Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  Enemy soldiers studied him as he approached, so Chism did the best he could to keep his face down, while still watching the Cheshire Cat. It was best to avoid recognition as long as possible.

  Ten paces short of the front lines, Chism heard an order to halt, and he did so. Even without looking up he felt dozens of arrows trained on him. Thirsty begged to be drawn, but Chism resisted, knowing it would be his death. The time wasn’t right.

  Standing still as soldiers approached, Chism glanced at the cat. The confounded creature sat bathing himself, unconcerned.

  “What have you brought me to, Cat?” spat Chism. But the cat didn’t answer, and violent hands were on Chism, dragging him into the hostile camp.

  From behind, the cat trilled in his boyish voice, “I’ll wait here, then. You won’t be long.” A few of the soldiers looked around for the source of the voice, but none settled on the camouflaged cat. Chism truly wished he could strangle the creature.

  In desperation, he told the soldiers, “I’m looking for my brother; he’s the messenger to the…White Queen.”

  Cats and colors! he swore. I’ll have to remember that one for Ander if I ever see him again.

  “Tell it to the sergeant,” said one of the men.

  Another added, “And you’ll keep quiet until then.”

  “I’m a sergeant. He can tell it to me,” said a somewhat familiar voice at his right. Turning his head, he saw Lopin, the butcher from his hometown of T’lai. Backing him up were…fifteen other faces he knew. Ison, the innkeep, Jubal, a wheat farmer, and Jubal’s brother, Jakel, stood foremost.

  With a sneer, one of the soldiers who held Chism said, “We’re taking him to a real sergeant. You’re just a conscript—“

  “Who outranks you, Soldier. And I said we’ll take him from here.”

  Chism wasn’t surprised to see Lopin as a squadron leader. People listened to Lopin like a child obeys a stern father. Even this haughty soldier would have no choice.

  The soldier reluctantly thrust Chism toward Lopin and stomped away without speaking. The men from T’lai circled Chism two deep. The inner circle closed so tight they almost touched him, and Chism’s hand went automatically to hover over Thirsty’s hilt. His departure from T’lai had been hasty and as a prisoner. There were probably some people in town who thought he got off without sufficient punishment after the incident with his father. Blood pounded through his veins and his Elite training fought to take over.

  Lopin stood in front of him in the inner circle. Growing up, Chism always saw him as just. But what was his idea of justice in this case? It was Lopin who first gave Chism lessons in swordplay, so in a way he had played a role in what happened.

  “We’ve all heard about your adventures, Chism,” said Lopin in a detached tone. “Elite graduate, some successful campaigns, then the incident with Duke Jaryn.”

  Chism forced himself to wait silently. Out of view, thumbs stroked forefingers frantically on both hands. He truly did not want to kill anyone else from his own town. Outsiders attempted to peer into the circle, but the men from T’lai stood too closely. They wouldn’t let anyone know what they intended until they were good and ready.

  Lopin continued. “And we’ve seen enough of Duke Jaryn to know he’s a pompous snake who needs to be brought down a notch or two. You’ve been wronged most of your life, lad.” A few of the others grunted in agreement. “But what possessed you to march right into camp like you were invincible? Surely you didn’t expect the Provinces to accept you like a prodigal son.”

  He was far from in the clear, but at least he had an ally. Maybe some of Hatta’s happenstance was rubbing off. “It’s Hatta. And…” he glanced in the direction of the cat in the meadow. That wouldn’t help. “He has a letter for Queen Palida. You know him, Lopin. He can’t manage in a place like this.”

  Lopin cursed. “If Hatta’s here, he won’t find the queen. She’s not even in the camp. She’s scheduled to parlay with Lady Cuora, or the Queen of Hearts, as she calls herself now.”

  Chism wanted out of the camp. It was insanity to come in the first place.

  “That’s where Hatta will be,” said Chism. There was no doubt. “Get me back to the clearing.”

  “I’ll do more than that,” said Lopin. “I’ll escort you to the parlay myself. It’s the least I can do for a friend.”

