Soleil

by Jacqueline Garlick

  It’s really quite amazing.

  He taps the fingers on his other hand, constructed of long, slender, used filament tubes. They crackle and charge. “I asked you to sit,” he says again. “Or shall I have the Queen seat you?”

  The Black Queen grins, tapping the axe on his palm.

  My breath momentarily collapses. If we obey, we’re as good as dead.

  If we don’t, we’re dead anyway.

  “Come now, before the tea gets cold.” Sir Hatter draws in an impatient breath. His chicken-wire chest armature expands. A pair of rubber tubes form his lungs, and a plasma ball his heart. His missing gut, replaced by an old cast iron radiator, lets out a ghastly hiss. “Both of you.” He eyes us sternly.

  “It won’t be much of a party with cold tea, now will it?” He arches his bare brows. Reaching out, he plucks a quill from the back of a live porcupine asleep in the middle of the table. The porcupine jolts awake. It scrambles to its feet in an attempt to leave, but the Queen swoops in and removes its head. “Gawk,” Smrt objects. “Now look what you’ve gone and done.”

  The Queen lowers his chin and backs away. Blood drizzles through the cracks in the metal table.

  It’s all I can do not to scream.

  “Remove it.” Smrt flits his hand, and a mechanical waiter emerges from a waft of steam seemingly from a recess in the door. The waiter takes a shovel from the back wall and scoops up the carcass. He flings it onto a rotting pile across the room.

  Urlick and I share a stunned glance.

  “Have a seat,” Smrt insists. “It isn’t polite to stall, you know. Flossie’s been waiting here a long time.”

  From out of the floor, a chair rises up out of trap door. It snaps into place, under the guise of more steam. When the air clears, there she is: Flossie, gagged and bound, her hands and tentacles tied to her chair. She looks at us, and screams. The noise muffled by the rag in her mouth. Her eyes are electrified, pleading with us to save her.

  Like we can even save ourselves.

  “Take a seat!” Smrt shouts.

  “I’m not here to take tea,” I say slowly, bravely, crazily. “I came for my necklace.”

  “Eyelet?” Urlick whispers, his expression worried.

  “Did you hear that, Queen? She doesn’t want to take tea; she wants her necklace back,” Smrt mocks me musically, then turns and shouts. “Look around you, Princess! Does it look like you’re in any position to negotiate?”

  I falter, wincing at the sound.

  A second set of playing-card doors shuffle into place behind us, blocking our exit from the room.

  “Now, sit down!” Smrt’s voice booms. “Or I’ll let the Black Queen sharpen his blade on your neck.”

  The metal creatures ‘round the table giggle.

  My skin tightens on my bones.

  “We’d better do what he says,” Urlick whispers, yanking me forward.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I pull back. “You know we cannot trust him.”

  “It’s not like we have a lot of options,” Urlick says, through gritted teeth. His eyes survey the room. “Follow my lead.” He yanks on me again. “We’ll get what we need, and then we’ll leave.”

  I straighten, fear coursing through my clotting veins.

  “He’s right, you know.” Smrt inspects his nails. “The only way out of here is through me.”

  Reluctantly, Urlick and I move toward the table, his hand crushing mine. I sit to the left of Sir Hatter, alias Smrt, and Urlick sits next to me, across from the struggling Flossie. Our chair legs scrape the floor.

  “Now, I’d suggest we all get acquainted, but that seems silly. How about we just jump right into it.” Sir Hatter shifts backward, snapping his filament fingers. “TEA!”

  The mechanical butler scurries in from nowhere again. I try to see where he materializes from, but he moves with such speed, it’s hard to detect from which corner. He snaps to attention beside Sir Hatter, who looks up briefly. “You know the kind.”

  The butler nods. He vanishes instantly, returning seconds later with a silver-domed serving tray. It’s a strange-looking thing, in the shape of a three pronged clover. He plops it down in the centre of the table, and he’s gone again, his whereabouts indiscernible.

  Sir Hatter leans in, fork fingers lingering on the tray’s lid. “I thought we’d play a little game.”

  “What kind of game?” Urlick snaps.

