Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  Lira tried every day to mother Chism, and Chism resisted as much as possible. He had never envied another man in his entire life, but spending a week in Tjaden’s house made him wonder if the Jabberslayer realized how lucky he was. Not that it was right for Chism, but most people would thrive in a situation like that.

  With supplies slung across his back, Thirsty at his hip, and a sack of oranges in his hand that Mikel assured him were all ripe, Chism set off. The nights were chilly, but overall, he couldn’t ask for better traveling weather. He passed dozens of people along the road, but he ignored them, and though some watched him pityingly, he kept to himself.

  Each step lengthened the road behind and shortened the road ahead. But the success of his escape from the Provinces and progress of his journey only counted toward an upcoming trial. Analyze it however he could, beheading seemed the only possible outcome.

  ***

  When Palassiren appeared on the eighth day, Chism felt a brief moment of accomplishment. He was about to fulfill his oath to Lieutenant Fahrr. Until the final week, the adventures of the trek distracted him from the fate that awaited, but there had been no distractions along the last stretch of the journey. With a final sigh, Chism took one step, then another. He was shocked to realize that his biggest regret was that he would never see Cactus again. Though he would never admit it to anyone, he was glad he would die with at least one true friend.

  A hubbub just inside the city gate broke the trance of self-pity. A man on a horse was reading from a scroll. Chism couldn’t be sure, but he thought the man wore a dark green uniform—a Provincial soldier. Barely able to see the man over the crowd, Chism climbed onto a barrel just inside the gatehouse. Even before seeing the Flame and Stars emblem, he didn’t have to listen to the man’s declaration long to confirm his suspicion.

  “…the tyranny of kings and rule of a Council that spurns our interests. No longer will we bow to foreign leaders.”

  The crowd was a meshing of shapes and indistinguishable colors, but Chism could feel the tension as they listened to the soldier on horseback read in a formal tone. “We, the Twelve Provinces, declare our separation from the kingdom of Maravilla. Your tax collectors are no longer welcome, your soldiers no longer required. The days of your Elites roaming our lands with impunity are over. Our borders are sealed to your soldiers and officials. Only under the banner of negotiation shall any be admitted.

  “Friends have become enemies, and allies are now foes. Eventually you will submit to your proper role as an Interior Province, or like a snake with a rat in its clutches, we will squeeze the life out of you.”

  He drew breath for a final pronouncement. “A pox on your king and a pox on the kingdom of Maravilla!”

  The man finished his speech, rolled the scroll and spat on the cobbles in front of his horse then stared defiantly up at the inner walkway along the parapet walls. Chism jumped down from his barrel and took a few steps into the city to see the target of the soldier’s gaze. Captain Markin, leader of the Elites, and Lady Cuora, head of the King’s Council, looked down on the man. They were flanked on either side by soldiers in wide-brimmed helmets and square-cut tunics. Captain Markin watched Lady Cuora, ready to follow whatever orders she gave, as always. Black hair framed Lady Cuora’s face and she appeared ready to jump down from the wall and strangle the Provincial with her own hands.

  The Provincial didn’t wait for her to find words and issue an order. He threw the scroll into the street and spurred his horse toward the gate.

  “Seize him!” shouted Lady Cuora.

  Captain Markin was only half a breath behind her. “Seize him!” he echoed with less force.

  The lax city soldiers were out of position to block his exit and within moments the Militiaman would be out of the city. Chism considered drawing Thirsty to cut the horse’s legs out from under him. But it was never a good idea to kill a horse if it could be avoided. As much as he hated hand-to-hand combat, it was the only way to avoid hurting the horse.

  In two steps he was scrambling back up the barrel. No sooner was he in position than the Provincial approached, spurring his horse wildly. Chism was one of the last people he would pass before reaching the gatehouse.

  Silently, Chism launched himself into the air toward the fleeing soldier. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He must not have expected a citizen, especially a poorly dressed child, to get in the way. But there was no room to change course and they collided squarely. Chism was half the soldier’s size, but that wouldn’t stop him.

