His Royal Whiskers

by Sam Gayton

  The Czar waved him away impatiently. “I am giving the alchemists a chance.”

  “What’s going on?” Teresa looked bewildered as Ugor tore off her chains. “I thought I was getting tortured?”

  “Change of plan,” said the Czar. “You’re being promoted. Welcome to the War Council.”

  The butler came in, carrying a neatly folded red velvet robe. He draped it over Teresa’s shoulders. Stitched in gold thread below the hood was the letter A.

  Pieter had seen the robe before. It was Blüstav’s old Alchemaster’s uniform.

  Teresa gave Pieter one of her looks. The one with the bewilderment rapidly turning to rage.

  “Pieter Abadabacus,” she growled, her voice scarily similar to the Czar’s. “What. Have. You. Done?”

  (A NOTE ON GOSSIP)

  It is generally considered that Light is the fastest thing there is, but that is only true over long distances. When it comes to short sprints, Gossip is far quicker. That is why—way before anyone in Petrossia had even seen the prince for themselves—children skipping in the school yards were already singing rhymes about what had happened:

  “Teresa! Teresa! Can you believe her?

  Brewed a disaster with her best friend Pieter!

  Got herself a notion to make a special potion,

  Went and caused one very furry commotion!

  Got a big promotion for causing this calamity,

  Now they do alchemy for the royal family!

  Catastrophe! Catastrophe! Emphasis on cat!

  What can the alchemists do to fix that?”

  It was a more or less accurate report of events, except for one thing: Pieter and Teresa were most definitely not best friends.

  3

  Pieter Dodges a Flying Library

  You are worse than stinksheep’s wool!” Teresa bellowed. “More disgusting than a puspig’s trotters! More horrible than a bilebear’s burps!” 13

  Pieter flinched. Teresa’s insults hurt, but they were not nearly as painful (or blunt) as the alchemy books she had been hurling at him when they had first been locked inside the Winter Palace’s laboratory.

  The laboratory was at the very top of the North Spire. Despite being half destroyed by its previous owner, it was still much larger than where they’d made the Catastrophica potion. The walls were lined with shelves gone bow-middled with books: recipe collections, theoretical tomes, leather-bound diaries of ancient Alchemasters. . . . There was a nearly endless supply for Teresa to chuck at Pieter’s head.

  Her aiming ability was roughly twice as good as Pieter’s ducking ability. Pieter had been able to read some of the titles as they’d flown toward his face. Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Dorn’s Philosophia Speculativa, Libra Gargantua by Grimaldi the Most Wise . . . That one had been particularly painful.

  Apart from the books that were now splayed all over the floor, the only other things in the laboratory were a fireplace (gone out), a cauldron (rusted), a mouse (white), spiders (enormous), and a squiggle of strangely shaped glass tubes all connected on a worktop. Attached together, they looked like very neat joined-up handwriting, spelling a long nonsense word across the table.

  “Because of you,” Teresa raged, “we’re helping a vicious, murderous bully turn his innocent son into a gigantic monster!”

  “Stop yelling at me!” Pieter yelled back.

  Teresa obliged him by throwing the lab equipment at him instead. He ducked behind the cauldron as glass tubes shattered on the shelves above his head like clear crystal fireworks, sending shards tinkling to the floor.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he yelled over all the smashing. “I thought it was the smart choice!”

  Teresa, holding a Q-shaped alembic in her hands, paused. “But not the right one,” she said.

  Pieter frowned. Teresa wasn’t making any sense. “If a choice is smart, of course it’s going to be right,” he explained to her. “Only stupid choices are wrong.”

  “Ugh!” The bulb of glass in her hands flew toward him like a cannonball. “How can a genius be so idiotic?!”

  Pieter threw himself into the rusted cauldron for protection. He toppled in headfirst and curled up at the bottom.

  “I ought to light the fireplace and boil you in that thing!” Teresa seethed.

  Pieter double-checked with his brain that she was only joking. There was an alarmingly high probability that she wasn’t.

