The Trophy of Champions (33 page)

Whisker tried to smile, but the pang of guilt in his stomach made it almost impossible. Rat Bait was yet another companion he was about to betray. He'd grown fond of the old rogue over the course of the games and the thought of breaking his trust now pained Whisker almost as much as stealing the trophy itself.

This is the way it has to be,
Whisker repeated in his mind.
You already know that.

Pushing his guilt aside, he removed the medal from his neck and placed it over Rat Bait's head, hoping, in some small way, it would atone for his actions.

‘What's this?' Rat Bait exclaimed, looking down at the golden object.

‘It's … a thank you present for helping us win the championship,' Whisker replied cagily.

Rat Bait shook his head.

‘I can't accept this,' he said, beginning to remove the medal. ‘It belongs to ye.'

‘Then it's mine to give away,' Whisker said, placing his paw on Rat Bait's forearm.

‘I still can't accept it,' Rat Bait said, brushing Whisker aside. ‘This medal be made for a champion, not for a lousy Head o' Security.'

‘You're not lousy,' Whisker objected. ‘If it wasn't for your tip-offs, we would have been out of the contest days ago.' He took a deep breath. ‘Look, if you won't accept the medal, at least hold on to it until I return from the beach. Pete would pickle me in pineapple juice if I lost it in the surf.'

Rat Bait gave a long sigh and let the medal drop onto his chest. ‘Very well, I'll keep it safe ‘til ye return. Now be off with ye, young scallywag. Me throat be growin' dryer by the minute!'

Taking his cue, Whisker leapt down from the barrel, wrapping his paws and tail around the trophy. The golden cup was nearly as tall as he was and Whisker was barely able to raise it off the ground. After several struggling steps, he realised he'd never navigate past the dozen or so curious spectators blocking his path.

Fortunately, Rat Bait's cry of ‘So, who's first in line for a drink?' had them scurrying out of the way in an instant.

With the rest of his companions distracted by the celebrations, Whisker made his way past a silver bow and a quiver of arrows propped up against a tree and slowly disappeared into the jungle.

He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Ruby skulking after him or at least aiming an arrow in his direction, but she was nowhere in sight.

The voices of jolly revellers grew fainter as he continued through the lush undergrowth. In utter silence, he reached a small campfire at the crest of a sand dune overlooking the beach. Whoever had made the fire had long since joined the festivities in the centre of the island. All that was left was a charcoaled branch and a pile of glowing coals.

Staring down at the smoking remains, Whisker realised he'd come to a crossroad. Behind him lay the bizarre, unpredictable world of the Pie Rats – a world he had come to know and love. Ahead of him lay the answer he so desperately sought:
Where is my family?

For the first time, he realised that there was no going back. Once he made his decision he was on his own.

As he watched the smoke coiling around the coals, the words of the Pie Rat code drifted into his mind:
Loyalty before all else, even pies …

Even trophies,
he told himself.
Even families …

He knew the consequences of his actions. He was about to become a traitor, and traitors had no place on a Pie Rat ship.

Never again would he stand with his fellow crew members and raise his scissor sword high. Never again would he laugh at one of Horace's one-liners or gobble down a slice of Fred's piping hot berry pies. And never again would he blush bright red when Ruby walked into the room.

Whisker knew he would miss her the most.

He missed her already.

How he wished things could be different. Overcome with a deep feeling of helplessness, he sank to his knees, his paws sliding despairingly down the sides of the trophy.

It was almost too much to bear.

Why am I cursed with this burden?
he asked himself.
Why does it have to be this way?

Six weeks ago he was a happy-go-lucky circus rat with a family and a future, and now he was sitting on a beach with a golden trophy, facing a decision that could leave him with nothing
.
It pained him to think about it, but deep down inside he knew that his family might already be dead.

Trying to dispel the dark thoughts from his mind, he raised his eyes to the moonlit sea. The glowing ball of white hovered over the waves like an enormous lantern, its crater-covered face an almost perfect sphere.

In the radiant light, Whisker could see everything: the foaming white caps of the breaking waves; the silver-lined edges of cottonwool clouds; the line of small spectator vessels running along the sandy beach. And, in the midst of it all, he saw the fleeting silhouette of a cat disappearing into the Pie Rats' rowboat.

Whisker froze.

Was he imagining things? He rubbed his weary eyes and looked again. The beach was deserted.

Puzzled, he continued to stare, praying the smoke of the fire would conceal his whereabouts as several more cats materialised out of the darkness and converged on the rowboat. In seconds, they had leapt over the side of the small vessel and vanished from sight.

Whisker stifled a cry. The Cat Fish were setting an ambush.

For nine days, the protective rules of the Pirate Cup had kept the Pie Rats safe, but with the games officially over, the cutthroat laws of piracy once again reigned supreme.

Steal or be stolen from. Kill or be killed.

Whisker had no idea if the cats had followed him from the bonfire or whether their timing was purely coincidental, but he knew for certain they had come for the trophy and they'd stop at nothing to get it.

He was faced with a terrible dilemma:
What to do next?

If he warned his friends he would lose his one chance to escape. But if he didn't …

He let out a low groan. Every option seemed like the wrong one and he was running out of time – fast
.

The options are right in front of you,
he told himself.
You have to choose.

But he knew it was never going to be that simple.

And so, with a whirlwind of emotions, he took his last look at the fire, wrapped his grey-hooded cloak around him and made his decision.

The Answer

The
Golden Anchor
glided effortlessly through the calm water of the Hawk River, barely leaving a wake. Its lone passenger fixed his eyes on a small fishing jetty and steered the vessel to shore.