  Gasping, swearing, and leaning to one side, the soldier attempted to shove Chism away, but Chism had both arms entwined in the man’s uniform. He lay across the soldier’s lap, out of breath and with one shoulder feeling like it had been stepped on by an ox. Ignoring the pain, he spun to hang on the soldier’s right side, but Chism’s weight wasn’t enough to dislodge him from the saddle.

  The pain in his shoulder was excruciating; he was close to passing out. With his arms still wrapped in the soldier’s garb, Chism placed both feet squarely on the running horse’s ribs. After gathering his resolve, Chism shouted and pushed off with all his strength. As he and the soldier started to fall, Chism felt a wrenching pop in his right shoulder. He tried to hold on to consciousness through the pain, but blackness took him.

  ***

  Men in wide-brimmed helmets loomed over Chism when he came to, and he glanced at his shoulder to see if it had been pierced with a sword. As he lay on the ground, pain pulsed through his shoulder, and radiated through the rest of his body. He turned his head, despite pain that made him clench his teeth and groan, and saw the Provincial soldier face down under four soldiers.

  Chism realized that other soldiers surrounded him, asking questions, but before he could make sense of the words they separated to make room for two more people—Captain Markin and Lady Cuora.

  “Chism?” said Captain Markin, stopping suddenly.

  Lady Cuora, however, was unfazed. Multiple snakes of black hair—only black could be that dark—had escaped her tight bun, but her face was a model of control. “So you’re the one who caused all our trouble?” She looked at Chism like she would a hog in the market. In a flippant tone she said, “I didn’t think you’d come, but Fahrr and Marky swore you would. Not too smart, are you?”

  As she turned away, she said to Captain Markin, “The headsman will be happy, anyway. More work for him.” Without looking back at the city soldiers she yelled over her shoulders, “Bind him tight, boys. He’s more of a man than any two of you put together.”

  Chism recognized some of the soldiers’ faces and knew they recognized him. Though they would not enjoy binding an Elite, he couldn’t count on being underestimated.

  “Forgive me, Sir,” said Mister, a soldier twice Chism’s age. “Orders, you know?”

  That was the great thing about nicknames. Names could be so hard to learn, but Chism never forgot nicknames. Near the end of Chism’s Elite training, the recruits sparred with experienced soldiers from the regular ranks. Mister had been among them and was gracious in defeat. He held shackles apologetically toward Chism.

  Pain prevented Chism from raising his right shoulder. The only position he could tolerate was with his arm crossed over his chest. After placing a sling on the injured arm, a soldier placed Chism’s left arm over the right, and shackled both wrists. A swathe relieved some of the agony, holding both arms tightly in place, and Chism was led into the city.

  A mountain of pressure suddenly lifted—escape was finally an option. His oath was to turn himself in, and his promise was fulfilled as soon as he was taken. He had accomplished his goal of making it back to the capital, and he could finally work toward freedom.

  I should have run when Ander suggested it. But the done was done, as his brother used to say.

  The injury would complicate escape, but Chism hadn’t come this far to walk peacefully to the headman’s block. Sooner or later he would find a way out. He might be bound, but he was determined.


  Chapter 16

  Schism

  Palassiren had changed colors while Hatta was away visiting the Cheshire Cat. While still a multihued cacophony, the weave of colors had grown much tighter and brighter around the city entrance. A large crowd was gathered just inside the gates, with a gap in the middle where a man in a magnificently green uniform, dark as a holly leaf, sat on a chestnut horse. He appeared to be waiting for something.

  Hatta wanted none of whatever had brought such an edgy group together, so he put his head down and dodged through the crowd. But the throng grew too thick as hundreds of citizens jostled their way into the plaza at the city’s entrance. They pressed so hard Hatta couldn’t get through.

