by Alex Milway
“They still keep them here locked up, like grisly exhibition pieces of what not to do.”
Indigo stopped talking, and he twisted a screw on his lamp to make it go out. The cell was plunged into darkness once more.
“I only have a small amount of oil,” he said.
“I’m surprised they let you keep that,” said Drewshank. “They took everything of ours, including Emiline’s mouse.”
“They didn’t check my boot,” he said wisely.
“So when you say mistakes…,” said Emiline.
“Chimeras, monsters, call them what you like.”
“Monsters?”
Indigo made a sigh and tried not to sound annoyed.
“Yes, monsters. Sometimes you don’t know what will happen as a result of the crossing of species. There are creatures in this place that would make your skin crawl.”
“You seem to know so much about this place,” said Drewshank inquisitively. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself?”
“I was one of the mousekeepers here….”
“I see,” interrupted Drewshank.
“But I stuck my nose in too far. They don’t like people knowing what goes on.”
“So you know a way out?”
“There’s just the one—through the front door. Which means you’d have to get through locked doors and armed soldiers. I’m sorry to say, there’s very little chance of escape.”
“In my experience, there’s always a means of escape,” said Drewshank boldly.
“I didn’t say it was impossible, Drewshank. Do you have a means of getting off the island if you do get out?”
“We do,” said Emiline confidently.
“I think it’s time we struck a deal, then,” said Indigo. “I get you out of here, you get me off the island.”
“How do we know we can trust you?” asked Emiline.
“You don’t, but that’s a risk you need to take….”
“Mr. Mysterious,” quipped Drewshank.
“Maybe,” replied Indigo, “but trusting me is surely an easier option than living in this prison cell.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with you. What do you think, Emiline?”
She hesitated before agreeing.
“No funny business, promise?” she said sternly.
“No funny business,” he replied.
“Then I think you have a deal,” said Drewshank triumphantly.
The cell door chimed as it swung open against the wall, and a roly-poly guard stood silhouetted in the light of the passageway.
“Come on, Drewshank!” he growled, tapping a truncheon repeatedly against his leg. “Lady Pettifogger wants a word….”
“Oh, she does, does she?” muttered Drewshank, blinking wildly as his eyes came to terms with the situation. After a long time in the dark it felt as though he’d forgotten the very idea of light. He stood up slowly and trudged up the few steps to the door.
“Don’t like the light, eh?” said the guard, poking Drewshank’s back to force him out. He grabbed the door, pulled it shut, and twisted a giant key in its lock.
“I don’t mind it, actually. I’d rather be in the dark than have to look at your ugly face,” he replied. The truncheon hit into his back.
“Keep that fancy mouth of yours shut, or you’ll get more of that,” snapped the guard.
“Ah, do your worst,” he muttered.
The guard pushed him onward, and Drewshank found himself negotiating a narrow corridor. The walls were painted white, and every few meters along, an iron door stood on each side; they all had small glass windows, though only a few showed any light from the inside.
“Keep your eyes out of them,” barked the guard, watching Drewshank trying to catch sight of what lay beyond the doors. “You ain’t here on a sightseeing trip! Turn left!”
Drewshank followed the corridor as the guard asked, and he soon found himself at another door.
“Open it!” said the guard, prodding Drewshank in the back once more.
He twisted the polished door handle and made his way in.
“My dear Devlin!” proclaimed Lady Pettifogger, standing against a wall at the far side. The room was more brightly lit than the corridor, and it was quite empty, apart from a wide iron table and a cluster of chairs. Once again, the walls were whitewashed and sterile-looking, with oil lamps dotted all around.
“Do sit down,” she said.
Drewshank pulled a chair out and slid down onto its hard seat.
“You’re not ones for luxury in this place, are you,” he said caustically.
“I don’t think you’ll see much luxury anymore,” she replied. “You’re to be returned to Dire Street Prison in the next day or so.”
“Now you really are spoiling me!”
“Only the best for Captain Drewshank! Our hospitality knows no bounds for a man of your stature.”
Drewshank huffed. He didn’t care much for Pettifogger’s company or her conversation.
“So what do you want of me?” he said bluntly. “And where’s Lord Butterbum in all this?”
Pettifogger smiled.
“You have such a way with words, Devlin,” she said. “Alexander is off exploring for Isiah—some new discovery or something—and, of course, the reason you’re here is I want to know where Mousebeard is. Now that you’re the best of friends, I’m certain you have the answer.”
Drewshank let out a dry laugh. In the current circumstances he realized he’d much rather have the pirate’s company.
“I don’t know where he is.”
“How about that Algernon Mountjack then? I presume he’s the one who managed to sneak you here with his infernal submarine?”
“Oh, do me a favor…,” he said, crossing his arms in rebuttal.
“Have it your way then,” said Pettifogger, her voice no longer playful. “I suppose your fellow prisoner has informed you of what we’ve achieved here?”
“That Indigo? He’s not the chattiest of folk,” he lied.
“Oh come on, Drewshank. I’m certain you know of our success in breeding the Golden Mouse. Old Town will soon be the power of Midena once more, thanks to our limitless supply of gold.”
