The Song of the Winns (21 page)

“Now let's get ye shifted to that cave. Me mushroom soup won't wait forever.”

“Does it ever stop raining?” Slippers wanted to know as he opened the front door a crack and peered out.

Billy Mac looked at the sky in surprise. “Rain? This innit rain. This be a fine summer's eve. Just a wee bit overcast is all.”

And gesturing to them to follow, he stepped out onto the rain-slick street.

14

The Palace

A
lice had thought the cathedral was big, but the palace dwarfed it. She counted ten sets of double doors across the front, with a second story that had at least twenty pairs of long windows. A third story was set across the middle portion of the building like a crown. It wasn't as richly decorated as the cathedral—it was imposing rather than ornate—but when the sun came out from behind a cloud the drab stone gradually began to glow gold, the many windows glittering like stars, and the severe facade softened.

Two Queen's Guards stood sentry on either side of a pair of elaborate wrought-iron gates tipped with gold.

“Here goes.” Alex took the letter of introduction from Alice's hand and stepped forward, holding out the piece of paper, and addressed the sentries confidently. “Hello. My name is Raz and this is my sister, Rita, and we've come from Souris to work in the palace.”

The shorter of the sentries took the letter, scanned it quickly, then handed it to her taller companion. “They'll be needing to see Lester.”

The taller sentry made a face, then said, “Are you sure it's my turn?”

“Yep,” said the first emphatically. “You'd better get that spot off your coat.” She pointed to a speck on the tall sentry's red coat, which he hastily brushed away.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Let's get on with it.”

He turned and marched ahead of Alice and Alex across an expanse of gravel to the palace steps, passing between statues of an imperious-looking mouse in royal robes. Alice noted that while the bases of the statues looked stained and weathered, the statues themselves were gleaming white, as if new statues had been put on old pedestals.

“Who's Lester?” Alex asked the sentry's red-coated back innocently.

“He's General Ashwover's right-hand mouse,” the sentry explained. “He looks after the running of the palace. And disciplining the troops.” He nervously brushed the spot on his coat where the speck had been.

They stepped into a cavernous entrance hall. Purple and silver banners were draped from fluted marble columns, the silver sparkling in the light of dozens of enormous crystal chandeliers. The floor was a dazzling mosaic of tiny tiles in jewel-like colors, and the walls were painted with giant frescoes showing mice draped in togas plucking grapes from vines and dancing in flower-strewn gardens.

Immediately before them a wide marble staircase swept up, branching away to the left and right, but rather than climb the staircase they turned left down a corridor near the foot of the steps. After the grandeur of the entrance hall, this corridor seemed rather shabby and narrow, Alice thought as they walked past a dozen nondescript doors—all shut—before turning right, then right again. Then they climbed a set of stairs, and weaved through several more corridors.

“It's like a maze,” Alex observed. “How do you keep from getting lost?”

“You need to have a good sense of direction around here,” said the sentry, tapping his temple with his forefinger. “Plus, I've got one of them photographic memories.”

They descended some stairs, and came to a halt in front of an inconspicuous wooden door. The sentry tapped on it then, at the occupant's command, opened the door.

A tiny mouse with neatly combed gray fur and enormous pearl earrings looked up from her desk with an impatient expression.

“Who are you?” asked the sentry in obvious astonishment.

“I am the Undersecretary Assisting the Head of Floral Arrangements in the Department for Banquets,” she replied loftily. “Who are you?”

“Er, nobody,” said the sentry. “Wrong office.” He backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

He stood scratching his head for a moment, muttering,
“Left then right then right then stairs then—hang on, did I go up when I should have gone down? That must be it.”

He set off again, striding along corridors and around corners, up a grand stone staircase and down a shabby wooden one, finally arriving at a door that looked rather like the last one. The sentry knocked, waited, then pushed Alice and Alex ahead of him into the room. “Sir,” he began, then stopped. A dozen mice were sitting around a long table, watching a coffee-colored mouse with an enormous nose who was scrawling something on a whiteboard.

The coffee-colored mouse turned at the interruption and glared down his enormous nose. “This meeting is classified top-secret,” he barked. “Who are you? Do you have security clearance?”

The sentry seemed to wilt under his gaze. “I'm . . . I'm . . . sorry,” he gasped, then fled the room and took off down the corridor so fast Alice and Alex had to run to keep up.

They cantered up two flights of stairs and zigzagged wildly along corridors—some of them, Alice was sure, they had already been down more than once.

The sentry was breathing raggedly and Alice and Alex were panting when a sharp voice rang out behind them.

“Wooster! Why have you abandoned your post?”

All three mice turned to see a mouse in a white jacket and black boots. His smooth black fur had a sheen like an oil slick.

“Lester!” the sentry cried, almost weeping with relief. “I mean, good morning, sir.” He bent his head deferentially.

