The Chestnut King: Book 3 of the 100 Cupboards

by N. D. Wilson

  “One more time,” Henry said. “What’s your name?”

  “Thorn,” the faerie said. His fat face was smooth and hairless. The hair on his scalp was brown and fine, static clinging to his forehead in places.

  “I’m Henry York Maccabee,” Henry said. The faeries always liked the full name. “I’m a green. My father is Mordecai.”

  Thorn nodded.

  “You knew that?” Henry asked.

  Again, the faerie nodded.

  Henry felt anger climb up inside him, but he pushed it down. “Well, then, Thorn,” he said. “Next time you hear me whistling and peek through your bushes, you holler and let me in.”

  The faerie didn’t move.

  “Okay,” Henry said. “How old are you? You look pretty young.”

  “Thirty-two,” the faerie said. “Last moon.”

  Henry scrunched his lips. “Right. So why don’t you tell me what’s happening? Why are you here alone? Why did you try to hide? Also, I’m going to need a pen. I have to write a message.”

  “A pen?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “With ink. For writing on paper.”

  The faerie’s eyes lit up. “Is the message official?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Is it for official businessings?”

  Henry thought about this. If any message of his was ever going to be official, this was it. He nodded. “It’s for your queen.”

  Thorn’s mouth fell open. He seemed unable to catch his breath, inhaling in useless spurts like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He jumped off his barrel and rushed to a stack of shelves in the corner. He returned to the table, glowing, carrying what looked to be a box wrapped in a potato sack. He set it in front of Henry, pushed his plump cheeks up with a wide smile, raised his eyebrows, and whisked away the sack like an amateur magician.

  Henry blinked and cocked his head. He was looking at a typewriter—a wooden typewriter.

  “The design is my own,” Thorn said. “I started on smelting kits and repairings when I was young, but those horrible contraptions the district uses have no life, no flavoring. They are all hard grindings and clumsy hammers.”

  Henry leaned to one side and then the other. The thing was truly amazing. Perfectly smooth, nearly black wood with a solid band of pale inlay, nearly white. And inside that, a band of glistening silver. The word Thorningtons had been engraved in the side. Polished black keys with sparkling white letters lay below an army of silver hammers and a wooden roller. He ran his hands gently over the keys.

  “Are they stones?” he asked.

  Thorn sighed happily. “Yes. Shaped by a mountain stream—I will not tell you which one under any torturings. It took me a heavy week to find enough of the proper body and heft. The letterings are needled pearl mother.” Thorn straightened, suddenly serious. “I must ask, beseech, and demand that you use this inscriptor for your message.”

  “Um …,” Henry said.

  Thorn raised a plump hand and nodded. “Inscriptage is hard learned, true, but I can assist in difficulties.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said. “Really. You can watch, but I should be fine.” Thorn was now breathing in his ear. Henry leaned away and pointed back at the barrel seat. “You sit and tell me what’s going on. I’ll type.”

  Thorn narrowed his eyes and slipped onto his seat. “Type?” he asked.

  Henry fished one of Nimroth’s pages out from his pouch and shifted the raggant’s weight on his shoulders. “Type,” he said again. “In the world where these were invented, they’re called typewriters.”

  “You have been? You have seen them?”

  Henry nodded, smoothing the paper flat on the table, and then studied the wooden machine for a place to insert it.

  “Are they …,” Thorn began. He cleared his throat nervously. “Are they more beautiful than this?”

  Henry laughed. “Not that I’ve ever seen. Not even close. This is unbelievable.” He held up the paper. “Could you put this in?”

  Thorn, glowing bright red with elation, carefully wound the page around the roller for Henry. The side he had to use was only partially blank. The other was covered with scrawl. When the faerie was content with the page’s positioning, he sat back down, put his elbows on the table, and propped up his chin.

  “Go ahead,” Henry said, trying to think of how to start his letter. “Tell me why you’re the only one here and why you didn’t want me in.”

  Thorn’s joy clattered to the floor around him. His skin reverted to pale, and even though he couldn’t take his eyes off his typewriter, the extreme sparkle of love was gone.