  “Oh, what’s the point?” he heard her say. “Everything’s turned out wrong. Operation: His Royal Whiskers was a total failure . . . and all because I tripped on a hazelnut.”

  “Operation: His Royal Whatnow?” Pieter asked, risking a peek out of the cauldron.

  Teresa looked ready to hurl some more insults or large objects at him. But gradually her anger drained away, until she just looked ashen faced and beaten.

  “Operation: His Royal Whiskers,” she said, sliding to the floor and hugging her knees. “The secret plan I had. The one I didn’t tell you about. The real reason I made the Catastrophica potion. You see, I’m a traitor.”

  Pieter shook his head uneasily. His eyes flicked around the room, wondering if the Spymaster was listening. “You mustn’t say that,” he said to her. “It was all an accident. You never meant to use the Catastrophica on Alexander on purpose . . . did you?”

  “Of course not,” said Teresa, head in her hands. “I meant to use it on the Czar.”

  * * *

  13. For more information on the unpleasant animals of Petrossia, see Professor Fauna’s Odious Encyclopedia: a list of all things fetid and foul. Be sure to handle the pages with rubber gloves.

  (A NOTE ON TRAITORS)

  Somewhere in Pieter’s tallychamber, there was a list entitled Traitors to the Czar.

  It had nothing written on it but the title.

  Because there weren’t any.

  It wasn’t that traitors didn’t exist—it was more that they didn’t exist long enough for Pieter to count them up and jot down their names.

  This was all because of the Czar’s Spymaster. Never in the history of Petrossia had there been such a skilled and mysterious infiltrator as Sir Klaus. He uncovered every plot before it could happen; exposed every assassin before they could strike; seized every bribe before it could tempt.

  Not even the War Council knew what he looked like. It was rumored that he was a Vizard—a master of disguise, able to wear different faces as if they were masks. It was because of Sir Klaus that the list of traitors was always blank, and the spikes on the Winter Palace walls were always occupied.

  But no longer. Pieter’s list needed updating. The gatehouse needed another couple of severed heads.

  Teresa Gust—Petrossia’s new Royal Alchemaster—was a secret traitor.

  And Pieter Abadabacus was her unwitting coconspirator.

  How long would it take for Sir Klaus to discover them?

  4

  Operation: His Royal Whiskers (Parts One and Two)

  Pieter remembered the day in Eureka, just before the Czar had come, when his tutors had taught him that there were numbers below zero. Minus one, minus two, minus three, and so on—all the way to minus infinity. That same day, Pieter had learned that far below his feet, on the other side of the Earth, people on the fifth continent might be walking upside down. It was a very disorienting day.

  Now he felt the same dizziness—the same reeling feeling that his whole world had just shifted. A secret lay beneath everything Teresa had ever told him. And its name was Operation: His Royal Whiskers.

  He tumbled out of the cauldron and tiptoed across the broken glass as fast as he could, until he could yank Teresa close enough to hiss furiously in her ear, “The Spymaster is going to have our heads for this!”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” she said back. “If the plan got discovered, you couldn’t be accused of treason. Just stupidity.”

  “I thought we were trying to get rid of the kitchen’s rats!”

  “The Czar’s a far bigger menace than rats,
Pieter. If I’d managed to change him into a sweet little kitten, the conquering would stop. And Bloodbath could get revenge: I hate the way that poor poodle is always getting kicked around.”

  “You lied to me. You used me!”

  “What did you expect? I kidnapped you in the middle of the night!”

  “But I thought we were friends.”

  “We are! Friends are the only thing that can stand up to a bully.”

  “You don’t stand up to bullies, Teresa! You survive them, until eventually they leave you alone. That’s the smart choice.”

  Anger flashed across her face like thunder. She went to the window and tore open the curtains. Her finger jabbed against the glass. “Not everyone survives, Pieter.”

  He looked to where she pointed: beyond the courtyard, just short of the gatehouse towers.

  The Winter Palace graveyard.

  Old serfs and soldiers, buried in row upon row upon row. And in the middle of them all was the Chapel of the Frozen Tear, carved out of an iceberg that had been dragged from the river, where the Czar’s beloved czarina lay in her coffin of ice and ether.