“If that’s what you think, then you’re a greater fool than I thought you were.”
“We’re not fools, Devlin….”
Lady Pettifogger walked to the door and called to the guard. In a few seconds a man had appeared and passed her a cage.
“See for yourself,” she said proudly.
Drewshank watched as she placed the large cage on the table. Through the bars at its front he saw a mouse. The first thing that struck him was its size, which was at least as long as his forearm, and then he saw its pure golden fur sparkling intensely. It was undoubtedly a Golden Mouse, but it looked so unnatural and overgrown.
Drewshank moved his hand closer to touch it, but it reared frantically onto its haunches and lunged at the bars, baring its long fangs in the process. It took him totally by surprise, and he jumped, before slowly pushing his chair backward away from the table.
“What have you done?” he said. “You’ve bred a monster….”
“Oh, I assure you, that’s nothing compared to some of the mishaps we’ve had. But we’re almost there now. This variation is at least manageable,” she said.
“Manageable? Are you mad?”
“How simple you are!” she tutted. “The fur on this creature is worth three thousand schillings at least.”
Drewshank had to admit that this was an awful lot of money, and he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment of the fact. But then he realized it was a ludicrous exercise.
“There is absolutely no way you can get away with this. Absolutely no way!”
“Devlin, we already have gotten away with it. The original Golden Mice that you helped steal are in safekeeping in Old Town, ready for the Illyrians to collect them when they choose. They won’t suspect a thing.”
“But Mousebeard will,” he said assuredly.
“Will he indeed?” she replied knowingly. “If only you could tell him. It’s a shame you’ll be dead before you get the chance.”
Drewshank started to scrape his fingers along his palms in anger.
“So back to the question I asked you at the start of this wonderful conversation,” she said, picking up the cage and moving to the door. “Where exactly is that pirate?”
“I have no idea,” he said firmly.
“Well, it would appear that you really have signed your own death warrant this time.”
Lady Pettifogger left the room and shouted for the guard.
“It was nice knowing you,” she said, striding away.
“Did you see what the time was?” Indigo asked, as Drewshank was thrown back into the cell.
“You could ask me how I am first,” he replied, suddenly blind again in the dark.
“What happened?” asked Emiline, desperate for news.
“I have no idea of the time,” said Drewshank, “but I did see the fruits of their labor, and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Really?” said Emiline, intrigued.
“A massive Golden Mouse—that seems to have little in the way of manners yet very large fangs!”
“No!” breathed Emiline in disbelief.
“I told you so,” said Indigo. “They’re a disaster waiting to happen.”
“And we don’t have long until we’re sent to Old Town,” added Drewshank, “so any plans of escape should be put into action now, I feel.”
“That’s why I asked the time…. How many guards were there?” said Indigo.
“Just the one, and Pettifogger.”
“Then it’s evening—we should make our move.”
“Now?” asked Emiline.
She heard Indigo cross the cell, and she realized he’d walked over to the door.
“They have fewer guards inside at night—and the scientists working on the mice will have gone home a few hours ago. Give me a minute…”
“What are you up to?” asked Drewshank.
“Ever heard of Mousing Explosive?”
“Of course,” said Emiline.
“If you just add a few ingredients to the mix, you get a much better kick….”
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah—amazing what you can fit in the base of your boot!”
“Are you sure we should be blowing things up?” asked Drewshank warily.
“Unless you have any better ideas,” said Indigo.
Drewshank remained silent. He had none.
“Okay, close your ears and get ready to run. When it blows, head out to the left. Got it?”
“What then?” asked Drewshank. “We have no weapons.”
“I’ll get them….”
Before Indigo could finish talking, a bright flash lit up the room, and a thunderous boom echoed around its stark interior.
“Run!” he shouted.
The door swung wide, its lock blown to pieces, and small fragments of metal sprayed around the room.
Emiline and Drewshank rushed out of the cell, both of them finding the light hard to deal with. They reached a door and found it firmly locked. Drewshank charged into it with his shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge.
Indigo, however, ran to the right along the corridor. He glimpsed each door as he passed, and eventually he stopped at one where the light was on. It was the guardroom. He pulled the door open and rushed inside, beating the guard to his own truncheon, which was hanging on a hook by the door.
“What!” shouted the guard furiously, as Indigo smashed it down on his head, knocking him out cold. The man crumpled to the ground, and Indigo looked around. He knew the workings of the Trading Center well, and soon he found a bunch of keys on a table. He heard Drewshank shout for him—he knew their door would be locked—but there was one more thing to do yet.
Leaving the guardroom, he darted to another door just a few meters farther down. He knew exactly what awaited inside. He went in, smashed open a cupboard with the truncheon, and found what he was looking for. Inside lay his mousebox and belt, as well as Emiline’s and Drewshank’s belongings. He picked them all up and tucked them under his arm. But he couldn’t leave just yet. At the end of the room was another door, more secure and stronger than even the cell door.
