Hatter (15 page)

“Every day, Sir,” said the boy.

Chism nodded. At least the boy wasn’t a tweedle. “Let me dress. I’ll give you a lesson later.”

Before he was even out of the room, Buckhairs announced that ‘the Soldier’ was going to teach him to fight.

The clothes Leis provided fit snugly. They were Buckhairs’, after all, but no one else’s would have fit any better. Even old, bent Cactus’s clothes would hang off the ends of Chism’s arms and legs. Buckhairs’ outfit was made from the same sturdy wool Chism grew up in, but it still chafed. For over a year and half Chism wore nothing but a uniform, and he longed for the sturdy cotton.

“You have a name?” demanded Cactus when Chism entered the main room of the house.

He nodded. “Chism.”

“Prism?” barked Cactus.

Leis leaned toward her grandfather. “Chism. ‘Ch’, like chicken.”

“Like challenge,” corrected Chism.

“Spit out why you’re running,” ordered Cactus. “And do it before I die, which could very well happen before dinner.”

Chism eyed the youngsters, which was enough for Leis to send them outside with chores. Buckhairs began to argue until Chism gave him a steady stare and head shake that sent him rushing out after the others.
He’d make a fine soldier,
thought Chism. Only the youngest boy, struggling to stand unaided, remained.

After telling them he was in fact a King’s Elite, Chism told the entire story from seeing Duke Jaryn for the first time to creeping out of the creek bed earlier that day. He included his speech to the Elites about the Circle and the Sword, making sure they understood the reasons for his actions. Cactus and Leis listened without interrupting.

“We’ve got to get you back to the interior then, so Cuora and Antion can decide what to do with you,” said Cactus, scraping fingers through wispy hair. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“How do you figure?” asked Chism, wondering not for the first time how far the old man was into his dotage. “Every step has been harried so far.”

“Quiet down, youngster, and let me talk.” Under his breath he muttered, “Always in a hurry, no-patience kids…” When he finished his rant he gathered his thoughts and said, “My grandson, Leis’s brother, is a merchant. Travels to the interior every couple months. He was supposed to be here two days ago, but it’s not uncommon for him to come late. In winter, anyway. He’ll have some bucket or another to stuff you into, get you out of Far West.”

Leis nodded, and Chism didn’t have a better suggestion. If he thought of a better plan before the merchant arrived he could leave whenever he wanted.

The next three days were spent indoors, away from the eyes of neighbors. The boys pestered Chism unendingly, which seemed to amuse their mother. He wasn’t sure exactly what color the four boys’ hair was, but all four had the same, and much lighter than his own black hair. True to his word, Chism gave Buckhairs his first lesson after selecting from the sticks the boy had gathered. He taught five defensive sword positions, and instructed Buckhairs to go through all of them two hundred times every morning.

Watching from the small window he felt pride when the boy passed through each stance exactly two hundred times before taking his first break. If he stopped just one short, Chism would refuse to teach him further.

Buckhairs pleaded for more lessons and Chism taught him as much about the basics of swordplay as he could. The other boys watched, but none had the desire to devote time to learn. Chism wouldn’t have turned any of them away, but was especially glad Baen, the six-year-old, took little interest in fighting. Baen was the same age Chism was when he started learning, and it was no life for a child.

The two middle boys, Baen and Prion spent most of their time watching the road for their father and Uncle Tonin. Both were expected any day, their father having taken a cartful of honey to Knobbes two weeks previous. Leis kept her sons close to home to prevent the boys from bragging about ‘the Soldier’ to their friends, so they passed the days bundled on the front porch.

Tonin arrived first, riding in a slow-moving wagon pulled by four oxen. Three burly men with cudgels, who he referred to as ‘The Boys’, headed straight for the creek. Tonin was portly with a quick smile and hard candy for his nephews. But he was much less accepting of Chism than Leis and Cactus had been.

