Redd vanished before it reached her. The weapon clanked off the wall and on to the floor. Blister heard the grating hiccup of Her Imperial Viciousness’ laugh, saw her standing under the archway that led to the public halls.
“All alone in the great big palace with nothing to do?” she asked.
He threw no weapon at her, made no move in her direction. Redd Heart, he knew, was both with him and not with him: a construct.
“Perhaps you’ve outgrown your usefulness to King Arch?” the phantom said. “Perhaps you’d be better off with me and—”
Fzzzt!
The construct was gone: present one gwormmy-blink, absent the next. As it would be if someone choked off the energy that had made its existence possible.
“I felt it! The Power of Proximity!” Redd spewed, stalking up and back in the hardscrabble dirt of the land beyond the Whispering Woods. The empty feeling she’d had when lacking imagination was back, the internal barrenness once more acute. “I felt the infusion of energy I get whenever I’m close to the Heart Crystal!”
“But now?” Vollrath asked.
With her assassins holding the reins of their jabberwocky and looking on, Redd tried, and failed, to imagine a new construct of herself since the one she’d used to haunt Ripkins had somehow been taken from her. She attempted to conjure a flesh-swallowing rose blossom, but she couldn’t manage that either. She stomped up to Vollrath as if he might be responsible for her inability.
“Now, tutor, I’m tired of trying to be clever. I’m tired of strategy. Now we fight for the Crystal. The old-fashioned way.”
“You mean without imagination?”
Redd scowled. “Is that a problem for you, pale face?”
“If it isn’t a problem for you, Your Imperial Viciousness,” Vollrath said, bowing. “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to claim that it’s a problem for me.”
Not a hectare’s length in front of them, the Iron Butterfly looked like some petrified primeval creature with its tail-end in the ground, its wings partly spread and its body slanted at a forty-five-degree angle, antennae aimed at the sky. It wasn’t made of iron but a kind of stone—of unknown origin and still not understood—that resembled iron ore: its hard surface a deep umber, spotted with corrosion and rust, seasoned by eons of weather. Even Wonderland’s oldest tutors couldn’t recall who had named the ancient megalith, nor when it had been named. It was believed to be as old as the land itself, constructed when the mountains, rivers, jungles, plains, and desert had first formed, before there had been a queendom or Boarderland, before there had been nations or “civilization.” And because the skills needed to build it were obviously beyond those possessed by the hulking Helmex of the earliest epochs, the Iron Butterfly had become the subject of a thousand rumors, some claiming it had been a temple, a shrine to stars, moons and sun, others that it’d been a house of sacrifice, where jabberwocky hearts throbbing with life were offered up to merciless gods, and still others that it’d been the site of duels, marriages, executions, births, coronations, regicides, crucifixions, resurrec tions, reanimations. Redd didn’t care what it had been, only what it was: the current home of the Heart Crystal. She would make the Iron Butterfly the site of future history, the landmark in which she seized the Heart Crystal from the grasping hands of the undeserving.
“You don’t feel the Power of Proximity any longer?” Vollrath mused. “You did feel it but now you do not. We must conclude that Arch has devised a way of turning on and off the Crystal’s power, as one, so to speak, turns on and off the light of a room.”
“My tutor,” Redd scoffed, “well-schooled in the obvious.”
The Cat purred. Sacrenoir and the others grinned. The jabberwocky spat flame and strained against their chains.
Redd stroked her mount, its skin like volcanic crust. “We’ll be outnumbered,” she said, more to herself than her assassins. “We’ll be outgunned.”
“And your point is . . . ?” Sacrenoir asked.
“That it will be a raucous good time so long as we annihilate them quickly! Before Arch’s reinforcements arrive, I’d better be in possession of the Crystal.”
“You will be,” Sacrenoir promised.
“But Your Imperial Viciousness,” Vollrath asked, “what if you’re unable to revive its power?”
“Then we’ll die, tutor. But if Arch can turn the Crystal’s power on and off, so . . . can . . . I.”
