It occurred to Hatta that Cheshire was one of the wisest creatures he’d ever encountered. “How old would you be?” wondered Hatta aloud.
“I,” said Cheshire proudly, “am exactly as old as myself. Not a day older.”
“As am I. Which is fifteen years plus the age I was when my brother was born.”
“So you don’t actually know,” stated Cheshire. “That’s odd, for a human.”
Hatta nodded. “I can’t remember being born, and my father never told me what day that was.”
“So when do you celebrate your birth day?”
“I never have,” said Hatta. “How could I?”
The smiling animal considered for a moment. “You could celebrate every day. An un-birthday of sorts. It’s only fair after all. You have decades to make up for.”
The animal’s logic was indisputable. For close to two decades Hatta denied himself a yearly celebration simply because he didn’t know when to do it. He continued to mash berries, eating the pulp and applying the tint to his hair. Though it was difficult at times to force himself into making new friends, it often turned out so wonderfully.
“I wonder if I might remain with you here for some time.”
Cheshire’s smile grew woeful. “You have a duty to perform, Hatta. As do I.”
“What would that be?”
“To help people such as you on their journeys.”
“And what duty would I be performing that you would be doing your duty by helping me perform it?”
“Why, saving the kingdom, of course.”
Hatta no longer cared whether the creature was real or fake, misleading or reliable, sane or mad. No person in the kingdom made him feel as jubilant as Cheshire did.
After wiping his hands clean on the bark of a nearby tree, Hatta retrieved his hat from the ground. Tipping it, but not placing it on his newly dyed hair, he said, “I thank you. For everything and everysuch. I do hope we meet again.”
“Be assured of it, Hatta, for your journey is long.”
With a pleased half smile, Hatta turned and hiked back to the road. In the dimming light he walked proudly toward Palassiren, silently debating the merits of sanity versus happiness. The choice wasn’t as obvious as it always had been in the past.
Chapter 15
Palassiren
The reception Chism received after walking the mile to the cattle ranch’s farmhouse was nothing like the small town courtesy he expected. He passed a gaggle of boys of all ages spread out in varying tasks, but no one spoke to him. They all had scratches and bruises in addition to scuffed knees that showed through torn pants, and eyes hungry for another fight. He felt like fresh meat, and under different circumstances would have enjoyed sparring a while.
The woman who came to the door—it took Chism a moment to decide she wasn’t a burly man in a dress—quickly told him she had more than enough boys for one cattle farm. She added that even her boys had boys, every one of them tougher than a scamp whose clothes didn’t fit. And if he didn’t let her get back to cooking for the horde she’d let them prove it.
Once his back was turned, Burly became more helpful. “Try Mikel’s orchard,” she called. “It’s the big one north of town. I sent my youngest there a few weeks ago and he’s had plenty of work. Mikel’s got no boys of his own there anymore and Stefen will enjoy having a morsel like you around for a while.”
Chism waved over his shoulder, but didn’t slow down or meet any of the boys’ challenging stares; he had a purpose. Skirting the town, he walked nine thousand four hundred and four steps, and arrived at a small, red brick house surrounded by groves. Compared to the cattle ranch it seemed deserted. The woman of the house, Lira, couldn’t have been more different than Burly, both in looks and demeanor. She was much more interested in taking Chism in and caring for him than offering him work. Her frequent glances told him she was confused by the sword at his waist, but she didn’t mention it.
Refusing her charity, Chism said, “If there’s no work to be had I’ll look elsewhere, Ma’am.”
“There’s work,” she said with a sigh. “Give me just a moment and I’ll send you out to my husband with his lunch.”
Carrying a wicker basket with enough food for four men, he set off to find Mikel by the tangerines, whatever those were. The brawny farmer was glad to see Chism, at first for the lunch, but then for an extra pair of hands.
“But I can’t pay a man’s wage to a boy.”
“Let me work a day, and pay me what I’m worth.”
Introductions were made to Stefen, the young man working alongside Mikel. The resemblance to the family with all the boys was clear, and though he had scars, Stefen lacked the recent bruises and scuffs his brothers and nephews so proudly displayed.
Probably because there’s no one to scrap with here.
“Today’s easy enough,” said Mikel a short while later when lunch was finished. “Just picking fruit. Tomorrow you’ll prove your salt.”