  He stood at the far side of the plaza from the city entrance when the crowd began cheering and whistling. Looking around, he saw a black-haired woman in a red dress, accompanied by red-clad soldiers and blue-clad Elites, arrive above the plaza walking along the inner walkway of the city walls. Whoever they were, the people of the city loved them.

  The green-garbed soldier didn’t wait for the woman to speak. He unfurled a scroll and began reading. Despite the mutterings of the crowd, Hatta could hear his words, but the commotion made it hard to focus. Something about Provinces and independence and borders and Elites.

  With each sentence the crowd grew louder and seemed to glow brighter. What started out as a simmering rose color, blazed into the color of flame, and Hatta wanted out. But his attempts to excuse himself through were met by blind elbows and shoves. Standing as still as he could, Hatta huddled under his turtle-shell hat—at least he had his beloved hat—eyes brimming and too scared to move.

  The man continued reading, but Hatta barely registered the words. Even after the soldier finished, the crowd ranted and murmured. There was the sound of horse hooves, shouting from multiple sources, and considerable jostling from the crowd.

  Hatta chanted verses to distract himself from the hullabaloo.

  Tripita tripe, the foxes like

  to scurry and swish and dash.

  Perfida pratt, the shoehouse rat

  nibbles the cobbler’s moustache.

  Feeling slightly more relaxed, he continued with another of his favorite rhymes.

  Cooper, cooper amity scale.

  Tressora, tressora cogburn and pail.

  If you cross targus to skitter to glide;

  Firewind and water, and gentle abide.

  The relief was not total, but it was enough to allow Hatta to remain planted and wait for the horde of people to thin enough to escape. He didn’t know what became of the green soldier, but eventually the crowd shifted and cleared, allowing him to shuffle away. Hatta hurried through the nearly empty streets, only looking up long enough to find his way to his shop. The thought of his waiting mirrors gave him the courage to keep walking.

  His pace increased when he reached the alley leading to his shop. Sneaking past the tailor’s shop, Hatta removed his key from an inside pocket of his coat, unlocked his door and ducked inside. Breaths came long and deep as he leaned against the solid wood of his door in the dim light.

  It took an hour for his nerves to subside. If not for an urgent matter, he would have stayed hidden for the remainder of the day. But he had a delivery to make.

  After selecting a specific mirror, Hatta sidled back into the city streets. The palaces were easy to find; all major roads converged on the center of the city. In the few hours he’d spent in Palassiren, Hatta hadn’t visited the city center, and was surprised with the level of activity. Dozens upon dozens of people made their way past the guards leading into the inner walls.

  Hatta waited his turn and when he finally reached the gate, he told the guard, “I have a delivery for Elora who’s from Shey’s Orchard where her husband named Tjaden is also from, who’s an Elite.” That seemed like a lot of words.

  The gruff guard said, “You mean Lady Palida’s maid? You can’t get into the palace unless you have business.”

  Digging through the pockets on his coat, Hatta said, “Then I have business in the form of a very important letter.” He shoved the letter into the guard’s face. “Very important indeed. You see, I promised I would deliver it.”

  The guard muttered under his breath as he inspected the letter. “On any other day we’d deliver it for you, but we can’t spare anyone. Don’t make trouble; Lady Cuora will extend no mercy to troublemakers today.” The name was familiar, but Hatta knew little about her and would definitely avoid her.

  The letter went back in his pocket and Hatta carried the lightweight mirror past the guard, thanking him profusely. The guard didn’t notice, already interrogating the next person in line.

  A string of palaces stretched out in a line on the other side of the courtyard, the one in the middle being the largest. Constructed of polished, pale blue stone it rose like a peak above the other buildings inside the inner gate. The palace on the left was ornamented with candied-cherry red, including a grand staircase leading to the front entrance that was pale pink at the bottom, but grew more intensely red with each step.

