The Mousehunter (5 page)

Drewshank’s face turned a light shade of pink, but he embraced his embarrassment.

“Beatrice Pettifogger . . . ,” said Drewshank, with distant memories flashing before his eyes, “now there’s someone a wiser man would try desperately to avoid.”

This time Lovelock allowed a smile to appear. “I know she’d be delighted to see you again, captain,” he said.

“Delighted? I’ll make sure I look my best then.”

Drewshank unclasped a button at the top of his jacket and felt better prepared for it.

“We’ll set sail at high tide tomorrow morning,” he said determinedly. “At full sail, with the wind behind us, we’ll make Hamlyn in good time. My crew will relish the challenge.”

“I knew you’d be the man for the job, Drewshank,” said Lovelock. “I’ll come to the harbor in the morning to see that all things are in order.”

“Excellent,” said Drewshank. “Till tomorrow then.”

He rose from the chair and flicked his hair back. Drewshank was a man of many qualities, not least in his role as captain of the
Flying Fox,
but he did like to make a grand exit. He swirled on the spot and left the room.

“Till tomorrow . . . ,” replied Lovelock.

Outside the office, Drewshank met the butler. He was carrying coffee, but the captain resisted its delicious aroma. Instead he carried on down the stairs, collected his long overcoat, and left the mansion.

As he made his way to the carriage at the roadside, he couldn’t stop thinking about the journey before him. Catching Mousebeard would make him truly famous and rich beyond his wildest dreams. Because his mind was filled with thoughts of gold, he barely took note when a quiet tearing sound emanated from below the seat he was seated upon.

Something had sneaked into the carriage with him; something small and furry with terribly sharp claws.

The Messenger Mouse

BELONGING TO THE GENUS OF AVIAN MICE, WHICH INCLUDE SUCH PRIZE
specimens as the Red-winged Onloko, the Messenger Mouse has been utilized throughout the past two centuries for the delivery of letters and important information. These small winged mice have an average wingspan of just under half a meter and are capable of traveling hundreds of miles in one flight. Using a particularly keen sense of smell, these light-bodied rodents can be trained to pinpoint specific destinations.

Originally discovered on the island of Wihan at the edge of the Cold Sea, Messenger Mice were so rare that only the Official Postal Service was sanctioned to use them. However, after a successful breeding program, it is thought that almost two-thirds of the population of Midena now keep a Messenger Mouse among their collection.

MOUSING NOTES

Messenger Mice are best kept outdoors in good-sized pens, where they have the freedom to stretch their wings. If you feel like spoiling a Messenger Mouse, keep an eye out for Frizzle Worms—a delicacy that they seem to rate very highly.

Running Away

A
T THE BREAK OF DAY, THE OVERNIGHT FOG HAD
cleared and the harbor was bustling with life. Taverns opened their doors and numerous stalls popped up at its outer edges, providing a bright backdrop to the salesmen and sailors who muscled their way along the cobblestones. Fishermen hurried along in their knee-high rubber boots, trying to avoid the reeking, troublesome seadogs making their way back to ship after a night of hard drinking. People of all colors and creeds mingled at the docks, and by day it was an exciting place to be.

With the arrival of ships throughout the night, news had come flooding in of an unusual weather front off the coast of Hamlyn. Three vessels had vanished at sea during the night, and after the sinking of the
Lady Caroline
in recent days, it did little to settle sailors’ nerves. Not only was Mousebeard in the vicinity, but a treacherous storm threatened their livelihood.

Needless to say, voyages were being diverted or canceled to avoid the menace. Drewshank, however, had no such option.

“Bring all the gunpowder aboard!” he shouted briskly to a hairy sailor on the quayside. Drewshank had gotten little sleep the previous night, but he would make sure the ship left on time.

“Aye, sir!” replied the sailor as he ticked off an entry on a piece of notepaper. Drewshank walked the ship and checked on all the crew: carpenters chipped away on the gun deck, making space for the new cannons; pigs and cows were herded below; sailors climbed the lofty masts with Rigger Mice in tow and mended any broken stitching on the sails.

Captain Drewshank oversaw all these movements and repairs along with his burly right-hand man, Mr. Fenwick. It was a massive undertaking, for the
Flying Fox
had to be fully prepared to face such an enemy as Mousebeard. High tide was in a few hours, and they had to depart on time so as not to come aground in the shallow route to the sea.

As he went to check food supplies in the mess, a young boy approached. His clothes were far too big for him and he’d tied the trousers into large knots at the ankles to stop him from tripping over. His dark scruffy hair hung limply, and he looked like he’d had a very trying morning.

“Mr. Piper,” said Drewshank, “how are things below-decks? Have you gotten rid of that troublesome mouse yet?”

Mr. Piper, or Scratcher, as he was familiarly known, was only ten years old, and was the
Flying Fox
’s mousekeeper. Never a boy of great natural ability, Scratcher always had to work hard to get anywhere, but he did a good job of caring for all the nautical working mice that were needed aboard ship.

“Captain, he just keeps escaping,” he said breathlessly. “He’s torn hammocks and sliced crates clean open. A pound of hardtack’s been devoured too. There are crumbs everywhere!”

“This won’t do, Mr. Piper,” replied Drewshank.

“I’m trying my hardest, sir,” the boy said, stooping to catch a breath. “It’s as though he knows every move I make.”

