Chapter 4
Shoeless
Smoke from the fire drifted by Chism, who sat on the ground in front of his tent. He felt an urge to inspect his horse again to make sure the hobbles were applied correctly and the tether was tight, but he’d already checked it twice. His throwing knives had been inspected and wiped down and now lay just inside his tent. Thirsty, his sword, was at his hip.
Still he couldn’t relax. He removed a palm-sized piece of leather from the pouch at his waist and began stroking it with his right thumb. After one hundred rubs he passed it to his left hand. One hundred strokes with the left then back to the right and his anxiety receded.
Other than Ander, who spent his free time tinkering, the other men in his squadron passed their evenings in idle conversation around the campfire. But Chism had no use for ingratiating them or becoming friends. It was enough to know that each man would risk his life for any other of the squadron.
What’s friendship compared to brotherhood
?
The previous three days of travel had kept Chism busy and he hadn’t needed to use the leather since the night before the rescue of Duke Enniel. His calloused thumbs barely felt the smooth leather, but the repetitive motion soothed him. The squadron had camped early today near a stream, giving Chism more time than he wanted.
Voices from the nearby fire rose in pitch. Chism was on his feet and moving toward the flickering light before he realized it.
“If Lady Cuora had her way the entire army of Maravilla would cross the border and kill every man in the Western Domain, even though only one in a hundred is a raider.” Chism recognized Dugar’s voice as he entered the clearing.
Caroon, Dugar’s Fellow, said, “Why would she do that? She doesn’t care about what happens in the Provinces? She’s safe in the center of the kingdom.”
Dugar responded, “Lady Cuora cares because anyone who defies Maravilla deserves to die. There’s no middle ground with her. A guilty sentence almost always means death.”
Chism moved into the circle of the conversation but didn’t speak. Four soldiers sat in the fire’s glow. Two of them were seated side by side on a log and the other two stood upwind of the smoke, making it impossible for Chism to fit into a symmetrical pattern. Five wasn’t a good number anyway, and he shifted uncomfortably as the discussion continued.
Poking at the fire with a stick, Banivar sighed and said, “Do you Provincials ever talk about anything besides how much you hate Lady Cuora? She’s strong and just. I don’t know why that bothers you so much.”
“She’s one member of the Council but she acts like she’s queen,” said Caroon. “If Lady Palida wasn’t there to temper her rulings, half of the population of Palassiren would have a death sentence. We’ll be better off when King Antion is old enough to hold court.”
Ulrik, a seasoned Elite from one of the Eastern Provinces spoke up. “We’d be better off with Lady Palida as queen. This nonsense of a nine-year-old king with so many advisors is absurd. It’s no wonder nothing is being done about the raids and incursions from the Western Domain.”
Chism took a small step toward the older soldier. His voice was subdued, but anger began to roil inside him. “Watch your tongue, Ulrik. You’ve sworn fealty to King Antion and the Council. Your blather borders on treason.”
“I’m loyal as a pup, and you’re as young as one,” said Ulrik. “Stay out of discussions that don’t concern you.”
Chism didn’t speak, just drew a knife and threw it into the ground two feet in front of the older soldier. Ulrik couldn’t ignore the challenge.
He sprang to his feet, but didn’t move any closer to Chism. “Just like an untrained pup, always looking for a fight. I yield,” he spat as he turned away from the fire. As he walked away he muttered, “There’s no talking to you.”
The fire popped and crackled in the silence. Nobody spoke and one by one the other soldiers wandered to their tents. The ends of a few small logs protruded from the fire ring unburnt. Chism arranged the nubs in the center of the fire and stayed until the flames died.
He was awake before sunrise, meticulously passing through the forms with Thirsty. His brother of all people had named the sword saying that once it tasted blood it would be ever thirsty.
The thought of his brother forced him to stumble during a thrust, so Chism started again from the beginning until only his body and Thirsty existed. The rest of the soldiers in the squadron knew better than to approach him when he was going through his morning routine. One or two close calls had been enough to teach them.
