The Mousehunter (26 page)

She fell to the floor and was immediately jumped upon, a dagger positioned at her neck. The pain in her back was intense, and her arm throbbed from the fall.

“Always in my way,” said Miserley, kneeling on her spine. “You had to come barging in here, didn’t you, Blonde!”

“It’s you!” said Emiline. “Why are you here?”

“That would be none of your business,” said Miserley.

“It’s the mice, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The Golden Mice! You came to get the Golden Mice back!”

Miserley pressed down harder with her knee. Emiline struggled to breathe.

“Let me go,” implored Emiline. “I have to go.”

“Why should I do what you ask, Blonde?”

Miserley grabbed Emiline’s arm, bent it behind her back, and lifted her up.

“What do you want?” pleaded Emiline, feeling Miserley’s breath at the side of her face.

“You’re going to get those mice for me . . . .”

“I’m what?”

“Like you said, I’ve come to get the Golden Mice, but I had to get away when the soldiers came. And obviously, now that you’re here you can do it for me.”

Miserley saw Emiline’s hair twitch, shoved her hand in, and grabbed Portly.

“And if you don’t,” she said, holding the mouse aloft, “your mouse is going to lose some limbs, starting with the tail.” Pulling her dagger out, Miserley grabbed the mouse’s tail, holding the knife to it as if she were about to peel an apple.

“No!” cried Emiline. Miserley shoved her away roughly and stood holding Portly by the tip of his tail, his body squirming. Mice hate being held by their tails, and Portly squeaked with pain. Weazle sat up on Miserley’s shoulder, gleefully watching the events unfold.

“Put him down! He hasn’t done anything,” said Emiline angrily.

“Aw, poor little Blonde, this upset you? I’ll tell you what, you can have him back once you go inside and get those mice.”

“It’s teeming with soldiers; there’s no way I could get them . . . ,” whispered Emiline urgently.

“Save it, Blonde, this is getting boring,” said Miserley, pushing her dagger against Portly’s tail, whose ears shot back against his body.

Emiline tightened her fists.

“Oi! You!” shouted a soldier from a window. “Right, men! Here they are!”

Miserley’s eyes flicked from left to right. She opened the mousebox that hung at her belt and threw Portly inside.

“Looks like we’ll have to postpone our little girly chat for now. This isn’t the end, Blonde. Mark my words!” Emiline watched as Miserley turned and charged off through the undergrowth.

“Come back!” she said desperately. She could hear soldiers shouting and doors banging. There was nothing else to do — she had to run.

Emiline ran down the cobbled streets and caught her breath in a disused doorway not far from Pirate’s Wharf. Portly was gone, and she’d only just avoided the soldiers at Lovelock’s mansion. Her heart was torn in two — she knew she had to meet the butler, but all she really wanted was to rescue her mouse.

She let out a long sigh, and looked up and down the street. The butler’s carriage sailed past, bumping up and down as each stone rocked its wheels.

“Come on,” she said, lifting herself. Emiline continued down the street, hanging close to the sides of buildings. She reached the wharf and saw the carriage stop beside Mr. Droob’s hut, which was now sitting under the beginnings of one of the viewing stands, with woodworkers crawling over it. Spires called out something about checking that all was good with the scaffold, and then stepped carefully to the ground.

The butler was fully wrapped in a black cloak, and he walked over to the soldiers, who greeted him warily. Normally it would take three days’ work to put up such a giant scaffold, but they’d been given such a small amount of time that double the number of troops had been put on the job. After a close inspection, the butler was assured that the execution platform was almost finished, with six oiled-up and working trapdoors nearing completion and ready for the condemned.

Emiline left her cover but kept to the shadows and navigated the wharf to the riverside. Spires was glancing around himself and eventually caught sight of Emiline. He casually made his leave with the soldiers and strode off along the water’s edge. Within a short time he was covered by shadow, having stepped out of the reach of any oil lamp, and Emiline approached.

“Mr. Spires,” she said, looking around uneasily, “follow me.”

Emiline led him to the river path. She looked along the river, ready to point out where Algernon’s submarine would be, but there was no way to get to it. Marching slowly toward them, partly concealed by the darkness, was a battalion of soldiers. Emiline dropped her hand.

“I have to hurry, as I’m certain you appreciate,” said the butler, anxiously.

“I know,” she replied, “but look!”

“Damn,” he muttered, spotting the men. “Old Town is crawling with soldiers!”

The soldiers’ footsteps were coming closer, and eventually the group of men halted only meters in front.

The leading soldier pushed his hat up and eyed them suspiciously.

“Your papers!” he ordered, as the other troops massed behind.

“Yes, sir, certainly,” replied Spires. He withdrew a small piece of paper from his suit pocket, which outlined his name and position. As soon as the soldier saw the name Isiah Lovelock, he waved and apologized for the inconvenience. He then looked at Emiline, noticing how dirty her clothes were.

“And this is his mousekeeper,” said the butler promptly. Emiline tried to smile.

The soldier waited a few moments, looking closely at her face, but then looked back to Spires.

“Right you are, sir!” he said gruffly. “Carry on, men!”

Emiline sighed with relief as the soldiers walked past, but as the last two men walked in front of her, Emiline gripped the butler’s arm. Before she could cry out, Spires grabbed her, placing his hand over her mouth.

Walking behind the battalion, arms tied and joined to the soldiers in front by an iron chain, was Scratcher. His head hung low, and blood was dripping from a cut on his forehead. He struggled to walk, and didn’t notice Emiline as he passed by.

“Scratcher,” she muttered as the butler’s hand lowered.

