The Mousehunter (9 page)

“I hope you’re right,” he said sternly.

Battersby picked up a glass of wine and gulped it down. The storm was intensifying, making the window shutters rattle.

“I’m just not cut out for all this plotting and scheming,” he said, placing his hand on the wall. “Put me on a warship any day.”

He looked down at Lady Pettifogger and she smiled again, her enchanting green eyes flickering in the lamplight.

“It won’t be long now, Alexander. You have a whole fleet awaiting your command at Eiderbeck. You’ll soon get the battles you crave . . . .”

Hearing these words calmed Lord Battersby, and he placed his arm around Lady Pettifogger awkwardly. His shoulders lowered and a wry smile formed on his face, showing the lines of age around his eyes.

“And then the fun will really begin . . . .”

When the mist had cleared from Emiline’s eyes, she felt a sharp pain at the top of her head. There was a lump the size of an egg under her hair, and she pressed it gently, wincing with pain all the while. Her body ached with tiredness. She was lying on a bed in a strange and unfamiliar room. The walls were blue but slightly moldy, and there was a strange smell all around.

A draught was fluttering the moth-eaten curtain, and the dying rays of sun filtered into the room. At the end of her bed sat Chervil, the ship’s cat, and his forthright stare turned to a slight curled smile as he saw Emiline rise.

“Hello!” she said gruffly. She was surprised at how dry her throat was. Portly scuttled up onto her shoulder, ran under her hair, and squeaked.

And then Emiline remembered the sight of the mast tumbling below her. She remembered hitting the cold water, seeing the black murky deep consume her, and then no more. She was alive, at least, but she’d like to know where she was.

Pulling herself up further, she looked out of the cobwebbed window and saw a bustling sea front and harbor. There were street vendors and sailors everywhere — although judging by their colorful but dirty clothes, they were more likely pirates. Mouse traders and boat-builders all jostled for attention in the last minutes of the day, and it set her mind racing. For a moment it even stopped her head from hurting.

Emiline impatiently unlatched the window and leaned out to get a better view. The salty air filled her lungs, the caws of seagulls filled her ears and she got a much clearer idea of where she was. Unlike Old Town, the houses were relatively low and squat, and they were all uniformly constructed of gray, yellowing stone. They varied little in scale as they rose up both sides of the harbor, but their higgledy-piggledy arrangement created a shimmering patchwork in the dying rays of the sun. It definitely wasn’t Emiline’s home city, and it dawned on her that they must have reached Hamlyn.

Emiline would have been surprised if she had known how much this strange place was related to Old Town. Hamlyn was a noisy place, full of tight alleyways and rough-and-ready taverns. Such an unruly place showed few signs of riches and wealth, but, unknown to Emiline, her old master held a great influence over it. Hamlyn had been linked to Old Town for many years, serving as a useful outpost and stopping point for trading and naval ships en route to other lands in the Great Sea. As such, its population consisted of pirates, privateers, and old seahands wanting a rest from the sailing life. Old Town paid little attention to its lawlessness and the black-market dealings that took place there, simply because it liked to use Hamlyn for its own means whenever the need arose. The Old Town Guard rarely interfered, and this proved beneficial for all parties, including Isiah Lovelock, who had two Mouse Trading Centers on the island. Without the gaze of the authorities, his empire had full control over its trade in mice.

Emiline stepped off the bed, battling the dizziness that threatened to send her back under its covers. She picked up her bag and mousing belt that lay beside her, opened the creaky wooden door, and found herself in an uneven wood-timbered corridor. She could hear laughter and cheering from the floor below, but her attention was taken by a huge mouse plodding toward her. It was almost waist-height, with thick tree-trunk legs and ears that drooped down to the floor. It looked like an Elephant Mouse, but Emiline had only ever seen one in
The Mousehunter’s Almanac
before. They weren’t your typical everyday mouse, and Emiline was taken aback by how friendly it seemed.

The mouse made a deep, gravelly yelp of a squeak as it approached and stopped in front of her, nudging her leg with its side. Upon its back was a tray carrying a glass of water, and Emiline took it and drank deeply, as she was so thirsty. The mouse squeaked again and wandered off happily. If everywhere outside Old Town was this wonderful, thought Emiline, leaving Lovelock’s mansion was the best thing she’d ever done.

She followed the Elephant Mouse as it lolloped along and eventually reached a narrow staircase that led to where all the noise was coming from. She watched it turn sideways in the staircase so that it wedged itself firmly between walls, and then it clomped downward one front and back leg at a time.

At the bottom of the stairs, the expansive room that emerged before Emiline’s eyes was filled with bearded sailors and laughing women. Tables stretched around the room, with tall candles flickering at their centers, smoke lilting up into the rafters above.

At these tables, people were playing games with their pet mice on their shoulders. Dice and small mouse counters were being thrown on checkered boards, and any scraps of food or coins that landed on the floor were quickly collected by Scavenger Mice, who always found a happy home in Mousing Taverns. Hamlyn’s potent Pipsqueak Beer was swilling over tables and down throats at an alarming rate, and the atmosphere was one of slight chaos. It was an inn — a dark, rowdy, pirate- and mouse-infested watering hole — and Emiline loved it.

“Emiline!” shouted Scratcher, jumping up and running over to her. “You’re awake! It’s been days!”

“Days?” Emiline questioned.

Scratcher took her glass and dragged her to a table where Drewshank, Fenwick, and a number of other sailors were standing and smiling ecstatically. Their clothes were looking a bit battered since the last time she saw them, and some of the men carried cuts and bruises on their face. Drewshank, however, looked as snappy as ever.

