Chapter Eight: Last Resort (2)

[manniness]

And onward to the next scene...


*~*~*~*

 

Irondirk, the only one of them who both serves the White Queen and can identify every one of the rebels, sits on his bedroll with his bound hands in his lap. If only circumstances permitted him to make his report to the queen, he could have quite possibly been rather heroic, but here... now... the man is more or less useless.

Leif scowls at everyone, his golden eyes roving over the occupants of this room-ish section of the tunnel, stubbornly memorizing their faces and maybe even their individual infractions in the event that one of them is stupid enough to let him near a weapon. At the moment... that is unlikely.

Yes, things are looking pretty damn Bad at the moment, Mally assesses with brutal honesty. At least she has not been discovered. Yet. She dares to poke her head a bit further out of the cloak hood as movement at the edge of the campfire draws her attention.

Little is being said just now, so she lets her attention wander. Unfortunately, it does not wander anywhere Pleasant; she glowers across the softly illuminated space, their prison, resenting it.

This place will ruin her spotless service record. She is sure of it.

And, to think, just yesterday – or had it been the day before yesterday? – she had been enjoying rather optimistic thoughts:

One minute, Mallymkun had been riding in a clever fold in the hood of Tarra’s cloak, seriously considering indulging in the fine weather she can sense on the other side of the woven wool, wondering if she dares poke her nose out for a snuffle of richly-scented, sun-warmed, gluttonously over-ripe Orash orchard air...

One minute, she had been convinced that the rumors of a potentially dangerous movement against the White Queen must have been a product of Setteeson’s glue-addled imagination (that workroom had looked rather poorly ventilated)...

One minute, everything had been fine, well, under control...

And the next minute...

Well.

Well!

Well!

Mally had very nearly shouted that exact declaration, her thoughts skittering with panic, her mind spinning in the darkness of the wool. Weightless, helpless, she’d scrabbled to clutch the fabric in her paws to anchor herself.

It hadn’t helped.

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

And then a very sudden Stop!

Luckily, Tarra had landed on her scut and not on her back, otherwise the day might have turned out even Worse for the dormouse riding in the hood draped down her back between her shoulder blades. (Not that Mally is having a callaycious time of things at the moment. No, there is not callou-ing or callay-ing to be done here! Now!)

Mally had taken a deep breath in relief... and had nearly choked on the noxious fumes of something rancid, rotting, rank.

Perhaps they had fallen down a well... but, from the smell of it Mally is Sure it is not of the Treacle variety!

No, this is most definitely not a Treacle Well. She had not been spared the scent of the tunnel; it had seeped through the tight weave of the cloak more swiftly than a rainstorm deluge. Ar, Mally winces, wishing she could close her nose, a Red Rule moaty-muck water deluge! It had made – and still makes! – her nose twitch and her eyes water despite the handkerchief she had applied to her face.

She turns her attention back to the present circumstances and huffs. Despite the sand and sawdust that had been packed down onto the floor in this particular section, the ground, the air, everything still smells—

“Frumious!” she mutters to herself in abject disgust, clinging to the square of linen pressed over her nose, and suspects she’ll have rather vivid sensory nightmares about this place.

Mally reluctantly climbs out of the hood, despairing that her boots will ever smell pleasantly of leather and polish again... then scolds herself for such vain thoughts in the face of their... Situation. She is a Dormouse with a Job To Do! She returns to her survey of the inhabited portion of the tunnel, counts the bedrolls, and notes the stack of pots and barrels of water.

Stomach rolling at the sight, Mally cringes at the thought of putting anything in her mouth here, wherever this foul, frumious Here is! How do up-right folk tolerate such filth and stench? The state of their sense of smell must be woeful, indeed!

There are coils of rope and a wheelbarrow. And beyond the light of the campfire around which more than ten youngish people have gathered, Mally can see something glimmering in the darkness. Several somethings. Long and straight and metal with a sharp edge...

Wary of the youths circled around the campfire – and especially wary of Tarra’s obvious comfort amongst them – Mally skirts past and investigates those sharp metal somethings. Unfortunately, they turn out to be broad swords and spears and there are quite a lot of them.

“Oh, dear...”

As that seems to sum up the situation nicely enough, Mally turns her back on the weapons she can do absolutely nothing about at the present time and turns her attention toward her other concern, her original concern: Princess Tarranya.

Mally’s ire rises at the sight of her now: Princess Tarranya, the Champion of the New Resistance.

It boggles Mally’s mind how things have come to this. It is... She is...

Unbelievable.

