The Mousehunter (3 page)

Isiah Lovelock craned forward and picked it up. The little box fitted neatly into the palm of his hand, and he shook it gently, feeling a light weight roll inside. A smile crept along his mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Droob, all seems to be in order. You can leave now.”

“But sir, there was a sailor . . . ,” stammered Mr. Droob, turning the hat in his hands.

“The sailor was a nobody, a pirate at best. If he had been any better he’d still be alive.”

“But for my efforts, sir . . . ,” pleaded Mr. Droob.

“Of course. My butler will reimburse you for your time.”

Mr. Droob walked reluctantly out of the room, and Spires, who was waiting outside, passed a brown envelope into his hands.

“I think this should be sufficient for your efforts,” said the butler, showing Mr. Droob down the stairs.

“I hope I shall find some more things for your master,” he replied, flicking greedily through the stack of money that filled the envelope.

The butler smiled. “I very much hope that you won’t,” he said.

Squeezed into a secret passageway behind Lovelock’s office, Emiline had watched events unfurl through a small slatted air vent. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places but had proved a worthwhile venture, as she’d also found one of the escaped mice asleep on a beam. It was a Long-legged River Mouse, a common species, and one of the most pleasing to collectors because of its exceptionally long and elegant legs. Their cages have to be made especially tall to allow for them.

Emiline placed the mouse safely in a mousebox — she always carried one, like any good mouser should — and hung it on her belt. It didn’t make any fuss, nestling softly down into the fluffy lining.

Her vision was slightly obscured, but she had a good view of Lovelock’s desk. She could see the wooden box clearly. It was a mousebox, just like the one hanging from her waist.

Once the butler and Mr. Droob had left, Lovelock withdrew a small silver knife from his velvet jacket and skewered it carefully into the lid of the box. He twisted it sharply and the lid split open.

His face paled even further. Then he banged the desk violently and slumped into his chair. After a few more moments, Emiline saw his gray spidery fingers reemerge on the desk and rummage in the box. Lovelock withdrew a small cloth mouse stitched from tatters of old material, and Emiline gasped and covered her mouth. She’d heard of this object many times but never thought she’d ever see one: it was the calling card of the most famous pirate of all. Lovelock pulled a cord to his right and a bell rang out downstairs.

After a minute of waiting, Lovelock’s patience withered.

“Spires, blast it, where are you?” he shouted, his words thick with outrage.

Almost immediately, the butler burst through the door, out of breath.

“The pirate’s gone one step too far this time,” said Lovelock, the cloth mouse swinging ominously from between his fingers. “Who does he think he is?”

“Sir?” said the butler quizzically, breathing heavily.

Lovelock stood up and turned to the window. He tugged sharply at the head of the mouse, and the glass steamed up with the warmth of his breath.

“Head to the harbor and find a vessel under the charge of Captain Devlin Drewshank. Tell him that I wish to speak to him as a matter of urgency.”

“But, sir,” protested the butler, “the port is the last place I should be visiting at this hour. It’s a place for pirates and brigands, not butlers . . . .”

Safe in her hiding place, Emiline jumped with excitement. Captain Drewshank was a celebrity among the mousing community ever since he’d stumbled upon a colony of mice on Moon Island. What business would he have coming to Grandview? Lovelock turned and slammed the desk.

“I have no care for them, and neither should you,” he said. “Look at you worrying about such a thing as pirates. You’re the butler of Isiah Lovelock! You wear my crest, man. Who would touch you?”

“But, sir . . . ”

“Plans are already in motion, Spires, and we must act fast to take advantage. Take my carriage and pay the driver whatever is required. I’m sure you’ll make it in one piece.”

Spires swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Lovelock raised the tattered cloth mouse and flicked its head sharply, over and over in his hand. It bounced back up time and time again until, in one quick movement, Lovelock grasped the mouse’s head and tore it fully from its body. He turned and cast both pieces to the floor, looking at Spires with an intensity the butler had never seen in him before.

“Be sure of it,” said Lovelock, “This is the last time Mousebeard gets the better of me.”

Emiline shrank back into the passageway, the word
Mousebeard
circling endlessly through her thoughts. He was the pirate of pirates: bigger, nastier, and hairier than any other. Ever since she was tiny she’d heard horrible tales of him and the infamous mice that lived in his beard.

With her heart beating heavily, Emiline checked the mouse in her care. It was snoring sweetly, and making occasional sleepy squeaks. Something exciting was happening — something bigger and greater than anything that normally happened to a mousekeeper. She wanted to be part of it, and from the look on Portly’s face as his nose twitched through the vent, he wanted it too.

The Sharpclaw Mouse

THE SHARPCLAW IS ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN AND MOST FEARED OF ALL
mice, due to the huge dagger-like claws on its front paws. These claws are almost as long as the mouse itself, and are capable of slicing through wood and metal with effortless ease. The size of its claws doesn’t seem to hinder it, however, as the Sharpclaw has evolved strong hind legs to compensate, allowing it to run almost upright.

Throughout history, Sharpclaws have always proved problematic to humans, and the land of their origin — the isle of Umber in the South Seas — is now little more than a barren lump of rock due to the mouse’s propensity for destroying anything in its path.

MOUSING NOTES

It takes a particularly strong mousebox or cage to contain a Sharpclaw, and in view of this, only the most fearless of collectors or hunters should attempt to keep or catch one. Due to mousing regulations, the species requires an expensive license to be kept in captivity because of its ferocity. Therefore, Sharpclaws are only suitable for rich collectors with more money than sense.