  “Not everyone survives,” Teresa said again, her eyes glittering like evening stars, and Pieter knew she was right. Many, many times over.

  “Now do you see why I’m a traitor? Now do you see why I can’t turn Alexander into an unstoppable furry . . .” Teresa trailed off. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.

  Pieter gulped. He knew that look: knew it very well, and right now he feared it very much.

  “Oh no,” he said. “You’ve had an idea, haven’t you?”

  Teresa gave a cryptic smile. “No,” she said, “I’ve just reconsidered your idea. Maybe it isn’t so terrible after all. What if we really did turn Alexander enormous? What if we made him into an unconquerable furry war machine?”

  A bewildered Pieter rubbed the bumps on his head. “But when I suggested that, you threw books at my head for an hour.”

  “That was to knock some sense into you,” Teresa said with a wave of her hand. “Now I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m an alchemist,” she said. “What do you expect? Listen, Pieter: if we only change Alexander on the outside, he’ll still be our friend on the inside. Think about it—what if we make Alexander big enough to conquer the Czar himself?”

  Pieter’s hands flew up to his ears, but there was no way to unhear those words. Now he was a traitor no matter what. If he helped Teresa, that was treason. If he did nothing, while she went ahead with her plan, that was treason too.

  “Oh no,” he groaned.

  “Alexander could take over the throne,” Teresa said, pacing around the lab and getting more and more excited. “He could replace the Czar and become Emperor—no, wait—Empurrer. Free the serfs, stop the conquering, declare peace . . . And once the Czar is safely locked down in his own dungeon, we can work on reversing all the alchemy, so Alexander doesn’t have to wait years until he changes back to a boy. . . .” She clapped her hands together. “It’s perfect!”

  “It’s suicide,” Pieter corrected.

  Anger flashed in her voice like thunder. “No, it’s standing up to a bully.”

  Pieter threw up his hands and pulled at his hair. “The bully is an eight-foot-tall killing machine!! And you’re twelve!”

  “Twelve and a bit,” she said with a scowl.

  “He has a suit made of titanium armor,” Pieter huffed, counting reasons off on his fingers. “Your suit is mostly made of pockets.”

  Teresa looked down at all her patchwork pouches. “They’re full of surprises, though.”

  “He’s got a hundred armies! A War Council! A sword!”

  There in the laboratory, Teresa turned to look at him: starlit eyes like supernovas. “And who have I got?” she asked.

  She stared at him.

  And stared.

  And didn’t stop staring.

  Pieter covered his face with his hands and groaned. He didn’t believe it. All she had to do was ask a question . . .

  “Just promise me you won’t get me guillotined,” he said through his fingers.

  She nodded solemnly. “I promise that I will never personally guillotine you.”

  “I don’t want to get my head chopped off, Teresa.”

  “I know.”

  “I like my head.”

  “I like your head too. It complements your shoulders perfectly.”

  “And no more fibs, either.”

  She nodded.

  “And no more chucking heavy books at me.”

  She smiled. “Deal. From now on, I will only throw paperbacks.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I know what you meant, you silly grottygoat!” Her grin turned suddenly serious. “No more fibs. No more fighting. I promise, Pieter. And what about you? Are you part of Operation: His Royal Whiskers, or not?”

  Mathemagically, it was still almost hopeless. It was still a stupid mistake. But maybe there was another way to work out what was right and wrong. You used your heart instead of your head, and courage instead of cleverness. Pieter had never made a decision like this before. It felt like learning mathemagics all over again.

  “Count me in,” he said.

  The days flew by in a blur. Ideas and experiments from morn to dusk. Cauldron bubble and boil and stir. Mix and mingle, pinch and sprinkle, stoke the fire and feed the flames. Sizzle and spark, spit and shout. Too hot—it’s not—it is, WATCH OUT!

  Every day at least one BOOM. Clear the smoke out of the room.

  We’re gonna need another cauldron. . . . This one melted, last one rusted, how many is it that we’ve busted? How many times now have we tried?

