Authors: Alex Milway
The Mousehunter (27 page)
“This is excellent news indeed, Lovelock.”
The Mayor’s cheeks grew rosier as the scale of what they’d achieved sank in.
“And with the capture of Mousebeard, there’s little anyone would do to stop us.”
“It is perfect,” added Battersby.
The Mayor was greatly impressed.
“I hear tomorrow’s execution will draw quite a crowd,” he said. “News has spread fast, and I’ve been informed that people from towns the length and breadth of Midena are traveling as we speak to catch a glimpse of both the Golden Mice and Mousebeard before his death.”
“And all this only serves to raise our standing in people’s minds,” added Lovelock.
“Brilliant, just brilliant. And tomorrow, I take it I shall receive you in the mayoral box?”
“As much as that would be an honor,” said Lovelock, “I have specifically asked the guard who will be conducting the execution if I might have a minute to speak with the great Mousebeard himself before he dies. They have agreed, of course, and that means I will be on quite the wrong side of the wharf to enjoy your company.”
The Mayor tapped his pudgy fingers together and made a slight shrug before continuing.
“Lord Battersby? Would you and the delightful Lady Pettifogger grace me with your presence? We shall be serving only the finest Château de la Souris!”
“I could think of nothing better!” replied Battersby courteously.
“Ah! Wonderful,” said the Mayor joyously. “What a fine morning it shall be, and with such an early rise I must take my leave. You have done a terrific service to Old Town, Mr. Lovelock. I take it you would not be averse to a lordship, like Battersby here?”
Lovelock allowed himself a dry smile.
“If you believe it necessary . . . .”
“Oh, I do!” he replied.
“I’ll show you to the door,” said Battersby, rising from his chair.
“Thank you once again, gentlemen,” said the Mayor, and promptly left.
Alone once more in his office, Lovelock withdrew a tightly bound bundle of papers from his desk and placed them in front of him. He flicked through the yellowing pages, each one describing a few details of a different mouse accompanied by a roughly scribbled drawing. He’d never shown anyone these papers. They were from the building on Stormcloud Island that changed the course of his life, and were no one’s business but his own.
Each mouse that adorned the pages was a mystery, and quite possibly had never existed: at least he’d never seen a note about any of them in any mouse book anywhere. The old hag that he stole the pages from assured him they were of no worth, but he didn’t believe her. There was something about a series of markings at the bottom of each page that intrigued him. He had no idea what they meant, but they meant something, he was sure of it. And after all, if he’d never seen the pages he’d never have thought to write
The Mousehunter’s Almanac.
Suddenly a knock came on his door, and Battersby returned.
“They’ve finished the search, Isiah. A number of soldiers ran after a boy, but we’ve no news of that yet. Whoever broke in seems to have left as quickly as they came. Everything is intact,” he said.
Lovelock felt enormous relief at the news. “That’s wonderful, Alexander,” he replied. “These mice will change our future — of that there can be no doubt.”
“Do you need me for anything else, Isiah? I probably should be going myself . . . .”
Lovelock paused for a moment.
“As a matter of fact, there is a small thing,” he said. “I’ve never shown anybody these papers before, but I wondered whether you might be kind enough to take a look.”
Battersby walked to the desk and flicked through the pages.
“Mice?” he said.
“Most unusual ones, and I wondered if you had any idea what these inscriptions are at the bottom?”
“That’s some sort of code, Isiah. I’m not the best at these things, though, but back at the barracks I have some friends who work on these sorts of ciphers. Smedley’s particularly useful — I could get him to take a look?”
“Yes, that would be excellent,” Lovelock said. “Hearing news of Mousebeard in Old Town made me remember them again.”
“Mousebeard?”
“Oh it’s ancient history now, you understand, but I never did get to the bottom of these pages. Probably best to keep them as much of a secret as possible.”
“I’ll do my best for you, Isiah. Secrecy is what I’m good at after all . . . .”
The two men finally shook hands, and Lord Battersby departed, leaving Isiah Lovelock alone with his thoughts of Mousebeard.
It was still a few hours before dawn and the Old Town Guard were amassing at Pirate’s Wharf. The extensive wooden scaffold, erected on the water’s edge, was being inspected for the last time, with every screw tightened, and each rope secured. The gibbet stood empty, waiting for its next occupant — the great pirate Mousebeard. Not even a breeze was riding the river, which flowed slowly on its way out to sea.
While preparations were made for their execution, Mousebeard and Drewshank were huddled awkwardly in their prison cell. The pirate could feel his life ebbing away as the curse fulfilled its deadly promise. His once bulging body was thin and gnarled, and he was continuing to lose weight; his skin drawing closer to every bone. As he rested, his breathing was forced and irregular, and with each exhalation the blackness of his beard faded a little bit more to gray.
A key turned slowly in the prison door, and Drewshank stirred. Through the drift of greasy lank hair that dropped over his eyes, he watched a cloaked man walk in, his polished shoes clomping on the floor. He remained quiet and still.
Mousebeard moved a little, moaning in pain as he shifted along the floor. “I thought everyone had forgotten about me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Left me with only rats for company. Not a mouse anywhere.”
The man knelt down and placed his hand on the pirate’s shoulder. He withdrew a small rum bottle from his cloak and held it so that Mousebeard could swallow every last drop.
“You’ll last until the execution, won’t you?” asked the man quietly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see me hang . . . .”