  “It was all Franklin Fat’s fault,” he said. “Not that I was there to see, but I heard enough. As did we all.”

  “What?” Henry asked, staring at the yellowed page in front of him. Smiling, he pressed down a key, and a silver hammer swung forward—an actual hammer-shaped hammer. An a appeared in purple ink on the page. Henry spaced and punched on.

  “The hearing,” Thorn said, watching Henry’s slow hammering with glazed eyes. “Fat Frank was unfaeried. No one wanted it, but if the rules don’t hold, then you may as well be human. No offense.”

  “And?” Henry asked, more than a little distracted.

  “And Mordecai Westmore, your father that is, bonded as he is to this district and others, stood against the rules. He made slighting remarks about the committee’s enforcement, and, well, rules is rules as the rules say someplace, or at least as all the oldies say they say. And even when the committee had banged the hammer, he still kept on calling Fat Franklin a faerie.” Thorn slipped off his seat and moved to Henry’s shoulder, examining his work. “Queen takes a third e at the tail.” He pointed at the page.

  Henry looked up and pointed back at Thorn’s seat. “Well, why can’t he be? Frank, I mean. Why does his magic have to yellow?”

  Thorn sat back down. “Is it yellowing already? Some faeren thought he’d be chalk by morning. Others said it’d be a moon.”

  “Chalk?”

  “The words were spoken,” Thorn said seriously. “I heard them. He is no longer of the mound, and its magic will run out of his blood, out of his body, until he has no spark and no color and no … life. His breath will leave, and he will harden.”

  Henry paused and stared at the little faerie. “Really? You’re serious? Frank will turn into chalk? They’re killing him?”

  “Oh, the oldies said there were charms. He could live a while bonded to a tree, so long as he stayed close to its roots. With the right wizarding, he could even live a year or two as a common dwarf.” Thorn shrugged. “Not Fat Franklin. He hubbubbed and name-called and swore he’d stay in Hylfing when the committee had district-banned him, and Mordecai, your father, called him a friend and invited him to stay as long as his pleasure kept him.”

  “So?” Henry asked.

  “Rules is rules,” Thorn said. “The committee reduced the Hylfing hall to token.”

  Henry looked into the faerie’s eyes. “But they didn’t close it?”

  “They call it closed and collapsed,” Thorn said. “But I’m here to keep an eye, sent on account of failure in other duties.”

  Henry couldn’t hide his surprise. After everything the last committee had done, they wouldn’t give even a little on Frank?

  “I can’t believe that,” Henry said.

  “Well, it’s only for half a moon,” Thorn said. “Out of respect for rules and no slight to your father.”

  The raggant snored on Henry’s shoulder. Henry shook his head. “I wasn’t talking about closing the hall. Faeren are ridiculous.”

  Thorn sagged on his barrel.

  “No offense,” Henry added. He looked down at his page. “And I have a job for you.”

  “Can’t,” Thorn said. “Hall’s closed.”

  “Can,” Henry said. “And it’s not really for me. It’s for the queene. I’m almost done.”

  A few minutes later, Henry sat back. His purple message seemed passable.

 
“What kind of ink is this?” he asked.

  “Ink?” Thorn asked. “The silk ribbon soaks in blackberry juice. I would like something darker but have found nothing.”

  “Catch an octopus,” Henry said, pulling his page off the roller. “They’ll squirt ink at you when they’re mad.”

  The little round faerie cocked his head. “Is this what the other world uses?”

  “Honestly, no. I doubt it,” Henry said. “But their inscriptors aren’t so lovely as this.”

  Thorn crossed his arms and grinned. “I shall gather octopi. I shall milk them for my ink.”

