Chapter Seven: Release [Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]

"Well, are you happy now, Tarrant?" Nivens demands irritably.

Tarrant grins. "Much."

The White Rabbit rolls his eyes. "That hand is definitely broken. How are you going to manage to get Alice out of the middle of that battlefield with only one hand, hm?"

Tarrant wanders over to a rook and, tapping it on the shoulder, inquires solicitously, "Would you happen to have a bit of Pain Paste, friend?"

The rook digs a pot out of his emergency rations and hands it over.

"Much obliged."

"That's not going to do much," Nivens insists, shadowing Tarrant.

The Hatter ignores him and, after applying the paste, hands the jar back to the rook then proceeds to wrap his right hand in the violently pink handkerchief he carries in his right jacket pocket.

"Well, at least switch your broadsword to the other shoulder so you can draw it with your left hand!"

"My broadsword..." Tarrant wonders softly. Yes, he'd completely forgotten about it. Which is just as well or Avendale might be in the market for another Champion at the moment and their plan to rescue Alice well and truly thwumpished!

Grumbling at himself, Tarrant maneuvers the sword without the aid of his right hand.

Should've hit him with your left!

"Aye." If he'd thought to choose between a broken right hand and a broken left, well...

Remember that for next time, lad.

Tarrant grins. "Aye."

"What's he 'aye'in' to his-self over?"

He blinks at the sound of Mally's voice. "Oh, you're back! Excellent. How is...?"

"On her way home," the dormouse replies with confidence. "And by the time they realize they've been duped, Oshtyer's Jubjub won't have enough daylight left to be hunting her down!"

"Well done, Mally! Well done, Bayard!" Tarrant exclaims, noticing the winded blood hound.

"Not long now," Bayard pants. "They'll be coming over that hill soon."

"Wonderful!" And then he'll be able to see his Alice! He tells himself not to expect a glowing smile and outstretched arms, for how could he, on this dreadful day, in these dire straights? But he'll see her again and, very soon, he'll have her in his arms and they'll be riding home on the Bandersnatch!

"What happened to your hand?" Mally asks, poking it with the pommel of her hatpin sword.

Tarrant hisses and flinches away from her.

Nivens answers for him: "He got into an altercation with Avendale's Champion."

"Oh, Hatter! Why'd you let him break your hand when you've got that great, big broadsword of yours?"

Why, indeed... Tarrant curses himself for not thinking of it. And then he curses himself for considering it at all when doing so would have only worked against their plan to retrieve Alice.

"Gallymoggers," he mutters.

"String!" Thackery insists. "I need me string f'r th'toes, Hatter!"

Nivens groans. "Why are you going on and on about string and toes, you mad March Hare? This situation is serious! Alice and Jaspien's forces are due to come over the hill any minute and you indulge in this utter... randomness!"

"Not!" He twitches. "Not random gallymoggers! You're LATE!" Thackery shouts back. Then turning to Tarrant, the hare reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a small glass bottle. Offering it up, he says, "String, Hatter! Nauw!"

Tarrant's eyes widen and his mouth lifts into a smile. "Oh! Yes, yes, of course! My apologies, Thackery. You're quite on top of things as usual, aren't you? Here," Tarrant rapidly picks loose the ends of the spools of thread slung across his chest. Removing the entire lot from his jacket, he trades them for the bottle of Pishsalver. "And take Mally with you. She's quite small and fast and that hatpin might come in handy when you've a need to start a new stitch."

"Come, Mally!" Thackery commands, his eyes rolling and a mad grin showing his jagged, tea-stained teeth. "Toes on strings!"

Mally gives Tarrant a dubious glance before dashing after the hare.

"'Tis goin'teh work," Tarrant murmurs, eyes shining.

Still at his side, Nivens pets his own paws in an effort to calm himself.

Tarrant gives him an encouraging smile. "Go'an'ge'th'Bandersnatch."

With a nod, Nivens hops off into the woods. At the edge of the battlefield, Tarrant scans the west side of the checkered stones. Soon, the other army will crest over that hill and he wants to be able to see his Alice at the fist available opportunity.