“There’s no time for this. We simply can’t set sail with him onboard. The
Fox
will soon be looking holier than Reverend Doyly.”

Scratcher stepped back to attention. “Yessir,” he replied snappily.

“As wily as he may be, he’s only a Sharpclaw,” said Drewshank. “Admittedly his claws are the size of daggers, but come on! Exert yourself !”

“But, sir . . . ,” insisted Scratcher, “I’m only a mousekeeper! I’m not trained for this sort of thing. He cuts through my nets and traps. There’s nothing that can capture him.”

Drewshank stuttered. Despite his bravado, he had no idea how to catch the mouse. Still, it would be a stout challenge for the boy.

“Outwit it!” he barked.

“Yes, sir!” replied Scratcher meekly. The boy brushed aside his hair, clenched his fists, and stormed off below-decks.

“Useless boy,” tutted Drewshank unfairly.

When the rising sun hit the window of Emiline’s room, she rose wearily from her bed. Her mouse Portly greeted her with a few high-pitched squeaks, and she wished him a good morning in reply.

The previous night Emiline had made a decision. Whatever else had come to pass by lunchtime, one thing was certain: she was going to be on Drewshank’s ship as it sailed toward Hamlyn. She’d heard the conversation between Isiah Lovelock and Captain Drewshank, and she suddenly knew her future lay outside of a towering mansion in the heart of Old Town. There were bigger and better things for her in this world.

Her bags were already packed. That easy task had been seen to the previous night, but now came the hard part: she had to leave the mansion without being heard.

Emiline picked up Portly’s small travel box and slung it over her back along with her shoulder bag. This carried few things but
The Mousehunter’s Almanac,
numerous traps, tools, and a few clothes.

She tiptoed through her door, shut it quietly, and told Portly not to squeak. As well trained as he was, he did like to squeak whenever possible. Stepping lightly down each stair, she tried to make as little noise as the creaky floorboards allowed. When she reached the third floor, where one of the windows opened onto the flying-mouse pen at the rear of the mansion, she stopped to look out. As she’d hoped, the butler was outside readying messages, tying them into thin leather harnesses that sit on a mouse’s back. This was one of his early-morning duties, along with collecting the papers and getting Mr. Lovelock ready for the day. He appeared to enjoy this task though, and took great pleasure in letting the mice fly out into the sky.

Of all the mice capable of flight, the most useful was the Red-winged Onloko Mouse. Its long feathered wings, which far outstretched its body, allowed it to fly for days on end without rest, and Mr. Spires was preparing two of these for a long-distance haul. Emiline never quite knew whom Mr. Spires sent messages to — she assumed they concerned Mr. Lovelock’s activities, as his mousetrading empire stretched across the whole globe.

Without the butler around to worry about, she continued steadily to the ground floor and detached the tinkling bell from the front door. It took a great amount of courage to open it onto the street, but eventually she walked out into the gloriously bright day.

The mist had cleared from the previous night and it was perfect weather for sailing. A breeze brushed against her face, and the fresh air filled her lungs. From the doorstep there was a clear view of the harbor, and she could see the brightly decorated masts of the
Flying Fox.
She had no time to rest. High tide would be upon them soon, so she took one last look at the mansion and ran off down Grandview.

Luckily for Emiline, the winding roads and pokey alleyways were quiet. It was a lot darker and dingier in the main town than at Grandview: creaking, ancient buildings rose up wherever there was the slightest bit of space, and sunlight struggled to reach the ground. Without the small river of bright blue sky that raced above her, Emiline would have found it hard to believe it was daytime. Some shop fronts and street-facing windows were still shuttered, but she could smell the potent scent of baking bread breaking free of the buildings.

The route opened out into Merchants’ Square, and Emiline stopped to check that Portly was coping with the ride. Thankfully, he’d tied his tail tight around a post within his box and was trying to sleep out the journey. It had been a long time since she’d been to this part of the city, and she was blinded by the light reflecting off the grand white marble buildings at the square’s edges. This was the historical heart of Old Town, playing host to the world-famous Mousetrading Hall — its glowing walls bulging with the weight of its own history. Alongside stood the stately Town Hall, where the first Mousetrading laws were passed, and then at the far corner of the square stood Old Rodent’s Academy — the greatest school of mouse learning in the whole of Midena. Its tall pillars and thick oak doors put Emiline’s decrepit Fluffbin’s School of Mousekeeping to shame. But this wasn’t the time for sightseeing. Emiline closed Portly’s box and set off again, flying across the square and back into the winding alleys. With the city rushing past, she felt a little tug as everything that had ever played a part in her life was being left behind.

Eventually, the streets stopped dead, and the glistening marshy fields spread out in front of her. She was on the short road to the harbor, which ended with the town wall and the Old Town Gate, and high on the horizon was the wide expanse of the sea.

She could already hear voices from the docks. Seagulls filled the sky, and the masts of countless ships bobbed gently over the top of the wall. Emiline felt the nerves tingling through her body.

She continued to the Old Town Gate and stood for a moment in thrall to the sight. Sailors and traders were bustling about everywhere; boats of all shapes and sizes rose from the sea. And standing high up above all other masts were the flags she’d seen from Grandview. There was the
Flying Fox,
the largest ship at port, and it looked wonderful.

“You heading through, miss?” asked the soldier on guard. “Or you just come for the view?”

Emiline was taken by surprise, but she gathered together all her confidence.