innocent expression, the officer waited for Ander to shake his head. “No? Well I’m not exactly…convinced. I feel our current need for soldiers outweighs her need for a tailor.”

  “With due respect, Captain,” said Ander, “we are not unknown laborers whose presence will go unnoticed. We both know the queen can be, how should I say this? Quirky at times. Look at this hair, Man. Even if I was the worst textile maker in the Twelve Provinces she wouldn’t turn me away.”

  It was true. Lady Palida was obsessed with all things white, and Ander’s hair was nearly as white as Chism’s was black. Hmm, complements. Hatta managed a minuscule smile at the discovery, but it only lasted until he looked back at the sneering officer.

  “White hair may be rare, but it’s hardly proof.” He looked at Hatta. “You say you’re a mirror maker?”

  Hatta started, “I…” but couldn’t bear the man’s gaze so he nodded.

  “Tell me about your craft. How exactly does one make a mirror?”

  Careful not to look at the captain’s face, Hatta hesitantly explained the most common metals used to make mirrors: tin, mercury, silver. Gaining confidence, he delved into the mixtures of each and what would happen if concentrations were incorrect. It was difficult, but he was careful to leave out any mention of colors, since a servant of Palida wouldn’t deal in such things. Halfway through the explanation of building frames, the captain cut in.

  “So you are a mirror maker.” Hatta felt the man’s gaze leave him. Addressing Ander he said, “But what is a clothier doing with a soldier’s spear.”

  “A man must have a way to protect himself,” said Ander with a shrug. “Lady Palida herself gave that to me. It once belonged to a Fellow! She said even if I couldn’t use it well, it might scare off would-be bandits.”

  “And why are you here in the northern Provinces instead of serving at her side?”

  “Cinnabar, Sir,” said Ander. “We mine it for mercury; me for my fabric and him for his mirrors.”

  With a quick glimpse, Hatta saw the captain was still wary. Deep in thought, the man paced slowly in front of them. “Nearly every draftee has one excuse or another. I want to believe you. I almost believe you. But you haven’t produced any proof that you’ve more than glimpsed the queen in a hallway. And your association with that rogue Elite is too much coincidence.” His considering countenance snapped back to the stern gaze, and Hatta knew he’d decided. “We’ll meet up with her forces eventually. You will stay with us until then. And please don’t desert because I’d hate to hang you before we can verify your story. Assign them to Worick’s Squadron,” he said to an underling, and walked past.

  Hanged if he didn’t stay to fight? Hatta didn’t know if he would faint first, or vomit then collapse into the sick.

  Ander swore. “Lizards and onions!” That didn’t sound appetizing at all, especially with his current nausea. But there was something about onions.

  What is it about Onions? Onion, oni
on, onion. And it hit him.

  “Onion! That’s it,” shouted Hatta, moving toward the officer. The guards stepped in front of him. “The queen’s king son, I mean the king, the queen’s son. Antion. She calls him Onion, but not when people can hear. He doesn’t care for it, but she only says it because she loves him very much. ”

  The captain froze, and it took him a long time to turn. With a pensive look he finally said, “Onion. You’re absolutely right.” In a voice barely loud enough to be heard, the captain said slowly to a soldier, “Make them messengers. Give them a copy of my letter to Queen Palida and have them depart immediately.” To Hatta and Ander he said, “I’m sure loyal servants of the queen won’t mind carrying a missive. Since you’re already on your way to find her.”

  They didn’t argue. “I’m not releasing you from conscription,” said the captain, “but we can’t have too many messengers.” Without further comment, he spun and strode away.

  Hatta sank to his knees in relief. The two hours spent as a soldier were the worst of his life.

  Chapter 25

  Selvage

  Wearing the felt gloves made by his brother, Chism stroked thumbs against fingers as he scanned the encampment that infested the town of Marrit. His flight originally took him north, but he circled around, eventually reaching a low hill to the south that gave him the best view of the town. Though the terrain was much different, he had flashbacks of Quicksilver Squadron entering Serpent Gap while he looked on. However, back at the Gap he looked forward to the outcome, confident that his brothers-in-arms could deal with the situation. He was just as confident that Hatta could not deal with the current situation.