“Your friend?” asked Spires.

“Yes,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. She suddenly felt that she was on the brink of losing everything.

“We have even less time to lose now, then,” he said bravely. “I did try and warn you about all this, Emiline . . . .”

“I know, I know . . . .”

The butler placed his hand on her shoulder kindly.

“Take me to Algernon, Emiline. We need to sort out this mess.”

Emiline watched Scratcher walk out of view past Pirate’s Wharf, and then she started to run.

“Quick, Mr. Spires,” she said, heading off down the path.

She reached the spot where she’d left the submarine, and threw a handful of stones into the water. They both looked cautiously around, making sure the way was clear. Within seconds, bubbles were popping at the surface, and the submarine broke the water. With a
click
and a
whirr,
the circular door on its roof kicked back.

“Horatio!” exclaimed Algernon happily. “So good to see you! Come on in!”

The Miramus

A VERY UNUSUAL AND RATHER CREEPY MOUSE THAT’S RARELY SEEN IN THE
wild. The Miramus wanders the land until it finds a mouse it likes (never one of the same species, however) and then becomes its doppelgänger, mimicking its every movement and actions.

Many mice go insane once they’ve been ensnared by a Miramus, and because of this it is seen as a harbinger of madness: “He’s been spotted by the Miramus” is a phrase often said of someone who appears slightly unhinged.

MOUSING NOTES

Miramus have been kept by collectors, but never very successfully. Many a collector has lost prize species to the Miramus, despite their being caged at a great distance. It’s not a banned mouse, but it’s not one to be kept without proper supervision.

The Shadow of Pirate’s Wharf

“I
T’S LOOKING PRETTY GRIM,” SAID SPIRES IN A FLASH
, quashing his friend’s enthusiasm. He clambered awkwardly into the small opening, with Emiline following. She pulled the hatch closed and the lock whirled and clicked shut.

“We’re in a rather grave situation,” continued Spires.

“They’ve got Scratcher and Portly,” said Emiline, her voice breaking when she heard the words come from her mouth.

Algernon took off his glasses and sat down slowly. Spires was shocked.

“You didn’t mention your mouse!” he said.

“Oh, my!” said Algernon. “This is worse than we could ever have thought possible.”

“Mousebeard’s mousekeeper attacked me,” said Emiline. “She was after the Golden Mice.”

“That girl is a bundle of trouble,” he said angrily. “And where’s she gone?”

“I’ve no idea . . . but there was no way I was going to give her the Golden Mice!”

“If she’s after those creatures,” said Spires, “the best chance she’ll get will be at the execution tomorrow. They’re going to be on display — shown to the crowds to let them know what an amazing thing Battersby’s achieved.”

“They are?” said Algernon. “Then we’ll have to keep our eyes open. We’ll have to do our best to make sure she doesn’t get away . . . .”

Algernon whistled loudly, his mice rushed to the dashboard, and soon the submarine was sinking to the river floor.

“Oh, I’ve made such a mess of it all,” said Spires, ducking in the cramped interior in a manner most unlike a butler. “They kept so much from me, Algernon. It was all that Battersby’s doing. There was so much I didn’t know about. And now Emiline’s friend and mouse are involved too . . . .”

“These things happen, Horatio,” said Algernon calmly. “Do you think he suspects you?”

“I think Battersby must have some doubts, but nothing to go on as yet. Besides, the past ten years will all have been for nothing if Jonathan dies tomorrow. What can we do about it though? My hands are tied.”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot, my friend. Can you break them out of the prison? With your connections?”

“Impossible,” replied the butler. “I’m going to visit them now, but they’ll be so heavily guarded. No inmate in the prison’s two-hundred-year history has ever escaped, so I think it highly unlikely we would succeed anyway.”

“I suppose we shall have to wait for the morning then,” said Algernon.

“When they bring them out ready for the execution?” asked Spires.

“I think that will be the only opportunity. Just like it will be the only chance to rescue our small friend Portly.”

“But we have to rescue Scratcher too,” pleaded Emiline.

“Has he been taken to Dire Street as well?” asked Algernon.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They were dragging him up the road as we came to see you.”

Her eyes started to well up with tears as the words left her lips, and Spires tried to ease things. “I doubt there would be space for him in Dire Street, what with all the pirates. They’d probably take him to the barracks first for questioning anyway. They’d want to find out what he knows. I doubt he’ll be caught up in all the events tomorrow.”

“Oh, most definitely not,” added Algernon.

“Well, what are we going to do then?” she said, desperately.

“I have an idea!” said Algernon, his eyes opening wide. He started to rummage about under his chair, and open assorted boxes and cases. “You mentioned you were going to visit them?”

“Isiah wants me to check on Mousebeard’s health,” said Spires. “I fear the curse has already taken him.”

“Well, this could be our best and only chance to put our plans in place, Horatio.”

“But I cannot be seen to set them free — it would ruin all our hard work,” Spires argued.

“Oh no, no, nothing of the sort,” replied Algernon, deep in thought. “I think we should utilize all that we have at our disposal. And I need a few things in particular . . . .”

“So you say these Golden Mice could provide us with an unlimited supply of gold?” asked the Mayor, fidgeting slightly in his red velvet gown.

“If we can keep the authorities away from us for a few months — maybe while we slowly negotiate the mice’s safe return to Illyria,” replied Lovelock, watching a smile of approval from Old Town’s leader, “then we should have a large enough base to maintain a sustainable supply of gold fur from. It can be spun into thread with the greatest of ease, and so there should be no trouble in concealing our plans.”