Alice... keep your promise.

For if she does her part, there's no reason for them to fail.

Still that doesn't prevent Tarrant's teeth from aching under the pressure of his tension or his left hand from cramping in its fist.


Ladies' attire, Chessur decides, is by far the cruelest torture he's ever undergone. Of course, with his spectacular evaporating skills, he's never had to endure much in the way of intentionally inflicted torment. And as it's not in his nature to inflict unpleasantness upon himself – he's a cat, after all! – of course he'd be uncomfortable in a corset. If only he'd thoroughly considered the purpose of a corset before agreeing to this wretched plan!

And these stockings! He nearly growls as they rub against the beast's tack.

Oh, I'm going to have saddle sores! Blast you, Tarrant, and your brilliant idea!

Thoughts of revenge manage to distract him from his woefully unprotected skin – Why don't people have a bit of fur to cover them? Highly convenient thing, fur... – and he manages to develop quite the repertoire of torment.

"You're very quiet, Mirana," Jaspien says as they approach the last – Thank you, Fates of Underland! – hill.

Chessur forces a nostalgic smile. "I was just remembering my last visit. My sister, you know..."

"Yes. I was very sorry to hear about her death. Stayne got what he deserved," Jaspien agrees.

Were you truly sorry to hear of her death? Oh, what Chessur wouldn't give to be able to ask the question, but he hides it behind a serene smile. Being Mirana of Mamoreal is highly irritating, he acknowledges. In more ways than one.

He shifts his gaze beyond Jaspien to where Alice rides astride a great bear who had, surprisingly enough, not grumbled in the slightest at being forced to bear her on his back. Chessur is dying to ask how Alice had managed to subdue the beast, for he is well aware of how those creatures think, having met one or a dozen in his life, and knows their pride is matched only by that of lions and pompous, self-important courtiers.

A question for another time, he sighs. Suppressing his natural curiosity is getting rather... painful.

To distract himself, he examines Alice's profile. Not once during the trip had she bothered to look around her. In fact, the few glimpses he's gotten of her had revealed nothing of her emotional state or thoughts. Of course, she'd perfected the mask she now wears. She'd had to. Otherwise the whole lot of them would know how wretchedly miserable she is without her Tarrant and how very much she curses her captors to the depths of the vilest pits in all of Underland.

Chessur stops himself from rolling the queen's dark eyes just in time. Still, he's thankful that cats don't fall in love. A thoroughly miserable state of being from start to finish. He's seen it often enough. It's, quite frankly, a miracle the other species have managed to survive the self-flagellation.

His wry and sarcastic musings do the trick, passing both the time and the chaffing rub of leather against his borrowed body. They come over the crest of the hill and approach the Underland battlefield. Along the southern border, Chessur takes in the well-ordered ranks of the Shuchland Army. He casts his gaze over the much smaller, scruffy, ragtag band of mercenaries Valereth had managed to hire and suppresses a snort. True, these undisciplined creatures might be considerably more... resourceful in a fight – The Grobben blossom Alice had used against Stayne comes to mind! Wonderful survival instincts that girl has! – but even he can see how disciplined and well-prepared the Shuchlanders are. Of course, Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer are betting Alice will prevail over King Aven's Champion, saving them the trouble of a battle.

Chessur's characteristic grin makes an appearance before he can think better of it. Luckily, Jaspien and the other two are busy dismounting and no one notices.

With a nauseatingly dreamy smile, Chessur allows Jaspien to help the White Queen from the back of the farm horse he'd been provided for the journey.

"Where shall we watch from?" Chessur wonders aloud. "Not too close, I hope."

"No, no, of course not, my dear." However, Jaspien leads her to the front line. "Once the Challenge has been issued and formally accepted, we shall move back," he explains.

Chessur sighs with relief. "You won't mind? I'm sure the view won't be nearly as satisfactory for you..."

"I have no interest in watching. Only in victory."