“Of course. But perhaps since you and Alyss Heart are presently in cahoots—”
“‘Cahoots’? Who’s in ‘cahoots,’ tutor? I’ll put you in cahoots, you intellectual!”
Vollrath again humbled himself before her. “Please, Your Imperial Viciousness, I merely meant to suggest that since you and your niece are somewhat allied and we’re outnumbered by Arch’s forces, we might avail ourselves of the additional bodies—those of your niece, her guardsman and, of course, Mr. Van de Skülle.”
The idea amused Redd, if anything could be said to amuse her; her nostrils flared as if at the foul odor of her pleasure. “I suppose I should rue the misfortune that Alyss isn’t here to fight alongside us. But what can I do? First to the Crystal, first to power. Too bad for her.”
Vollrath, The Cat, Sacrenoir and the others gathered round their mistress, her attention fixed on the looming edifice that held her future—either ultimate power or death, because she would accept nothing else.
“Here is how we’ll attack . . .” she said.
CHAPTER 46
THE DOOMSINES and Fel Creel stared into the shadowy hole that had been the Pool of Tears, its water still sloshing in the tankers behind them. The siphons were put away and the warriors should have been proceeding back to the palace as King Arch had commanded them to do, but instead they stood in a religious silence, risking not only His Majesty’s wrath but also—leaning as far over the cavity’s edge as they could for a better view into the depths—their lives.
A Doomsine took a palm-sized medallion from his pocket and launched it into the air, where it briefly hovered, looking like a coin spinning fast on its edge. But unlike a coin, and emitting no sound louder than the rapid flutter of insect wings, the remote eye flew down into what had been the Pool of Tears, transmitting what it “saw” directly to the Doomsine warrior’s visual cortex.
“Well?” a Fel Creel asked.
“Nothing,” the Doomsine said. He did not speak again, but remained wide-eyed at what the others could not see: pure darkness.
“It’s bottomless,” another Fel Creel eventually said.
This occasioned many grunts and nods, and several warriors were turning to leave when they all heard it: the echoing womp of the remote eye crashing to ground, just as—
The warrior who’d released the device jerked back, as if struck, from the abruptness with which its visual relay went offline.
They might have been taking longer than they should have to return to the palace, but the Doomsines and Fel Creel had something of importance to tell the king: The emptied Pool of Tears had a bottom.
Angry as he was, Blister didn’t doubt what to do: He informed the king of Redd’s visitation, of all that had happened between him and the imaginative construct. Arch laughed when he heard how the visit had ended.
“I’ll bet Her Imperial Viciousness found that displeasing!”
Blister offered no opinion but didn’t seem to share the royal enthusiasm. The pair were descending to the palace’s nethermost level, three stories underground, where Arch’s ministers had found a storage cellar of suitable cold and damp and dark to serve as dungeon for his highest-ranking prisoner—General Doppelgänger.
“Did you know, Blister, the longer the Heart Crystal’s cocooned, the more its power weakens until it becomes so faint it can never be revived, and then . . . nothing?”
“You knew I didn’t, Your Majesty.”
“In other words, this Crystal—it’s not a living being exactly, but it dies.”
“Death is not always a bad thing, sire.”
“For others—I agree with you. And since I was tired of waiting for Redd to show herself, why not render powerless the sole remaining Heart in Wonderland? The ministers have cocooned the Crystal in the neutralizing caterpillar silk. I’m glad to know they managed it at the very moment Redd was in the middle of perpetrating a plot to steal you!”
The king was definitely starting to enjoy himself: all this bother with the House of Hearts would soon be over; before the next lunar cycle had passed, he would be able to luxuriate in his newly expanded authority. He would, until the next threat to his reign (there was always a next threat), be at peace.
“You do now see it’s better that you’re here and not on Earth?” he asked Blister.
“Alyss wouldn’t have killed me as easily as she did Ripkins,” Blister said.
“Maybe not. But by keeping you here, I allow you to participate in significantly more than a single confrontation with an overvalued former queen. You can have as large a role as you wish in the annihilation of Redd and her sad group. If I’m not mistaken, a certain feline among them didn’t exactly fill you with warm feelings of friendship.”
