by Frank Beddor
The Cat was clawing yet another Doomsine warrior when he sighted Blister in a scrum of mercenaries. They would finish what they had begun in the sparring arena. He started fighting his way toward the bodyguard, then—
A whistle. Redd’s whistle.
The Cat focused narrowed pupils on his mistress. With Vollrath, Redd was making her way to a narrow trail that led deep into the manic vines and gnarled, snarling tree trunks of Antic Arbor, Outerwilderbeastia’s most dense region. The Cat converged on the trail head with Sacrenoir, Siren, Alistaire and Mr. Van de Skülle, and engaged with them against Myrval and his Gnobi warriors as—
Boarderlanders took up surrounding positions, aimed orb cannons to annihilate them. But Arch was removing a knobkerrie from an unlucky mercenary when he saw it: Redd and her top assassins fighting through the Gnobi into Antic Arbor.
Unable to escape, outnumbered by the twenty-one tribes, the remaining grunts of Redd’s mercenary force gave up their weapons and dropped to their knees.
“You let Redd get away!” Arch said, turning on Myrval.
“I didn’t . . . let her,” the Gnobi leader protested. “She fought a—”
“Perhaps I failed to convince you? Perhaps you still believe the lies told you by the Jack of Diamonds?”
“We will convince you of our belief.” Myrval signaled to his warriors, who started down the trail into Antic Arbor, where trees were manic and dirt sentient.
“Stay where you are!” Arch ordered.
The Gnobi halted and the king stared out at the ranks of Boarderland warriors paused in various attitudes of attack, adrenaline making uneasy pacifists of them. He could not let Redd survive. She would plague him as long as she drew breath. But how much easier it would be to do away with her once he’d secured ultimate power.
“You will hunt down Redd and kill her,” he told Myrval. “Afterward.”
“Afterward?”
Arch held his knobkerrie aloft in a gesture of triumph. “After Wonderland submits to its first king!”
CHAPTER 12
THE WALRUS-butler guided the tea tray into Heart Palace’s ancestral chamber, expecting to find, as he usually did at this hour, Queen Alyss silently communing with her foremothers and fathers, images of whom hung in marbled frames around the room.
The monarch, he was sure, would take much pleasure in the night’s tea selection. Indeed, so lost was the walrus in reveries of Alyss’ anticipated enjoyment that he tottered halfway into the chamber before realizing she was not there.
“She must be in the memorial wing. Come along,” he said, steering the tea tray to the rooms that were re-creations of Queen Genevieve’s private quarters in the former palace. Although the tea tray was inanimate, made mobile by its adverse reaction to body heat, the walrus-butler habitually treated it as a pet. “That’s very likely the frog messenger,” he observed to it when, at the foot of a tumbled stone staircase, a blur shot past him. “But to whom could he be delivering a message at this late hour, do you suppose? Well . . . no point in speculating, no point at all.”
After thoroughly canvassing the memorial wing without finding her, the walrus’s eagerness to witness Alyss’ satisfaction as she sipped her tea was still greater than any concern for her whereabouts. “It’s unlike the queen to retire without having at least one cup,” he mused. “Let’s try the sovereign suite.”
The sovereign suite, however, was empty of the queen.
With increasing alarm, the walrus checked libraries, salons, state rooms, even the briefing room. Failing to locate Alyss in any of these, he abandoned himself to anxiety.
“I don’t understand why things aren’t as they ought to be! With Queen Alyss—with the queen especially—things should always be as they ought!”
With no eye for the palace’s artworks or pearl-inlaid floors, the walrus-butler turned hurried flippers toward the war room.
“Please don’t be there,” he mumbled, the tea-tray bobbing before him, tea slopping from the kettle’s spout and the kettle itself dangerously close to falling off the tray. “Please, please, please. For nothing favorable ever comes from Queen Alyss having recourse to the war room.”