  Friend? There was that word again. He had never considered Lopin a friend; the man was nearly three times his age. Expecting glares and curses, he glanced around the circles. Every man nodded when he made eye contact, and a few reached out and slapped his back, causing Chism to shy away involuntarily.

  The youngest of the group, Taylin, said, “I’ll go along, Sarge. I’d like to do what I can for Chism.” The rest of the group voiced their agreement, stunning him.

  Friends, he thought. He had grown so accustomed to solitude, even among other people, that it felt strange. The urge to get away from the Whites grew even stronger.

  “No,” said Lopin, ending any argument. “Escort us to the meadow, but stay here. A whole squadron approaching the council could be the spark this tinder pile is waiting for. Jubal, get us to the clearing.”

  The men of T’lai turned to face south, and with Jubal as spearhead, they sliced the ranks of soldiers. They only had to cover fifteen paces, but the curiosity over the strange newcomer made it a slow maneuver.

  Like a bubble escaping the surface of a lake in slow motion, the squadron opened into the clearing. The detestable cat waited indolently. “Done so soon?” he asked, smiling that infuriating smile.

  I should skin you and keep your teeth for a token, thought Chism, but Lopin was too close to say it aloud. He started toward the center of the meadow with Lopin at his side.

  “Can I talk you out of this, Chism?” asked Lopin as they walked. “You really should get away from here.”

  Chism shook his head. “I have to see to Hatta.”

  “I can look out for him, lad. Showing your face in that council could be a death sentence.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” muttered Chism.

  He was beginning to wonder if his entire life was a waste of effort. Conflict arose wherever he traveled, and his attempts to save or protect almost always ended in even more strife or death. But he also realized there was a chance for him to make a difference today. If he could end the conflict he would do it, no matter the consequences. Anything short of endangering Hatta. Though Chism was no longer an Elite, he still cared more for the Circle and Sword than he did for his own life.

  Prancing at Chism’s other side, the cat said quietly, “I see you already know where you’re going. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll come along. This could turn out to be quite a spectacle.” He still smiled like an idiot. Lopin looked around, but if he heard the voice he must have assumed it came from the ranks of soldiers.

  Come a little closer, Kitty, and my boot will show you a spectacle. But the cat kept his distance and Chism paced toward the gathering of leaders with his two odd companions.

  ***

  As Hatta broke away from the blue-clad Red Elites, a group separated from the body of the army. Cuora and Markin rode a pair of matching coppery horses. She was every bit as handsome as he remembered, and a tense thrill rushed through him along with a streak of nervousness. According to Chism, Cuora felt nothing but concern for Hatta, but once she learned he was hale and happy, would she be as gracious? Her callous judgments were the reason he fled, and a small part of Hatta worried about the possibility of being the target of her heartlessness. But regardless of how she felt toward him, she was still his angel.

  A few nobles and various scribes and attendants accompanied Cuora and Markin, flanked by a pair of Elites and Fellows, including Tjaden and Ollie.

  Heeling Cuora on a slightly less impressive horse rode some sort of knight, covered in red armor. His unkind face, which resembled a bulldog, was familiar, but Hatta couldn’t remember if he should feel pleased or uneasy. The appropriate feelings us
ually came with his first impressions, but for some reason, this man confused him. Involuntarily his eyes went to the feet. The boots appeared to be fine, but nothing out of the ordinary except for the red greaves which covered the front.

  They should be…purple. Yes, the boots should be purple. And the face…He struggled to remember. The man resembled a much less confident, shamed young man fleeing Tellef’s inn back in Shey’s Orchard. Hatta couldn’t remember the name, a sure sign there were no hard feelings, but the queen’s attendant was definitely the man who had played the cruel joke with the adulterated tea. Yet, instead of apprehension, Hatta felt unperturbed. Peace had been made with the bully by using the boots in the road, and everything was right between them. It had to be, because the discomfort would be too great otherwise.

  But he had misjudged in the past, and this time might be no different.

