The Trophy of Champions (10 page)

‘Rotten pies to rotten pies!' Horace exclaimed, tearing out his fur with his hook. ‘I can't catch a break. If the blasted thing isn't pulling left, it's pulling right.'

Pete wiped the droplets of water from his nose and flicked them at Horace. ‘You're as inaccurate as you are incompetent –'

‘Ahem,' Whisker said, interrupting Pete mid-insult. ‘I've got good news and bad news. The good news is the Cat Fish didn't hit a flaming bullseye. The bad news is they did score a steaming one-pointer. They're on five points, the same as the marmosets, who managed to pull off another perfect shot.'

‘And we're on two lousy points with two shots remaining.' Pete added, scratching numbers in the dirt with his pencil leg. ‘You don't need to be a mathematician to know there's very little chance we can win from here.'

Horace pulled his purple hat over his face to hide his disappointment. ‘Granny Rat is going to skin us alive …'

As the fourth round commenced, the wind increased in intensity, driving the drizzle away. Pete made several last minute adjustments to the cannon and took his shot.

The pie hit the target, dead centre.

It was a stark contrast to the other performances of the round. The marmosets and the Cat Fish barely registered a point to remain tied in first place. The toads and penguins both missed their targets and the Sea Dogs' biscuit bone exploded as it left the cannon, showering the crowd with brown crumbs. Furious at wasting yet another shot, Bartholomew Brawl began howling insults at his crew.

‘Which one of you slobberin' sausage dogs drooled on our ammunition?' he barked, holding up a corner of a blue tarpaulin. ‘Every last biscuit bone is soaked through – even under this waterproof tarp. It's no wonder they're crumblin' like cupcakes.' He looked suspiciously at Biscuit and The Kid, hiding behind the cannon.

‘It wasn't me, boss,' Biscuit yapped. ‘The humidity did it.'

‘Yeah,' The Kid agreed, poking his head out. ‘Wot he said.'

Brawl punched his paws together. ‘Is that so?
Humidity,
did you say? Well, if I lay eyes on this Humidity fellow, he's history!'

Pete screwed up his nose and snorted, ‘Humidity and Horace. The two biggest excuses of the day.'

Spitefully, he pushed past Horace to get to the last remaining pie. With a grunt, he raised the heavy object off the ground and inserted it into the cannon.

‘At least I can end this with some dignity,' he muttered. ‘A bullseye is enough to clinch a shoot-off for first place – presuming the marmosets and Cat Fish both miss their targets …'

The sun appeared from behind a cloud, illuminating the six targets at the end of the field. Prince Marcabio struck a match and looked across at Master Meow. The cocky First Mate of the Cat Fish gave the young marmoset a confident grin and purred, ‘May the best cat win.'

Baron Gustave gave the order and six cannons exploded in unison.

To anyone watching, the final round was quite a spectacle. The toads' poison blob stuck to the sides of the cannon and went nowhere. The penguins' ice cube melted in the sunshine before it reached its target. The Sea Dogs' biscuit bone made it halfway down the field before breaking into pieces. The gold plating of the marmosets' Death Ball tore in mid-air and trailed behind it like the tail of a comet. Losing altitude, the ball crashed to the ground at the foot of the target.

The worst shot of the day was reserved for Pete. His pie flew sideways across the field and disappeared over the trees, in the direction of the western ocean.

The enraged quartermaster stamped his pencil in frustration. ‘I never shoot like that,' he roared. ‘And I mean never!'

The only competitors that managed to hit anything were the Cat Fish. Their flaming fur ball soared effortlessly through the air, colliding with the sunlit target in a spectacular display of sparks and smoke. In moments, the entire target was ablaze.

Baron Gustave checked the final score with the game's three adjudicators and made his official announcement: ‘Ze Cat Fish maintain zeir unbeaten vecord at zese games vith another vin,' he said. ‘At zis rate ve vill have our tournament champions by day five.'

The crowd cheered and chanted, the Cat Fish blew kisses to each other, and several Sea Dog supporters threw their blue and white jerseys at the flaming target in disgust.

Pete stuck his head into the barrel of the cannon.

‘Don't you dare say anything,' he sniffled as Whisker and Horace crowded around him. ‘I'm not in the mood.'

‘Err, is something wrong with the cannon?' Horace asked, unable to keep his mouth shut.

‘No!' Pete snapped, pulling his ash-covered nose from the barrel. ‘But something is definitely wrong.' He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I've got a theory – a rather disturbing theory. I can't prove it yet but I believe our precious pies are not what they seem.'

Standing on the edge of the deserted field, the three rats examined the splattered remains of a fruit salad pie.

‘Look carefully,' Pete said, brushing aside a piece of crumbling pastry with the tip of his pencil. ‘There! Between the rotten apple and the mouldy mango. What can you see?'

‘A squashed plum,' Horace replied.

‘No!
'
Whisker exclaimed. ‘A weight – a circular measuring weight.'

‘Exactly,' Pete agreed.