The Privateer

T
HE CARRIAGE TRUNDLED ALONG THE TWISTING ALLEYS
and then the roads that led through the marshes out of Old Town. The fog was thickening, and the driver followed the glow of lamps for direction.

Mr. Lovelock’s butler sat bolt upright, maintaining his calm demeanor despite the sense of unease growing in his stomach and the cold air stinging his face. The harbor was approaching, and there were many places he’d much rather be. Once the carriage arrived at the town gates, the driver pulled tight on his horse’s reins and stopped sharply.

“This ain’t somewhere I’ll be going, sir,” he said.

“But I’ve enough money to pay double for your services, driver. Carry on,” said the butler briskly.

The driver leaned forward and peered deeper into the fog. “No. Money’s no good to me when I’m dead, sir. You go and I’ll await your return,” he added, lowering the reins.

The butler sighed and stepped down to the floor. Taking a lamp from the carriage, he held it aloft and stared into the murky gloom. The harbor lay beyond the rusting iron gates before him. A soldier stood upright at their side, his face weakly lit by a lamp attached to a wall behind. He stamped noisily, took hold of the gates, and pushed them open.

The Old Town Gate had stood for a long time, welcoming people to the town, but also keeping any unwanted seadogs at bay. The butler tightened his cloak and pulled his hat down to obscure his eyes. He walked forward as the gates squealed shut behind him.

Through the thick fog, the butler could see the faint swinging lights that sat atop the bows of ships, and he could smell the salty sea more clearly. The dull clanking of buoys and mastbells littered the air like the sound of lost sheep on a mountaintop, and the distant raucous banter of rum-soaked sailors drifted along on the wind.

He gripped the dagger underneath his cloak and walked more quickly.

The ground was of hard cobblestones, and the butler’s footsteps rang out rather too loudly. He walked past a number of gloomy buildings, their purpose obscured by the fog, and neared the waterfront. The ships were slightly more visible now, looking like the shadowy forms of a ghostly armada in the distance. He found some steps that took him down to the quayside, and stopped dead at the low sea wall, trying to shield himself from the sea spray that threatened to ruin his immaculately polished shoes. Out on the water, he could see the ominous shadows of bows and masts, their shapes emerging and vanishing with the movement of the fog.

From behind him, he heard footsteps. He turned quickly, thrusting the lamp out. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm and he was bundled to the ground. His lamp flew to the floor and smashed, extinguishing the light immediately.

“Release me!” shouted the butler, struggling, while being pressed against the cobblestones. His glasses eased off his nose — he could just about make them out on the ground in front of him.

“What’re you doin’ sneaking about by our boat?” snarled a deep, scratchy, seafaring voice.

“I’m looking for Drewshank.”

“You’re looking for that pirate? What you wanting with him?” said the man, whose hard hobnail boot was stuck firmly in his back.

The butler heard other voices and footsteps approaching.

“I’ll ask you once more,” he pleaded, “kindly take me to Devlin Drewshank. I’ll make sure you’re paid well.”

“Gold, silver, and gems,” said the man, “that’s all you folk are about. What d’you reckon, boys, shall we take him to Drewshank?”

The butler was surrounded by dirty feet. If they so much as touched his glasses, his dagger would be put to full use.

“Let’s throw him in the briney . . . rob him first, of course,” chuckled one voice.

“Nah, let’s string ’im up from the yardarm,” said another.

“That’s a big waste,” bantered a third. “Let’s eat ’im!”

“That’s enough!” boomed a stronger, more assertive voice. The butler felt the weight on his back lighten. “You dirty pirates, treating a nice butler like this.”

Mr. Spires was able to stand and pushed himself to his feet, taking his glasses with him. His hat remained on the floor, covered in dirt. He picked it up and made a big point of cleaning it.

“Captain Drewshank?” he asked hopefully. Once his glasses were righted, he was able to size up his thuggish assailants one by one.

“Why, yes it is,” replied a man proudly.

Drewshank was tall, with a striking, chiseled face. Dressed in a smart blue uniform, he could pass as a gentleman — at least in the present company. But Drewshank was a privateer, a so-called mercenary for hire, which, according to some, made him just short of being a pirate. With a twinkle in his eye, Drewshank had a huge amount of charm and a good nose for making money.

“And why, sir, have you come to call upon me at this late hour?” he said smoothly.

“My master, Isiah Lovelock, requires your presence.”

“Ah! That old rogue, I should have known.” Drewshank took the butler by the arm and pulled him free of the rabble. “You’ll have to excuse them,” he added, “but they help keep unsavory types from the docks. Now, shall we continue this discussion aboard ship?”

“They get more unsavory?” muttered the butler to himself as he followed Drewshank along the quayside.

After a minute’s walk, Drewshank halted before his ship, which was resting sideways along a wide wooden pier. Its hull rose a few meters above his head, and its bowsprit shot out like a spear over the quayside. The ship’s stern was completely lost to the fog, but orange lights glowed from the cabins and deck, highlighting the ship’s beautiful outline and two skeletal masts.

“This is the
Flying Fox,
” said Drewshank, looking up proudly. “No doubt you’ve heard of her.”

“Well, no, sir. I tend not to have time for news of the sea,” replied Spires.