by Sam Gayton
After Lord Xin summoned the guards—
After Pieter and Teresa were clapped in chains—
After they were thrown in the dungeons—
After Alexander ran away and hid in the herb garden—
After he was chased back out again by a rat, which bit his tail and gave him fleas—
After the cooks carefully sloshed the shelf clean of Catastrophica—
After it glugged down the drain, burping ginger-colored bubbles—
After it sluiced into the sewers, and then into the River Ossia—
After a group of carp swallowed it in much diluted form, and turned into the first catfish—
After all this happened, the Czar sat in his throne room, ready to admit defeat for the first time in his life.
It was a terrible feeling. It filled his head with gloom and his heart with bitterness, and he sat on his throne with an ashen face and a molten temper, trying to think of an answer to his problem:
How could his son become a conqueror now?
The question was an enemy more powerful and dangerous than any the Czar had fought before. He was no fool—mighty as he was, he knew that a day would come when old age would summon the Pale Traveler to take him to the land of the dead. What would happen to Petrossia then, with a cat for a king? The mighty empire he had built would crumble away to nothing.
He looked at the red velvet pillow down at his feet. Bloodbath had been banished to the hallway. Lounging on the pillow now was a little pile of ginger fur. Prince Alexander was contentedly pawing at a toy mouse.
“This is your fault,” he growled at his son. “You were supposed to shoot arrows at the serfs, not make friends with them! How many crossbows does a lad have to get for his birthday? Where’s your butchery? Where’s your bloodthirst?”
Alexander dipped his little head. He held up his paw, and out slid five puny claws the size of nail clippings.
“Meow?” he said, swiping them back and forth.
The Czar made a pff sound. “What will you do with them? Scratch someone to death?”
Alexander did his best pounce on the toy mouse he had been playing with.
“Is that supposed to impress me?” The Czar shook his head. “I conquered the mice of Petrossia years ago. Some of them even serve me as soldiers. The Mousketeers would make ginger fur coats out of you. I doubt you could even defeat Bloodbath.”
Alexander did not make a sound. He curled up very small on his cushion and looked up at his father, shame glittering in his green eyes.
The Czar stood up from his throne, pacing and seething. This problem was too daunting for him to face on his own. To defeat it, he would need to call upon the strength of his greatest warriors.
It was time to assemble the War Council.
They gathered in the Hall of Faces, the enormous gallery that sits at the center of the Winter Palace, where the four walls and most of the ceiling are covered by royal portraits.
From their gilded picture frames, the past kings of Petrossia glare in their thousands. Most are so ancient, so paint flaked and faded, it is like the hall is filled with rows of staring ghosts. They all look like the Czar: stern, with green eyes, and thick beards or mustaches. They have names like Vladimir the Savage, or Boris of the Nine Wives.11
It is always sunset in the Hall of Faces, no matter what the time of day. This is because, over the centuries, the portraits have slowly covered up all the windows. Now the only light comes from the tall doors at either end. Each is made of stained glass, and depicts a different battle the Czar has fought. Total annihilation is probably a more accurate description than battle. Red is the primary color.
It was in that emergency-colored light that the Czar stood looking at each of his War Council in turn.
“Warmaster Ugor, Heirmaster Xin, Spymaster Klaus,” the Czar began. “I gather you here because I am fighting an unwinnable war and I am close to surrender. Never before have I battled so hard and so hopelessly against my enemy. Here he is: the future ruler of my empire.”
In his hands was the red velvet pillow. The prince was on it, snoozing.
“Sire,” said Lord Xin. “This kitten cannot rule Petrossia. You must adopt a new son.”
“No adoption,” grunted Ugor. He gestured with one enormous hand to the Hall of Faces. “The bloodline. Heirs must have royal ancestry.”
Lord Xin shook his head. “But His Majesty had the entire royal family executed when He was crowned.”
“A coronation to remember,” said the Czar fondly.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Xin. “It was very generous of you to carry out the beheadings personally.”