Blister’s eyes became heavy-lidded; his jaw tensed as if sutured shut: His Majesty was not mistaken.
“And that’s in addition to the fun I’ve arranged for us now,” Arch said, bringing them to a stop outside a thick, wooden door reinforced with bars of uncut diamond and guarded by the two largest Doomsines in the tribe. “Take off your gloves. It’s time for us to conduct an interrogation.”
Blister—beginning to think he’d indeed been granted a better assignment than Ripkins—stuffed his gloves into a pocket, followed Arch past the guards and into the cellar. A single fire crystal glowed in the corner. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The stone floor and walls were bare. In the center of the room was a figure, the silhouette of a male seated on a straight-backed chair: General Doppelgänger, imprisoned in his drug-delivery system.
The assassin took up position behind the military leader while Arch stood before him, frowning.
“It’s useless to deny you’ve been in contact with Alyss Heart since my coronation,” Arch told the general. “I had too much faith that civility—kindness—could win your allegiance. You wouldn’t have suffered under my rule, Doppelgänger. You’ve been very stupid.”
“Was it kindness to have your spies trailing me about?”
“My what? You seem to be under a misapprehension, General. My spies, as you call them, were nothing more than Boarderlanders curious to know how you spent your days leading Wonderland’s card soldiers. Besides, they didn’t physically harm you, did they? If they did, I’ll have them punished.”
General Doppelgänger wasn’t fooled and said nothing, his eyes on the wall.
“It’s strange that a tutor of Bibwit Harte’s accumulated wisdom and intelligence should be so dumb as to choose the losing side,” Arch observed. “Why didn’t you go with the albino when you had the opportunity? Did you stay, by chance, because it was you who thought to spy on me?”
The military leader was given no time to respond; the king’s hand swung round and slapped him in the cheek. Arch’s hot face lowered to within a gwormmy-length of his own.
“You know, Doppelgänger, I’d intended to ask you what excuse Alyss used to avoid war once her imagination had returned, but the sight of you is irritating me more than I care to let it.” Raising himself up, Arch addressed his assassin. “Don’t kill him yet. I’ll soon give you that honor. For now, just come close.”
CHAPTER 47
HATTER’S ARRIVAL on a fraught scene often occa sioned exclamations of relief, the sight of him enough to fortify Alyssians against what seemed insurmountable odds even to survive, let alone retake the queendom. But as the Milliner entered Taegel’s home, neither Dodge nor Bibwit voiced any such feelings.
“Alyss has left us,” Bibwit explained, choosing not to use the word “abandoned” and relating the details of Blue’s visitation. “When we regained consciousness after the caterpillar’s waftings, she was gone.” And because Hatter kept glancing at his curly hair: “Yes, I’m hairy! If you’re compelled to stare at my bushy head, Mr. Madigan, then stare and get it over with!”
Hatter apologized. “I didn’t realize I was staring.”
“We have no reason to suppose Alyss didn’t do as the caterpillar wanted her to,” Dodge said.
Hatter responded to this intel with typical Milliner reserve. The tutor and guardsman, he judged, likely deemed Alyss’ actions undisciplined, evidence of her disregard for her duty both as sovereign and as White Imagination’s most powerful practitioner. There had been a time when he, too, wouldn’t have understood the queen’s behavior, but now he could relate to the need to temporarily shake off the responsibilities that had governed one’s life if it was possible to save a beloved by doing so.
Mr. Van de Skülle—standing erect, whip within easy reach of the hand hanging loose at his side—was watching him, scrutinizing him in a way the Milliner found tediously familiar: The assassin had the doubting eye of a would-be challenger, a man wanting to test his own combat mettle against the touchstone of Hatter Madigan’s renowned prowess. And Hatter was supposed to believe that he and Van de Skülle were working together? Easier to believe in Queen Alyss, no matter how unconventionally she went about her duties.
