Authors: Alex Milway
The Mousehunter (11 page)
“Oh, sorry!” said Algernon absently.
Emiline took her hands from her eyes and sat down next to Scratcher. Opposite them, Algernon looked serious once more.
“So then,” he asked, “you’re sailing with the dashing Captain Drewshank.”
Emiline blushed slightly. “I couldn’t think of anything better,” she said excitedly.
“And I hear you’re out to capture Mousebeard — old Drewshank never takes the easy life, does he?”
“I know he’ll find him,” added Scratcher.
“He will? Mousebeard’s name strikes fear into the hearts of sailors for good reason, you know!” said Algernon seriously. “For one thing, he’s supposed to take immense pleasure in tying up his prisoners and feeding them, one limb at a time, to Short-fanged Sea Mice. I doubt he’s a man who’ll give up easily . . . .”
“Drewshank can do anything when he puts his mind to it,” said Scratcher confidently.
“Yes, maybe you’re right. He certainly survived that sea monster. But you two should take extra care of yourselves. Good mousekeepers are a dying breed in these lands.”
“We’ll be fine, Algernon,” replied the boy. “We’ve survived the Grak — what worse thing can come at us?”
“That’s all true, Mr. Scratcher, but never believe you’re past the worst when you’re at sea. It has a terrible way of surprising you when you least expect it!”
He turned to look at Emiline.
“And you know how the Grak became Grak, don’t you?”
“Yes . . . ,” said Emiline.
“Well, have you asked yourselves who dropped the Long-eared Mice in the water in the first place?”
“Drewshank thinks Mousebeard could have been involved,” said Scratcher eagerly.
“Hmmm,” replied Algernon.
“You don’t . . . ,” Emiline was about to ask a further question, but was interrupted by Scratcher, who had taken to nosing around the workshop. He came to a stop in front of a dusty old photograph.
“Who’s this?” he asked, looking at the three people standing on top of a mountain. One was far shorter than the others, yet he looked the most happy as he held a particularly fine Triplehorn Mouse. Its head was as large as a fist just so that it could carry the three hefty horns.
“Oh, that was me a long time ago,” said Algernon, “back in the days when I went mousehunting. What a mouse that was — only the second to be found on the island of Dundinia. That’s Isiah Lovelock in the middle. He’s now rich and famous, having written that fascinating book.”
“Isiah Lovelock? He has the best mouse collection in the world,” said Emiline. “I was his mousekeeper.”
“Ah! I should have known. He always could tell a good mouser,” said Algernon, who went and reacquainted himself with the photograph. “We don’t get on too well these days; he’s grown a little too big for his boots — thinking he can run the mousetrading world and all. He thinks he owns us all sometimes. You’re wrong about his collection though.”
“I am?” said Emiline, greatly surprised.
“Mousebeard the pirate has the greatest collection. But I wouldn’t tell that to Lovelock . . . ,” he added with glee.
“Mousebeard?” choked Scratcher and Emiline together.
“Oh yes, everyone knows that!” Algernon said, matter-of-factly.
“Who’s the other person in the picture then?” said Emiline, greatly intrigued.
“He was a good friend of ours. We lost him while on a voyage to an island a long way from here. Jonathan Harworth was his name.”
“What happened?” asked Scratcher.
Algernon looked slightly put out when he heard Scratcher’s question, and he rustled his hair and walked back to his table.
“Something rather horrible, and I don’t care to go into detail,” he said. “It was a long time ago now . . . .”
Scratcher tried to delve deeper. “What was it?” he asked.
Algernon closed his eyes and thought hard.
“Young man,” he finally said to the boy, “in this world everyone harbors a secret; some people even have two. Isiah Lovelock probably has at least three, and I don’t doubt that Mousebeard has near five. But I’m not going to say anything more on the subject.”
Emiline considered quizzing him more, but thought better of it. Algernon remained quiet for a few moments while he picked up and arranged some papers. He wasn’t one to be still for long, however.
“Aha!” he said, suddenly jumping into life and running to a large tank of water. “Yes, yes, yes!” he exclaimed. “I remember why I invited you up here! My rocket-powered Whale Mouse attachment.”
Emiline looked on in bewilderment as Algernon opened a sliding door into the tank. In a burst of bubbles, a bloated Whale Mouse shot into view, with a small gushing metal attachment on its back.
“With the aid of my invention, this little mouse can swim at the equivalent mouse speed of eighty miles an hour. I’ve yet to find a good use for it, but the mouse seems incredibly pleased.”
Leading out from the tank was a large glass tube that traveled around the room. Algernon lifted a lever, another door in the tank slid across, and the streamlined yet rotund mouse shot out into the tube. He happily powered around it, without a care in the world, making three passes of Emiline in the space of only a few seconds.
Emiline stared in amazement. On top of her head, Portly was looking on, incredibly jealous.
“He’ll be zooming around there for hours now,” Algernon said excitedly. As he spoke, a bell rang from near the trapdoor.
“Oh no! That’s young Elbert downstairs, calling for assistance,” he said. “I’m sorry to cut short this delightful discussion, but we’d best head down now. Maybe we can do it again soon? There’s plenty more things for me to show you!”
Scratcher and Emiline agreed and made their way back downstairs. Algernon sealed his workshop shut and charged off, waving goodbye as he passed them.
Among the rabble in the inn sat Drewshank. He was relaxing quietly in a booth to himself, supping from a bottle of Blind Mice Beer. Chervil was curled up tightly on the table in front of him, and he greeted the young mousekeepers as they entered the room. He was quite subdued after his visit to the Mouse Trading Center.