  Staying and becoming a prisoner wouldn’t have done either of us any good, he told himself for the sixteenth time. I haven’t abandoned you, brother.

  The camp came to life as he looked on, but it was much too far to make out individual activities and he had no idea where Hatta was being held. Or Ander. Hatta would stick out if Chism could see colors, but that was worthless wishing. Hopefully they were still together. Ander’s experience as a Fellow gave them a small chance of escaping or at least being treated humanely. If they got separated Hatta was capable of getting himself into any situation.

  “Move, curse you,” he told the camp at large. If tents didn’t come down soon then the army would stay for at least another day, giving Chism no chance of making a rescue. He called it an army, but the group was no larger than three hundred and fifty men.

  Once the soldiers marched, Chism would have many more options for rescue. Sneaking into camp under disguise and leading Hatta and Ander to safety would be the easiest, especially in the chaos of making or breaking camp. He also considered an ambush if Hatta ever appeared close enough to the borders of camp that Chism only had to fight four soldiers. Maybe even six.

  Every minute his brother spent as a conscript would be agony for both of them.

  Chism’s patience was rewarded, as tent poles were lowered and men bustled, preparing to march. He wouldn’t have to wait until the next day to act after all.

  An hour later, the regiment lined up facing south, nearly the direction in which Chism waited. He watched hopefully until the soldiers started moving, then released his held breath. Lucky enough to flee in the right direction, he had a considerable head start on the soldiers.

  After retrieving his horse where he had tethered it near the road, Chism started south on the road at a trot. As a lone rider, he could cover distance twice as fast as the battalion, giving him plenty of time to analyze possible locations for ambush or escape attempt. But the land he passed was flat with the same scrubby trees that surrounded the mining homestead. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but didn’t see any way to use the current terrain.

  Half a day passed without any change in landscape until a few small farms came into view on either side of the Northern Spoke. At the height of summer the fields should have been full of farmers, but nearly everyone Chism saw was a woman or young boy. The people who noticed him watched closely and some even stopped their chores and withdrew to locations out of Chism’s view. It didn’t even seem like the same town he and Ander had passed through.

  Located just north of the crossroads of the Northern Spoke and the Fringe Road, Selvage was almost big enough to call a city. As one of nine towns in the kingdom that allowed travel along major routes in any direction, Selvage was a somewhat important center of commerce. Technically it was in the Provinces, but close enough to Maravilla that loyalties might be divided.

  Two months previous, Ander reported no signs of any kind of search for Chism. He hoped that still held true.

  When he entered the town he noticed the same lack of activity he’d seen in the fields. Most people hurried inside as he approached, and the ones that didn’t flee eyed Thirsty with mistrust. The shops all appeared to be closed, odd for a town whose lifeblood was trade. A cloud of caginess hung over the village; he couldn’t even talk to anyone since they fled every time he approached.

  Townsfolk shouldn’t be so scared of a lone boy. I need to corner someone and find out what’s going on.

  Watching for a dead end alley or someone out in the open who couldn’t duck inside, he spotted a woman scurrying out of a shop and saw a much better opportunity. A shopkeeper would have no choice but to attend him.

  Chism tethered his horse to a post outside the shop and casually gripped Thirsty as he approached the door. Leaving Thirsty outside would set a shopkeeper at ease, but any advantage would be greatly overshadowed by the risks of not having it handy in a bind. Besides, abandoning friends should be avoided when possible.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes darted to the back of the store when Chism entered, but the man held his ground uneasily, not sure if he should stay or run. Chism had never seen such a prominent nose, like a parrot’s beak, and the man’s flowing hair was brushed back like plumage.

  “What do you what?” he asked tersely.