On Tuesday it was his custom to also practice the bow. Typically a Fellow’s weapon, most Elite’s didn’t bother to learn it. But in some situations a bow was superior to any other weapon, and Chism didn’t want to be found unprepared. He was finished before the chow bell rang. After breakfast the soldiers broke camp and continued on the road.
As the newest Elite in the squadron, Chism rode at the rear of the column. He loved traveling as part of such a precise unit. Even on travel days, the Elites maintained discipline, guiding their horses in neatly arranged lines.
Brito, a small border city, came into view after a four-hour ride, but it was still more than an hour away. The outlying portions of Maravilla were organized into Provinces that surrounded the interior of the kingdom. The king’s soldiers worked with Provincial militias to keep the peace. But recently, incursions of the Western Domain put a strain on the kingdom’s resources, causing tension between the Provinces and the interior. Local nobles felt the king and council didn’t take sufficient measures to protect the Provinces, even though the Provinces served as a protective buffer for Palassiren, the capital.
Other than the king and his council, who lived in the capital city of Palassiren, there were few nobles in the interior. In villages and towns of the interior, local watches subdued the occasional unruly drunk and protected against monsters such as barbantulas and bandersnatches.
Chism’s squadron, or rather Lieutenant Fahrr’s squadron, was newly formed, and tasked with patrolling Far West Province. They had been a day’s march away when Duke Enniel’s family was taken for ransom. Chism himself suggested the daring rescue, anxious to see the children escape harm. Hopefully they wouldn’t be tainted by the violence they were forced to witness.
The clatter of a rickety wagon caught Chism’s attention, and he leaned to see a farmer and mule approaching. A dirty boy, about ten years old, walked barefoot alongside the empty wagon and shouted, “Hurrah! Soldiers!”
Lieutenant Fahrr brought the column to a halt to question the dumpy man, who looked like a potato bug in a tunic, about happenings in the Province. The Elites and their Fellows maintained two straight columns. Even at the back of the troop, Chism was within hearing distance.
“How far are you going?” asked Lieutenant Fahrr.
“Far enough,” answered Potato Bug.
Shoeless spoke up, “Our farm’s two hours away from Brito. We just sold that whole wagonfull of beets and carrots.”
“Boy!” said Potato Bug as he slumped off his wagon to cuff the lad’s head.
Shoeless cringed, moved out of striking range, and rubbed his temple, but kept smiling up at Lieutenant Fahrr.
“Any sign of raiders or bandits?” asked Lieutenant Fahrr.
Before Potato Bug could answer, the boy said, “Papa says if raiders ever come to our farm he’ll chop them up and feed them to the pigs.”
Without hesitating, Potato Bug struck the boy with his mule lash. Shoeless cried out and a spot of blood formed on the back of his course shirt. Chism noticed scars on his arms and neck.
“That’s the last time,” Chism said as he dismounted. Ander, his Fellow, was right behind him, but Chism reached the farmer first.
“He’s a boy, not a mule,” Chism said, seizing the oversized insect by his ample jowls.
His grip was broken as Ander caught him around the waist and pulled him away. Ander couldn’t hold him alone, so more Elites and Fellows dismounted and put hands on Chism.
The hands were suffocating. Hate for the farmer and revulsion at the physical contact spiked Chism’s fury.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” Chism spoke with too much control in his voice for the situation. He was frozen, worried that if he resisted, Elites and Fellows would be seriously hurt.
The squadron tentatively released him, but stood alertly between him and Potato Bug. The portly man rubbed his neck, cursing.
I can overcome them and put a knife in the man’s heart before anyone stops me,
he told himself. But it wasn’t worth hurting Elites.
As Chism considered his options, Potato Bug urged the mule forward, glancing frequently over his shoulder. Chism shouted after him. “If I ever see you again you’re as dead as desert.”