“Lowan leaves for two weeks and you open your home to a fugitive because Grandfather thinks it’s a good idea? He’s a hundred years old—”

“Hundred and four! Don’t try and cheat me out of four years,” snapped Cactus, rising an inch or two despite his crooked back.

“Yes, Grandfather, but do you have any idea how many soldiers are searching for him? I passed three road blocks on my way into Far West. Everyone heading out was being searched, top to bottom.”

“You haven’t even heard his story, Tonin,” said Leis. “At least listen before you decide.”

Tonin looked ready to call in The Boys, but the pleading eyes of Cactus and Leis convinced him to listen. Chism told the same story the other two had heard, including the sanctity of the Circle and the Sword.

When he finished, Tonin looked between his sister and Chism. “Leis, I know that’s a story to wring anyone’s heart, but look at this kid. He’s barely bigger than Eram. I don’t know who he is, but he can’t be the Elite that Duke Jaryn is searching for. He’s probably a runaway who heard about the manhunt and decided to play soldier for a while. Look at me—I’m fat and I could whip him black and blue with nothing more than a willow switch.”

He was right about Chism’s height, only an inch taller than Buckhairs, though considerably more muscular. But Chism didn’t argue, just told Buckhairs to run for two of his practice sticks.

“You want to fight me, boy?” His shock manifested as a one-syllable laugh from deep in his belly. “I’m three times your size; you don’t stand a chance. You’ll see, Leis, and after I bruise him, I’ll drag him to the Provincials myself and they can do what they want to him.” He removed his traveling cloak.

Buckhairs returned with two sword-length sticks and Chism motioned for Tonin to select one. The house was not large and everyone in the room except the fighters pressed against the walls to be as far out of the way as possible.

While still looking at Tonin, Chism spoke to Buckhairs. “You’ll see size is one of the least important factors in a fight. For many large men it’s a disadvantage because they rely on it too much. Always remember it’s a sword fight, not a size fight.” He motioned for Tonin to begin the duel.

Holding the stick like a club, Tonin came at him. Chism didn’t budge from the spot where he stood. Using nothing more than the five defensive positions, he repelled Tonin’s attack. The positions were so ingrained he didn’t even think, just rotated his arms to block the offensive.

Time after time, Tonin left himself open for a blow, but Chism restrained himself. He hoped Buckhairs could see the openings he passed up. Attack after attack, Tonin threw himself at Chism but only scored a few glancing blows. He sweated and grunted as he swung the branch, missing badly with the majority of strikes.

When the man was near exhaustion, Chism took advantage of an opening to place the tip of his stick at Tonin’s chest. “Yield,” he ordered.

The trader dropped his own stick and collapsed into a nearby chair. “How…how did you…do that?” he asked between gasping breaths.

Ignoring Tonin, Chism looked to Buckhairs. “He’s as big as three of me, but I could have stabbed him thirty-two times. Why?”

“Defensive position,” said Buckhairs confidently.

“No,” said Chism. “Because of discipline. I could have dominated just as easily using thrusts or swings or footwork. The key is disciplined practice. Do everything perfectly. And do it a thousand thousand times.”

“Yessir,” said Buckhairs.

Tonin looked baffled and the room was quiet except for his labored breathing. Cactus broke the silence. “You remind me of myself when I was younger, boy. Quick, agile. Handsome. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Chism smiled, a rare expression that had become much more common over three days with the family.

Tonin stood loudly and approached Chism. He offered his hand, which Chism stepped away from, offering a small bow instead. With a quizzical expression Tonin said, “My apologies, young man. You could have hurt me badly, and even worse to Leis and her family before The Boys and I arrived. I owe you an apology.”

Cactus spoke up, “Quit your yappin’ and get him home.”

Still catching his breath, Tonin weighed Chism. If the merchant refused, Chism would be back to sneaking through the wilderness, trying to avoid the Militia. With a sigh, Tonin said, “I may regret it, but I’ll help you get to the interior.”