“Great-aunt Anastasia deserved nothing less.” The Czar’s wistful expression vanished. “Happy as that day was, it does now mean that Prince Alexander will one day inherit the throne of Petrossia. There is no one else. We must make him a conqueror before that happens. I ask you now: Do any of you know how to turn my son—this kitten—into a conqueror?”
Silence in the Hall of Faces.
“You are as much use as these portraits!” growled the Czar. He looked at his ancestors, purse lipped and silent. “Has my mighty and cunning War Council really been beaten by a kitten?”
Ugor scratched his scars and sucked his broken teeth. He was strong: the only person in the world who had managed a draw with the Czar in a thumb war. But how could his strength solve a problem like this?
As for Lord Xin, he spoke seven languages; he knew poisons that could kill quickly, or painfully, or silently; he could teach sword skills and siege tactics. Yet what good was all his knowledge and cunning, when he did not know alchemy?
And Sir Klaus the Spymaster, who sat through the discussion too, remained hidden from everyone but the Czar. He could conceal himself in the smallest shadow and vanish like smoke through a crack in the wall. But what use were his skills now?
“Forgive us, Majesty,” Lord Xin said, bowing low. “We are soldiers, not potion makers.”
At that, the Czar stroked his mustache. The Heirmaster’s words had given him a thought. Perhaps things were not hopeless after all. “You are right, Lord Xin,” he said at last. “Warriors and tutors and spies cannot solve this problem for me—only an alchemist can.”
Lord Xin frowned. “But Alchemaster Blüstav is banished,” he said. “And possibly still made of money.” 12
“I wasn’t talking about that old fraud,” said the Czar. “I wasn’t talking about him at all.”
* * *
11. Women rulers are forbidden in Petrossia. That helps explain why the country is in such a mess. You will not see any queens in the Hall of Faces—at least, not at first glance. Look closer, though, at the portrait of King Tiffany the Blood-drinker, and you will see a red-lipped gentleman, with what looks suspiciously like a squirrel’s tail glued to his top lip.
12. Actually, Blüstav’s alchemy had already worn off. He changed back into a man whilst piled up in the Duke of Madri’s treasure chamber, and escaped with several priceless alchemical books. A letter from the Duke was already heading for Petrossia, demanding compensation—and a refund of that siege cannon.
2
The Gigantic Idea
Pieter and Teresa were dragged up from the dungeons and plonked in front of the Czar. They were both so wrapped up in lead chains they looked like fat mounds of gray spaghetti, each with a little meatball head on top. The afternoon light shining through the stained-glass doors was the color of massacres. It suited the Czar’s expression perfectly.
“Think very carefully about what you say from now on,” he said to the two of them. “Because I have a sword, and you’re chained up, and I’m in a head-chopping mood. The only reason you’re alive at all is because of this.”
With one hand, he snatched up Alexander by the scruff of the neck and tossed him forward. The fluffy prince flew through the air with a yowl. Landing on his feet, he ran up Teresa’s chains and cuddled against her cheek.
“Alexander!” she cried.
“I’m so sorry for mixing you up in this.”
But the prince just licked her nose, then looked over at Pieter and purred.
“He’s forgiven them already?” The Czar shook his head in disbelief. “Lord Xin, haven’t you taught him to hold a grudge?”
“Many, many times,” said the Heirmaster with a pained sigh. “Too much of his mother in him.”
“You leave Alexander alone!” yelled Teresa, face red and furious. “And his mama too!”
“Hold your tongue, Spice Monkey!” Lord Xin roared.
Teresa stuck it out at him. “Why should I?”
The Czar raised one slanted eyebrow, as if it were a guillotine.
Pieter’s jaw dropped, like a head into a basket. “Oh no,” he whispered. Teresa was done for now. Why should I? was one of those questions—along with May I have a holiday? and Is there any pudding?—that serfs were forbidden to ask. The Czar never bothered to answer. He let his sword do the talking, and its reply was always short, sharp, and to the point.
There was a metallic scraping sound that ended in a high ringing hum as the Czar drew his blade from its scabbard. The sword glinted in the bloody light of the hall. Its name was Viktor, because it had never belonged to a Loser.