“Well?” demanded Lester. “What are you doing here?”

“I was coming to see you, sir. These two just showed up at the gate with a letter saying they are to work here.”

“Showed up at the gate, eh?” Lester turned his beady black eyes on Alice and Alex. “Where is this letter?”

The sentry handed it over. Alice watched with her heart pounding as Lester read the letter once, then a second time. Why wasn't he saying anything? Could he tell it was a fake?

“Very well,” he said finally. “Wooster, you may—” He stopped. “Wooster,” he said slowly, “did you polish your boots this morning?”

“Y-yes, sir,” stammered the sentry.

“Then why, I wonder, does your left boot have a heel print on it?”

Wooster gazed down at his boot. “But, sir,” he said, “there's no—”

Lester lifted one big black boot then brought it down hard on the sentry's left toe.

Wooster's eyes went very wide and he opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out.

“I'm . . . sorry. . . sir,” he gasped at last. “It . . . won't . . . happen . . . again.”

“See that it doesn't,” Lester snapped. “Dismissed.”

Wooster gave a brisk nod, then staggered off down the corridor.

Lester opened the nearest door and ushered the two young mice inside.

“So,” he said, as he sat behind his desk, gesturing to
Alice and Alex to sit in the two low wooden chairs facing him. “Raz and Rita from Tornley.”

Alice had to crane her neck to see him over the top of the desk. “Yes, sir.”

Lester looked down at the letter he was still holding. “Father a Sourian soldier killed in the Crankens, I see.”

Alice and Alex nodded.

“Mom—Mom said he was a hero,” Alice added. “That he died fighting . . . filthy Gerandans.” She had faltered on the last words, and hoped that it sounded like she was grief-stricken rather than reluctant.

“Good man,” said Lester approvingly. “And your mother . . . ?”

“Died of an illness, sir,” Alice whispered.

“Indeed. Well, unlike the filthy Gerandans your father fought, we Sourians look after our own. You will be given important jobs here in the palace. You will be well fed and have comfortable beds to sleep in, just as your father would have wished.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alex sounded both brave and grateful, Alice noted, as befitted an orphan boy who had been given a golden opportunity.

Lester rose and moved soundlessly to the door despite his big black boots. “Come,” he said, beckoning. “I'll take you to the office of Fiercely Jones.”

The route from Lester's office to the office of Fiercely Jones seemed remarkably direct. One right turn, one flight of stairs, through a door leading onto a terrace, across a springy green lawn to what looked like a
good-sized potting shed concealed from the terrace by a screen of flowering bushes.

“Jones,” called Lester impatiently. “Where are you?”

There was a sound of someone moving about inside the shed, then a gruff voice said, “What is it?” The door opened to reveal a gardener, his long tawny nose just visible beneath the brim of a battered brown hat. “Oh, it's you,” he said. “Sir.” He touched a hand to his hat.

“Jones,” said Lester, “meet Raz and Rita. They're orphans of a Sourian hero and they've come all the way from Souris to help with your special project. They're to be treated as palace staff. Settle them in, and put them to work. Raz, Rita, this is the palace's head gardener, Fiercely Jones.”

Lester turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Alice and Alex alone with Fiercely Jones.

The gardener regarded them dourly for several seconds, then sniffed. “About time they saw fit to give me helpers,” he said. “I've been told the gardens need to be completely replanted with only purple flowers. That means hyacinths, lilacs . . . I wonder if it's too late to plant wisteria? Violets, lavender . . . I think cornflowers can pass for bluish purple, don't you? Asters, clematis, crocuses, hydrangeas . . .”

“Is he really going to list every purple flower under the sun?” Alex muttered under his breath as the gardener went on.

“Petunias, verbenas, pansies, peonies . . .”

“Why would anyone want a garden that only had purple
flowers?” Alice wondered aloud.

“Geraniums and zinnias. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex responded quickly. “Purple zinnias. Lovely, sir.”

“Good,” said Fiercely Jones, though he gave Alex a shrewd look. “Follow me.”

The gardener stumped off across the lawn, through an immaculately maintained formal garden, across a small park dotted with topiary, skirting a hedge maze and under a pergola groaning beneath a climbing rose and into a rose garden ablaze with flowers of scarlet and yellow and flaming orange, punctuated with the gentle glow of soft pink and peach and apricot.

“You can start by digging up that bed there,” Fiercely Jones ordered. “I want all those beautiful, rare roses, which were planted by my grandfather and which I've tended since I was a lad, gone by dinner time.”

“What about lunch?” Alex protested. “I can't work on an empty stomach.”

Fiercely Jones looked at Alex expressionlessly. “Gerandans do,” he said, then stumped away toward his potting shed.

“I don't see what's so important about this job,” Alex complained as they began to dig.