The Girl Who Raced Fairyland All the Way Home (Fairyland 5)

“Well,” said Tam. “You’re not our King. She is.” The fetch pointed one long wooden finger at September. “For now.”

“And you hired us to find a way to make you not-King anymore. Which I think we did smashingly! Go us!” Hawthorn grinned.

“I was wrong,” Crunchcrab said simply. “One minute, everyone looked at me like I mattered more than their own mothers. The next, no one looked at me at all. You try taking that drop with a smile and a curtsy! I will be looked at! I will be seen! I will matter!”

Ajax Oddson’s voice chimed in her ear like a boxing bell. “Choose weapons quickly—time is shortening its reins! The endgame approaches!”

“I’m sorry, he says I’ve got to choose weapons,” September called to the Chimbley’s Revenge.

“You better choose fair, missy girl,” Crunchcrab scowled. “No stacking it for your friends!”

September turned on him, her heart blazing in her chest. “You know what, Charlie? I have had enough of you. You were only ever nice when you had your wings locked down and your family all turned into pitchforks and typewriters. What’s fair? Handing over Changelings to Tanaquill? Letting Fairies run roughshod over everyone’s faces again just because they could? Making me a Criminal when my biggest heist ended up turning you into a King? You were a rotten King and you oughtn’t be in charge of anything bigger than a gumdrop. You only want the throne because somebody came and took your toy away and, even though you were quite done playing with it, now you’re pitching a fit. I used to think Fairies would be wonderful, glittering miracles but you’re really just the worst lot of brats I’ve ever met. I’ll choose what weapons I like! And do you know what I like? A troll gave me the idea. It’s awfully good. I choose—State Capitals!”

And September laughed in the Fairy King’s face, for she knew quite well that Hawthorn and Tamburlaine had gone a long way through the Chicago Public School system, and would be able to swing a Springfield without batting an eye. It’s only this once, she told herself. I’ll play fair forever after. But just this once I want to pull out somebody’s rug like they’re always pulling out mine.

It was over so fast September choked on her own breath. Her duels had gone on and on, round after round. She’d thought they all would.

Tam rubbed her hands together. “Phoenix, Arizona!” she screamed, and at the same moment, Hawthorn hollered: “Baton Rouge, Louisiana!”

Crunchcrab sputtered and stuttered, trying to remember that the capital of Cockaigne was Blancmange or that the Buyan courthouse was in sunny Kvass or even that the Queen of Fairyland-Below ruled from Tain. But Charlie had never traveled much in his life nor wanted to. Travel only got you blisters. All he could think of was his home.

“Pandemonium!” he yelled with what he hoped was gusto.

The waves chopped and rose between the Roc and the galleon. A mad minstrel spun up from the surf, the bells on her hat jangling, her doublet and hose flashing dark rainbow colors, juggling fire and knives. Her hair flew wild—and September stared, for she could see all at once that the minstrel was made of a million tiny Fairies and sprites and pixies, all jumbled together into a writhing, glittering minstrel-shape. She remembered A-Through-L telling her about Pandemonium the day they met—Population is itinerant, but Summer estimates hover around ten thousand daimonia—that means spirits …

“And pan means all,” September breathed, just as she had then.

The mad minstrel burst into flames.

A great phoenix swooped down from the clouds, its body all one burning ember from beak to tail feather, glowing black and red as a December hearth. In its charcoal talons the bird-inferno carried a long red spear hewn from a bayou cypress—for that is what baton rouge means in French. The phoenix hurled his spear directly between the eyes of the mad minstrel of Pandemonium, who exploded into a million burning sprites raining down into the steaming sea. The phoenix cawed triumphantly and beat his wings against the sky.

Hawthorn and Tamburlaine lost no time. “Lansing, Michigan!” fired the troll. The fetch put her lovely flowering head to one side and laughed. September knew that laugh, for she had made it herself, when she’d thought of a wild and winning play. Tam squared her shoulders. “Darwin, Northern Territory! Australia!” she added quickly, in case whatever magic made a duel got confused between the countries.

Charlie Crunchcrab tried to think. Tanaquill told me. So did the Stoat of Arms. The old Stoat made up a song so I could remember. But whoever needed to know such a stupid thing? They always treated me like a schoolboy. They were my states, they’d have whatever capital I told them to have! How does it go? Charlie sang under his breath.

“Old Brocéliande is a lady fine, her foot’s a shady forest and her head is … Myrtlewine!”

But it was far too little and late. Useless myrtle flowers spread dumbly over the sea while Charlie howled and a man mounted the flaming phoenix. The man had bushy brown muttonchops with the gray just coming in and a sad, but wise, look in his eye. He wore a velvet coat and a cream-colored cravat and carried a book under one arm. In the other, he hoisted a long tortoiseshell lance fletched with songbird feathers. The man had worn-out boots and sea-worn hands and his name was Charlie Darwin, all sudden-true. The phoenix soared up with one stroke of his wonderful wings, then shot down toward Charlie Crunchcrab. Charles Darwin’s eyes grew keen as he threw his lance.

“It’s the survival of them that’s best at nicking things, my boy!” the great scientist thundered, and his lance took the Fairy King in the chest.

“Well, if that doesn’t just top the tart,” Charlie said with a sigh.

Charles Crunchcrab I looked down. He shivered. And an extraordinary thing happened. A dragonfly buzzed out of his fine peacoat. Then a little brown nightingale flew out of his trouser leg. Then Crunchcrab the Fairy wriggled and writhed and vanished. A pile of peacoat and flying cloak and the most delicate and lovely shoes you ever saw lay on the broad back of Wenceslas the Roc—as well as a cow, an antelope, a goat, and a very confused-looking ifrit with a smoky tail. All the creatures Fairies had evolved from, which is to say all the creatures they had stolen the best bits from, just as Charlie had told September so long ago. Wings from dragonflies and faces from people and hearts from birds and horns from various goats and antelope-ish things and souls from ifrits and tails from cows and we evolved, over a million million minutes.

Wenceslas grumbled over the extra weight of a sudden cow, but he persevered. He would get them to shore—the Roc could see it in the distance, a beach full of golden scepters and crowns and jewels and necklaces. Inside the left sleeve of Crunchcrab’s peacoat hid a very handsome frog. The frog’s name was Charlie and he knew if he came out from his sleeve the other creatures would be very angry with him. So he stayed where he was. Where he was felt good and safe and, most important, easy. No one would ask him to rule the sleeve or know its capital. No one would tell him he was sleeving wrong. No one would bother him at all. And I will tell you the truth: That frog looked happier than any ferryman ever born.

“Jolly good!” Ajax Oddson congratulated all of them. Hawthorn and Tamburlaine hugged each other while Scratch danced a pirate jig on the upper deck, singing into the wind. But the Racemaster had not finished. “Now, it’s come to my attention that certain rules have been broken! Certain bad behavior has gone without punishment! Certain cheaters have prospered! Is this so? Not on my watch! Queen September, I sentence you to Lose A Turn! To the Penalty Box with all che

aters, rogues, and silly little girls!”

September banged on the edges of the frame as they went up around her like steam. “What are you talking about? I didn’t cheat!”

The Perverse and Perilous Sea grew cloudy and dark in September’s vision—and so did Skaldtown, still sunny and bright beneath the image of the distant dueling ground. So did Ell and Blunderbuss and Saturday and Hemlock the troll.

Hawthorn waved his hands in the air as he melted away, trying to catch her eye.

“September!” he called out to her, but his voice faded, too. “September, don’t forget about the name tags!”