“So you’ve visited Algernon’s workshop,” he said, his voice tired.
“It’s amazing!” proclaimed Scratcher, idly stroking Chervil’s head.
“He’s certainly a character,” Drewshank replied, sipping some beer.
“How was Lady Pettifogger?” asked Emiline, sensing that something had occurred.
“Same as she ever was,” he said, in an unusually downbeat manner. “And that worries me. Something doesn’t sit right with all this business. I’ve been caught out by her before, and I’m starting to smell something terribly whiffy about this whole mission.”
“That’ll be the Elephant Mice,” said Scratcher, as one of the huge mice passed by with beers on its back.
“Maybe,” grumbled Drewshank. “There’s definitely some stinking mice involved in all this, of that we can be dead sure, but I wish I knew what they were. Still, I shouldn’t burden you with these things . . . just keep your eyes and ears open. Lovelock and Pettifogger are tricky customers with cronies everywhere. I just know something’s up, but I can’t tell what.”
The sun broke the top of the horizon, casting a bright red glow across the tall rock of Hamlyn. From the
Flying Fox,
Drewshank watched the morning light hit the buildings rising up all over it like the spines on a porcupine.
On the quayside, the sellers and fishermen were already sorting out their stands, and sailors were loosening their boat moorings as Drewshank oversaw the last of the supplies arriving on deck. He was anxious about the journey ahead, but he was determined, as ever, to see his commission through.
Drewshank and Fenwick had come to the conclusion that they should take a course north, just as Lady Pettifogger had suggested, but they had nothing more than the map to go on.
“Mildred!” he shouted, stepping down onto the quayside.
A thin boy with strawlike hair approached, carrying a long stick with a dried fish attached to its end. His head was covered by an ill-fitting helmet that was the uniform of a Weather Teller. More commonly referred to as fish danglers, Weather Tellers were found at every port, standing quietly day after day ready to reveal the weather forecast with the help of a dried fish. Weather telling was regarded as a noble trade by sailors the world over, as the specially prepared fish were usually very reliable.
“Yes, Mr. Drewshanks,” he replied keenly, ever getting his name wrong.
“Any news on the weather?”
“Of course, Mr. Drewshanks, but you won’t like it!”
“I won’t?”
“Fog, sir,” said the Weather Teller sternly, looking intently at the fish on the end of his rod. “It’s twisting slightly to the left, see.”
Drewshank felt his heart sink.
“And occasional squalls to the north,” he added.
“Thanks, Mildred,” said Drewshank in exasperation, as he returned to the ship. “Those fish . . . they ever get it wrong?”
“No, Mr. Drewshanks. Only if they run out of salt, but my fish was freshly salted only yesterday.”
“Oh well,” replied Drewshank finally, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yes, sir . . . ,” called the Weather Teller. “Take care, sir!”
Ten minutes later, a loud whistle blew and the
Flying Fox
’s gangplank slid onto deck. Four small paddleboats, waiting for the word from the captain, let their oars hit the water and took the strain. Ropes lifted from the water and the
Flying Fox
gradually pulled away from its berth in tow.
Aboard ship, it would have seemed that no one on the mainland was concerned about their voyage, but that could not have been further from the truth. Lord Battersby stood by his window and watched the
Flying Fox,
charting its course out to sea. He held detailed notes of the gun placements before him; his spies had done a good job at checking out the
Flying Fox
and its crew. He knew exactly what it was capable of.
And at the other end of the harbor, Algernon had taken no rest that night and watched the
Flying Fox
’s departure through his telescope. He then promptly scribbled a note in his indecipherable hand, and readied a Messenger Mouse for flight.
It was safe to say that, unknown to Captain Drewshank and his crew, their actions were being watched very closely indeed.
A VERY FUNNY-LOOKING MOUSE, SO NAMED BECAUSE OF ITS PECULIAR
brown furry ears that resemble antlers. The Moose Mouse lives in herds and is known to make an annual mass migration from the east coast of Sintruvia to the west, crossing great streams and puddles on the way. It is a mouse capable of withstanding great hardship and surviving in very difficult conditions.
MOUSING NOTES
Not a mouse for anyone with a small home. In larger collections, Moose Mice have been best cared for in huge rooms, with a great mixture of terrains.
T
HE
FLYING FOX
’
S DEPARTURE FROM HAMLYN FELT VERY
different from leaving Old Town. It was a brave sailor who chose to sail against Mousebeard, and Drewshank had found it impossible to recruit fresh blood. His crew were already stretched to the limit: everyone was now working to breaking point, including Emiline, who found herself following out other sailors’ orders more often than she cared for.
She swabbed the decks, mended rope, helped the cook wash the dishes, and kept regular lookout from the crow’s nest; she had become the general drudge, regularly attending to Fenwick, who also had to see to ten jobs at once.
Scratcher found himself doing more than usual as well, but it felt right to play a more prominent role on ship. If anything he found it made people respect him more, and that was always welcome. He’d been given a rough ride by the crew ever since he folded under the might of the Sharpclaw, but he tried not to let it get to him.
The
Flying Fox
sailed northward for what seemed like days and days to Emiline. The weather remained fine, and the sea unusually clear of vessels, due in no small part to the continuing threat of Grak attacks. So when, on the eighth day of sailing, a mysterious fog appeared on the horizon behind the ship, Captain Drewshank paid more attention than usual.