‘Since when did Fred start using measuring weights?' Horace asked with a puzzled shrug. ‘He's more of a
make-it-up-as-you-go
kind of chef.'

Pete stamped his pencil leg in exasperation. ‘He didn't, you overcooked omelette! And this is no kitchen accident. It is my hypothesis that this weight and three others like it were inserted into the bottom of three separate pies to shift the centre of gravity. The resulting destabilisation threw the pies off course – it's basic physics.'

‘Basic sabotage more like it,' Horace gasped. ‘I'm not quite up to speed with the science lingo, but it sounds like someone's added some deadweight to our perfectly aligned projectiles.'

‘I noticed some extra weight when I picked up the last pie,' Pete explained. ‘At the time it seemed inconsequential, but now it makes perfect sense.'

‘So every second pie was sabotaged,' Whisker surmised. ‘Horace fired the first two – which were all the same weight – and you fired the last one.'

‘Correct,' Pete said.

‘Can I have my apology now?' Horace asked.

‘For what?' Pete snorted. ‘There's still no proof you would have actually hit anything.'

‘Fine,' Horace mumbled, ‘I'll get my apology from the culprit – whoever they are.' He trudged sulkily down the field. ‘Come on, Whisker. All we need are a few more clues.'

Nearing the line of targets, Whisker caught sight of a gold plated Death Ball lying on the ground. He picked it up and studied it closely. A thin layer of gold had torn off during the flight and a perfectly straight line separated the gold plating from the section that had come adrift.

‘Anything of interest?' Pete asked, clomping up behind him.

‘Further evidence of foul play,' Whisker replied. ‘This line is far too precise to be the result of a cannon explosion. It appears to have been pre-cut.'

Pete nodded. ‘So we weren't the only ones targeted. I'd bet a packet of soggy biscuits that someone tipped a bucket of water over the Sea Dog's biscuit bones as well.'

‘Last night,' Whisker gasped. ‘It had to be last night. The dogs and marmosets were out raiding the
Velvet Wave
and we were stuck up a tree.'

‘You might be onto something there,' Pete said in agreement. ‘It's a pity our Chief of Security was frolicking in the tavern with Granny instead of watching the tents.'

‘Can we demand a rematch?' Whisker said. ‘Or call for an enquiry?'

Pete sighed. ‘That's not how it works, Whisker. This is the Pirate Cup, not the Honesty Games. Once the organiser declares a winner, there's no going back. It stands to reason that Sabre and his conniving cats are behind this. But even if we had the evidence to prove their guilt, the result would stay the same.'

‘There is one thing we can do,' Horace said, walking over to them with a second weight in his paw. ‘Gossip spreads like an out-of-control bushfire in the Champions Tavern and I'm sure Bartholomew Brawl and King Marvownion would love to hear what Sabre's been up to.'

Belly flops and Bomb Dives

By the morning of Day Four, the entire athlete's village knew about the deception at the firing range. The no-fighting policy stopped at least one heated discussion between the dogs and the cats from turning into an all-in brawl, and there were rumours the marmosets were saving their revenge for the Death Ball arena.

Not everyone seemed to have a problem with the cats' actions, and a large number of disgruntled Sea Dog supporters began wearing Cat Fish jerseys in the hope their new favourite team could cheat their way to Pirate Cup glory.

The schedule for Day Four included two pool matches of Death Ball. At the announcement of the first game between the Cane Toads and the Sea Dogs, the Pie Rats learnt two important things: one, their next opponents would be the toads, and, two, they wouldn't be competing that day. Granny Rat's orders were to study the Cane Toads closely in anticipation of their final pool game.

The toads used a similar strategy to the Pie Rats to keep the ball out of the dogs' mouths. But instead of hot chillies, they smeared the ball with the milky-white poison from the glands on their backs. They also sprayed poison into the mouths and eyes of the dogs whenever they were tackled. It was no surprise that the tournament's medics worked overtime to stop the Sea Dogs from going into cardiac arrest.

The Pie Rats' surveillance was temporarily distracted when six purple penguins waddled into the grandstand after their failed half-time raid on the
Velvet Wave
.

‘… At least we made it aboard,' one of them squawked. ‘That torpedo idea worked a treat –
SPLASH!
Straight out of the water and onto the deck.'

‘It's a pity they were waiting for us,' groaned another. ‘I copped a paintball to the head and four to the chest before I could surrender. My head's still spinning, and I swear I'll be purple for weeks …'

The rest of the game was a scrappy contest which the toads won four-three, setting up a do-or-die clash with the Pie Rats for a grand final berth.

After the match, Whisker was instructed to return to the supply tent to search for information on cane toads. He found a sunny spot in the corner of the tent and removed the Book of Knowledge from Pete's impenetrable iron chest – a self-locking stronghold housing Pete's rarest collection of books. Whisker had only just sat down on a stump with Anso's book in his paws when Horace entered the tent with Athena.

‘I come bearing help,' Horace said, leading his sister over to Whisker. ‘Athena's a speed reader and, considering our book is written in sun-reactive ink – and contains no index – she's our best chance of finding what we're after.'