Read Online The Looking Glass Wars by Frank Beddor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frank Beddor
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Characters in Literature
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those who dealt in headwear more than he trusted anyone else.
A few doors down, three men emerged from a café, tipsy with drink. They stopped in bleary-eyed surprise at the sight of Hatter, his odd-looking clothes.
―Je n‘aime pas des étrangers,‖ one of the men said.
Hatter didn‘t have to understand French to hear the hostility in his voice. The man pretended to punch Hatter and his companions laughed.
Hatter didn‘t flinch. ―I don‘t want to fight you,‖ he said.
―Non?‖
―No.‖
The man shoved Hatter, who stood his ground, an exemplar of restraint. ―Qu‘est-ce qu‘il y dans le sac?‖ the man asked, indicating Hatter‘s backpack. ―Donnez-moi le sac.‖ The man took a step toward Hatter, reached for the backpack.
Only an enemy would try to take Hatter‘s weapons. Activating his wrist-blades, the Milliner flipped backwards to give himself some space. He reached into his backpack and let fly with a handful of daggers. Thimp! Thimp! Thimp! The daggers pinned the men to a wooden cart by their shirtsleeves: a feat of martial skill Hatter hoped would show that he could kill all three of them if he so desired.
More men appeared, spilling out of the nearby cafés, alarmed. They surrounded Hatter—fifteen of them. One of them aimed a pistol at his head.
Hatter vaguely recognized the pistol as something invented by a Wonderlander during his boyhood. To reacquaint himself with its capabilities, he eyed the man and said, ―Boo!‖
Panicked, the man fired.
A round steel bullet shot toward Hatter, but with the speed of a jabberwock‘s tongue, he ducked and it whizzed past.
Hatter punched a button on his belt buckle and a series of curved saber blades flicked open along the surface of his belt. But before the blades sliced into action, the group scattered, each man running as far from Hatter as he could get, which didn‘t stop them from later reporting that they had witnessed the menacing figure kill upwards of twenty innocent civilians with his elaborate weaponry, themselves living to tell about it only by the grace of God.
The sabers on Hatter‘s belt retracted. He snapped his wrist-blades closed and allowed himself a brief smile, relieved that he hadn‘t had to kill anyone. He didn‘t see the large, elaborately decorated rug closing in on him, held up from behind by six of Paris‘ bravest carpet salesmen.
The rug knocked him down and the men rolled him up tight in it. His backpack weaponry poked through the thick pile, but his arms were pinned to his sides; he was unable to reach his belt buckle or flick his wrists to activate his deadly bracelets.
Hoisting the rug-cocooned Hatter onto their shoulders, the men hauled him off to the Palais de Justice. But as he breathed in the rug‘s fibers, Hatter‘s concern wasn‘t for his own safety, but for that of Alyss Heart, a lost princess in a hostile world.
CHAPTER 14
T HE CAT stood at the edge of the cliff and stared down at the foaming, rippling spot where Alyss and Hatter had splashed into the water. Lightning flashed, thunder broke overhead, and rain fell in sheets. If there was one thing The Cat didn‘t like, it was water. Rain, showers, baths, it didn‘t matter which; he hated getting wet. He turned and stalked back into the forest with the scrap of Alyss‘ dress in his fist.
―You let them get away,‖ a voice said.
The Cat stopped, tense.
―They escaped,‖ said another.
He spun round but saw no one. The forest was talking to him, the trees and plants and flowers.
―What‘s the matter?‖ asked a nearby lilac bush. ―Afraid to take a dip in the water?‖
The forest had a good laugh at that, but The Cat didn‘t appreciate the teasing. He bent down and tore the lilac up by its roots and threw it on the ground. The forest fell silent. The Cat walked up to a tree.
―Were you talking to me?‖
The tree said nothing.
The Cat glanced to his left, then right. ―I don‘t see anyone else here, so you must have been talking
A few doors down, three men emerged from a café, tipsy with drink. They stopped in bleary-eyed surprise at the sight of Hatter, his odd-looking clothes.
―Je n‘aime pas des étrangers,‖ one of the men said.
Hatter didn‘t have to understand French to hear the hostility in his voice. The man pretended to punch Hatter and his companions laughed.
Hatter didn‘t flinch. ―I don‘t want to fight you,‖ he said.
―Non?‖
―No.‖
The man shoved Hatter, who stood his ground, an exemplar of restraint. ―Qu‘est-ce qu‘il y dans le sac?‖ the man asked, indicating Hatter‘s backpack. ―Donnez-moi le sac.‖ The man took a step toward Hatter, reached for the backpack.
Only an enemy would try to take Hatter‘s weapons. Activating his wrist-blades, the Milliner flipped backwards to give himself some space. He reached into his backpack and let fly with a handful of daggers. Thimp! Thimp! Thimp! The daggers pinned the men to a wooden cart by their shirtsleeves: a feat of martial skill Hatter hoped would show that he could kill all three of them if he so desired.
More men appeared, spilling out of the nearby cafés, alarmed. They surrounded Hatter—fifteen of them. One of them aimed a pistol at his head.
Hatter vaguely recognized the pistol as something invented by a Wonderlander during his boyhood. To reacquaint himself with its capabilities, he eyed the man and said, ―Boo!‖
Panicked, the man fired.
A round steel bullet shot toward Hatter, but with the speed of a jabberwock‘s tongue, he ducked and it whizzed past.
Hatter punched a button on his belt buckle and a series of curved saber blades flicked open along the surface of his belt. But before the blades sliced into action, the group scattered, each man running as far from Hatter as he could get, which didn‘t stop them from later reporting that they had witnessed the menacing figure kill upwards of twenty innocent civilians with his elaborate weaponry, themselves living to tell about it only by the grace of God.
The sabers on Hatter‘s belt retracted. He snapped his wrist-blades closed and allowed himself a brief smile, relieved that he hadn‘t had to kill anyone. He didn‘t see the large, elaborately decorated rug closing in on him, held up from behind by six of Paris‘ bravest carpet salesmen.
The rug knocked him down and the men rolled him up tight in it. His backpack weaponry poked through the thick pile, but his arms were pinned to his sides; he was unable to reach his belt buckle or flick his wrists to activate his deadly bracelets.
Hoisting the rug-cocooned Hatter onto their shoulders, the men hauled him off to the Palais de Justice. But as he breathed in the rug‘s fibers, Hatter‘s concern wasn‘t for his own safety, but for that of Alyss Heart, a lost princess in a hostile world.
CHAPTER 14
T HE CAT stood at the edge of the cliff and stared down at the foaming, rippling spot where Alyss and Hatter had splashed into the water. Lightning flashed, thunder broke overhead, and rain fell in sheets. If there was one thing The Cat didn‘t like, it was water. Rain, showers, baths, it didn‘t matter which; he hated getting wet. He turned and stalked back into the forest with the scrap of Alyss‘ dress in his fist.
―You let them get away,‖ a voice said.
The Cat stopped, tense.
―They escaped,‖ said another.
He spun round but saw no one. The forest was talking to him, the trees and plants and flowers.
―What‘s the matter?‖ asked a nearby lilac bush. ―Afraid to take a dip in the water?‖
The forest had a good laugh at that, but The Cat didn‘t appreciate the teasing. He bent down and tore the lilac up by its roots and threw it on the ground. The forest fell silent. The Cat walked up to a tree.
―Were you talking to me?‖
The tree said nothing.
The Cat glanced to his left, then right. ―I don‘t see anyone else here, so you must have been talking
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