When he heard the frantic scraping coming from the other side, the sound of claws on metal, he knew there was only one thing to do. Indigo put everything down and lifted his boot. With a small flick of a hook on its side, the heel shot around to reveal small compartments stuffed with all manner of objects. He found his last small lump of enhanced Mousing Explosive, pushed it into the lock, and drew out a short fuse. With a tiny spark the fuse caught fire, and Indigo collected his things and ran.
“Where have you been?” shouted Drewshank angrily as Indigo reached them. For the first time they got a good look at him. His clothes were typical of a mousekeeper, with a tight grey jacket and thick cotton trousers, but his olive skin revealed he was not from Midena.
“Here…,” said Indigo, passing them their things.
Emiline hooked her belt around her waist and heard Portly squeak angrily from within. Thankfully, he was still in one piece. Indigo slotted a key into the door just as the second explosion boomed out.
“What was that?” said Drewshank, tying his sword around his waist.
“Just a going-away present for them,” Indigo replied, grinning. “We’d better hurry….”
The door opened easily, and they ran out into yet another corridor.
“This way!” he called, running off at full speed.
They veered around a tight corner and suddenly found themselves face-to-face with two soldiers, their swords at the ready. Indigo held out his hand so that Emiline and Drewshank would stop behind him.
“You don’t know what you’re taking on,” growled Indigo to the soldiers.
They laughed at him and stepped closer.
“I mean it,” he said, and lowered a hand to the large mousebox hanging at his waist. His fingers found the latch and loosened the lid.
“Get him!” the soldiers shouted.
Indigo stood firm and flipped back the lid of his mousebox. As if they had springs in their heels, two mice jumped out and launched themselves at the soldiers.
Emiline gasped in amazement. The mice were Sharpclaws, but a rare kind, with a white stripe running from the tips of their noses to their tails. Their huge razor-sharp claws flicked out and slashed down at the soldiers’ swords, slicing them cleanly into scraps of metal.
Indigo whistled, and the Sharpclaws jumped back to form a barrier between him and the soldiers, their claws at the ready.
“I told you,” Indigo said calmly. “Now let us pass!”
The soldiers meekly shrank back against the wall, the fear of a Sharpclaw too much even for them.
“Thank you,” he said, picking up the mice and placing them back in his mousebox. He called for Drewshank and Emiline to follow him, and they climbed a set of stairs that opened out into the Trading Center. The lights were off, but as they crashed loudly into the room, the noisy squeaking of caged mice rang out like a dawn chorus.
“There’ll be many more soldiers patrolling outside,” said Indigo, “and I doubt we’ll be able to get past them all unscathed.”
“What are a few soldiers?” said Drewshank, drawing his sword. “With those mice, we could take on the world!”
The Heracles Mouse
A TITAN AMONG MICE, THE HERACLES MOUSE IS AS STRONG AS AN OX AND almost as big, but its numbers in the wild are now very few. Difficult to tame and very aggressive, this mouse has never been a favorite of collectors, although its strength is known to have been employed by the ancient Olnar civilization for pulling plows and carrying heavy loads.
MOUSING NOTES
Now so rare, the Heracles Mouse is soon to be added to the endangered species list, making it illegal for any collector to own one.
The Professor
KEEP US RIGHT ON THAT C
OURSE!” SAID MOUSEBEARD, lifting a telescope to his eye.
The Mural Isles were a cluster of small granite islands that towered out of the sea like stalagmites. The community that inhabited them lived not only in the series of tunnels and caves within the islands’ cores, but also in long arching bridges stretching from one island to the next, enabling people to travel among them without taking to the water. Visible from miles away, the narrow tips of the islands were host to huge windmills spinning serenely in the powerful easterly winds.
“As beautiful as I’d been led to believe,” he muttered.
Fenwick approached the pirate to let him know all was well.
“The crew’s getting used to the speed of the ship now,” he said. “Working like a treat. And your Rigger Mice seem better skilled than most.”
“That’s a good sign, Mr. Fenwick. It’s always hard taking on a new crew.”
Fenwick took a greater look at the islands they were approaching. He’d heard of the Mural Isles before, but only for their outstanding colonies of Sea Mice, not for the towers of windmills.
“They’re quite something…,” he said.
Mousebeard agreed.
“People have lived here for nearly thirty years now. The inhabitants use the windmills for power, and they need nothing from elsewhere. They live off the sea, harvesting natural resources. They even harness the sun and the wind to remove the salt from the sea to create drinking water. I always marvel at the ingenuity of these people.”
“So this person we’re after…”
“Professor Lugwidge,” said Mousebeard.
“How’s he gonna help us?”
Mousebeard scrunched his beard between his fingers and felt the Methuselah Mouse within, sleeping peacefully.
“Professor Lugwidge was my tutor at the Old Rodents’ Academy. I haven’t seen him for many years, but I should like to ask him just what he knows about the woman on Stormcloud Island. He told me about her originally, after all.”
“It sounds like you might have a score to settle….”
“You could well be right,” said Mousebeard. “But in this instance knowledge is of more use to me than violence. I’ll ask him nicely first…”