“Viktor?” said the Czar to his blade. “Cut this insolent serf down to size.”
“Wait, Majesty!” Ugor lumbered forward and murmured in the Czar’s ear.
The Czar’s teeth made the sound of breaking bones as he ground them together. “Ugor is right,” he muttered. “We need her.”
“Killing her is out of the question,” said Lord Xin into his other ear. “Agonizing torment, on the other hand . . .”
The Czar gave an evil chuckle. “War Council, you advise me well.” And looking straight at Teresa, he sentenced her to the most gruesome torture he could think of.
(It involved a teaspoon and two barrels of beetroot soup.)
“Go tell the cooks!” the Czar ordered Ugor.
“And make sure they go easy on the seasoning,” said Teresa as he left.
This only made the Czar angrier, and so Teresa’s torture was made even more painful.
(It now also involved two hungry piranhas in a pair of water-filled rain boots.)
“Prepare the rubber boots, Lord Xin! And make sure they’re a snug fit.”
“Gladly, Your Majesty,” said the Heirmaster.
Pieter struggled and yelled, but his shackles were wrapped around him too tight. All he could do was watch as Lord Xin tipped Teresa over in her chains, and began to roll her like a barrel out the door.
“Teresa!” Pieter cried, twisting his neck. “I’ll save you! I’ll do whatever it takes!”
He tried to sound brave. He tried to sound certain. He was roughly thirty percent successful. In any exam hall in Eureka, that was a fail.
Teresa didn’t say anything. She just gave Pieter a look he had never seen before: a trembling look, full of longing for What If, and regret for What Was.
Alexander gave a hiss and pounced for Lord Xin’s shin, shredding the silk trouser leg with his claws. But the Heirmaster just shook him off, and the prince went rolling across the floor, mewling for his best friend.
It was all down to Pieter now.
All around him, the portraits glared down, making him prickle and sweat. He shut his eyes, trying to think. Long reams of mathemagical symbols scribbled across the blackboards of his eyelids. If only he could join them together into a great formula that would somehow work out a way to survive . . . But the only thing that kept coming into his mind were the words of the Czar.
Cut this insolent serf down to size.
“There is a way you can save the Spice Monkey,” said the Czar, pulling Pieter from his thoughts. “Do you know what it is?”
Pieter made a kind of strangled whimper. It was the noise he used to make back in the exam halls of Eureka, whenever he needed more time.
“Don’t panic,” said the Czar. His voice was almost kindly. “I’ll tell you.” His finger, thick as a musket barrel, pointed down at Prince Alexander. “Change. My. Son.”
Pieter’s dread became relief. He didn’t need to come up with a plan—the Czar had given one to him!
“Yes, Your Majesty!” he cried. “I promise! Teresa and I will not rest until we find a way to turn Alexander back to a boy. Will you bring her back now? Please don’t hurt her.”
(It was probably not a good time for Pieter to tell the Czar that he had no idea how they would do this. Teresa had made the Catastrophica ten thousand times more potent than Blüstav’s weak potions—it wasn’t like they could just wait for it to wear off. And just how did you reverse alchemy anyway?)
“Oh no, Tallymaster,” said the Czar softly, interrupting Pieter’s thoughts. “You mistake me. Why would I want Alexander back to the way he was? I want you to change him into something else entirely. I want you to make him a conqueror. You see, I need an heir who’ll appreciate all the crossbows I’ve been giving him. I had hoped Lord Xin might teach the boy a bit of bloodthirst. But now that I have an Alchemaster, I can just change Alexander to become exactly the sort of son I want. Surely there’s a potion that will turn his kindness into cruelty?”
Just like that, Pieter’s relief turned back to dread. Giving Alexander paws, claws, and a tail had been terrible enough—but that was all outside changes, and accidental too. Under all that ginger fur, he was still a little boy who liked birthday cake, and missed his mother. He was still their friend.
But changing him inside . . .
Turning him cruel . . .
And doing it not by accident but on purpose . . .
