“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.