Mikel handed Chism a large bag with a wire-framed half circle at the top opening. When he placed it over one shoulder, the bottom of the sack almost dragged on the ground. The wire held the opening wide in front of him so he could use both hands to pick. Mikel told him to pick any tangerines that were more orange than green and showed him how to twist and pull to avoid plugging them. He watched for a moment as Mikel and Stefen plunged into the trees, arms reaching and retracting rapidly.
Choosing a tree near Mikel’s, Chism gauged the shades of tangerines. “Is this one ripe?” he asked Mikel and was answered with a quick nod. “But not this one?” He held a tangerine he thought was green.
Mikel pulled himself out of the foliage. “It’s green, isn’t it? I can’t supervise every piece of fruit.” His tone was not cruel, but it was obvious Mikel thought he was daft.
From his vantage point on a ladder, Stefen said, “Looks like you’ve hired yourself a genuine tweedle, Mikel.”
“I’m not brainless,” said Chism, picking a few bright orange tangerines while they watched him. “Just wanted to make sure I had the colors right.”
“You don’t know green from orange and you claim you’re not brainless?” Stefen was already after the tussle his mother had mentioned, but Chism didn’t take the bait.
Mikel just gave him a curious look and the three went back to work. For the next half hour the sounds of rustling leaves and grunting men filled the orchard. When his sack was full, Chism struggled to lug it to the large bin, but tried not to let it show. The arrow wound limited the use of his leg.
Mikel followed up after Chism finished each tree, giving him a wondering look as he gathered the remaining ripe tangerines. “Did these ones insult you?” he asked.
After a few hours of straining his eyes to judge between orange and green, Chism was relieved to switch from tangerines to lemons. Yellow was much easier to distinguish. It was an issue of brightness with the lemons, not color. By the end of the day Chism looked forward to whatever Mikel had planned for them the next day. It had to be better than dealing with colors.
Appetizing smells emanated from the house when they approached after the sun had set. The meal spread on the table made Chism think of the time he’d spent in Leis’s house and he was surprised by a pang of longing. But Leis had nothing on Lira’s skills in the kitchen.
Both homes were a world apart from the house where Chism was raised. These families actually savored their time together.
Just as they had worked, the three men ate their stew and corn in silence. Lira seemed pleased to have extra people in her home and spent as much time glancing around the table as she did eating. Eventually she took Mikel’s hand and said, looking at Stefen and Chism, “It’s almost like having Tjaden and Ollie back home.”
Chism choked on a bite of stew at the mention of his training partners’ names and went into a coughing fit. Stefen slapped him on the back harder than necessary, and handed him a cup of water. “Yes,
the
Tjaden. You’re sitting at the table of a true hero.”
Chism knew the words were true; no one doubted Tjaden’s heroism. But he sensed bitterness in Stefen’s voice.
Lira beamed, but Mikel went back to his meal as soon as Chism regained control. Stefen spoke again. “You can hear all about the harrowing adventure…after dinner?” He looked inquiringly at Lira, who nodded.
By way of explanation for Chism, Lira said, “Stefen’s heard the story one or two times.”
“Yeah, only one or two…hundred.”
When dinner was finished and the table cleared, Stefen excused himself. Lira started immediately into the account without being prompted, beginning with Tjaden and Stefen’s fight at the Swap and Spar, and Chism understood Stefen’s attitude toward Tjaden. Through fourteen months of Elite training with Tjaden, Chism never learned that Tjaden wasn’t a local champion. It was assumed that every Elite recruit was the best their towns or cities had to offer.
The rest of the story was as accurate as could be expected of the mother of a hero. And she didn’t leave out Ollie’s role in slaying the Jabberwocky.
For one short moment Chism considered revealing his identity and explaining his association with Tjaden and Ollie. But he didn’t want to explain the rest of the circumstances of his arrival in Shey’s Orchard so he stayed quiet. Mikel had attended the induction ceremony, but either didn’t recognize him, or had chosen to respect his secret. Either reason suited Chism. After Lira’s hospitality, Chism felt bad keeping the secret that would have delighted any mother, but it was for the best.
The next day at lunchtime, Stefen tossed Chism an orange to go with his lunch. After peeling it and biting into a large slice, Chism saw the smile on Stefen’s face just as he tasted the bitterness of an unripe orange. Without any ripe oranges to compare it too, Chism couldn’t tell it was green. He tossed it aside without any reaction and it was the last time Stefen teased him.
Five more days passed in Mikel’s employ, which was enough to earn what Chism needed to buy supplies for his trip to Palassiren. Impressed with Chism’s work, Mikel relented on his previous statement and paid Chism twelve coppers, a man’s wages after all.
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.