  The shop was empty of people and nearly empty of supplies. Some baskets were vacant, others held a few potatoes, some flour, or dried corn. More shelves were bare than stocked.

  “What happened here?”

  “Who are you with?” asked Parrot. “White or Red?”

  “Neither. I’m trying to stay out of it.” Then he added, “Just like you.”

  “What’s a boy doing with a sword like that?”

  “Like I said,” answered Chism, “I’m trying to stay clear any way I can.”

  Parrot looked him up and down, considering. With an exasperated sigh, he said, “The Reds came through first. They ‘appropriated’ the supplies they needed. Only those of us with cold cellars or hidden stocks were left with more than a couple days provisions.” He wore a look of disgust. “Not two days later the Whites came. There wasn’t much in the way of goods for them to seize, but in the end they took much more than the Reds.”

  That explains why there are no men left in town, Chism thought.

  “Four out of five men were conscripted, no matter that our supplies had just been wiped out by the Reds. They took volunteers first,” Parrot’s face flushed and he couldn’t hold Chism’s gaze. “But that wasn’t enough to fill the quota so they held a lottery.” His voice was low, as if embarrassed and Chism understood the man was feeling guilt over avoiding the draft.

  Chism didn’t know what to say to ease Parrot’s feelings of cowardice or culpability.

  “Folk had some coin, but with all the men gone it didn’t last long. We’re traders, and without goods we have nothing.” Motioning to his shop he said, “I was lucky enough to have this stored away under the shop, but near everyone’s buying on credit. A few still barter, but not many have anything of value left to trade and I just can’t bring myself to turn away hungry folk.”

  Still Chism had nothing to say, and the shopkeeper continued. “It’s the blessing and the curse of living in a merchant town. Under normal circumstances, coin flows freely, but when the goods are gone, you’re left wi
th no way to provide. There are only a few farms around the town, and the farmers have been glad to take on the men who are left, but unless something drastic happens we’ll never be able to put away enough before winter.”

  The armies, which should be supporting the Circle, have become the worst violators. I have to do something.

  No, he corrected himself. That’s not my concern anymore. My concern is watching out for Hatta. With armies gobbling up conscripts, as the Marrit store owner described it, Hatta had certainly been drafted, if not imprisoned. More than ever he had to find a way to rescue him, even if it meant drastic measures. “Where are the armies now?”

  Parrot shrugged. “They had a battle outside of town on the day between their visits here. I don’t know where they went off to, but wherever it is isn’t far enough.”

  “Battle?”

  “The Whites called it a skirmish. When they took the conscripts they claimed they needed to replenish their ranks.”

  “Where was the battle?”

  “South of town, at the crossroads.”

  “Thanks,” said Chism, and turned to leave. Reaching into a pocket he pulled out six silvers and four coppers. It represented half of his coins. “Can I trust you to get these to people who need them?” He knew they would be worth little in Selvage, but eventually trade with other cities would resume.

  Looking at the coins like a starving father at a loaf of bread, Parrot nodded. Chism pressed them into his palm. He wanted to do more, try to mend the broken Circle, but he wasn’t like Hatta—he couldn’t save the world. The thought amused Chism, and he shook his head and smirked in spite of himself.

  The ride out of town was as disheartening as the ride in. Similar to the northern outskirts, very few farmers specked the landscape south of town. Approximately a quarter mile out of town, where the Northern Spoke and the Fringe Road met, he found the battle site. What was once a flourishing wheat field spread out north of the Fringe Road and west of the Northern Spoke.

  Leaving his horse to graze on the ruined wheat, he wandered through the field, startling crows and vultures. Here and there lay broken pieces of shields and splintered arrows. Swarms of flies pointed him to a few body parts—some fingers, a hand, remnants of entrails and some fleshy chucks that might be parts of legs. All of them had been picked over by animals. In many areas the ground was crusted with blood—he didn’t have to see colors to recognize it. More indications of the shattered Circle.