Unbelievable but True. How can Mally ignore the evidence? Tarra had not only offered to fight with them, but she had told them how to issue an Intention to Do Battle to the White Queen. She had educated them on how to use the Rules of Wartime Engagement to their benefit. She had heard it with her own ears! (And a dormouse’s ears are sensitive, indeed!)

The only thing Mally can’t quite understand is why Tarra had neglected to warn them that the queen would be sending a search party. No, she had not told them that. Perhaps because Tarra had never realized she’d been being watched this last week... ? Perhaps Mally and Bayto and Leif had done their jobs Very Well, after all!

She wishes she could feel more proud of that at the moment, but how can she? Tarra had not seen them, had not realized she had not been alone and without Friends; she’d gotten herself embroiled in a rebellion instead.

Oh, the king and queen are not going to like this! Not one bit!

Well, once they hear the truth, that is. And how Mally intends to send them a message is still a detail she hasn’t managed to work out yet. She is torn between remaining here, with Tarra and Leif, and trying to scurry back to Mamoreal. But even taking her fastest scurrying speed into account, Mally doubts she would arrive with this information in time to be of much use.

She doesn’t like it, but even doing Nothing here is more useful than wasted energy.

Alice and the Hatter may not know the Details, but they know enough. Yes, they will escape to Mamoreal and tell the queen and...

“We aul ’ave our reasons f’r wantin’ this war,” Abler says suddenly, parting the thickened silence. He speaks quietly – too quietly for his voice to echo – but everyone seated at the campfire listens. “Bu’ mos’ly, we’re keen teh fight f’r the sake o’ our Fa-s an’ Mam-s.” He takes a deep breath, stares into the fire. “I mae case, ’tis m’uncle.” He nods in Irondirk’s direction. Mally turns to catch the man’s reaction: a flash of temper in his eyes, a clenching jaw, the griding of his new teeth. But he does not interrupt.

Masonmark continues, not even looking over his shoulder at the object of his speech, “He was a fighter once. Strong an’ proud. Nauw he makes carvin’ knives, candlesticks an’ dress mannequins.”

“A shame worth weepin’ o’er,” a young man murmurs. Several others nod.

“’Tis b’cause o’ the White Queen he can ne’er pick up a sword again.”

“How so?” Tarra whispers back.

Abler glances at her. “Aye, I doub’ they wouldae tol’ ye th’ truth o’ it. Ye see...” he begins with a deep breath. “’Twas some time ago... mayhap o’er fifteen years when Outlanders were proud warriors. Times were hard, though, an’ many ’ad teh fight f’r a wage. Like m’uncle. Like numerish uncles an’ fa’hers an’ bro’hers...”

There are a fair number of nods at this.

“They took work where they coul’ find it, an’ they found it wi’ a nobleman who sided agains’ th’ White Queen. A visionary, tha’ man. Mustae seen her f’r who she really is.”

A round of Aye-s follows that speculation.

“Bu’ on th’ day o’ battle, the White Queen an’ her Champion used th’ most slithy, shrifty means teh win. Faced wi’ death ’r throwin’ down their weapons an’ swearing fealty... well. ’Twas nae choice, really.”

The silence that follows in the wake of this is one filled with grief. Mally has heard silence like this before. It is the silence observed in honor of the dead. But what do they mourn? Because of Alice’s Uplandish plan, no one had died that day! In fact, Peace had been made! Surely they cannot be mourning the very peace that has made their lives possible?!

And what’s this about a nobleman? Mally scrunches her face into a scowl that – for once – has nothing to do with the smell. Do they really believe that Valereth, Oshtyer, and Jaspien had had the right of things back then?!

Mally wishes very vigorously to introduce herself and her very sharp hat pin sword to the man or beast who has been manufacturing history! Why, there’d been no mention of those three greizin’-grommers’ bid for power! No one had mentioned the crimes they’d committed: kidnapping the queen and Alice and Worrying the Hatter! Why, for that last offense alone, Mally had been inspired to start a skewered eyeball collection!

It is impossible for these children to believe the White Queen is their enemy. It is ridiculous for them to insist that either the queen or Alice have done anything other than give their families a Future! They are, each and every one of them, dreadfully mistaken! Mally knows. She was there, after all! She is a witness to that very moment!

She realizes she’s marching toward them moments after she begins stalking. Regaining her senses, she ducks behind a bedroll and bites her lower lip to keep herself from railing at them. Mally takes a deep breath, notes that this bedroll could do with a good week and a half of airing out, and then peeks around the edge at the group seated around the fire.

“Nauw ye, yer majesty,” Abler says. “Whot’s yer grievance wi’ th’ queen?”

“It’s personal,” Tarra replies stiffly.