“A queen with Alyss Heart’s gifts understands things we cannot,” he said. “She will not abandon us.” It felt awkward saying this to Bibwit and Dodge, two of the queen’s most intelligent, devoted advisers. “You mentioned that General Doppelgänger is still at the palace. If he can access the surveillance footage of the Pool of Tears, we’ll know for sure if Queen Alyss has gone to Earth. We may be facing a more serious problem if her whereabouts are unknown and she didn’t dive into the Pool.”
Bibwit was already pushing back the sleeve of his scholar’s robe, entering Doppelgänger’s code on his crystal communicator’s keypad. “Yes, of course. I was just about to think of that myself. The general doesn’t need to answer his communicator if it isn’t safe for him to do so on account of Arch’s spies.”
It was evidently safe to answer: Bibwit’s communicator beeped and its vid nozzle pushed out its light, projecting on to the air an image—
Not of General Doppelgänger, but King Arch.
“Bibwit Harte,” the king said.
The tutor’s ears twitched every which way, like panicked creatures unable to flee a fire, and his hand shot to his communicator’s keypad and cut transmission. But Milliner, tutor, and guardsman knew the signal had been captured, traced, their location pinpointed for Arch’s military.
“We can’t stay here,” Dodge said.
“Take off your communicator,” Hatter told Bibwit. “I’ll dispose of it somewhere. It won’t keep Arch’s forces from descending on the area, but at least it won’t be signaling them precisely where we’ll be.”
Bibwit removed his crystal communicator, handed its keypad, belt, and shoulder straps to Hatter.
“Meet me at the bazaar on the corner,” Hatter said. But he was blocked at the door by Taegel, just coming in, whose wild, unkempt hair was at odds with the melancholy slope of his shoulders.
“It’s over,” the engineer said. “No work can be done at the factory. None of us is able to do anything.”
“What do you mean?” Bibwit asked.
“Conceptualizing, problem-solving, technical analysis—it’s all too much for us. Like the last time except worse.”
“The last time being WILMA?” Dodge said to Bibwit, whose ears dipped in confirmation.
Now it was Dodge’s turn to enter a code on his communicator’s keypad: an image of Mr. Dumphy at the limbo coop crackled in the air.
“Mr. Anders,” the tinker said sadly, “in anticipation of your communication, my friends and I have been careful not to expose the return of our imaginations to the Club soldiers, but now that you and Queen Alyss are perhaps ready for our most creative support, the very reason for this
communication—”
“You’re without imagination again,” Dodge interrupted.
“We are, yes. Please inform Queen Alyss that as a group we’re largely as loyal to her as always, but I should tell you, Mr. Anders . . . some among us are finding it extremely hard this time around to maintain a positive attitude.”
“Understandable if undesirable. The queen is indisposed at present, Mr. Dumphy. I know you’ll do your best to buoy up the others. You’ll hear from us soon and the limbo coops will be destroyed. You will be free.” Dodge signed off. “No Alyss, no imagination,” he said to no one in particular. “Could our situation get any worse?”
They would wait until nightfall, avoiding Taegel’s home and killing time in busy markets in order to avoid a confrontation with the tribal warriors out to kill them. Because trawling the shopping promenades, canvassing avenues in open-air smail-transports, searching, hunting: Arch’s Doomsines were everywhere.
“By now, Arch has been informed of where Taegel’s employed,” Hatter said, seated at a table in front of a brew-master’s stall, watching a patrol of Doomsines and Two Cards move through the crowd.
If Taegel was concerned, he didn’t show it. “The factory’s security is too cumbersome to be quickly taken off-line. It requires a concerted effort from a number of engineers with knowledge only of what they are required to do. No single Wonderlander has a mental picture of how the entire system is integrated and it will take time for Arch to gather those needed and orchestrate their efforts.”
The patrolling Doomsines and Two Cards were coming toward them. Hatter placed his hands flat on the table, ready to make use of his wrist-blades. Mr. Van de Skülle surreptitiously gripped his whip. Dodge slid a hand under his jumpsuit to take hold of a crystal shooter.