those who possessed the will to
live.
“I’ll do what I can from here,” she said. “That is all.” Bibwit and General Doppelgänger turned to leave. “And me?” Dodge asked.
“A guardsman’s duty is to guard the palace,” she answered, knowing he wouldn’t like it. “However…” Something in her tone made Bibwit and the general stop and turn. The queen stared only at Dodge. “…as for Redd, we should expect the worst.” CHAPTER 8
“T O BE embarrassed of me ’cause I’m a halfer!” Homburg Molly complained as a pair of imagination-stimulant dealers came at her, each wielding a Hand of Tyman—five short blades rising from the handle grip. She had never fought against Hands of Tyman before, but what did that matter? She could deal with them. She could deal with anything. “Not to let me show them what I can do!” Somersaulting over her attackers, she shrugged open her knapsack of blades and corkscrews, landed on her feet and jumped backward, felt the momentary resistance of Wonderland steel entering flesh. She would lose points for that.
She had noticed too late: Her so-called assailants were only two hungry men hoping for charity; what she’d mistaken for Hands of Tyman were alms cups. She pulled away quickly, before her blades could do much damage. The men stood with stricken faces, their hands pressed to their wounds. “Sorry,” she said, backing away from them. “I’m…sorry.” She continued down the street, had hardly gone the length of a jabberwock’s tail when her homburg started to vibrate. She ducked left and— A rock whizzed past, barely missing her. She turned, assuming one of the homeless men had thrown it, but they had vanished. Her hat vibrated again. She ducked right and—
Weesh, weesh, weesh, weesh.
A rusted garbage can lid hurtled by, nearly taking her head off. That’s when she spotted them: indistinct figures in the dark at the left edge of the street, taking cover behind a half-tumbled wall and the rotted hulks of what she guessed were transports of some kind. (Where was she anyway? This street was like none she’d ever seen in Wonderland.) She flicked her homburg flat and held it over her head, shielding herself from the hunks of masonry, weather-rotted window-panes, and other junk scavenged from the surrounding buildings being thrown at her. “Probably Black Imagination enthusiasts,” she mumbled. They always seemed to be the least gifted in imagination.
Clang! Bongk! Dink! A sleet of debris pelted her homburg shield. But what if she was wrong? What if those bombarding her were simply innocent civilians who were afraid
“I’ll do what I can from here,” she said. “That is all.” Bibwit and General Doppelgänger turned to leave. “And me?” Dodge asked.
“A guardsman’s duty is to guard the palace,” she answered, knowing he wouldn’t like it. “However…” Something in her tone made Bibwit and the general stop and turn. The queen stared only at Dodge. “…as for Redd, we should expect the worst.” CHAPTER 8
“T O BE embarrassed of me ’cause I’m a halfer!” Homburg Molly complained as a pair of imagination-stimulant dealers came at her, each wielding a Hand of Tyman—five short blades rising from the handle grip. She had never fought against Hands of Tyman before, but what did that matter? She could deal with them. She could deal with anything. “Not to let me show them what I can do!” Somersaulting over her attackers, she shrugged open her knapsack of blades and corkscrews, landed on her feet and jumped backward, felt the momentary resistance of Wonderland steel entering flesh. She would lose points for that.
She had noticed too late: Her so-called assailants were only two hungry men hoping for charity; what she’d mistaken for Hands of Tyman were alms cups. She pulled away quickly, before her blades could do much damage. The men stood with stricken faces, their hands pressed to their wounds. “Sorry,” she said, backing away from them. “I’m…sorry.” She continued down the street, had hardly gone the length of a jabberwock’s tail when her homburg started to vibrate. She ducked left and— A rock whizzed past, barely missing her. She turned, assuming one of the homeless men had thrown it, but they had vanished. Her hat vibrated again. She ducked right and—
Weesh, weesh, weesh, weesh.
A rusted garbage can lid hurtled by, nearly taking her head off. That’s when she spotted them: indistinct figures in the dark at the left edge of the street, taking cover behind a half-tumbled wall and the rotted hulks of what she guessed were transports of some kind. (Where was she anyway? This street was like none she’d ever seen in Wonderland.) She flicked her homburg flat and held it over her head, shielding herself from the hunks of masonry, weather-rotted window-panes, and other junk scavenged from the surrounding buildings being thrown at her. “Probably Black Imagination enthusiasts,” she mumbled. They always seemed to be the least gifted in imagination.
Clang! Bongk! Dink! A sleet of debris pelted her homburg shield. But what if she was wrong? What if those bombarding her were simply innocent civilians who were afraid