like knocking on any random door
in Wondertropolis and hoping her aunt would answer it.
“That’s all?” Dodge asked.
“Yes.”
“We should inform Bibwit and the general,” he said, standing. But on his way out, he paused in the doorway and delivered the news that had originally brought him to the suite: “None of the card soldiers at the Pool of Tears has checked in with Central Command. Not one is answering his crystal communicator. The knight and rook have been sent to the pool and will soon report back.” Redd. So Dodge knew she’d been lying, was already preparing himself for a confrontation. She wanted to explain—explain what, exactly?—but words wouldn’t come, and her lie hung heavy between them like a fog.
CHAPTER 34
T HE ENCAMPMENT was as rowdy as ever when it happened: the air rent by a scream of such pitch and intensity that every Doomsine fell to the ground in pain and slapped hands, paws, or hoofs over their ears. Wives, soldiers, servants, animals, tailors and tavern keepers, everyone devoted to serving Boarderland’s king collapsed as if punched. And no matter how desperately they tried to stop up their ears, still the unending scream penetrated their skulls. Having conjured earplugs of appropriate density, Redd Heart walked unperturbed along the encampment’s temporary streets, accompanied by the equally unperturbed Vollrath, Cat, Alistaire Poole, and Siren Hecht. The group might have passed for a wicked ex-queen and friends out for a bit of sightseeing if not for Siren, whose mouth was open to twice its normal size, her vocal cords issuing forth their life-paralyzing vibrations.
Redd sighted Arch’s tent in her imagination and paraded her troops to it. Outside of the tent, two figures were bent to the ground in wincing agony, one of them in elbow-length gloves. “Knock, knock,” Redd said at the entrance. Inside, Arch and his intel ministers were foundering on the floor, holding anything within reach to their ears—pillows, decorative crystals, coats. Redd flashed Siren a look; the assassin shut her mouth and the hideous shrieking stopped. Slowly, the intel ministers raised their heads. Arch was squinty-eyed with doubt when he saw his visitor.
“Redd?”
“I realize it’s been a while, Arch, but did I mean so little to you that you don’t even recognize me?” The king reached a hand out to touch her. “No. But you seem…out of focus.” She was about to slap his ring-laden hand away when Ripkins and Blister stormed in, Ripkins with sword drawn and Blister stretching his bare hands toward The Cat and Alistaire Poole. Without turning from Arch, Redd imagined the handle of Ripkins’ weapon too hot to touch—“Ah!” he cried, and dropped it—and she hurtled both bodyguards backward, out of the tent and across the street, through a wives’ tent, across a second street, through a shoemaker’s tent, across a third street and into a glassblower’s hutch. They crashed through the hutch’s back wall, the whole structure collapsed, and they landed hard in the rubble of an alley, prevented from getting up by the heavy, iron-like slabs Redd had conjured on top of their limbs and torsos.
“That’s all?” Dodge asked.
“Yes.”
“We should inform Bibwit and the general,” he said, standing. But on his way out, he paused in the doorway and delivered the news that had originally brought him to the suite: “None of the card soldiers at the Pool of Tears has checked in with Central Command. Not one is answering his crystal communicator. The knight and rook have been sent to the pool and will soon report back.” Redd. So Dodge knew she’d been lying, was already preparing himself for a confrontation. She wanted to explain—explain what, exactly?—but words wouldn’t come, and her lie hung heavy between them like a fog.
CHAPTER 34
T HE ENCAMPMENT was as rowdy as ever when it happened: the air rent by a scream of such pitch and intensity that every Doomsine fell to the ground in pain and slapped hands, paws, or hoofs over their ears. Wives, soldiers, servants, animals, tailors and tavern keepers, everyone devoted to serving Boarderland’s king collapsed as if punched. And no matter how desperately they tried to stop up their ears, still the unending scream penetrated their skulls. Having conjured earplugs of appropriate density, Redd Heart walked unperturbed along the encampment’s temporary streets, accompanied by the equally unperturbed Vollrath, Cat, Alistaire Poole, and Siren Hecht. The group might have passed for a wicked ex-queen and friends out for a bit of sightseeing if not for Siren, whose mouth was open to twice its normal size, her vocal cords issuing forth their life-paralyzing vibrations.
Redd sighted Arch’s tent in her imagination and paraded her troops to it. Outside of the tent, two figures were bent to the ground in wincing agony, one of them in elbow-length gloves. “Knock, knock,” Redd said at the entrance. Inside, Arch and his intel ministers were foundering on the floor, holding anything within reach to their ears—pillows, decorative crystals, coats. Redd flashed Siren a look; the assassin shut her mouth and the hideous shrieking stopped. Slowly, the intel ministers raised their heads. Arch was squinty-eyed with doubt when he saw his visitor.
“Redd?”
“I realize it’s been a while, Arch, but did I mean so little to you that you don’t even recognize me?” The king reached a hand out to touch her. “No. But you seem…out of focus.” She was about to slap his ring-laden hand away when Ripkins and Blister stormed in, Ripkins with sword drawn and Blister stretching his bare hands toward The Cat and Alistaire Poole. Without turning from Arch, Redd imagined the handle of Ripkins’ weapon too hot to touch—“Ah!” he cried, and dropped it—and she hurtled both bodyguards backward, out of the tent and across the street, through a wives’ tent, across a second street, through a shoemaker’s tent, across a third street and into a glassblower’s hutch. They crashed through the hutch’s back wall, the whole structure collapsed, and they landed hard in the rubble of an alley, prevented from getting up by the heavy, iron-like slabs Redd had conjured on top of their limbs and torsos.