  In contrast to the blushing palace, a noticeably colorless one spread out on the other side of the large central manor. It was as stark as the other was vivid. No paint adorned the structure, and the pale granite had been sanded until no color remained. Unfortunately, the unpleasant white was where he would find Lady Palida and her maids-in-waiting. Swerving around the conflux of people that filled the courtyard, Hatta entered the drab palace.

  A butler, dressed entirely in the same monotonous white, screened entrants. Hatta gathered his confidence and walked past with the mirror held prominently.

  “Delivery for lady-in-waiting Elora.” He didn’t look to see the manservant’s response, and when no sound followed him into the bleached interior of the palace, he kept walking.

  Contrary to his expectations, the inside buzzed with twice as much activity as the exterior. Servants carried boxes, chests, furniture, and decorations as if suddenly deciding to redecorate the entire palace. The only other colors in sight were the natural browns, blondes, and orange-reds of servants’ hair. Hatta smiled, feeling strangely invisible as the only vivid item in a monochromatic environment.

  It wasn’t hard to locate the chamber of the ladies-in-waiting, but Elora was nowhere to be found. He asked a young, white-clad girl where Elora might be, and was directed toward Lady Palida’s quarters. In the disorder, he was able to enter without being challenged and found Elora in the Lady’s antechamber, packing various hairbrushes, hats, shoes, and other items. She looked much more mature than she had a mere four months before.

  “Elora, it’s me Hatta,” he said and offered his most friendly half smile.

  “Hatta! What are you doing here?” She crossed the three paces between them and embraced him as an old friend, even though their time in Shey’s Orchard only overlapped by a week.

  “Delivering letters and gifts. Only one letter and one gift, truth be told. I’ve not much experience or custom as a messenger.” He held the letter and mirror toward her, one in each hand.

  Elora’s eyes went wide and she grasped the paper first. While she read, Hatta inspected his mirror for the last time. It was a fine piece—the metal’s sheen like liquid. A clear reflection spanned a hand and a half across the center of the mirror. Around the bluish metal edges the reflection was somewhat cloudy.

  It was the fringes of his mirrors that fascinated him. The borders gave a somewhat gloomy yet colorful reflection, but looking into the center was like looking past the cloud of confusion and seeing a true image of himself. Even the edges weren’t straight and defined; they curved like the edges of a splash of water. But he still didn’t know what role they would play in saving the kingdom. Or what role he himself would play, for that matter.

  “Your mother opined you would love this one,” he looked into the cobalt borders in different places, seeing varying reflections of himself looking back, “since you care for the color blue.”

  Elora had fin
ished reading and held the letter to her chest. Her eyes were moist and it took a moment to acknowledge his words. “That’s for me?” She took the precious mirror and inspected it. “It’s very unique, and in a way, kind of beautiful.” With a perplexed expression she said, “My father didn’t make this.”

  Hatta shook his head.

  “Did you make it?” Surprise showed clearly on her face as she saw the answer to her question on his. “You learned so quickly. I’ll treasure it, Hatta. Thank you.”

  “That would be my first colored mirror. I’m glad you find it unique.”

  “Hatta, I wish you had come under better circumstances. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the kingdom has been torn apart and Lady Palida doesn’t think it’s safe to stay even one more night.” She looked around the room at everything left to pack.

  A familiar sick feeling filled Hatta’s stomach and he asked, “Why must people so often resort to discord when harmony is so much more pleasant?”

  Looking at him with pity, Elora opened her mouth to answer, but caught herself as she truly saw him. “You look so gaunt, Hatta. Have you been eating?”

  “The money I should have, in order to buy food, was spent on rent and I had to stretch the food from Yendlie. I plan to sell my mirrors, then buy some food.”

  “When was the last time you ate?” she demanded, coming forward to place a hand on his shoulders.

  Elora turned and called into the chamber, “Yuli! Come in here.” She began searching through the piles of packing material and produced a large sack, not unlike the one Master Aker had used to pack the food he’d given Hatta.