Pieter shuddered. Then he wouldn’t be Alexander anymore, would he? How could he do that to their friend? And yet it was the only way to save Teresa (and probably himself) from long and terrible torture, topped off with a short sharp chop.
Again, he tried to think of his own solution.
Again, he heard the Czar’s voice in his head, like an endless echo.
Cut this insolent serf down to size . . .
Down to size . . .
Size . . .
“THAT’S IT!” Pieter shouted. “I’LL DO IT! I’LL MAKE ALEXANDER INTO A CONQUEROR!”
The Czar’s words—Cut this insolent serf down to size—had struck him like a bolt of inspiration, and sparked an idea in his head. His mind was thrumming with the wonder of it. His goose bumps prickled with its simple mathemagical elegance. It was so stunning, so staggering, so truly spectacular that his own brain could barely conceive of its consequences.
The Czar gave an eager smile. “Good, Tallymaster. Tell me how.”
“What we’ll do is—” Pieter stopped himself just in time. He was so excited, he had almost forgotten to do the smart thing.
Instead of explaining, Pieter just gave the Czar his best attempt at one of Teresa’s looks (the one with the raised eyebrows and the smugness).
“First, send for Ugor and Lord Xin,” he said. “Tell them not to hurt Teresa.”
The Czar looked peeved. He was not used to being given orders. But eventually, he looked over Pieter’s shoulder and said, “Sir Klaus? Do as the Tallymaster says.”
Suddenly, Pieter became aware of a presence behind him, standing right on the spot where he could not turn his head. The Spymaster had been here in the hall all along, listening but unseen. There was the barest flicker of movement, the smallest swish of sound, and Sir Klaus was gone. The strangest thing of all was that Pieter was sure the doors had neither opened nor closed.
The Czar held up his hands—a gesture he was not used to making.
“Happy?” he said.
Pieter nodded.
“Good.” The Czar folded his arms. “Explain. And be convincing. For the Spice Monkey’s sake.”
Pieter took a deep breath, wondering where to start.
“The truth is,” he began, “Alexander is going to be a cat for a long, long time. The Catastrophica won’t wear off, like Blüstav’s alchemy. Not for years. Ma
ybe even decades. And I don’t know if anyone can change that.
“But just because Alexander is a cat,” he continued hurriedly, seeing the Czar’s hand start to stray toward Viktor, “doesn’t mean he can’t be a conqueror. After all, isn’t the Lion the King of the Beasts?”
The Czar scowled, as if this was all some joke, and he’d already guessed the punchline and didn’t find it funny. “Alexander isn’t anything like a lion, Tallymaster. He’s tiny.”
Pieter didn’t say anything to that. He just did Teresa’s trick of raising the eyebrows, and waiting. He square-rooted his fear while the seconds passed.
To the Czar’s credit, it didn’t take long for him to figure it out.
“A growth potion,” he growled.
“Exactly, Your Majesty. ‘Cut this insolent serf down to size,’ you said. Size is the solution. It’s like a multiplication problem . . . How do you get the answer? Make the number bigger. We can make him so enormous, he’ll be undefeatable. But I have to be with Teresa. We’re a team. We can only do alchemy together.”
“Hmm.” The Czar stroked his mustache as he considered Pieter’s plan. He paced down the hallway, looking at his ancestors. At their beards, plaited with knucklebones. At their eyes the color of greed. At their iron stares and steely smiles and clenched fists.
Then he looked at his son, who was prancing about, playing with the cushion tassels.
“You have until the last day of Dismember,” he said to Pieter.
“The last day of Dismember?” Pieter spluttered. “But that’s less than two weeks away! The Catastrophica took us all of Bloom, Swoon, and Sway to make.”
“Then you best get to the Winter Palace laboratory quickly.”
Behind Pieter, the doors burst back open. Lord Xin came back in, rolling a chained-up Teresa with barely suppressed fury. Craning his neck around, Pieter was relieved to see no beetroot soup stains dribbled down her chin. He quickly counted her toes. She still had all ten. It looked like he’d saved her before the torture could start.
“You could have waited until the piranhas had had a little nibble . . . ,” Lord Xin complained.