“A welcome sight!” said Drewshank happily, beckoning Emiline to take a seat.

“Elbert!” shouted Fenwick to the bar boy, as Emiline sat beside him. “A pint of Pipsqueak for our brave mousekeeper here!”

He placed his hand on her shoulder and smiled cheerfully as he drank from a huge tankard of his own. His mouse sat languidly on the table, and Portly scurried across to greet it. Trumper burped a squeak of greeting, leading Fenwick to apologize for letting him sip his beer.

“It’s good to see you back in the land of the living,” said Drewshank. “Nothing has ever wrenched Chervil from the ship before, but he wouldn’t leave your side. I guess he’s pleased you saved his life, as we all are, and we have to be thankful for small mercies.”

Emiline looked puzzled.

“We lost many men to the Grak — eaten whole or swallowed by the deep. I even received a cut across my eyebrow! You were lucky, Emiline!” Drewshank stared mournfully into his beer, then banged the table. “What Long-eared Mice came to be doing in the sea off Hamlyn is a question I want answered.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Fenwick, “if it were that Mousebeard who put ’em there.”

The table immediately went silent.

“You could be right,” added Drewshank. “Not only cannons lie in our path, but angry sea monsters.”

Emiline’s mind wandered again at the thought of Mousebeard and the Grak. She remembered being terrified as a child at the entry in
The Mousehunter’s Almanac
about Long-eared Mice, and how they turned into sea monsters when they came into contact with salt water. As she was reliving her horrific experience once more, a voice pierced the din and brought her back to the real world.

“Is she awake? Is she alive?” it shouted. A short man came barging through the room, barely able to see above the shouting people and tables. He was dressed in neat, yet oil-splattered, work clothes, and his little face was almost covered by enormous round glasses.

“Ah! She made it, Drewshank, I knew she would! I told you that potion would do the job!”

The man took Emiline’s hand and shook it vigorously, all the while inspecting her for any continuing signs of damage.

“I’m Algernon Mountjack!” he said brightly, perching on the end of the bench next to her. “Welcome to the Giant’s Reach — the best inn in Hamlyn!”

Drewshank cut in, fearing the short man’s gusto might overwhelm Emiline.

“Thank you, Algernon, it seems your cure worked wonders! That Fire Mouse spit really does make good medicine,” he said.

Emiline and Scratcher both felt suddenly sick.

“But I told you it would! Now, Emiline,” Algernon said, in his supercharged manner, “I hear you’re a famous mousekeeper, and I think I like you already. If you have time I’ll show you my workshop. I’m currently working on a rocket-powered attachment for my Whale Mouse. I think you might be interested? Yes?”

“I’m sure she’d love to see it,” said Drewshank firmly, “but I think she might like a bit of quiet now.”

“Ah, of course,” said Algernon. “I’ll look forward to taking you round.”

“That would be perfect,” said Emiline cheerfully.

“Yes, it would,” he replied. “You’ll find me behind the bar when you’re ready. Oh yes, one more thing. That Beatrice Pettifogger was asking after you, Drewshank. Said she had something for you.”

Before Drewshank could utter a reply, Algernon had shot off at a cracking pace, picking up a few glasses on the way. His excitable manner could be as infuriating as it was endearing.

“Is that
Lady
Pettifogger?” asked Fenwick, slightly concerned.

“I’m afraid it is,” said Drewshank, sighing. “I suppose I should go and grace her with my presence. There’s only so long I can put it off.”

He huffed and rose slowly from the table.

“She’s probably only got a bundle of trouble for you, sir!” said Fenwick.

“I know . . . ,” the captain replied regretfully. “I’ll be careful. Could you return to the
Fox
and check that the repairs are coming along all right? See if you can find any more sailors to join the crew too. As you know, we’re a bit thin on the ground.”

“Aye, sir,” he replied, “but what about Emiline here? Can’t leave her with old Algernon — he’s a nut!”

“She’ll be fine if Scratcher stays.”

Drewshank patted the boy on the back. “I’ll return to pay Algernon for the room, and get you two and Chervil at the same time. Get as much rest as you can, Emiline; if the ship’s in order we’ll be off as soon as we can, and I’ll need you to be at your best.”

Everyone stood up and left the two mousekeepers to themselves.

“How’s your head?” asked Scratcher, watching Emiline take Portly from her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she replied, “but we should go and visit Algernon’s workshop. Can you see him?”

“But the captain told you to get rest!”

“Don’t be boring.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

It was clear that Emiline’s injuries were healing quickly.

The Sylakia Mouse

RECOGNIZED AS THE FIRST HUMAN-DESIGNED MOUSE (ITS NAME DERIVES
from the ancient Andirian word sylak, meaning “to build,”) the Sylakia was conceived and bred with one purpose in mind — money. A hybrid of numerous stout-bodied mice, it was initially deemed exceptionally useful for factories, where it was kept to run on treadmills to power machinery.

Notable for its thick legs and high arching back, the Sylakia has since become a cause célèbre for Old Town, where it was first bred. Now known to suffer from a peculiar strain of arthritis in its tiny joints, the Sylakia feels immense pain from a young age. Unfortunately, the protracted breeding process that resulted in the Sylakia also bred out most vocal capacity, so the animal had little way of showing its suffering throughout the long hours it worked. However, after nearly sixty years of use by the populace, the Mouse Liberation Front highlighted the Sylakia’s cause, and it is now banned from any workplace.

MOUSING NOTES

An unusual mouse to find in any collection these days. For better or worse, the Sylakia is a vanishing breed.