  Sir Hatter draws his hand away. “Why, a game of chance, of course. What other kind of game is worth playing?” Sir Hatter clenches his teeth and lunges forward again. “Winner takes all.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask.

  “It’s simple really.” Sir Hatter relaxes, the gears in his face churning. “You have something I want, and I have something you need.” He cracks his filament-bulb knuckles. Steam purges from his chest.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There is nothing to understand.” He shuttles the silver tray closer and gives it a spin. “It all boils down to choice. Make the right choice, and you take the necklace and go home.” He plucks the necklace from the rabbit’s neck and lays it out on the table like a prize. “Make the wrong choice”—he pushes the necklace just far enough away to keep me from lunging for it— “and you lose. And I get what I want.”

  “Which is?” I ask weakly.

  Sir Hatter closes in, his lantern eye flickering. “A little taste of your black magic.” His shutter lid hoods his eyes.

  “What magic?” Urlick and I exchange confused, worried glances.

  Sir Hatter slides back, dragging the table with him. “Don’t play stupid with me!” he erupts, glowering at Urlick. “Flossie’s told me all about your little secret.”

  Urlick scowls at Flossie. Flossie looks at her feet.

  “What have you done?” I say.

  “She told me all about how Urlick injected you with some form of magic that brought you back to the living, from the dead.” Sir Hatter juts his head out over the table. A screw falls from his neck.

  “He tortured me,” Flossie spits round the rag in her mouth. “I had to tell him.”

  Urlick’s eyes swing from Flossie to me, and back. He takes a breath. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Tell them.” Sir Hatter strikes out, tearing away Flossie’s gag. “Tell them what you told me.”

  She gulps in a great gasp of air, then starts screaming.

  The Queen moves in, tapping his axe on his hand, and Flossie’s scream shuts off.

  “Much better.” Sir Hatter smiles. “Now tell them what you told me.” He rolls his hand coaxing her to begin.

  Flossie shares a brief but bold glance with Urlick. She straightens in her seat, as if a school child about to deliver a winning soliloquy. “I sent the Infirm to spy on you,” she tells Urlick, “after you disappeared into your hovel with your little concubine there.” She points cold eyes at me and sneers. “My ghouls surveyed the procedure from the window mounts and chimneys, where they overheard sordid whispers.”

  “You liar.” Urlick grits his teeth. “It’s all a lie. They saw and heard nothing.”

  “They heard what happened. All of it.” Flossie waggles her head. “How you injected her with some sort of serum that brought her back to life from certain death, during some crazed ceremonial dance.”

  “I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.”

  Sir Hatter narrows his gaze. “Don’t lie. It’s not becoming of you.”

  “Huh.” I tsk and fold my arms.

  Flossie turns on me. “It happened and you know it.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve been lied to,” Urlick says. “I know nothing of any of this.”

  “LIAR!” Flossie shouts. “You little lying charlatan.” She struggles, trying to lean across the table. “I know you did it. The ghouls told me. She was dying one minute and alive the next.”

  Urlick grits his teeth. “It wasn’t me.” His face flushes red. He realizes what he shouldn’t have said.
>
  “There you are, you see.” Flossie points. “He knows something, he’s just not telling!” She swallows. “Oh my God, they were right.”

  The ringmaster brings his axe down between them on the table, driving a bend into the steel.

  “Talk!” Sir Hatter shouts, folding over the table.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I can’t. I swear,” Urlick stammers.

  “Then who was it?” Sir Hatter seethes.

  Flossie writhes in her chair.

  Urlick swallows hard. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You’ll tell me or she loses her head!” Sir Hatter shouts. In a flash the Queen is on her feet, her blade of her axe pressed to my throat. A small shriek escapes my lips.

  “It was the Alchemist,” Urlick blurts. “The healer. From the North—”

  “No, Urlick don’t—” I shout.

  “He performed some crazy magic I know nothing of.”

  Sir Hatter smiles and creaks back in his chair. He steeples his fingers, elbow flywheel whirling as he taps them slowly to his chin.

  “See, just as I told you,” Flossie pipes up.

  “Shut up,” Sir Hatter shouts. He stares curiously at the blade against my throat. “So, in effect, the magic courses through her veins.”