“As is each o’ ours,” he reminds her in a stern tone.

“The king and queen...” Tarra takes a fortifying breath. “... are wed by Soul Bond.”

This seems to upset and startle several amongst the present company.

She continues, “I knew what that was supposed to do, how it was supposed to control the minds and hearts of their children... Maybe I always knew that they were... that I was enslaved. That I wasn’t my own person. Maybe that’s why I wanted so badly to come to Crimson Harbor. Maybe I sensed that I could be... free here, away from them and the power of the Bond. And now I know it’s true. It’s all true!” She sends a brief, furious glare in Leif’s direction. “They had me followed, knew when I disappeared... and tried to force me to go back. Well, I won’t. Their control over me is Finished.”

Again, they observe a Moment of Silence. Abler is the one who gathers their collective attention once again. “We cannae stand f’r the White Queen’s rule any launger. Ye’ll ’ave yer vengeance, Tarra,” he promises.

Tarra laughs. Bitterly. “Oh, yes. Vengeance. By way of battle. What a grand idea! Nineteen of us against the White Army? How can we not be victorious?”

“There’s a fair few more o’ us than who ye see ’ere.”

“Is that so?”

“An’ besides, whot were ye sayin’ abou’ issuin’ a Champion’s Challenge? Ye d’nae need a great army f’r that.”

“No, I won’t but before I step out there and expose my... true allegiances, I want to know exactly who’ll be standing with me.”

This is met with quite a bit of angry muttering. Abler replies, “I willnae tell ye our true numbers.”

“Then find yourself another Champion.”

Abler growls, “There be nae need f’r tha’. Ye’ll figh’.”

“Oh, will I? What makes you so sure?”

“Ye’re ’ere, lass. In our territory,” he reminds her darkly.

“And you’ll do what? Keep me here if I decide I don’t want to be your Champion after all? You’ll be no better than the queen herself to get what you want?”

Abler actually rears back as if she had struck him in the face. “... Nae. Nae. We will nae do tha’.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s nice to know I’m not trading one bucket of worthless rath spit for another—” By the pitch of Tarra’s inflection, it’s clear that she has more to say, but sounds of approaching footsteps splishing, splashing, and splatting through the muck and mire of the tunnel echo loud enough to interrupt.

Mally, having heard them coming minutes ago, stays close to the nearest frumious bedroll as a half dozen sword-bearing young men and women stride up to and stop beside Masonmark and Tarra. Masonmark looks up expectantly. The leader of the expedition that had just spent several long hours investigating the tunnel between here and Gummer Slough shakes her head. “They’re gone.”

Masonmark sighs.

“Cheer up,” Tarra comments. “If she’s alive that means you can still have your battle.”

“An’ I suppose ye still think ye’ll b’ fightin’ in it!” the young woman snaps. “’Tis our figh’ and we don’ need some lily white bluddy Champion teh b’ fightin’ our battles fer us!” the young Outlandish woman retorts.

“All right. Go on and get your friends killed. I’ll happily let you get on with it. There’s a warm bowl of stew that doesn’t taste like borogove droppings calling my name topside.” Tarra turns away and toward her abandoned cloak. Mally twitches, eyeing the distance between herself and her mode of transport, despairing of being trapped here.

Masonmark reaches for her arm. “Wait...”

“You’re manhandling me again.”

“I... ahem. Sorry.” He takes a deep breath and turns a very stern expression on his kinswoman. “Corea, Tarra ’as as much righ’ teh this figh’tas we do. Ye’d do well teh consider supportin’ our Champion.”

“An’ she’s just gae’ng teh put ou’ ’er neck... outteh th’ gehdness o’ ’er heart?”

“With such a warm welcome, how could I not?” Tarra drawls sarcastically.

Abler steps between them and holds out his hands. “Halt, th’ twine o’ ye. Corea, Tarra ’as proved ’er intentions well. An’ I’m nae keen teh lose m’kinsmen an’ kinswomen in battle if’n can be avoided.”

“Ye’re makin’ a mistake, trustin’ a royal,” Corea spits. The two womens’ gazes lock and, for a moment, the silence vibrates like a plucked string. And then everyone stands and the tunnel echoes with the clashing clamoring of their shouts and objections.

“Well...” a soft, aristocratic voice drawls next to Mally’s ear, starling her. She gasps and gets a whiff of a very familiar cat in the process.

She turns toward the newcomer. “Chess!” she hisses, thankful the argument on the other side of the room is continuing to heat up despite Abler’s efforts to calm everyone. “What’re you doing here?”

His eyes blink open over a wide, sharp-toothed grin that forms from the teal mist swirling in the gloomy shadows. “The usual, of course: indulging my curiosity.”

