Stiltskin (Andrew Buckley) (27 page)

Robert was spewed forth from a door somewhere else in Thiside. His exact location was around two hundred and fifty-three miles from where he’d entered the door. Doors didn’t affect time; stepping through one door was much like stepping through a normal door, in that the traveller went in one side and instantly came out the other side. The only differences with the doors of Thiside were the physical disorientation symptoms that everyone experienced and never really got used to.

Robert pushed himself to his feet and winced at the pain in his back. Wherever he was, it was raining and cold, wind swirled from no distinct direction, and he thought he could hear screaming. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he found he was standing on the top shoulder of a valley. The valley was all flowing grass, with stone pathways running here and there. The main focal point of the valley was undoubtedly the large, castle-like building sitting in the middle of a huge lake. A stone bridge that must have been at least a mile long was the only access to the castle.

“What is that place?” asked Robert to no one in particular.

“It’s a prison,” said the voice.

“And how do you know that?” Robert actually found it comforting to have someone to talk to, even if he was talking to himself, and even more so that he could talk openly without looking crazy to anyone else.

“I’m just assuming. One way in, one way out, dark castle, middle of a stormy valley. Do you hear screaming?”

“I thought I did but figured it was the wind. Look! There’s someone on the bridge!” said Robert.

A short, fat person wrapped in what looked like a hooded cloak was walking along the bridge toward the castle. Lightning flashed across the sky.

“We should go,” said the voice. “We’ll need to get back to Lily and the Gnomes. Hopefully she’ll have changed again before we get back there.”

“And how do we go about doing that?”

“The doors. Just keep going through them and sooner or later, hopefully, we’ll get close to the Archives again.”

Robert’s stomach lurched at the thought of going back through one door, let alone several of them.

“Do we have to?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Am I really going mad?”

“Do you think you’re going mad?”

“Why must you answer everything with a question?”

“Why must you ask so many questions?”

“You know what?”

“What?”

Robert opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I don’t know where I was going with that.”

“Maybe you are going mad.”

Robert turned to face the door; it was a lot smaller than it had been when he came through it. He took one last look at the valley and the figure on the bridge and pulled himself through the doorway.

Lightning flashed, because it thought it was an appropriate time to do so.

he short, pudgy individual who was slowly trekking his way across the stone bridge toward the Tower was extremely unhappy. The rain had soaked him to his skin but that wasn’t what bothered him. He’d fallen into a bog around fifteen miles back and now smelled like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe, but that wasn’t what bothered him either. It was the glorious meal that he’d had to leave in order to make this trip.
That’s
what bothered him.

Agent Tweedle had been on assignment in the Kingdom of Hearts as a consultant to the Queen, who had to deal with constant treason from the Humanimal Lords who lived in her lands. The Agency was dispatched to handle the problem and in turn, chose Agent Tweedle for his negotiation skills and his knowledge of Northern politics. As it turned out, the blame for the problem fell solely with the Queen of Hearts, who was partial to enormous banquets and enjoyed demeaning her servants.

The main problem was that she believed in extremely high taxes and the indignant Lords who had to pay her those taxes did not. And to enforce this disbelief, they’d taken to causing riots, interrupting trade routes, and posting rude pictures of the Queen all over the kingdom.

Agent Tweedle had arrived almost ten months ago and had since been putting off starting negotiations, as he enjoyed the large banquets that the Queen arranged daily, but solving the current situation would probably put an end to them. As long as things stayed the way they were, the Queen was happy, because she continued to collect taxes. The Humanimal Lords continued to be enraged.

The Fairy Veszico had passed on the news from Lily, and now Tweedle found himself trudging across the bridge to the Tower on a dark and stormy night. Of course, it was always dark and stormy in the Valley of Storms.

He met the Troll at the end of the bridge and pulled off his hood. Tweedle stood just less than five feet high. His girth, which measured around four feet wide, severely offset his bulky frame. His legs were short and spindly and his face was wide and frog-like. His hair was shaggy and his eyes were small and beady and missed nothing.

“Evenin’, Troll,” said Tweedle in a high-pitched Cockney accent.

“Bloody ell you got fat,” said the Troll.

“And you wonder why I never visit.”

“Ere t see the Atter are ya?”

There was a shrill scream from the highest tower, and the lightning flashed for good measure.

“The Witch sounds unhappy.”