  I tremble, cold with fear.

  “What? No.” Urlick twists his head. He launches to his feet.

  “Sit down!” Sir Hatter shouts. He reaches over to remove the hood from the tray. Beneath it, sit six steaming cups of tea: three red and three blue. “It’s time to play the game.” Sir Hatter grabs the end of the tray and spins it, hard. The room mysteriously shifts.

  “What is this? What’s happening?” Urlick’s eyes grow wide.

  “Play the game,” Sir Hatter shouts. The room begins to whirl about. “Make the right choice, and you get the necklace. Make the wrong one, I take her blood.” He glares across the table at me. “Places, everyone!”

  The Black Queen giggles. Flossie snorts. The Queen drops the axe from my neck. The room is now spinning as furiously as the tray. Everything beyond the table is a blur.

  “Eyes on the tray,” Sir Hatter shouts. “Queen? A little ambience please.”

  The Queen scrambles over to a stationary cycle, grabs hold of the handles and mounts. He begins pedalling hard, then harder. The air the room becomes a steady churning wind. It whips the hair around my shoulders and flaps our clothing.

  “Eyes on the cups,” Sir Hatter shouts. “Now!”

  The tray spins faster and faster still. The room spins the opposite way. Urlick’s head begins to sway on his shoulders, his white skin flushing red. I can’t stop myself from moving either, my whole body rocking side to side. Behind Smrt’s shoulders, the card doors part, revealing the giant, storm-filled capsule.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  C.L.

  The wind is somethin’ awful. It’s never been this strong in Brethren. Brethren is supposed to be a safe ‘aven. Trees bend, fences topple. People run for cover.

  Parthena sent word for them all to assemble in the ‘eart of town, at the band shell podium at the far end of Pinglingham Square, to receive instructions, but most of them seem ‘ell bent on followin’ their own instructions. They race about like headless chickens.

  Despite the confusion, Piglingham Square is packed to the gillet. We couldn’t plug one more person in if we tried. Wisely, the most of ‘em’s wearing scarves and such about their mouths and noses to protect themselves. That much they listened to.

  Masheck scrambles up the back of the podium steps to the stage, wind whippin’ back ’is clothin’ as ’e takes centre stage. He peels off ‘is gas mask to speak. The crowd clings to one another, grumblin’ and moanin’.

  Terrified, they is.

  Masheck’s not much better off. I can see the nerves jumpin’ beneath ‘is skin. I wanna ‘elp, but it’s best if I stay back. That’s all ‘e needs right now, for the crowd to catch sight of the likes of me. The support of a no-armed, ex-freak show-sidekick con, and former prisoner, ain’t gonna win ‘im votes of confidence.

  The crowd grows impatient quickly. They buzz and shout.

  “What goin’ on? We demand to know! And ‘oo the ‘ell are you?”

  A rather large brute, with rather large muscles, ‘ollers up from the third row. “What’s going on, ‘ere? Where’s our Ruler?”

  Another twists ‘is ‘head and searches. “Yeah, we ain’t seen ‘im since the day we swore ‘im ‘in. What’s ‘appened? Is ‘e dead?”

  This ignites worry-fire in the ‘earts of the people. They jeer and clutch their chests.

  “No ‘e’s not.” Masheck waves is ‘ands in a motion to quiet ‘em—a futile effort. “‘E’s asked me to come and speak to yahs on ‘is behalf,” ‘e shouts over their fussin’.

  “Yeah? Well, ‘oo the ‘ell are you?”

  The crowd rumbles again, and Masheck goes cold. He turns to Parthena standin’ in the wings. “What do I do?” ‘e whispers.

  Parthena takes up ‘er skirts and rushes toward ‘im. “Tell them you’ve come with orders,” she whispers in ‘is ear. “And be stern. You’ve got to get them to listen.”

  Masheck nods and turns slowly back to the crowd, wearin’ a stiffer mask. He opens ‘is mouth to address ‘em, but they’s already shoutin’ at ‘im.

  “Where’s our Ruler? ‘Oo are you?”

  “What in tarnation is happenin’?”

  “Why is there so much wind in Brethren?”