Mally smirks. “Some things never change. Or...” she muses with a regal arch of her brow, “maybe some things do. Domestic jabberwocky bliss not all it’s cracked up to be, Chess?”

His grin doesn’t waver. “Only news of this magnitude could pull me away.”

“I’m sure,” she replies wryly. “And just what are they sayin’ about all this?”

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting... hot-headed, young idealistic revolutionaries have taken a very valuable princess hostage and neither hide nor hair of either the King’s or Queen’s Champions has been seen since the rescue was launched. That sort of thing. Everyone in Mamoreal is quite distressed over the whole affair, interestingly enough.”

“I’ll just bet you’re loving that!” Chessur could find mischief in Sir Fenruffle’s sock drawer; an atmosphere filled to bursting with tension must be singing a siren’s call to him! “So, what are you doin’ here?” she insists. “Unless you fancy yourself the calvary?”

“I fancy myself quite a bit,” he admits. And then his grin widens. “But you know I don’t get involved in politics.”

“You did once or twice that I recall.”

“Dreadful experiences, the both of them. I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“Bloody Cat,” she hisses, crossing her arms.

“Well, if that’s all you have to say, perhaps I won’t offer my services as a courier to the White Queen after all...”

Mally spits out a swear word under her breath. “Dammit, Chess! You...!”

“And just where is our dear Alice? Isn’t she supposed to be here, trying to convince Tarrant not to chew through his bindings and bludgeon everyone in sight with a sopping tea ball?”

“I ain’t gonna let you talk down on the ’Atter! He was the best fighter we had until...”

“Yes, until Alice. Speaking of whom...?”

“She ain’t here. Not her or the ’Atter. Tarra an’ tha’ bloke who’s always got ’is arm around ’er waist fought ’em and—”

“Alice’s own apprentice – the queen’s daughter – resisted rescue? Now that is interesting!”

“Hush up, you! This is important! Now Alice an’ the ’Atter are missing!”

“And from your tone, which I’m sure you meant to sound Significant, shall I infer that you have a general idea of where they might be?”

“In Gummer Slough.”

“I... see... Well. I hope you’re not actually considering asking me to—”

“Go look for them,” she orders.

Chess heaves a martyred sigh. “Yes, I thought you might feel inclined request something highly unfortunate and deeply unpleasant... like that.”

Mally pokes a finger into the space between his free-floating eyes. “Whatever happened to our Chess? The one who braved th’ axe-man at Crims and stood up to th’ Jabberwock at the Trial of Threes? Never hesitated to offer his-self up for a hair-pulling, foot-stomping, hand-biting free-for-all?”

“Whatever makes you think I don’t volunteer for that specific torment day in and day out? There are four juveniles, after all. They still have not left the nest and they still get rather... unavoidably excited over Thrambleberries. Luckily, they are Thackery’s problem at the moment.”

Mally ignores that last remark – as well as an exasperated thought for Thack; oh, if only he would share those Thrambleberries, he wouldn’t have to worry about them being stolen every time he turns his tail to them! – and presses her point, “See? You ought to be well versed in danger, then. Heroics...”

“Self-preservation.”

“Please, Chess. Alice needs your help.”

“Well. Why didn’t you just say so?” he muses and then, on a smile, disappears completely.

Before Mally can take a swing – even if it’s merely a token one! – at the space Chessur’s face had just been not-filling up – things in the center of the room get un-ignore-ably loud rather suddenly.

“I’m not going to waste my time and energy in a MOCK BATTLE!”

“An’ jus’ who said anythin’ ’bout i’ bein’ a mockery o’ battle?”

“Corea! Stan’ dauwn! Tarra, gi’ us a mite moment.”

“Fine.”

Mally watches as Tarra steps over a collection of dirty pots from an earlier meal and wanders away from the caucus taking place near the campfire. She doesn’t glance over her shoulder but as snitches and snatches of Masonmark’s rebuke echo outward, her smirk deepens.

Mally takes this opportunity to dash back to the cloak and the relative safety of the hood. It appears to Mally that the same principles apply when it comes to keeping an eye on princesses as they do when selecting a teacup: location, location, location!

She takes cover just as Tarra passes by the hostages.

“On anyone else, I’d call that a satisfied smile,” Leif dares to inform her on a rumble that only Tarra, the nearby Irondirk, and the dormouse of superior hearing can make out.

She turns and glares at him. Mally has never seen her look so... so... Wait, where has she seen that look before?

“If you’re waiting for me to ask for your opinion, you might as well hold your breath until I do.”