Arriving at the place in question, the walrus discovered Bibwit Harte pacing to and fro, his ears as scrunched as his vexed brow. Four General Doppels and an equal number of Gängers were ranged about the conference table, along with Hatter Madigan, the white knight and white rook. But Queen Alyss was not present. Everyone in the room was watching a holographic screen, on which, before a backdrop of some dusky attic, a Wonderlander with an oblong head and the bushiest sideburns the walrus had ever seen was holding forth.
“I by no means thought my imagination worthy of note,” the man onscreen was saying, “but when my friends, many of whom possessed more talent than I, were being rounded up by Club soldiers, I thought it prudent to go into hiding.”
“Prudent, Mr. Dumphy, but an unjust necesssity,” interjected the four General Doppels, to which the General Gängers grumbled their agreement.
“I’m a man of modest ability,” Mr. Dumphy continued. “But this has never been a source of resentment for me, as it often is for others who, minorly gifted, regret they’re not geniuses. Until recently, I’ve had talent enough to make a living. My wants are as modest as my abilities and I’ve had all that I’ve asked for and been comfortable. But when even my lowly imagination deserted me . . . I admit, it’s been frustrating.”
“Your frustration is ours as well,” said the four General Gängers, to which the General Doppels vigorously nodded.
“Since before Queen Alyss’ inauguration, I’ve been working on this little device.” The Wonderlander held up a tubular contraption for everyone in the war room to see—the kaleidoscope-shaped tool that had helped Dodge and Alyss escape the salvage lot. “I’ve never let a day pass without devoting some attention to its completion,” he said. “While in hiding, this mostly involved staring idly at its internal parts, but this morning I experienced a surge of inspiration and in a moment realized what had to be done to bring the invention to completion. As I believe the queen can attest, the Rearranger, as I call it, now works perfectly, and since this morning I’ve felt my imagination growing stronger.”
“We’re hearing similar reports from others,” the white knight acknowledged.
“Not as many as we would’ve hoped for by now,” said Bibwit.
“Some are probably afraid to come forward because of the Clubs,” the rook noted.
Bibwit stopped pacing and his ears bent forward once, as if to allow for the likelihood of this. “What about your imagination, Alyss? Do you feel . . . anything?”
The queen’s face replaced Mr. Dumphy’s on the holo-screen, and the walrus-butler, who had been standing unnoticed by everyone except Hatter and Bibwit, blurted, “Queen Alyss, I brought your tea!”
The generals and chessmen turned to him, surprised.
“Thank you, walrus,” Alyss smiled.
“Yes, I’ll just . . . I’ll place it here,” the creature said, setting the tea tray on the table and sweeping a fretful glance at the number of bodies in the room. “And I’d better get more cups.”
“Alyss?” Bibwit asked again, once the walrus had gone.
“I feel nothing,” said the queen. “I’ve conjured nothing, and I can’t even remote view into the next room.”
“We should not suppose WILMA’s effects will be the same for everyone,” Bibwit said, more thoughtful than disappointed, “since imaginations differ as much as Wonderlanders themselves. I suspect Mr. Dumphy’s imagination isn’t as modest as he claims, yet it makes sense to me that weaker imaginationists will be the first to recover. The less one had to lose, the less one has to regain; thus, the time needed to regain it should be shorter than it will be for, say, Queen Alyss or Redd.”
“In that case,” said the rook, “we’d better hope Redd gets hers back first, since it’d mean Alyss is the stronger of the two.”
“Mind you,” Bibwit added, �
��I posit this just as a theory, but the evidence supports it, as we’ve only received reports of small imaginative doings and have yet to hear of any great feats. On top of which,” the tutor flattened his ears in contrition, “when confronted with the unknowable, all we have are theories.”
“We should assume the Clubs are aware of imagination’s return,” Alyss said.
Dodge pushed his face into frame on the holo-screen. “And Redd.”
“And Arch,” added the rook.
“We’ve had to assume all of the above,” put in the General Doppels. “Redd’s forces are no longer retreating.”
“They’ve been fighting their way into positions around Wondertropolis,” the Gängers added. “We’ve officially commissioned the Spade decks to help in our defense.”
“Then Redd either already has her imagination back or she’s preparing her forces in anticipation of its return,” said the knight.
