The moment for confessions of the
heart had passed. Wonderland’s queen and the leader of her
palace
guard stared out over Wondertropolis, their feelings for each other too big for utterance, neither of them knowing that wherever Hatter had gone, they would need him soon. CHAPTER 6
B OARDERLAND: WHERE women could be given away by their husbands to pay debts, and young, rowdy gallants from Wonderland, fresh from the rigors of formal education, came to indulge themselves in roving pleasure tents; where maps were useless because the nation consisted wholly of nomadic camps, settlements, towns and cities, and a visitor might find the country’s capital, Boarderton, situated in the cool shadows of the Glyph Cliffs one day but spread out along Fortune Bay the next. King Arch’s domain was a sprawling place with large tracts of unpopulated land to traverse between nomadic settlements. Often, it happened that after an evening of revelry a visiting Wonderlander would fall into a heavy, wine-induced sleep and fail to be roused by the packing up of tents and equipages, the folding up of street signs and storefront displays, the snorting of laden spirit-danes. When he woke, he’d find himself alone and unsheltered in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes the tents of the settlement in which he’d caroused the previous night would be visible on the horizon, but no matter how quickly he traveled toward them, they would remain forever on the horizon, an oasis. For further Boarderland companionship, he could only hope that another settlement would cross his path in its ceaseless wandering.
It was a tribal land, and except for clashes, every tribe kept to itself—self-contained and, as King Arch would inform certain of his guests, to a small extent, self-governing. “I let them do what they wish in trivial matters such as healing rituals and marriage ceremonies,” he would explain. “I even let them choose their own leaders. But only so long as they acknowledge me as their king. And only so long as they abide by my edicts in several other important matters.” To prevent the Astacans, Awr, and other Boarderland tribes from forgetting these edicts, Arch had had them carved, blasted, scorched, chiseled, and branded into the landscape. Carved in a great slab of rock alongside the Bookie River: Boarderland men do not cry when watching sentimental crystal-vision programs with their wives. Boarderland men do not watch sentimental crystal-vision programs with their wives. Blasted into the otherwise smooth face of a Glyph Cliff: Boarderland men can take as many wives as they’re pleased to enjoy, being more intelligent than women of every nation, country, world, and universe known or unknown.
Chiseled into the jetty in Fortune Bay: Boarderland men do not talk about their feelings. Boarderland men do not whine or complain. Boarderland men never show weakness or vulnerability, nor admit to having either.
Branded on sun-bleached rocks amid the undulant sands of Duneraria: Boarderland men are fixed in their convictions, from which no feminine argument can sway them. If a Boarderland man changes his convictions, he does so at his whim, not by the consideration of a wife’s views. With row after row of military tent-barracks, open-air markets and restaurants, promenades of dry-goods stalls, avenues of housing for intel ministers and other officials, countless servant canopies and its own pleasure-tent district, Arch’s royal entourage was a city unto itself. His palace, always positioned at the center of his encampment, consisted of fifteen interconnected, pastel-colored tents whose billowy
guard stared out over Wondertropolis, their feelings for each other too big for utterance, neither of them knowing that wherever Hatter had gone, they would need him soon. CHAPTER 6
B OARDERLAND: WHERE women could be given away by their husbands to pay debts, and young, rowdy gallants from Wonderland, fresh from the rigors of formal education, came to indulge themselves in roving pleasure tents; where maps were useless because the nation consisted wholly of nomadic camps, settlements, towns and cities, and a visitor might find the country’s capital, Boarderton, situated in the cool shadows of the Glyph Cliffs one day but spread out along Fortune Bay the next. King Arch’s domain was a sprawling place with large tracts of unpopulated land to traverse between nomadic settlements. Often, it happened that after an evening of revelry a visiting Wonderlander would fall into a heavy, wine-induced sleep and fail to be roused by the packing up of tents and equipages, the folding up of street signs and storefront displays, the snorting of laden spirit-danes. When he woke, he’d find himself alone and unsheltered in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes the tents of the settlement in which he’d caroused the previous night would be visible on the horizon, but no matter how quickly he traveled toward them, they would remain forever on the horizon, an oasis. For further Boarderland companionship, he could only hope that another settlement would cross his path in its ceaseless wandering.
It was a tribal land, and except for clashes, every tribe kept to itself—self-contained and, as King Arch would inform certain of his guests, to a small extent, self-governing. “I let them do what they wish in trivial matters such as healing rituals and marriage ceremonies,” he would explain. “I even let them choose their own leaders. But only so long as they acknowledge me as their king. And only so long as they abide by my edicts in several other important matters.” To prevent the Astacans, Awr, and other Boarderland tribes from forgetting these edicts, Arch had had them carved, blasted, scorched, chiseled, and branded into the landscape. Carved in a great slab of rock alongside the Bookie River: Boarderland men do not cry when watching sentimental crystal-vision programs with their wives. Boarderland men do not watch sentimental crystal-vision programs with their wives. Blasted into the otherwise smooth face of a Glyph Cliff: Boarderland men can take as many wives as they’re pleased to enjoy, being more intelligent than women of every nation, country, world, and universe known or unknown.
Chiseled into the jetty in Fortune Bay: Boarderland men do not talk about their feelings. Boarderland men do not whine or complain. Boarderland men never show weakness or vulnerability, nor admit to having either.
Branded on sun-bleached rocks amid the undulant sands of Duneraria: Boarderland men are fixed in their convictions, from which no feminine argument can sway them. If a Boarderland man changes his convictions, he does so at his whim, not by the consideration of a wife’s views. With row after row of military tent-barracks, open-air markets and restaurants, promenades of dry-goods stalls, avenues of housing for intel ministers and other officials, countless servant canopies and its own pleasure-tent district, Arch’s royal entourage was a city unto itself. His palace, always positioned at the center of his encampment, consisted of fifteen interconnected, pastel-colored tents whose billowy