“I like my hair the way it is.”
She had kept it short because of her work as Milliner and Queen Alyss’ bodyguard. It could have compromised her; a combatant might have snagged hold of long hair in a fight. But she didn’t have to worry about any of that now, did she? She’d given up her post. She probably deserved this humiliation for the deadly mistake she’d made-having to sit unmoving with Arch’s wives gathered around her, applying rouges and powders to her cheeks, coloring her lips, and dolling her up in their bracelets and necklaces.
“You could be pretty if you tried,” said another wife, coming at her with an eyelash brush. The wives stepped back to appraise her.
“Much better,” one of them said.
“Now maybe you won’t scare prospective husbands off,” said another.
But Molly couldn’t care less about prospective husbands. She had noticed, in the rear wall of the tent, a slit that hadn’t been there before…as if made by the skillful swing of a blade.
Before being sent to engage WILMA, Hatter had already searched most of the Doomsine encampment for evidence of his daughter. Disguised as a day laborer, he now did quick reconnaissance of the few unexplored neighborhoods that still remained, but found nothing, Molly’s whereabouts as unknown to him as ever.
He would have to start over. He’d never be able to search the entire camp a second time. He squinted
up at the sky-little more than one revolution of the Thurmite moon before the time allowed for his WILMA mission expired. All he could do was hope. And move fast, but not so fast that he attracted suspicion.
Head lowered, making the most of his peripheral vision, Hatter huffed along recently visited streets and alleys. At a market stall selling fresh herbs and vegetables, he saw two of Arch’s personal chefs. The sight of them, royal servants out among the common folk, served as a jolt to his senses. How could he have been so remiss? He had searched everywhere for Molly except the royal enclave in which he himself had been living-among the tents of Arch’s personal retinue. He had always assumed that the king would keep Molly close, but that close?
He made his way to Arch’s tent at the center of camp, where the threat of being recognized was greater than anywhere else, and had barely begun his hunt when-
“Are you in need of work, laborer?”
It was Weaver. He bowed his head to indicate that he was, not wanting to risk letting his voice be heard. “I have some furniture that needs to be moved. I can pay you a necklace of beaded quartz and a hot
meal.”
He followed Weaver out of the main thoroughfare to her tent. Swallowing her sobs, she spoke in a desperate whisper.
“They said you’d gone, and I…You were right. You’ve been right all along. I overhead Arch talking about Molly. I should’ve believed you sooner, I-”
“Sshh, Weaver. Sshh, you wanted what you thought was best for Molly, for all of us. You have no cause to blame yourself. Do you know where she is?”
Weaver stepped back and wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure. His ministers take turns visiting one of the wives’ tents. I doubt Arch would let them if their business had anything to do with his wives.”
“Show me which tent.”
She was about to step out to the street, but he touched her arm to stop her. “How did you recognize me?”
“I’ll always know you. The way you walk is as familiar to me as my own thoughts, even after so many years.”
Hatter nodded. But if she could spot him so easily, others might not have a difficult time of it. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Show me where Molly’s being kept.”
Weaver, walking ahead of him as instructed, indicated the wives’ tent with a slight turn of the head and continued past. Hatter ducked around to the back, to a small space with enough room only to stake and unstake the tent supports. He tapped his belt buckle, the sabers of his belt snapped open, and he quickly sliced a small gash in the canvas. He tapped his belt buckle again and the sabers retracted. He peered through the slit he’d made into the tent. Among the thirteen wives who lounged on voluptuous pillows and lush silks, he saw her: guarded by a pair of intel ministers, sitting glum and alone in the corner. She was without her homburg and dressed in pink clothes he’d never seen before.
Weaver was waiting for him in her tent.
“She’s there,” he said. “I’ve only got my wrist-blades and my belt. Do you have access to weapons?” “I’ve heard of a dealer in the Kyla district. Contraband. But-”
“If our daughter’s to live, we have to find him.”
CHAPTER 41
C HESSMEN GUARDED the palace’s perimeter, card soldiers had been dispatched to key points in Wondertropolis, and military outposts throughout the queendom were put on alert. In the palace’s war room, the screens showing Vollrath, The Cat, and the two unidentified strangers blinked on and off as if from a momentary power failure. Before the failure, Vollrath and the others were visible; afterward, they were gone.
“I’ll find them,” Alyss said. Directing her imaginative sight to the outcropping of rock where the enemy had just been, she scanned the surrounding Boarderland terrain. When she located them, they were farther away than she would’ve thought, speeding headlong in a vehicle unfamiliar to her, as it had been freshly conjured by Redd-a three-wheeled machine built to cover rugged land, in which her aunt sat above and behind the others in a throne-like seat, a staff topped with a long-dead heart in her hand.
“I see them,” she announced. “Redd’s with them. She has her scepter.” “We should attack before she attacks us,” Dodge urged.
“Attack Boarderland?” The general looked doubtful. “We’d have Redd and Arch to contend with,” said Bibwit. “We already do, I’d bet.”
“She’s traveling away from Wonderland?” Alyss murmured.
Racing deeper into Boarderland, her steel-wool hair buffeted by the wind, Redd turned and seemed to stare right at Alyss, as if she could sense her niece’s imaginative eye upon her. The corner of her lips curled in a sneer, she swung her scepter and, in Heart Palace’s war room, Alyss jumped, startled; her imaginative sight had gone black.
“What is it?” Bibwit asked. “She blocked my sight.”
“Not good,” the general fretted, splitting in two. “Not good at all,” said Generals Doppel and Ganger, each entering coordinates on their crystal communicators, ordering troop deployments to the demarcation barrier.
Alyss tried again to settle the eye of her imagination on her aunt. She flashed on images of Redd in a valley and on a hill. Then she realized, there were hundreds of them: Redd in her three-wheeled transport trundling across an open plain; Redd in her three-wheeled transport bouncing up a rocky escarpment; several Redds spread out on the Glyph Cliffs; an untold number of Redds along the banks of the Bookie River; innumerable Redds marching along Boarderland’s side of the demarcation barrier.
“We’re getting reports!” Generals Doppel and Ganger cried.
“She’s conjured doubles of herself,” Alyss said. “Hundreds of them, if not more. From this distance, there’s no way for me to know which one is real. I’ll have to attack them all at once.”
She conjured a spikejack tumbler for every Redd she saw. The tumblers would pass harmlessly through the constructs, but the legitimate Redd would have to counterattack to survive. The weapons went hurtling toward their targets-and through all of them.
“I don’t understand. Not one of them is real?”
“How can that be?” Dodge steamed. “Where could she have gone?”
Alyss had no answer and Bibwit’s ears shrugged in apologetic ignorance. Generals Doppel and Ganger were shouting into their crystal communicators: