The Urchin of the Riding Stars (17 page)

“How did he come to do that?” wondered Aspen.

“Dunno, my lady. Must have been lost, or something.”

“We were generous with the wine that day,” said Aspen thoughtfully.

“Not, not my Urchin, he wouldn’t have got drunk, and anyway he didn’t smell of it, my lady,” said Apple. “He didn’t smell too good, mind you, I mean, my lady, smelt all fusty as if he’d been somewhere not very nice, but he hadn’t been drinking no drink, my lady.”

“Well, I have enjoyed your company so much!” sighed Aspen. “But I have kept you far too long. Your cloak is still wet. Wear one of mine.” She lifted the lid of a chest and selected a dark green wool cloak.

Apple gasped. “Ooh, no, my lady…”

“Keep it as a gift,” said Aspen. “I insist. I have so enjoyed our afternoon. Gleaner will show you out.”

When Apple had settled Lady Aspen’s cloak around her broad shoulders, pulled her hat over her ears, and been escorted away, Aspen settled herself in the window seat. She looked down to the shore, turning the silver bracelet on her forepaw while she tried to fit together the pieces of the Urchin puzzle.

Urchin should have been left to drown. Whatever he was, he was alien to Mistmantle, and the way he stood out in a crowd was unsettling. As for Apple, she should have been culled at birth.

Apple didn’t know about Urchin falling from the sky, but Brother Fir himself said that he had. Gleaner had been eavesdropping on the night…on that particular night, the last night of riding stars, and she had heard Fir and Crispin telling Urchin about it. Why hadn’t they told Apple? And what was this about Urchin falling from a window, smelling fusty? What had he been up to? There were too many unanswered questions about the freak squirrel.

She turned and turned the bracelet. Husk thought Urchin would be a good page, if he weren’t so pathetically devoted to Crispin and Padra. And the only reason Padra was still on the island, still alive, and still a captain, was that Mistmantle would fall apart without him. For the moment they still needed Padra, but she didn’t like his page at all.

She sent a mole maid with a message, and in no time, Gloss the mole slid like a shadow to her door. She dismissed the maids and went to speak to him in the doorway. Apart from well-trained females who knew their place, moles really did not belong in chambers.

“Gloss,” she said, “I have some work which will suit you excellently. I want Urchin the page watched.”

“I’m already detailed by Captain Husk to watch someone else, my lady,” said the mole politely.

“You don’t have to do the watching yourself,” she said. “Simply find somebody who can. Bring reports to me.”

“Yes, my lady.”

When he had gone she sat down wearily on one of the embroidered chairs, sighed, and closed her eyes. Everything should be easy from this point. The animals would be kept working too hard and eating too little, by the king’s law. What sort of king would make such laws? A king driven mad by the deaths of his wife and son. And kind Captain Husk would give them a magnificent Spring Feast. Who would they love the best?

It should be simple, but she felt uneasy about Urchin. He was dangerous; too strange, too unpredictable, showing up when he wasn’t wanted, capable of wrecking everything without even trying, and much too helpful to Padra. She would have him watched and not trouble Husk, who had been having sleepless nights lately.

She crossed to the mirror, smoothed her fur, and fluffed her ear tufts with a tiny brush. Then she took the bracelet from her forepaw and, to see how it looked, placed it on top of her head, between her ears.

“Queen Aspen,” she whispered to her reflection.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RCHIN WARMED HIMSELF BY THE FIRE
in Padra’s chambers.

“We need to catch the king alone,” said Padra, thinking aloud, “preferably at a time when Husk hasn’t filled him up with wine so he can’t think straight.”

Urchin preferred his own room, but he had come in here to light the fire which was now flaring brightly in the hearth. Padra’s room was plain and soldierly and smelt of smoked fish, and there was always a damp cloak steaming on a clotheshorse, but Urchin enjoyed his company. They were toasting acorn bread (for Urchin) and fish (for Padra) on long forks beside the fire. Padra gazed into the flames as he turned the toasting fork. They always talked softly these days, as Padra was sure Husk had spies everywhere. The crackling and spitting of the fire was a useful way of covering speech.

“I think that’s cooked, sir,” said Urchin.

“Mm,” said Padra, and drew the fork from the fire. “Pleasantly charred. You really should try a bit, Urchin.”

“No thank you, sir.”

“How can anyone not like fish?” Padra blew softly on the silver and gold scales, to cool them. “If it comes to rationing, you’ll be glad to eat anything. At least the otters won’t be hungry. There’s always plenty of fish. But don’t worry, Urchin, it won’t come to rationing.”

“Good,” said Urchin, and nibbled at the acorn bread.

“Apart from anything else, where would we get food for…” He left the question unfinished and licked his paws, but Urchin knew he meant the nursery. “We need to get the king to make a ruling against it, one that Husk can’t change. Look out for an opportunity, Urchin.”

They were still eating and licking their paws when somebody knocked at the door.

“Mole,” said Padra. “You can always tell from the sound. Comes a long way down the door, moles being short little chaps.”

Urchin answered it. “Hello, Lugg!” he said.

Lugg marched into the chamber and saluted. “Littl’un brought for a culling, sir. Baby girl otter, sir. Funny-shaped tail. Captain Husk nowhere about, sir.”

“Is that so?” said Padra energetically, and buckled on his sword. “Well, there’s no need to trouble Captain Husk about this, is there? Where is she? I’ll take care of her, and go down for a swim afterward. Don’t stay up for me, Urchin.”

Urchin was about to ask if Padra had any orders for him, but Padra was already out the door. It was a good thing the baby had been brought when Husk wasn’t there…

When Husk wasn’t there.

He ran to the door. “Lugg!” he called.

“That’s me,” said the mole.

“Where’s Captain Husk?”

“Dunno.”

“When will he be back?”

“Dunno that, neither.”

“Captain Granite?”

“Armory. Drunk.”

“Is anyone with the king?”

“Dunno. Lady A sometimes sits with him.”

Padra should be the one to do this, but he wasn’t there. Urchin knew he should be allowed to see the king—any animal should. He just didn’t want to risk getting everything wrong. He considered for a moment, rubbing one hind paw against the other, and said, “I’m going to see the king.”

“Good for you,” said Lugg.

“I might not be allowed near,” he said. “Husk always has guards posted.”

“I’m a guard,” said Lugg gruffly. “If the king needs guarding, I’ll guard him. Leastways, I’ll guard somebody, even if it’s only you. Come on, young 'un.”

Urchin cleaned his whiskers, washed quickly in the spring, and pattered upstairs and along corridors with Lugg marching behind him. The stairs and halls grew wider; the corridors became brightly lit and were hung with Threadings; and Urchin felt the tingle of nervousness in his paws. Long before they reached the Throne Room, he saw the door open; and hobbling out came the reassuring figure of the priest.

“Hello, Brother Fir!” called Urchin, feeling more confident already. But there were wet, streaky marks on Fir’s white tunic, as if something had splashed it, and he was wiping water from his face. Urchin sprang forward.

“Brother Fir!” he exclaimed. “What happened to you?” Fir limped toward him, not looking at all worried, sniffing at his wet paws.

“Hm,” he said. “Life is full of new experiences, don’t you think, Urchin? Nobody ever attacks a priest. Completely forbidden. None of them do. Goodness knows what they think would happen—nobody ever tried it to find out.”

“You were attacked?” exclaimed Urchin.

“Oh, no. Didn’t I tell you? Nobody attacks a priest. It was only a cup of some drink or another, and I daresay the king threw it to miss. Most of it did. He always used to be a very good shot, so I think he was aiming past me. However, he was shouting ‘Out of my Throne Room, priest,’as it hit the door.”

“Might be a bad time to see him,” remarked Lugg.

Fir stopped licking thoughtfully at his paws. “You wanted to see His Majesty?”

“I was going to, sir,” said Urchin, and spoke softly. “Padra wanted to talk to him about rationing without Husk there, but Padra’s been called away, so I was going to do it. But if the king’s angry, he should be left alone.”

“No, no, Urchin,” said Fir. “He’s angry with
me.
If you kneel and talk to him politely, he’ll be perfectly happy to hear you. But don’t say a word about Husk. Don’t even mention him, and certainly don’t question his judgment. I did, and that’s when the king threw the”—he licked a claw with a frown of deep thought—“some sort of spiced drink. Yes. Go now, Urchin. Heart keep you. I shall go to pray for you. And to take this wet tunic off. Hm.”

It was only as he waited outside the Throne Room door that Urchin realized he had no idea what to say. He was still trying to work something out when the hedgehog guards finally let him in, and he stepped forward into a wall of heat that took his breath away.

The fire in the grate roared, leaped, and crackled up into the chimney. Every window was closed. At the far end of the room, the king had slumped forward on his throne, his chin on his paws, his eyes on the floor. Urchin bowed, then knelt.

“I’m Urchin, Padra’s page, and I would like to speak to Your Majesty, please,” he said.

The king did not answer. He raised his eyes to Urchin, then looked back to the floor.

“May I speak, Your Majesty?” asked Urchin. The king still didn’t speak, but he didn’t refuse permission, so Urchin went on, though he wasn’t even sure if the king heard him.

“Your Majesty, I know this is a terrible time for you,” he began. “I don’t like to bother you, but my friends in the wood are very worried, and they want me to talk to you for them.”

The king said nothing. Urchin went on.

“Your Majesty, it’s said that there’s going to be rationing through the winter. The Anemone Wood animals are really worried. So’s everyone, I think.”

The king gave himself a little shake. It was a long time since an ordinary animal had come to him like this, simply and trustingly. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of simple creatures. It was good that this young squirrel page felt able to talk to him.

“They can’t go hungry, Your Majesty,” said Urchin, hurrying in case Husk arrived. “The very young ones can’t live on short rations because they’re growing fast; the working ones need all their strength; and the old don’t eat much anyway, and it’s cruel to deprive them when they’ve worked hard all their lives. We don’t need rationing. We had a good nut harvest in the wood, there’s fruit in the stores—and honey—and there’s plenty of trade, so we needn’t go short of anything. We all love you, Your Majesty, and if you order rationing, we’ll obey you. But all my friends that I grew up with and my foster mother and everyone, please don’t make them go hungry. I know you don’t want that.”

There was a long pause. Urchin, his heart racing, wondered if the king was about to call the guards and have him thrown out. But the king leaned forward and looked down at him with interest.

“I remember you. The foundling,” the king said, and smiled. “What if we were to run out of food before the Spring Festival?”

“We won’t, Your Majesty. We never have,” said Urchin, hoping he was right.

“Captain Husk says we will,” said the king.

This was dangerous. Not a word against Husk.

“Captain Husk…um…” he stammered desperately, then inspiration struck. “He’s so busy serving Your Majesty, maybe he doesn’t have time to keep accounts of ordinary things like food supplies. It’s too much for him to do.”

“That may be true,” said the king thoughtfully.

“My captain could be in charge of the food supplies,” offered Urchin brightly. Then he wondered why he had said that, and how he could explain it to Padra.