Hatter (30 page)

The next group of soldiers wore mismatched clothes, their shoulders stained with paint. Chism couldn’t make out the color, but on this side of the battlefield it had to be red. A few young men tussled as a dozen others of varying ages looked on. Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them until Hatta, deep in concentration, pointed out a face he knew.

“Cull,” said Hatta to himself. “Something cull.”

“Mikel,” said Chism, and realized the tough young men wrestling were Stefen and his family. He’d bet his horse on it, if Ander hadn’t led it off. The young man Chism worked with in Mikel’s orchard looked at ease with his rough relatives. True to form, out of the thousands of soldier’s in Queen Cuora’s army, Hatta wandered upon the men from Shey’s Orchard.

“Hello, Mikel!” said Hatta. “Imagine meeting you here of all places.” In the pleasure of seeing a familiar face, Hatta seemed to forget exactly where
here
was.

“Hatta, Chism,” acknowledged Mikel, glancing back and forth. “You two are acquaintances?”

“No,” said Hatta before Chism had a chance to speak. “We would be brothers. Ever since Chism was born, anyway.”

“Is that so?” mused Mikel. “I’d sooner expect a bird and a fish to be kin than you two.”

A burly man with a staff approached. Speaking to himself again, Hatta said, “Shelf, shellef, Tellef! How would you be this fine day?”

“As well as any conscript could be, I suppose.” He looked at the exuberant Hatta with skepticism.

Realization dawned on Hatta’s face. “Oh. You two are…that is to say, you’re here involuntarily.”

Mikel laughed sardonically. “That’s painting it in bright colors, lad. If it weren’t for penalty of death not one of us would stay. Except maybe Hass and his family.” He motioned to Stefen’s group, who had taken up sparring with staves.

“But you’re no soldiers,” said Hatta.

“That matters little to the nobility,” said Tellef.

“If you’ve no desire to fight, why do you fight?”

Chism spoke for the first time. “It’s not that simple, Hatta. Those sentinels we passed when we entered the camp aren’t just watching for the enemy. They’re also guarding the draftees. If anyone tries to leave they’ll catch and hang them.”

Appalled, Hatta said, “But they’re all on the same side.”

With a pained look, Tellef said, “As far as I’m concerned, there are no sides. I’d be tending my inn if I had my druthers, but what the boy says is true. We could try resisting the soldiers, but there’d be blood, and not a little bit. Our best hope is to go along with the army, and hope it never comes to fighting.”

Nodding, Mikel said, “But that looks less likely every day. I don’t know what’s gotten into the nobles’ heads. I was always of the opinion that Lady Cuora was fair and competent, but now there’s too many queens of this or that, and such-a-color kings.”

“But you’re so many,” pleaded Hatta. “If you were to put down the weapons and walk out of camp,” he trailed off.

Both men shook their heads, and Tellef spoke. “A group of men from Arrula tried exactly that. A dozen ended up hanged, with the rest spread out so no two of them could conspire. Now, not only are they forced to fight, but they have to do it without any friends or family around.”

Mikel was looking past Chism at a lifeless man sitting against the trunk of a tree. When he noticed Chism’s stare he gestured to the man and said, “Jeor there is from Arrula. Watched his brother hang.”

Predictably, Hatta’s face paled and he clutched his gut. Tellef offered an arm of support, which Hatta leaned on as he wiped his eyes. He looked at Chism, obviously considering the loss of a brother, and Chism felt a sliver of hope that Hatta would abandon his mad quest.

“It’s not too late to leave, Hatta. I can find a way past the guards.”

Hatta shook his head. “Not until we’ve done what we came to have done.”

It would do no good to ask what that was. If Hatta ever had a plan to begin with, he departed from it eventually.

A man Chism had seen once or twice in Shey’s Orchard approached and without speaking, he and Hatta warmly embraced.

“Master Aker,” said Hatta, sounding much less cheerful.

He must know him well to recall the name so quickly,
thought Chism.

“So you’re caught up in this mess, too?” said Aker.

“Oh, no. I’m just the White Messenger.”

All three townsmen looked around, but Hatta’s words hadn’t drawn any interest. “You should keep talk of the Whites quiet in this camp,” warned Aker.

“Yes, I suppose I best.” Continuing with trademark innocence, Hatta announced, “I saw Elora in the palaces. Lady to a Lady she was, and I delivered your letter along with a mirror. Little did I know I’d be in the messenger business again so soon.”

“Thank you, Hatta,” said Aker. “She sent a letter after leaving Palassiren. As far as I know she’s still attending the White Queen.” He looked in the direction of the White army.

“Speaking of, my next message is for that very woman. Best of luck, and I hope you find the means to quit soldiering soon.” With his trademark crooked smile, he left the trio watching his back. He never could bear lengthy goodbyes. Chism nodded his farewell and hurried to catch up.

After fourteen steps, Hatta suddenly turned and ran back to Aker. Digging in his coin purse, Hatta produced a few coins and pressed them into Aker’s hands. “For the foodstuffs you gave me before some of my travels. It turns out I didn’t need them, but a man and his woman were in dire need. Roof or Riff or Ralf was his name. Since they can’t repay you, I will.”

Without another word he hurried back to Chism and led deeper into the camp. They walked through scores of small camps where men from villages across the kingdom milled in supportive clusters, interspersed with bands of career soldiers. One of the groups was comprised of men from Frenala, and Hatta had a similar reunion with them while Chism looked on. As they talked about the travesty of the situation, a single horn sounded from the center of the front ranks, and spread like a wave to trumpeters along the outlying parts of the camp. It was a single blast, not signaling battle or attack, merely calling for readiness. But it was enough to get men armed and moving forward.