“Aye. But really when es she eva appy?” chortled the Troll. “Camon,” said the ugly little creature and slurched off toward the prison.

Agent Tweedle followed closely behind. He hated the Tower and did his best to avoid the place, but he understood why he had been chosen to be here on this night and it wasn’t just because he was close by. Tweedle’s past was a dark and twisted mess and it was always surprising to the Agency that Agent Tweedle turned out to be as well-adjusted and intelligent as he did. He was a mixed breed of witch and Dwarf, which was so rare as to be almost unheard of in Thiside. The result was a short, fat man with an unusually long life, which of course made him an excellent candidate for the Agency, who looked unfavourably on having to train new recruits. His unique personality and insatiable thirst for studying behaviour also made him an excellent negotiator and interrogator.

The inmates were mostly asleep, with the exception of a few insomniac individuals who stared at Tweedle through their barred windows with dark, hollow eyes. Tweedle knew most of the inmates, as he’d been responsible for interrogating at least half of them. The other half, the ones who needed a more physical approach, were interrogated by Jack. Both Jack and Tweedle were feared and/or hated by inmates of the Tower but for completely different reasons.

The Troll stopped at the last cell on the left and turned to the Agent.

“Ee’s been in solitary since Jack left, no contact wi anyone so e might be a bit pent up.”

The Troll swivelled back to the door and scratched a long, ugly fingernail down the centre of the door.

Tweedle heard several large locks slide away, and the door opened a crack. He grabbed a candlestick from a holder on the wall and pushed open the door.

“I’m lockin ya in,” said the Troll. “Don’t want ta risk nother scape.”

Tweedle nodded to the ugly little creature as the door squeaked closed and the locks magically slid back into place.

The cell was dark except for the light filtering in through the small barred window set into the door. The cell had no other windows. Tweedle swung the candle around and illuminated one corner, with a thin straw mattress and pillow. The next corner had a small hole cut into the floor that unceremoniously acted as a toilet. He swung to the opposite corner; candlelight revealed the Mad Hatter sitting with his back against the wall.

The Hatter shielded his dark eyes from the candlelight. He looked more like a scarecrow than Tweedle had ever seen. His clothes were ragged and dirty, his face missing any trace of color; his hair, long and scraggly, hung about his skinny shoulders.

A spark of excitement shuddered through Tweedle. He’d always wanted to speak to the Mad Hatter and this was his chance. The Hatter was one of the most fascinating behavioural cases, second only to Tweedle’s own past.

“Hello, Hatter,” said Tweedle as he sat a few feet away and placed the candle between them.

The Hatter squinted in the dim light.

“Oh,” said the Hatter with disdain, “it’s you two.”

“No, just me,” said Tweedle.

“Delude yourself on your own time. If I have to tolerate your presence you can at least be honest with me. So who’s in there these days? Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dum?”

“You know very well that neither of them ever existed,” said Tweedle unwaveringly.

“Such an unholy union your parents made, a witch and a Dwarf. Not surprising you ended up the way you did.”

“We’re not here to talk about me―”

“Us,” interrupted the Hatter.

“What?”

“Us. You’re not here to talk about us.”

“Me.”

“Us.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the Dwarf?” said Tweedle, trying to shift the gears of the conversation.

“I didn’t know your father, you fat idiot,” spat the Hatter and then burst into a fit of laughter, which ended abruptly. He leaned forward, looked from side to side to make sure there wasn’t anyone else in the cell, and then whispered. “It’s okay. I know your secret; it’s okay to tell me. You see, I’m sitting on quite the secret myself.”

The Hatter leaned back, folded his arms, and winked at Tweedle knowingly.

“Right,” said Tweedle. “How about we talk about Rumpelstiltskin?”

The Hatter shook his head. “Avoiding the subject isn’t going to make it any better, you know!”

“The Dwarf Rump―”

“Yes, yes. He escaped, I helped him, no big secrets here. Except the secret I’m not telling you. But the Dwarf has his own agenda, had it for a long time.”

“Why did you send him to see your son?”

“Ah, my boy. How is he?”

“He’s well.”

“Is he… here?”

“Why would he be here?” asked Tweedle calmly.

“I just thought he might be inspired by the Dwarf to come visit his dear old dad.”

“Your son was sent to Othaside as a safety precaution. He has a life there; I hardly see how a little Dwarf would convince him otherwise.”

The Hatter looked sad for a moment before his face cracked into a grin.