A day later, Chism made short farewells. He had never spent any time inside a real home, and a small part of him regretted leaving. Aware of his aversion to touch, none of them embraced him or offered to clasp arms, which suited Chism perfectly.

Cactus was the last to speak. “I’m not saying you gotta give up your spunk, but you’re a fool if you don’t mix in some forethought. Better to be alive with some spunk, than dead with all of it.”

Thanking them as profusely as he knew how, which wasn’t much, Chism climbed into one of the water buckets secured to the side of Tonin’s wagon. The trader swore that was the only place never inspected at the border. Thirsty was wrapped and stowed among Tonin’s goods as if it were nothing more than a rusty practice sword. The last sight of the family that had treated him almost like one of their own was of Buckhairs going through his defensive stances.

Travel was cramped, dark, and worse than bumpy. He would be bruised more than in Elite training by the time they stopped for the night. With nothing but a water skin, a small chamber pot and a strip of leather he had begged off a pair of Leis’s ruined shoes, Chism counted away the trip. For once his small stature was a blessing, allowing him an escape, but the barrel wasn’t large enough to move or stretch.

The Boys’ banter was much like that of soldiers on the road, and the bits he could make out were crude but strangely comforting. After more than twenty six thousand strokes of his leather, the wagon finally stopped for the night. Chism was more bent than Cactus when Tonin helped him out of the barrel.

Can I get in that barrel seven more times?
he wondered. But there was no other choice; he’d given his word to Lieutenant Fahrr.

Though the first two days passed uneventfully, Tonin insisted that Chism stay in the barrel as long as the sun was up. It was a big enough risk just transporting a fugitive. Tonin didn’t want the added risk of being surprised by a group of soldiers or a roadblock. Even when the oxen stopped to graze, Chism remained imprisoned. He stayed up every night practicing with Thirsty for hours, and pacing until morning. The exhausting nights allowed him a few hours of restless sleep in his barrel cell during the daily travel.

The third day of confined travel, they reached the first roadblock. True to Tonin’s prediction, Chism heard the soldiers search the entire wagon with the exception of the water barrels. When the wagon started moving again, it was on a much smoother road—still jarring, but not nearly as violent.

Finally, the Telavir Spoke.

Thoughts of the long road behind him made the road ahead bearable. Five more days of travel and they would arrive at the Fringe Road, which separated the Provinces from the Interior.

Two days later they passed another road block with the same outcome as the first, and three more days of rough travel brought them to the border of Far West Province. Nineteen thousand two hundred and eighty seven strokes passed before they pulled to a stop. Chism added one more as he heard Tonin greet one of the guards. “Afternoon, Bly.”

Someone too far for Chism to hear offered a muffled response.

“Judging by the number of guards, you still haven’t caught that Elite you were looking for,” said Tonin.

“The boy won’t escape,” said a friendly-sounding voice. “Probably frozen in the mountains somewhere, actually. His bones might turn up in the spring, but he won’t get out of Far West on any roads.”

“Do we really have to do the whole search, Bly? I’ve been through it twice already this trip and we’ve known each other for over a decade.”

“Sorry, Tonin. Orders trump friendship. If any of these soldiers let the captain know I skipped a search it would mean my hide.”

“Go ahead, Boys. Open it up again,” said Tonin in a resigned voice.

The familiar noises of soldiers bustling through the wagon filtered into the barrel. Being blind to the outside always spiked Chism’s nerves. More than anything, he wanted to know how many soldiers manned the roadblock.

When Bly spoke next he was much closer. “Mind if I fill my skin? That water you carry from your sister’s creek is the sweetest I’ve had.”

Chism didn’t hear Tonin move to stop the soldier. In a hurry to empty his own waterskin, Chism spilled some of the liquid from his chamber pot between his feet. Luckily it didn’t clatter or make any noise, but Chism squatted in the former contents of his water bag and chamber pot.

He cursed silently and thought,
Why did I let them stuff me in a barrel too small for Thirsty?
Should I run or fight when they open the barrel?