  Henry smiled and read through his letter one final time. Unfortunately, all of it was lowercase, and he’d slipped up on a word or two, but the queene could overlook that. After all, it was in purple ink, and he’d managed to make it sound especially faerie-pompous.

  a lert

  to the queene of all faeren, with deep respect, admiration, and hopefulness from henry york maccabee, dandelion green man, seventh son to mordecai westmore, sevnth son to amram. nimiane, one-time witch-queen of endor, maddens dumarre with her evil, and her witch-dogs and fingerlings walk the streets. mordecai humbly, politely, and urgently asks the queene of all faeren to dispatch her strongest and most cunning soldiers to resist, stifle, an thwart her witchery. also, a galley carries some family of mordecai to the witch in chains. he asks the great queene to prevent galleys from entering the harbor. he will come as soon as he can free himself from struggles in endor. gratitude, love, and fondness to the queene, our friend and ally.

  henry york maccabee for his father mordecai westmore

  p.s. i inscript this lert on a page stolen from nimroth’s own library.

  Henry handed the letter to the faerie. “Take it to the queene. I don’t know where she is, but you have to find her and give her this. Only her. No one else. From your hands to hers, nobody in between. Okay?”

  “I, uh … the committee…” The poor faerie’s eyes were crowded with worry and confusion.

  “Put your typewriter back in its sack and go right away, as fast as you can. Get it to her. If you don’t, the rules might just go away. All of them.”

  Thorn clenched his jaw, but his face was still pale, his eyes terrified. “Right, then,” he said. “To the queene.”

  Henry slapped the faerie on a soft arm and smiled, standing up carefully. He moved to the door. He had his own trek ahead.

  “Thank you,” he said over his shoulder and the raggant’s nose. Then he climbed up into the morning air and the brush.

  After a moment, he shoved his head back down through the doorway. The little faerie was still standing where he’d left him with the letter in his hands.

  “Thorn,” he said. “You get this done, and my father will always stand beside you. Always, no matter what a committee or a king or an emperor or a rule might say. Just like he did for Frank Fat-Faerie. And so will I.”

  Thorn nodded and tried to smile. He couldn’t quite get his face to work.

  Henry pointed at him. “Octopi,” he said, and the faerie grinned.

  “Octopi.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The ship rocked slowly, climbing the swelling waves, driven by a steady wind. Frank filled his lungs with the sea’s breath and leaned on the rail in front of him, overlooking the lower deck.

  Monmouth stood beside him. Behind them both, James discussed charts with Meroe. The view in front of Frank Willis was as unlikely as any he could have imagined.

  The deck was covered with sleeping bodies. Despite the chill, despite the lack of clothing, not one slave had set foot belowdecks in the night. Between the bodies and around the big, serpentine guns, slender aspen saplings had shot up, and the planks, where visible, had barked over with silver and seamed their grooves together. It was from the grooves, and any knots in the planks, that the saplings now grew. Every spindle in the galley’s rails sported the heart-shaped, silver-bellied leaves of the aspen tree, and the masts were barked and boughed with slender limbs. The ship creaked as it rose and fell in the water. The sails ruffled and cracked in the wind. These things were normal. But now the ship’s deck rustled in the wind like a forest grove, and the living leaves danced in the light of the early-morning sun as it rose over a jagged coastline. Meroe’s course had taken them closer to land in the night, but that wasn’t likely to last long, not with their new captain’s plans.

  Frank rubbed the thick bandages on his wrists and lifted his eyes from the aspen grove sprouting up between the bodies of freshly freed slaves, to the bow, where his wife and daughter leaned together, watching the ship plow through the sea. Hyacinth stood tall beside them, the wind pushing her dark hair forward over her shoulders, with one arm around Isa, a younger picture of herself.

  He sighed. Where were his other daughters? His brothers? Where was his nephew? What, exactly, could he and the others hope to do now?

  “I didn’t expect this,” Monmouth said quietly, with his eyes on the flickering leaves. “I wasn’t trying to turn the ship into a grove.”

  “Can’t imagine that you were,” Frank said. “Can’t imagine anyone would.”

  “Aspen send up saplings from a common root. I only livened a few timbers to push out the chains. The rest just happened.”

  Frank smiled. “Don’t go sounding like an apology. By the time we put in someplace, we’ll be a floating forest, not a slave galley. And that’s an improvement to my mind.”