  As if a mirror image, a group detached itself from the White Army and converged on a pavilion in the bottom of the bowl.

  Cuora will stop this madness. And we’ll all return to our peace-loving lives.

  Hatta wanted to be there to witness it, so he ventured into the meadow, trailing Cuora’s troupe by fifty paces or so. The delegation had almost arrived at the pavilion when she noticed Hatta and pulled her horse to a stop, looking at him with hard eyes. Hatta’s stride faltered and he stopped as uncertainty about his role swept over him.

  Insecurity, admiration, contentment and worry swirled in Hatta’ heart in the few moments their gaze lasted. Then Lady Cuora’s face relaxed. She smiled softly, and the world was full of color once again. Everything around him shone in bright, buoyant hues.

  Cuora nudged her horse toward him, and Hatta took a step forward, but Markin, the new king, said, “My Queen. The Whites await.”

  After looking between Hatta, Markin and the pavilion, Cuora stilled her mount again. With a tender nod and smile toward Hatta, she straightened her back. The stern composure showed on her face again and she turned to lead her small group toward the parlay.

  She was the perfect woman, but so much more. As Hatta trailed the party to the parlay, he spared more thought for verses about Cuora.

  And if you were to ask me how

  Her charms might be improved,

  I would not have them added to,

  But just a few removed!

  I love her still, believe me,

  Though my heart its passion hides,

  She is all my fancy painted her,

  But, oh, how much besides!

  The queen of his heart was the most capable person he’d ever met. Surely she had the ability to save the kingdoms.

  ***

  From across the battleground, Chism wasn’t surprised to see his brother approaching the parlay. The meandering stroll was unmistakable. Addressing Cheshire, he said, “It was a circuitous route, but you’ve kept your word.” He still wanted to strangle the cat.

  “What?” asked Lopin.

  “Nothing. Talking to myself.”

  The fool cat just kept grinning.

  A hundred paces ahead of Chism, the two delegations met under the shade of a large, open tent, both wary of each other. Twenty-three people comprised each party. Adding Chism, Hatta, and Lopin, the total was forty nine. Uneasy, Chism scanned again. He never miscounted, but it was worth the effort to double check. Forty nine. He should be formulating a plan, but couldn’t focus. Sweat beaded on his brow and Chism lost what little confidence he felt.

  What’s the cat leading me to now?

  The cat! Adding the cat, the total number at, or approaching, the pavilion was fifty. Chism breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Elites on both sides watched everything, especially each other, but the nobles kept their attention on their counterparts. Thirsty began to hum and Chism’s pulse pounded when he saw lumpy Jaryn in the group, jowls shaking frenetically as he argued with one of the Queen of Hearts’ nobles. Chism slipped in behind Lopin, easily blocked by the full-bodied butcher. A plan to end the conflict began forming in his head.

  Thirsty would be thrilled.

  ***

  Cuora, Markin, Palida, Antion, Tjaden, Ollie. The young man from Tellef’s inn. Hatta recognized so many of the people under the pavilion. Even Elora was there, doing whatever it is that ladies in waiting do for ladies. Her eyes were locked on Tjaden, who spared as many glances as he could for her in between his vigilant scrutiny of the scene. The longing in the lovers’ eyes stung Hatta. Another reminder of the calamities of war. A few other faces might be familiar, but there were so many they blended together.

  Palida, the White Queen, spoke to the opposing nobles via a large mirror, saying something about the rights of kingdoms. Her white skin, hair, and dreadful, colorless dress made her stand out. But even in daylight her eyes shone like living sapphires. It took effort, but he dragged himself out of her brilliant eyes. A man in fine robes the color of a blue jay interrupted her, with an argument that was hard for Hatta to follow.

  Anytime now Cuora will step in and solve this.

  He didn’t know how long he could stand to wait. Voices rose and the tension grew, making him very uncomfortable. And Cuora still did nothing but argue.

  I have to do something, else why am I here? Why have I been promised that I would save the kingdoms if I can’t do it now?

  An idea struck Hatta and he reached inside his coat for Palida’s message.