Leif growls softly. “That would have sounded wittier if you weren’t so focused on playing the fool.”

“A fool am I? That’s a new one.”

“You are opposing the queen.” He looks at her for a moment. “Are you going to tell me that’s not the stupidest thing anyone’s ever thought of?”

She plants her hands on her hips and looks down her nose at him. Suddenly, Mally knows where she’s seen that look!

“I don’t know... if I had to choose, I’d say giving lions a natural chain to yank had been pretty stupid.” She glances pointedly at his tail. “Wonder who decided on that?”

“You can’t win, Tarra,” he tells her, an edge in his voice that Mally thinks is panic.

“You underestimate me.”

“I don’t think I do,” he replies, glaring up at her. “I know what your mentor is capable of.”

“Maybe you do, but it doesn’t follow that you can judge me so easily.”

“What makes you think I can’t? I’ve seen this game before. You’re going to lose, Tarra. This won’t end well.”

Tarra opens her mouth to reply, retort, rebut. Mally stares at her, marvels at the haughty arrogance of her expression, the patronizing arc of her brows... that’s the look of a queen. The Red Queen, to be exact. Dear tiny teacups, how had Princess Tarranya managed to learn that look from her dead aunt?

For the first time since this wretch business began, Mally is more than Concerned for Tarra... She is, undeniably, afraid.

“Nauw, nauw, lion man,” Masonmark replies before Tarra can cut him down. He approaches the hostages and grins broadly. “Ye cannae b’lieve tha’ Tarra’s mentor – e’en if she’s bein’ th’ Queen’s Champion – woul’ kill ’er aun apprentice.”

“There are fates worse than death,” Leif responds, not taking his golden eyes off of the princess.

She snorts derisively. “I’m willing to risk them. You’ll see, Leif,” she coos, leaning down to breathe her reply in his face. “Everything will be just fine. The way it’s supposed to be. Have a little faith in me and I’ll make you my personal assistant when this is all over and done with.”

Masonmark laughs.

“B’ this a merrymakin’ matter, Abler?” Irondirk inquires in a brittle tone.

The young man shakes his head, although not in denial, but in playful rebuke at his uncle. “F’r shame, Uncle Davon. ’Tis f’r ye we’ve decided teh fight. Teh gi’ ye back the rights teh yer aun sword. Don’ tell mae ye d’nae appreciate all th’ effort we’re gae’ng teh.”

Irondirk frowns at him. Fiercely. “Wha’s there teh b’appreciative o’er? Ye’re destroyin’ yer aun future. ’Tis nae wee gift ye were given.”

“Gift?” Masonmark sneers. “Th’ loss o’ our heritage... Watchin’ yer own strength fade day by day... Tha’ gift ye think sae keenly of? ’Twas bought wi’ freedom. Ye cannae e’en see it, can ye?” Masonmark leans closer to his uncle and sneers, “Ye’ve b’come one o’ the White Queen’s flock. Ye’re under ’er control nauw. Bu’ ye’ll see. Aye, soon, uncle; ye’ll see.”

With a decisive nod, Masonmark turns to Tarra and nods toward the fire. “C’mon back, lass. We’ve a Champion’s Challenge teh issue. An’ if’n ye’re still keen teh finish yer match with Champion Alice, we’ll need ye teh sign it.”

“Yes,” she agrees, her gaze lingering on Leif. “You know... it’s a shame you never could see my potential.”

“I see it now. Don’t send that challenge, Tarra,” he rumbles, ignoring their audience. “Stop this from happening.”

She considers him for a moment before smiling gently. “There’s no point in being afraid of your own destiny.” Her expression turns mockingly rueful. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

“This isn’t destiny Tarra—”

“This is my choice,” she replies cutting through his protest. “And I make my own choices. Deal with it.”

And then she turns on her heel and strides back to the campfire. Irondirk glares after his nephew who gives Leif a mocking salute then joins his conspirators. Leif does not deign to give the lad one fraction of his attention. His gaze follows Tarra and Mally puzzles over their exchange. There had been something... something in the words or in their tone... Something... coded.

She considers it for a long moment before the rumbling of her empty stomach distracts her. How she can be hungry in the midst of the tunnel’s stench, she doesn’t know. With a sigh, she slides from the garment she has taken to concealing herself within and searches for a few crumbs no one will miss. She tries to be quick about it; it won’t do for Tarra to put on her cloak while Mally is out of it!

Nose pinched shut, she forages as quickly as she can and then dives back into her familiar cover. Sometimes it pays to be small...

And yet Mallymkun can think of a dozen ways to rescue the queen’s daughter if she were only somewhat bigger!