“Excellent,” said the man, “then things will surely go as planned.”
The pirate raised himself slightly and took hold of the man’s cloak.
“You’ve come to help me?” he asked wearily, his mind clouded with tiredness.
“Jonathan, has this curse eaten your memory too?” The man bent lower and whispered directly into Mousebeard’s ear. “It’s Horatio Spires . . . .”
Mousebeard tugged the cloak tighter, and a weak smile brightened his haunted face.
“ . . . Of course I’ve come to help, and before the hour’s out, you’ll be free once more. As long as this damned curse doesn’t consume you first.”
“They’ve taken my mice,” said the pirate.
“I know they’re in safe hands, but for the time being they’ll have to stay where they are.”
Drewshank finally broke from his silence. He sat upright, tugged at his chains, and motioned to the man. Spires saw him stir and raised a finger to his lips to stop him from speaking. He crept over to Drewshank and whispered to him.
“Keep Mousebeard alive. He’s your ticket out of here. I’m sorry about this mess, but your friends have come to help you escape. It’s not going to be easy. Stay calm to the last . . . .”
Spires quickly retreated to the door, and before he left placed something on the floor. Drewshank was certain he saw movement, but it was so dark he thought it was probably his overactive imagination. And no matter what Spires had said, he couldn’t shake the fear of the scaffold from his mind.
A FOUL AND EVIL LITTLE CREATURE, THE
N
OSFERATU
M
OUSE IS LIGHT
gray in color with bright red eyes. Having a strong craving for blood, the Nosferatu Mouse is nocturnal and will sneak around in the dark recesses of alleyways, attacking vagrants and defenseless animals. The Nosferatu Mouse waits until its prey falls asleep, then bites deep with its fangs, sucking enough blood to double its body weight with each session.
You can sleep soundly, though, as the Nosferatu Mouse is found only outside on the streets, and will never live in your home. Unless you invite it in, of course, and no one should be foolish enough to do that.
MOUSING NOTES
This mouse requires a licence to own, due to the danger it poses to all living creatures.
“W
AKE UP, YOU LOUSY PIRATES!” SHOUTED A SOLDIER
, banging on the cell door violently before opening it wide to the wall. The iron door chimed like a mourning bell and woke Drewshank with a start.
“Get to your feet!”
Drewshank stretched out and touched Mousebeard on the shoulder. The pirate was almost unrecognizable, but his beard, now gray, remained huge and consumed nearly his whole face.
“It’s time,” said Drewshank quietly.
Mousebeard was barely conscious, but he opened his eyes to the captain.
“Thank you,” he croaked. “When we come through this, captain . . . ” He stopped to catch his breath. “ . . . We will need to talk.”
The pirate tried to move his chained arms, but his strength was at its lowest.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Drewshank. He placed his hands under Mousebeard’s arms and tried to help lift him. His body was cold.
“It’s a curse . . . .”
Drewshank wasn’t usually one for believing such things, but now anything seemed possible.
“A curse? Why?”
Mousebeard tried to gather the energy to move, but he failed dismally.
“I’m cursed to sail the waves for ever . . . land is death to me . . . .”
“So that’s why you couldn’t attack Lovelock!”
“Blast that man,” growled Mousebeard.
Drewshank helped to lift the pirate slightly higher. It was a start at least.
“I can’t believe I’m here helping you,” laughed Drewshank absurdly. “Only weeks ago we were trying to kill each other . . . .”
Mousebeard fell silent, but for the tortured breathing.
“Oi! I said get up!” shouted the soldier who had returned to their door. Five other soldiers barged into the cell and pulled Drewshank and Mousebeard to their feet. One of them proceeded to unlock them and join their chains together.
“Carry him,” said a soldier to Drewshank, who propped his shoulder under the pirate’s arm and took his much-diminished weight along with his own.
Drewshank was jabbed in the back and made to walk through the door and out into the corridor. A procession of manacled pirates was led out through the prison, with Drewshank struggling with Mousebeard on his shoulder at its very end.
The prison was steadily being lit by the glowing pre-morning sky. The sun was about to rise, its light allowing the prisoners to see the atrocious state of their cells as they passed. Black mold covered the walls, the floor was littered with straw and dirt, and rats were scurrying from door to door checking to see if the prisoners were still alive, looking out for their next meal.
The column of pirates wound out into the open courtyard, where soldiers lined the route out toward Old Town. The pirates filed along silently, their eyes half closed, squinting at the light.
In front of Drewshank and Mousebeard trudged Scragneck. He occasionally glimpsed back and caught sight of them, but Drewshank evaded his glare.
“You’ll swing wiv all of us, Drewshank, you scumbag!” shouted Scragneck, finally finding within himself a piece of bile he considered good enough to throw out.
A soldier at the side of the road swung his pike at him and hit him on the back. It failed to cause Scragneck much discomfort, but it at least shut him up.
“Is that Scragneck ahead?” wheezed Mousebeard, the fresh air reviving him a little.
“It is,” replied Drewshank.
“That makes me happy . . . I’ll get to see him die . . . One more reason to keep alive a little bit longer . . . ”
“I could think of better reasons . . . ,” muttered Drewshank.
Mousebeard coughed a dry laugh.
“When revenge is the only thing keeping you going for years . . . captain . . . it becomes your lifeblood . . . .”