Chessur says nothing to that. He again slides his gaze in Alice's direction. She'd dismounted the bear, who had taken up a position in the front line. Alice now stares blindly across the battlefield. Chessur can't afford to let himself stare at her – for the queen would never be so rude! – but it puzzles him that the girl hasn't once acknowledged the attention he's been paying her.

She ought to be more observant! he huffs in silence.

Once the hired army has been assembled along the north side of the field, Jaspien pats Chessur's pale hand and strides toward the center of the stone-cobbled clearing. The cat doesn't pay any attention to the formalities.

"Alice..." he hisses.

The girl doesn't even seem to hear him.

"Alice!"

Nothing. Is she even blinking?

Chessur suppresses a groan. Oh, he'd known this was a bad idea! They'd waited too long and now Alice is lost inside her own head, inside the game she's been playing for days without respite.

Have we lost her already?

Chessur twists a lacy handkerchief and tries to keep his claws from breaking through Mirana's small, delicate fingertips.

Just a bit longer, Alice.

For a moment, Chessur almost wishes for a heart line with which to send her a bit of hope and a boatload of strength. And then he wonders about Tarrant... Where is that damnable Outlander of hers? Shouldn't he be the one shoring her up at the moment? Well, a fine job he's doing of it if this the result. The girl's practically catatonic on her feet!

"Send forth your Champion!" King Aven roars, lifting a paw and gesturing his chosen fighter to the forefront. Jaspien does likewise.

As Alice moves to take a step forward, Chessur whispers, perhaps, a bit too loudly in Mirana's soft voice, "Listen well and heed what you hear, Alice!"

There's the smallest nod of recognition and then Jaspien's Champion approaches the center of the battlefield and the king's defender. Returning, Jaspien leads Chessur back behind the assembled forces as promised. The cat notices that neither Oshtyer nor Valereth care to join them. But of course, they wouldn't. Jaspien already has everything he wants. The future and fortunes on the line now belong to his two associates.

Perfect, Chessur thinks, taking stock of the fact that every gaze is focused on the pair of Champions now circling each other. Were it not so painful to see the difference in size and quality of armor, Chessur might have been a bit put out at not being able to have a nice, clear view. Despite Tarrant's insistence to the contrary, Alice really is a pleasure to watch in a duel. Grace and calculation and swiftness and cleverness...

Chessur waits for it – the first clash of swords – and when it comes, he finally allows the mildly worried expression to melt from the queen's face. He feels his eyes begin to blur behind his closed eyelids. Carefully releasing his right arm from the prince's elbow – but keeping his left clenched around it tightly – the cat lowers the queen's thin arm between them, curves it behind the prince and shifts it.

It's a little frustrating trying to shape-shift just one part of the body. His own eyes and smile tend to come out quite naturally, but borrowed shapes, on the other hand, those take time and a great deal of concentration.

He tries to ignore the fight in the center of the field: each and every series of steps clattering against the stones, each and every crash of swords meeting then softer and equally abrupt hiss as they disengage.

Chessur closes his eyes and struggles with the forms at his disposal. Oh, he'd practiced before, but it had still taken quite a while for him to manage the transformation. This time is no different. However, several minutes later, it's a very satisfied and smug shape-shifting cat who – for all outward appearances – appears to be the White Queen, but in fact presses a very wickedly sharp Jabberwocky claw between Prince Jaspien's thighs and against the family jewels.

The man startles and tries to pull away but Chessur's hold on his arm is quite firm.

"Mirana?" the man asks, glancing sideways at the queen.

Chessur grins the grin of his kind and reveals his luminous, aqua eyes. "I'm afraid not. And, unfortunately, if you don't do exactly as I instruct you to, I shall have the unmitigated pleasure of hurting you... very badly."

Chessur watches the man's Adam's apple bob. Sweat blossoms at the man's temples and Chessur is forced to admit, despite the corset and the saddle sores, Tarrant's plan really is quite... rewarding after all.


[End of Chapter 7: Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]