The rook stepped smartly over to the room’s crystal control panel, which had started to blink and beep. “We’re receiving a communication addressed to Queen Alyss. It’s from Arch.”
The chessmen looked at each other, then at the generals. The generals directed questioning eyes to Bibwit, who in turn consulted the faces of Hatter and Alyss.
“I’m unavailable,” the queen said. “But keep the audio line open. I want to hear what he says.”
The image of Alyss and Dodge faded from the holo-screen, replaced by a close-up of Arch. Seeing only Alyss’ advisers in the room, the king frowned, aiming a particularly hateful glare at Hatter.
“My transmission is intended for your queen.”
“If it’s not too unpleasant for you,” Bibwit said, “she has requested you make do with us.”
“I can make nothing of you. But how typical that Alyss absents herself when her queendom’s in peril. I expected a little more, even from a woman who, like her aunt Rose, is without imagination.” He paused to let the advisers fully comprehend: He knew. “Together with a great mass of nasty specimens that Redd left me, the Boarderland tribes are back under my command. I’m sure you’ve noticed they’re again closing in on Wondertropolis? I intended to give Alyss a chance to surrender Wonderland without violence, but as she’s off perfuming herself somewhere, it seems a bit of violence will be in order. So be it. Let her feel how an army commanded by a man contends against one that answers to a woman. I look forward to subduing you all.”
The holo-screen went white. The rook pressed a button on the room’s control panel and the visual of Alyss and Dodge came back on line.
“Alyss,” said Bibwit, “we need to get you out of that limbo coop. You should be with the Heart Crystal, in case—”
“My imagination returns in time to be of help?” Alyss raised an eyebrow in doubt. “That doesn’t strike me as likely, Bibwit. Nor should energy be expended on my behalf when as much effort as possible should go to defending the queendom from this foreign invasion. A clash of armies, without the support of imagination on either side, likely benefits Arch. Generals, chessmen, I must leave him to you for now. The Clubs’ rebellion must also be dealt with, which is why I’ll remain where I am. Dodge and I have a plan to bring down this insurgency. I will continue to test my imagination and contact you the moment I feel anything.”
“What about Redd?” the rook asked.
“If we’re lucky,” Dodge said, “Arch put an end to her.”
“My queen.” Seeing that Alyss was about to sign off, Hatter had risen from his chair.
“Yes, Hatter?”
The Milliner bowed, then: “Earlier, as Homburg Molly and I were returning to Wondertropolis, the blue caterpillar made himself known to us.”
Alyss and her advisers didn’t need to be told that such a visit from an oracle was unprecedented.
“Did he speak?” Alyss asked.
“He spelled a word in smoke. As a prediction, a warning, perhaps both. And it was directed not to me, but to Molly. The word was ‘you’—y, o, u.”
Alyss sighed. “I’ve been thinking it strange that Blue showed me a vision of how to sabotage WILMA but hasn’t appeared to me since, when the Heart Crystal hardly seems less threatened. And now he presents himself to Molly?”
“The oracles, whatever their value, are nothing if not strange,” Dodge said, putting an arm around her.
Alyss nodded, but not in happy agreement. Why, just once, couldn’t the caterpillars be perfectly intelligible?
“How is Molly?” she asked.
Hatter hesitated, unsure how to answer.
The queen seemed to understand his silence. “Please tell her, despite all that’s happened, despite all that’s currently happening, I look forward to seeing her. I can think of no one I’d rather have as a bodyguard.”
“I will, my queen.”
Hatter again bowed, knowing that momentous events, the stuff of a nation’s history, were sometimes dependent on individuals commonly thought the least likely to set them in motion. He prayed his daughter would not be one of them.
CHAPTER 13
“IS IT wise, my liege, to scheme against a caterpillar-oracle?” a minister asked.
King Arch sat beneath the same canopy under which Redd had recently shaded herself during the sparring matches. The lights of Wondertropolis shone in the near distance. Shooting out of the surrounding country dark, where Doomsines were battling a deck of Heart soldiers, cries of enemy wounded vied with war whoops from tribesmen.