  ***

  Taking the final steps up to the pavilion, Chism’s hand tightened on Thirsty. If he ever released it he expected to see imprints of his fingers in the hilt. The sword silently sang to him, and Chism knew he was going to end this war, no matter the cost.

  Lopin came to a stop near the northeast corner of the gathering. Peering around him, Chism saw and heard the nobles quarrelling. Palida’s Elites watched Lopin and him warily, but didn’t bother them. As long you come no closer, their gazes said.

  Ruddy Jaryn was wedged into a chair on the west end of the tent. Chism recognized many other faces, but paid no heed. This had to end where it started.

  “Move along the outside to the west edge,” he whispered to Lopin.

  Trying not to be conspicuous in his cover, Chism shadowed the large man around the council. But even after arriving at the closest possible point, he was still ten paces away from the fat noble, with an Elite and Fellow blocking him.

  They wore snake patches on their shoulders. Chism knew of Asp Squadron, but didn’t know the men. There was no way to know exactly how quick or vigilant the Elite and Fellow were, but by virtue of the Circle and Sword on the Elite’s chest, they would be ready for a rushed assault. The only consolation was that the soldiers had no reason to challenge Chism as long as he stayed shielded by Lopin.

  Time raced as Chism pondered other options. I have to get close to Jaryn, put a stop to this conflict before Hatta does something foolish.

  No sooner was the thought in his head than Hatta did exactly that.

  Oblivious to the consequences, Hatta strode toward the middle of the council with a folded paper held high. “Urgent message for Palida,” he managed before one of Queen Cuora’s Elite’s brought him up short with the point of a sword. It was Hile, a member of Quicksilver Squadron.

  The nobles were merely annoyed by the interruption, but all the Elites drifted to place themselves between the intruder and their charges. It was exactly the distraction Chism needed.

  With a vengeful smile, Chism broke from his cover and ran at Jaryn’s back, the only sound coming from blade escaping sheath. It had been such a long time since he smiled. Before anyone realized what was happening, Chism stood in a familiar position, looking down at the top of Jaryn’s head, sword forcing jowls out from under his chin.

  “Remember me?” he asked.

  The duke only trembled and croaked in answer.

  ***

  The sword at Hatta’s chest may as well have disappeared when he saw Chism dart around the butcher and draw Thirsty. It was happening all over again. The sword that killed the
ir father would kill again. And Chism would surely die.

  All eyes were still on Hatta and he froze. I was supposed to save the kingdom, not lead Chism here to plunge it into…war. Profanity was appropriate at such a time. I never should have come. I truly am mad to think someone like me could save kingdoms.

  It was time to run or hide and he reached slowly for the brim of his hat.

  “It’s time, Hatta,” said a welcomed voice. He looked around for Cheshire, unable to see him. Yet there was no mistaking the pleasant tenor. “This is what you’ve come for. Your travels, your mirrors, your kindness, the love for your brother. It was all for this. You have the power to save the kingdoms.”

  It didn’t matter whether it was sanity or madness; Hatta had to at least try, even though dozens of eyes were on him. With tears of dread, he said in the loudest voice he could muster, “Don’t do it, Chism. Don’t do it for me.”

  Gradually, eyes shifted to the fat, red man and Chism, and within moments Hatta was forgotten. The structure of the council changed immediately. All involved forgot their allegiances—nobles intermingling as far away from the hostage as possible, while soldiers edged slowly closer. Servants huddled around nobles or hid behind them, except for Elora, who ran to Tjaden.

  Hatta seized Chism’s gaze. “Don’t kill him, Chism. Not again.”

  Every Elite had a weapon in hand but didn’t dare approach the pair. The red-armored bulldog by Cuora also held a sword and paced, anxious to use it. Tjaden held his sword ready, maintaining a defensive posture with Elora at his back. Ollie stood between Tjaden and Hatta, one of his tragically beautiful arrows nocked and aimed. He’d seen Ollie near perfect at twice the distance, and that was before the new arrows.