Ulrik stood with Lieutenant Fahrr. “I tell you, he’s dangerous. He has no control and looks for a fight wherever he goes. He doesn’t belong around people.”
What did Ulrik know about Chism’s self-control? No one had more discipline. But when someone offended the sacred Circle and Sword, Chism wasn’t afraid to act.
“Mount up,” ordered Lieutenant Fahrr. The look he gave Chism could have pierced armor.
Chapter 5
Groom
The grassy wabe in the center of Shey’s Orchard was larger than most. Even in winter it was a vigorous green. The sundial at the center, standard to all towns, was partially obscured by a small pavilion decorated with blue and white flowers.
Hatta followed Ollie, who still carried his bow, to Tjaden’s brother’s house. It was a small, red-brick home that faced the wabe. They walked in without announcing themselves. Tjaden sat in the front room at the dining table. He was dressed in a uniform like his Fellow’s, but with the Circle and the Sword embroidered on the chest.
“You gonna make it?” Ollie asked, slapping Tjaden’s back.
He nodded. “I’ve waited this long, what’s four more hours?”
He noticed Hatta and stood, extending his hand. Hatta grasped it and said proudly, “Tjaden.”
“I’m…Yes, I’m Tjaden. And you are?”
“I’m Hatta. I’m glad I’ve found you. I’ve meant to tell you something.”
Tjaden waited but Hatta couldn’t remember.
Tjaden jousted Jabberwocky.
It was as good a place as any to start. “Why did you kill the Jabberwocky?”
Tjaden looked puzzled. “That’s what you wanted to say? No one’s ever asked me. To be honest, I had to. He kidnapped Elora, my wife-to-be.”
“And how did you find him?”
“Captain Darieus told me where his lair was.”
How could he put this in different words? “What I mean is, how
was
he?”
“The Jabberwocky? Manxome. Dangerous. Intimidating.”
“That’s still not what I meant to ask.”
“What did you mean?”
“
How
was he? Like ‘How are you?’ or ‘How do?’ I heard you talked to him.”
Tjaden glared at his friend. “Who could have told him that, Ollie?”
Ollie shrugged innocently and sat, leaning his bow against the side of the table. Compared to Tjaden he looked undersized in his uniform.
Ollie smalley
. Hatta repeated it five times in his head then asked, “What did the Jabberwocky say?”
“Have a seat, Hatta.”
He sat across from Tjaden but stayed focused. “What did he say?” Hatta always knew what animals were thinking, but hadn’t ever heard one talk.
Tjaden’s still looked skeptical, but said, “I felt his words through my whole body. Powerful is the only way I can explain his voice.”
“What was good in the creature?”
“Why do you ask that?” Tjaden studied Hatta.
“Everyone—every animal, tree, insect, and stone must be at least partly good.” Without thinking he added, “Even Brune.”
“After what he did to you last night, you still feel—“
“That’s it! Yes, that’s what I came for to tell. I regret ruining your celebration.”
“Don’t mention it. It wasn’t your fault, and Brune got what he deserved.”
The turn in the conversation made Hatta nervous so he asked. “Do you talk to any other animals?”
“You change topics more often than the Cheshire Cat.”
“The who?”
“Never mind, I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”
“Did you say Cheshire Cat?” Hatta didn’t think he’d ever heard of such a creature. “Wildcat, bobcat, pussycat, copycat, caterpillar, cattails. Yes, I think I’ve never heard of a Cheshire Cat.”
Tjaden sighed. “I think the two of you would get along perfectly.”
“Do you?” Hatta was intrigued. “When can you introduce me? Us. And exactly what kind of cat is a Cheshire Cat?”
“He’s not a cat at all; at least that’s what he says. He talks in riddles and never gives a straight answer. I don’t think he’s right in the head.”
Hatta had to meet him. “Is he near?”
Tjaden shook his head. “I met him on the road to the Tumtum tree. A day and a half out of Palassiren I came to a fork in the road. He was perched in a tree there.”