  Doesn’t matter. Trial and error. Try and try and try again. Fail again just like before. Each time fail a little less, and learn a little more.

  Dismember’s ending, autumn’s going. Welkin’s near and winter’s coming. Just keep working, don’t stop hoping. Count the days down: ten, nine, eight. We still have time. It’s not too late.

  Book stacks teeter on the table, rising up like towers. Study, light a tinderfly. Long, slow, fruitless hours. Yawn and stretch. No time for sleep. Keep eyes open. Got to keep . . .

  Snore and dream, head on page. Jerk awake. Shake Teresa. Look out at another sunrise. Wipe the sleep from tired eyes.

  Today might be the day. Maybe. Knock, knock: the maids with toast and tea.

  That was how it went.

  The Great, Gigantic Experiment.

  “I give up,” Pieter said after their tenth try that day. “Until tomorrow, at least.”

  He heaved shut another book, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It was eight of the eve. Another whole day of experimenting, and all they had learned was ever more imaginative ways to destroy a cauldron. Their latest one sat in a blackened lump by the door.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to set fire to metal,” Teresa said, nudging the charred cauldron with her foot. “Oh well. At least we’ve learned something. Today hasn’t been a total waste.”

  Pieter went and divided the curtains in two, then pulled up the sash to let out the burnt iron smell. The wind that came in was cold and spiteful. It pinched at his bare arms, raising goose bumps.

  Teresa came over and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Together, they peered out from the North Spire, down at the world. Far off, the River Ossia wove a dark path to the sea and the glittering lights of Port Xanderberg. Pieter could see the first few icebergs drifting down the river from the glaciers to the north, like a pod of white whales. Looking at them sent shivers through him. Winter was almost here, and with it the end of the Czar’s patience.

  “We’re running out of time,” Teresa said quietly, pulling the window shut.

  Pieter didn’t answer. Anything he said would only make him worry more. He stared at their reflections in the glass. They looked like ghosts, dead and gone already.

  Nothing they tried worked. He was honestly starting
to wonder if they really could do alchemy. Maybe making the Catastrophica was just a fluke. Three days until the end of Dismember, and they were no closer to finding the recipe for a growth potion. Teresa had poured out endless ideas, but Pieter couldn’t get a single one of them to actually work.

  He tried counting things to keep from panicking. Two wings of the Winter Palace, their walls painted eggshell blue. Eight hundred windows, each fringed with white cornices, like icing on a cake. Eighty-seven statues in the Fountain of Sobs, weeping hundreds of tears a second. Six new heads, spiked on the gatehouse wall. Holy Sohcahtoa, counting hadn’t calmed him down at all.

  “Shouldn’t our fairy folkmother appear about now?” he said with a shiver. “I’d even be happy if Rumpelstilzki showed up.”

  Teresa glanced sharply at one corner of the room. “I don’t think my folkmother knows anything about alchemical theory.”

  Pieter bumped his head against the glass. “She could at least change our luck, though.”

  “Our luck’s good,” Teresa said in her sternest voice. “It’s your head that’s the problem, Pieter. You’ve got to think harder.”

  She didn’t say it in a mean way, but her words still stung. They were best friends, through danger and disaster, and Pieter had vowed to help her even though it might cost him his life. He’d crossed his heart, spat on his palm, and sealed the handshake with the promise rhyme. What’s been spoken can’t be broken: these thirteen words will be my token.

  “I’m trying my best—” he insisted, but Teresa gripped his shoulders and interrupted.

  “Most of you is,” she said, staring at him intently, like she was trying to peer into his head. “Ninety-nine percent of you. But over the last few days I’ve been realizing the truth more and more. There’s still some part of you—the genius bit that thinks in sums and survival percentages—that won’t help. And if we’re to make this potion, that’s the part of Pieter Abadabacus that I need most of all!”

  Pieter opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t get any words out. At last, he just slumped his shoulders. Maybe Teresa was right. Maybe there was a tiny fraction of him—the most mathemagical bit of his brain—that still saw the fight against the Czar as a terrible mistake.