“Is it wise to scheme against a caterpillar?” Arch repeated to himself as—
Booooooooooaaaaashhhhhhhhhhhhhkk!
An orb generator exploded over a stand of gobbygrape trees, momentarily turning night into day and revealing the king encamped in an untilled field, Ripkins and Blister standing behind his folding chair, one on each side, and his intel ministers gathered before him.
“It probably is not wise,” Arch admitted, “but I’m not convinced I am scheming against a caterpillar. I’m inclined to think I’m scheming with one. And whoever among you wants to keep your position as ‘intel’ minister during my new reign, now is the time to remind me of your intelligence. How is it I could believe I’m scheming with the green caterpillar?”
The ministers huddled together.
“Because the oracle, who must know Redd is without imagination, didn’t tell her about WILMA,” said one.
“Nor did he tell her that the loss of her imagination was, in part, your doing,” said another.
“And he might have done this before you exposed her,” said yet another.
“Seeing all time as an oracle can,” said a fourth, “the green caterpillar could have warned you that WILMA’s ultimate strength would be compromised, but he didn’t.”
“Excellent.” Arch smiled—he had chosen his ministers well. “The caterpillar did not warn me of sabotage, or reveal the truth to Redd, because he is plotting something that apparently requires me and Redd still to be pitted against each other. The caterpillar knew if he gave me an opening, I’d take it. The question becomes: How long does he believe I will continue to be a bit player in his subterfuge, whatever it is?”
“But, my liege, what of this Everqueen he mentioned?” a minister asked.
“The caterpillar will say what he must to manipulate Redd.”
“Your Majesty,” another minister whispered, “don’t you think the oracle knows of this conversation?”
Arch waved off the question. He assumed the caterpillar was aware of everything he said. He was counting on it. “The tribes have arrived at the various coordinates I assigned for the siege?” he asked.
“They have, Your Highness.”
“And Redd’s old rabble?”
“They couldn’t be more obedient if you’d recruited them yourself.”
Arch stood, thrust his head and arms into a coat of armor resembling reptilian skin, its scales medallion-sized plates impenetrable to blade and crystal shot, to whipsnake grenade and spikejack tumbler. He strapped on his leg armor and hefted his k
nobkerrie.
“Ripkins, Blister, stay close to me throughout, but if we should cross with Redd or Alyss in any of the fighting, you have my leave to stray. They’re to be shown no mercy. The same goes for Hatter Madigan and that daughter of his—absolutely no mercy.”
“No mercy, no problem,” Ripkins said, flexing his fingerprint sawteeth.
“More like a pleasure,” Blister muttered, pulling off his gloves.
The bodyguards followed Arch into the Doomsine battle, and all along the perimeter of Wondertropolis, Boarderland’s twenty other tribes—each with two platoons’ worth of Redd’s mercenaries mingled among them—marched out from their various locations to storm Wonderland’s capital city.
CHAPTER 14
THEIR NUMBERS were greatly diminished. Thousands strong not half a lunar hour before, Redd’s minions now amounted to no more than her top military rank. Vollrath, The Cat, Sacrenoir, Siren Hecht, Mr. Van de Skülle, Alistaire Poole—with their mistress, they had paused deep in the Antic Arbor to catch their breath, none yet venturing a word aloud, as if waiting for Redd to deny she was without imagination. But each of them knew: If Mistress Heart had her powers, they would not now be in the arbor, nor so few.
Trees spat and snarled. A claw-like branch scraped across Alistaire Poole’s shoulders. A vine slithered wet against Siren Hecht’s arm, leaving a trail of sludge; another coiled briefly around Sacrenoir’s foot before slinking into the underbrush.
“This place is gross,” Siren said.
The others grunted, nodded in agreement, but Redd was too preoccupied to care about her immediate surrroundings. How had Arch known she was without imagination? Why would it ever have occurred to him to think of it? She’d not been dumb enough to betray the fact by her behavior.
“How do you think he knew?” The green caterpillar glided out from the arbor’s darkest depths, an impenetrable weave of vines untying itself to let him pass.
Redd’s voice quavered with rage. “You told him.”