  “I will not sail north,” Meroe said behind them. His voice was raised, drumming in his broad chest. Frank and Monmouth turned. James was holding his hands up defensively. The huge, bearded captain leaned toward him, resting his fists on a chart and table. “I will not send men below to pull oars into the wind. And I could not if I willed. They would have my flesh in stew first, for all of your knife tricks.”

  James smiled. He was wearing clothes stripped off a dead soldier, minus the red overshirt. Meroe wore the same, though the sleeves of the dirty white shirt were snug on his forearms and fell several inches short of either wrist. His broad shoulders kept the shirt neck spread wide. Blood from the wound in his side was seeping through its bandage.

  “What, then?” James asked. “South to Dumarre and fresh berths on the emperor’s galleys?”

  Meroe tugged fingers through his thick beard. “Open sea, out of the eyes of Dumarre, and south beyond.”

  James clicked his tongue and then whistled a few bars, staring at the chart between them. He looked up into the big man’s dark eyes. “A foodless voyage. How much stock remains to you?” He pointed at the men sleeping in the young deck-forest. “Every cask tapped, every sack torn. At the least, put in and provision.”

  “Even if I had gold for provender,” Meroe said, “I would watch my crew disappear into the hills. We sail south, and we pirate.”

  “Your crew,” James said. He raised his eyebrows. “Your crew? Look at them. They are not sailors; they are slaves. The sun rises, and they still sleep with bulging bellies and heads swimming with liquor dreams. Will they obey if it comes to rowing or any other labor? You cannot keep them on if they want only to be put ashore. Not unless you use the shackles and carry a whip.”

  “South,” Meroe said slowly. “South and only south. We will pirate supplies or gold for supplies and put in when Dumarre is no more than a filthy dream over my shoulder and in the past. Any and all will be free to seek their own course then.”

  James stood quietly, his jaw clenching.

  “Am I captain or no?” Meroe asked. “What says Mordecai’s son?”

  James nodded and looked to the sea.

  “Not sure it much matters,” Frank said. He picked a handful of leaves off the rail and let the breeze carry them down to the deck. “Monmouth here freed you a crew but gave the ship back to the forest.”

  Meroe grunted and looked at Monmouth. “We are free, and it floats. I am grateful.”

  “It floats,” Frank said. “But not fast enough for your pirate dreaming.”

  Mer
oe rose to his full height and stretched his back. Frank watched his shirt seams stretch.

  “We shall see,” the big man said. “Let us wake the crew. More sail could be spread, and this forest must be cut back.”

  Frank and Monmouth watched James and his new captain wade through the bodies and saplings, kicking and shouting and thumping as they went. A few men sat up, and two rose to their feet, staring at the green leaves around them in groggy confusion. The rest groaned and complained and rolled to their backs and bellies, covering their heads with their arms to protect their dreams.

  After a moment, Monmouth spoke.

  “I made it all leafy and green.” He looked at Frank. “But I didn’t make the ship slower.”

  Frank laughed and slapped Monmouth on the back. “No more of this tone. You embarrassed that you can turn dead oak trees into the strangest aspen grove that’s ever been seen? Don’t be.”

  Monmouth laughed. “I’m not embarrassed. It’s just a little strange and unexpected.”

  “And slower,” Frank said, grinning. “If I could dive under and check the keel, how many roots you think I would find draggin’ behind us in the sea? You did do the first livening business in the lowest hold.”

  Monmouth shut his eyes and grimaced.

  “When we’re done with this galley,” Frank said, “I think we should find some elephants, haul it up out of the Hylfing harbor, and plant it between the river and the baseball diamond.”

  Two-thirds of the men were now awake and up. All of them were either complaining loudly or examining the growing ship with worried looks.

  Three men, led by James, were clambering up rigging onto the central mast. A dozen more stood watching with open mouths until Meroe drove them to the other masts. Someone else was shouting about breakfast.

  Under James’s direction, a topsail unfurled and snapped to.

  “Monmouth!” James shouted. “Even up here?” He plucked the few leaves that had sprouted that high and dropped them. The wind carried them forward as they fell, all the way to Dotty and Hyacinth and the girls, where they stood watching the bustle.