  “Why aren’t the mills workin’ anymore?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about!” Masheck shouts.

  “Then get talkin’!”

  Masheck’s words are clipped. He looks a might bit ruffled.

  “Where’s our leader? You ain’t our leader. We want to ‘ear it from our leader. Not the likes of you!”

  The winds pick up again, sending Masheck staggering along with many in the crowd. They stumble and fall, the women shriekin’.

  “Please.” Masheck rights ‘imself. “There’s little time.”

  The murmurs dwindle, and the crowd seems to be payin’ attention for a moment.

  “I’m here to tell you what to do.” Masheck’s face reddens. I can tell ‘e’s not used to bein’ in charge, and it’s a terrible struggle for ‘im. Everyone else can tell, too.

  “And ‘oo are you to do that?” The brute from row three now raises a pitchfork. I feel his anger pumpin’ all the way behind the stage.

  Masheck wrings ‘is ‘ands. “Please… If… You need to listen—”

  “To a fellow peasant?” someone jeers. “You want us to listen to a fellow peasant?”

  Several in the crowd laugh.

  “Please, sir. There isn’t time—”

  “Where is our Ruler?” a shrill-voiced woman calls. “Why can’t we speak to our rightful Ruler?” She nervously crushes ‘er apron in ‘er ‘ands. “Why has he abandoned ‘is people?”

  “Yeah! Where is the coward?”

  “He hasn’t abandoned you,” Masheck shouts. He grits his teeth, as I do mine. “And ‘e no coward—”

  “Are you sure? No one’s seen him since the day he took the oath,” pitchfork-man shouts.

  “When ‘e let that stranger inside.” The apron crushin’ woman’s eyes bug. “For all we know, you’re some crazed lunatic who’s overthrown the castle.” She slats her eyes. “Maybe you’re even the stranger—”

  The crowd chants in support.

  “Maybe you’re that cantationer—the madman from the North.” She points. “We never did see his face.”

  The crowd surges. Women gasp.

  “I assure you,” Parthena says, stepping into the center of the stage with Mascheck, “he is not a lunatic! He’s nothing of the sort.” She places a reaffirmin’ ‘and on ‘is shoulder. “He’s none of things you been calling him.”

  The crowd falls to a slighter hush.

  “He is the man chosen by your Ruler to deliver you vital a message—a mes
sage that so far you’ve refused to hear. Now—” she clenches her teeth— “shut up and listen to him!”

  A wave of gasps and mutters filtrates through the crowd.

  The burly man with the pitchfork snorts and knit his brows, glaring at Parthena. “Well, I for one ain’t about to listen.” He raises his fork. “Ever since the Ruler ran off with that suspected sorcerer, we’ve ‘ad nothin’ but wind in the city.”

  The crowd cheers.

  “Never before ‘ave we ‘ad wind like this—”

  “That’s not true,” Masheck shouts above ‘em. “The wind started before ‘e took the throne, while the former Ruler was still in place!” He glances over at Parthena, lookin’ for support.

  “That’s right.” She clutches ‘er ‘ands tightly. “It was she who let unthinkables in.”

  The man ignores ‘er and turns to the crowd instead. “Never before ‘ave the windmill’s busted. Nor ‘ave we been attacked by Infirmed. We crown a new Ruler, ‘oo has the face of a madman, I might add”—he turns briefly back— “and suddenly it all ‘appens!”

  “Yeah!” the crowd shouts and thrusts their arms.

  “Doesn’t anyone else find this all a troublin’ coincidence?” The man squares ‘is gaze on Masheck.

  “Yeah!” the crowd shouts.

  “What you say is not true,” Parthena hollers over their cry. “It was my sister who let in the Infirmed—”

  “So why are we listenin’ to the likes of you?” The man glides toward her. “A self-declared traitor’s sister.”

  The crowd lights up again. They pump their fists and scream and shout. The winds grow darker, harder, stronger behind ‘em.

  “Masheck,” I say, pointin’ to the clouds.

  Masheck’s chin snaps up.

  “Masheck, do somethin’.” Parthena panics, her eyes catchin’ sight of the thread of black in the clouds.