It was late in the evening and his journey was nearing its end. He had sailed undetected past the blackened watch towers of the cove and slipped silently into the mouth of the river. As hoped, the tired crabs had been too busy repairing the wharf to notice one, small sailing boat returning to the scene of the crime.

On arriving at the fishing jetty, he secured the vessel to a sturdy pylon and hauled the golden trophy onto dry land. In the pale moonlight, he had no trouble locating the cart of Trojan pasties hiding in the nearby bushes. Using his sword as a lever, he prized open a pasty like a clam shell and began removing great chunks of sticky filling. Despite the enormous size of the pasty, it took some gentle manoeuvring before he finally fit the trophy inside the crust.

Resealing the pasty, he wrapped his greasy paws around the handle of the cart and began lugging his precious cargo up the steep path to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn.

The Inn was alive with music and laughter, the open windows of the restaurant revealing a bustling bar and a crowded dance floor.

Ignoring the late night festivities, the hooded cart-bearer followed the gangplank to the swinging saloon doors. He was met by a familiar looking mink in a black and white apron.

‘Good evening, Sir,' she said politely. ‘My name is Delores. Welcome to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn.'

‘Evening,' he mumbled, keeping his head bent low.

She stared at him with a puzzled look on her face before letting out a small gasp.

‘Whisker!' she exclaimed. ‘Is that you? I almost didn't recognise you under that hood. Have you come to visit Mr B again?'

Whisker raised his head and looked at Delores in confusion.
‘Mr B?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Mr Belorio.'

‘Oh,' Whisker said, finally understanding. ‘
Frankie.
Yes – of course.'

Delores pointed to a pasty protruding from the top of the cart.

‘I see you've brought some midnight munchies with you,' she laughed. ‘I hope you're hungry.'

‘They're Frankie's favourite,' Whisker said, playing along.

‘Well, we'd best not keep him waiting then,' Delores said, ushering Whisker into the foyer. ‘Mr Belorio is staying in the penthouse suite of the eastern tower. The stairs are located at the end of the first corridor, past the high rollers' room.' She gave him a small curtsy. ‘Can I assist you with anything else tonight?'

‘No – thank you, Delores,' Whisker said, stepping into the corridor. ‘You've told me everything I need to know.'

The sounds of the restaurant faded to silence as Whisker tip-toed down the lantern-lit corridor. Only the sound of the cart's rubber wheels broke the eerie stillness.

… Squeak … squeak … squeak …

He passed a door marked
Two Up
and another labelled
Blackjack,
and, before he knew it, he was facing a carved oak door with the words
High Rollers' Room
painted in thick gold letters.

This is it,
he thought, drawing a breath.
This is where my search ends.
He raised his arm to the door, but a sick feeling of dread seemed to paralyse his fingers.

Can you really trust the fox to keep his word?
he asked himself. Forcing himself to be brave, he placed his paw on the brass handle and opened the door.

The only light of the room came from a stumpy candle in the centre of the card table, its smouldering wick clearly struggling to stay alight. Wax oozed over its sides, pooling on the lush felt below. A solitary figure sat at the table, clutching a deck of cards. His black trench coat disappeared into the deep shadows of the room. His orange eyes glowed like coals in the flickering candlelight as he stared unblinking at Whisker.

‘I trust you've brought my trinket,' the fox stated casually, without a word of introduction, as if expecting his guest.

‘Yes,' Whisker said, pulling the cart inside.

The fox shot a quick glance at the pasties and then shifted his attention to the open doorway.

‘And who else is with you?' he asked suspiciously.

‘No one,' Whisker said, hurriedly closing the door. ‘I kept your secret – as promised.'

The fox locked eyes with Whisker, studying him closely. ‘Really?'

Whisker held his gaze, not daring to look away.

After a tense moment, the edges of the fox's mouth curved into a satisfied smile.

‘Very well,' he said, rising from his chair. ‘Now show me the trophy.'

The fox watched attentively as Whisker broke open the pasty and began removing the vegetable-covered trophy. Using his sleeve as a rag, he wiped the parsnip and turnip filling off its surface and placed the sticky object on the edge of the table.

A look of greedy delight flashed across the fox's face.

‘It appears the pirating world has a new champion,' he mused, placing the deck of cards in front of him.

Whisker stared down at the top card.

Ace of Diamonds,
he gasped.
The fox's lucky suit.

The fox stepped eagerly towards the trophy, his paw twitching on the diamond hilt of his sword.

Whisker suddenly felt ill.

‘A-and what about my answer?' he stammered. ‘I've kept my end of the bargain.'

‘Oh, yes,' the fox said, with a mock sigh. ‘Your poor lost sister. I'd almost forgotten about her.'

A spark of anger flashed inside Whisker.

‘What have you done with her?' he burst out. ‘If you've touched a hair on her head –'

The fox's eyes narrowed.

‘How dare you,' he snarled, his fingers tightening on the handle of his sword. ‘I'm a trader, not a monster.' He took a step towards Whisker and spat, ‘Dead rats are worth nothing to me – don't you forget it!'

Whisker cowered back, panting for breath, the fox's words echoing in his head.
Dead rats are worth nothing …

‘So – she's – alive?' he gasped.

The fox stared at Whisker, unmoved. For a moment he said nothing. Then he answered with a single word, ‘Yes.'

Whisker's heart almost burst from his chest.

Anna was alive!

‘W-where can I find her?' he cried, yearning to know more.