Hatta took the opportunity to separate nonchalantly from the Frenala men, and the pair allowed themselves to be caught in the flow moving northward toward the eventual battlefield. The press grew thick as Chism followed his brother through the throng of conscripts and soldiers, and Chism was jostled repeatedly by the larger men.

Though he twisted and turned to fit through gaps without making contact, the soldiers closed in on him. In a battle he could cut himself free, use Thirsty to create some room to breathe. But these men weren’t intent on hurting him. He was caught in a mass migration and couldn’t take it much longer.

Hatta always chanted nonsense words when he couldn’t deal with a situation, but that never worked for Chism. Every brush against a shoulder, each jostle from behind, every touch whether purposeful or accidental fueled his anxiety, causing his hand to reach involuntarily for Thirsty’s hilt. He focused on staying close behind Hatta.

Just as he was about to scream and start punching, a dull-looking fellow with a pair of cudgels gave him a shove from the side, saying something about ‘boy soldiers’ and sending him reeling to the ground. Incensed, he rose to his feet to teach the man about
boy soldiers
when he was distracted by a strange shape dodging in and out of the feet of the swarming men. It had the appearance of a large cat, but appeared camouflaged somehow.

Bracing against the shoving crowd, Chism observed the nimble creature for a moment. With implausible agility it avoided every footfall by a hair’s width, and did so with an enormous grin. Somehow, the soldiers flowed past without even noticing it.

Why can’t they see it? A few of them should at least glance down at it.

The contrast of cat against the background reminded him of camouflage training as an Elite. Even the most skilled recruits had been unable to construct concealment to fool Chism. He felt the same twinge of pride the Elite training had elicited. It was the one benefit of color blindness that Chism knew of, and when needed, it was significant. Everyone else put too much stock in color, relied on it to distinguish everything in life. But Chism grew up noticing shapes and contrast, even among items of the same shade.

Is this what Hatta goes through when he sees things other people don’t?
The mixture of pride and confusion made it hard to focus on the events that surrounded him. For a moment Chism felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. With a shock, he realized he’d lost Hatta in the crowd when he fell.

“Hatta!” he called, but the din of the throng covered his voice. He tried jumping up, scanning for the turtle shell hat, but he only caught small glimpses over the nearby men with each leap and was knocked to the ground twice more.

There was no sense in walking in the direction Hatta was headed; he never traveled a straight line.

Cursed color blindness
! Again there was a chance Hatta’s garish clothes would stick out, if only he could see them.

Through the clamor of the army, Chism heard a calm tenor voice. “It appears you’ve misplaced your brother.” The noise came from the direction of the camouflaged cat.

“What?” demanded Chism, watching more closely.

Dancing between legs and under feet, the cheerful cat said, “I can help you find him.” Chism was in a mood to strangle the obnoxious cat, for the grin if nothing else, when he remembered something his brother said about a magical cat.

“Do you know my brother?” he asked, standing in front of the cat. Men poured around him like a stream around a lone upright branch, giving the cat enough of a respite to stop dodging.

“That would depend on who your brother is.”

“Hatta. You just mentioned him.” He continued to scan the camp, but without success.

“You could have other brothers.” Somehow in the chaos the cat was calm.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Chism. “Do you know Hatta or not?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said the cat. His face was flat and round, with cat features such as whiskers and pointed ears. His smile was endearing and unsettling at the same time. “Cheshire’s my name. Shall we go then?”

Chism peered around one more time for his brother, but saw no sign of the turtle shell hat. It was probably best to ignore the cat. Cavorting with fantastic creatures was Hatta’s style.

But what chance did he have of finding Hatta among thousands of men?
And what chance does Hatta have if I don’t find him?
Madness or no, his brother needed him.

“It appears I have no choice, Cheshire,” said Chism grudgingly.

“There's always a choice.” When Chism didn’t answer, the cat said, “Right this way, then.” With a nod of his head he began picking his way at a slight angle to the flow of the men of Maravilla.

The cat dodged effortlessly around ankles and feet, but Chism had to work to excuse himself through. The crowd slowed but thickened, Cheshire always keeping just within Chism’s view. The route they traveled was different than the one Hatta had been on, but that was to be expected if they actually were headed toward him. As they approached the front lines, the pace of the soldiers slowed then stopped, and with eyes fixed on the cat, Chism continued pushing in pursuit. Touching so many strangers revolted him, but if he lost the cat he’d lose his only hope of finding Hatta.

Of a sudden, after squeezing through two uniformed soldiers, Chism found himself in the open meadow. On his side of the valley, a hundred paces to the west, a delegation was forming. On the opposite lip of the bowl, some Whites gathered in a similar group. Though Chism lacked the skills for it, negotiating was a good step. At the very least it might delay fighting until he and Hatta could escape this madness, figuratively speaking. Chism had little hope that his brother could ever escape the madness inside his head.

Like a lone bannerman assaulting an enemy force, the cat’s drab tail protruded from the meadow grass, leading a straight line toward the Provinces’ army. Chism’s faith in the unusual cat was fading, but what option did he have? If nothing else, Hatta could work his kindness on this side of the battlefield, while Chism worked Thirsty on the other. The thought of wielding his friend after such a long respite thrilled him, and he plunged forward with renewed resolve.

***

The sea of men grew thicker by the step, forcing Hatta to hunker beneath his hat and weave between them, changing direction frequently. The camp had no end. Of course, it was possible that he was going around in circles. Without paying attention to people or landmarks there was no way of knowing.

Soldiers jostled him increasingly and his attempts to dodge between them became more difficult as he penetrated deeper into the camp. With each bump, brush, and nudge their terrible violence rubbed off on him, dirtying his coat and sinking into his person. He wanted to brush himself off after each contact, but in such a crowd it was pointless. If he continued to think about it, he’d be frozen.