by Lian Tanner
‘Yes,’ said Pummel. ‘But I don’t think it’s broken.’
‘If you are lucky, you will have a scar,’ said the Young Margrave, perching himself on the edge of the table.
‘Why would I want a scar?’ asked Pummel.
‘It is a badge of honour.’ The Heir tapped the scar on his own cheek. ‘It shows you are a fighter.’
‘But I’m not,’ said Pummel. ‘I’m a farm boy.’ He glanced sideways at the Young Margrave. ‘A clodhopper.’
To Duckling’s surprise, the Heir blushed. Then he leaped to his feet, saying, ‘The stablemaster has promised me one of the colts. I must go and see.’
‘We’ll come with you,’ said Pummel, beginning to rise.
The boy stared at him in astonishment. ‘Did I tell you to come with me?’
‘No, but – we’re your new companions. Aren’t we?’
The boy snorted. ‘I did not ask for new companions. I do not need new companions.’
‘It was Her Grace the Margravine’s order, Brun,’ said Otte.
The Heir rolled his eyes. ‘They are still not coming with me.’
‘Then you should take their oaths before you go,’ said Otte.
‘You can stand in for me,’ said the Heir. ‘You have done it before.’ And he escaped out the door.
Otte frowned and dipped a linen strip into one of the bowls. He began to wash Pummel’s cheek, saying, ‘It will sting a little.’
A bit later, he added, ‘He has to be like that.’
‘Who has to be like what?’ asked Duckling.
‘Brun. The Young Margrave. He has to be hard. Or the grafs and grafines would—’ Otte made his other hand into a claw, like a wild animal tearing down its prey. ‘He is nice, really.’
Duckling smiled as if she believed him, and leaned against the wall. But her mind was focused on escape. With a bit of luck, she could still stay ahead of trouble.
Soon, she thought. I’ll get out soon.
OBSERVATION AND VIGILANCE
Pummel wondered if he was going to be sick.
It wasn’t his wound that was bothering him. Otte had cleaned it and put some sort of ointment on it, and although it hurt, it was an ordinary sort of hurt, like the time he’d fallen out of the hay loft and cut his leg open.
But what he’d felt down in the first bailey hadn’t been ordinary. That sudden moment of intense cold, that no one else seemed to have noticed. That moment of gut-wrenching wrongness.
He tried to tell himself that it was just because everything in the Strong-hold was so strange – the fierceness, the swordplay, the old-fashioned clothes.
But the truth was, to a boy who’d grown up on a farm, the Strong-hold was less strange than the city. Pummel was used to living without watergas and street-rigs. He was used to candles and dogs, and rushes on the floor for a bit of warmth in winter, and windows with no glass in them.
He wasn’t used to being around such important people, of course.
And that was the other thing that was curdling his stomach. The Young Margrave didn’t want his new companions.
What if he sends us away? What if I lose this job too?
‘Pummel?’ said Otte. ‘Will you kneel beside Duckling?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pummel, and he knelt on the floor.
Otte unrolled one of the scrolls. ‘You will be speaking your oaths to me, but really you are saying them to the Heir of Neuhalt. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Duckling.
Maybe I could ask for a job with the horses, thought Pummel. There must be something I can do.
Otte cleared his throat and read from the scroll. ‘Do you swear to serve me, Walter Alfrenk Rolfi Lotwig Rondert von Neuhalt, with faith and allegiance?’
‘I thought his name was Brun,’ said Duckling.
‘The Heir always has a family name,’ said Otte, looking up from the scroll. ‘That is for his friends and relatives. But he has formal names also. Do you swear?’
‘Yes!’ said Pummel, as enthusiastically as he could.
‘Yes,’ said Duckling.
‘Do you promise to defend me, the Heir, with all your strength, no matter how powerful the forces ranged against you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you swear to keep this vow even in the face of death?’
‘Yes!’
‘Yes.’
‘Now,’ said Otte, ‘I must do the other side of the oath, also, for the Heir.’
To Pummel’s surprise, Otte grabbed two wooden crutches from the floor behind his stool and hauled himself to his feet. No. His foot. One of his legs ended at the knee.
He stood very stiffly, as if he expected Pummel or Duckling to say something. When they didn’t, he relaxed a little.
‘I,’ he said, ‘Walter Alfrenk Rolfi Lotwig Rondert von Neuhalt, do swear to protect these my subjects in all things, even in the face of death. So doth this oath bind us all.’
Then he dropped the scroll onto the table and swung forward on his crutches, saying, ‘Come, I will show you where you sleep.’
‘Are you the young graf of something-or-other?’ asked Duckling, as she and Pummel followed the younger boy along a passage.
Otte smiled and shook his head. ‘I am just Brun’s scribe. Arms-mistress Krieg is my mother, so I would have been the next arms-master, but—’ He indicated his leg.
‘What’s a scribe?’ asked Pummel.
‘I write for Brun and keep his records – here, these are your rooms.’
He showed them two tiny curtained alcoves with a straw mattress on the floor of each and a wooden chest tucked in beside the mattress.
‘If you need more straw,’ said Otte, ‘you must ask the steward.’
Then, because the Young Margrave still hadn’t returned, he led the way further along the passage to show them the Heir’s bedchamber, with Otte’s straw mattress on the floor in the corner. He also showed them the Heir’s dressing room, the Heir’s privy, the Heir’s reception chamber and the Heir’s door guards (who Pummel and Duckling had already met).
‘I’m glad to see the Young Margrave’s so well protected,’ said Duckling, as they walked back to the long room. ‘I suppose those guards stay on the outer door all night?’
Otte shook his head. ‘When the Heir goes to bed they stand directly outside his chamber.’
‘Oh,’ said Duckling. ‘That’s interesting.’
They had just sat down at the table when a bell began to toll somewhere in the distance. A moment later the door opened and the Young Margrave strolled in.
Pummel leaped to his feet and stood very straight, trying to look companionish. The door opened again and Arms-mistress Krieg entered. Behind her—
Behind her trotted a troop of white mice.
There were twelve of them, dressed in tiny green tunics, and they walked two abreast, keeping in line so neatly that each mouse’s nose almost touched the tail of the one in front.
When they were three human paces from the table, Arms-mistress Krieg said, ‘Mice garrison, halt!’
The mice stopped. Two young men and a young woman came hurrying into the room with covered trays, treading carefully so as not to squash the mice. They bowed to the Young Margrave, bobbed their heads at Otte and glanced curiously at Pummel and Duckling. Then they placed the trays on the table and whipped off the covers.
It was a long time since breakfast. Pummel’s mouth watered. ‘Roast beef,’ he whispered to Duckling.
‘Bacon,’ she whispered back. ‘And fish. And cheese pastries. Do you think we’ll get any of it?’
‘I hope so.’
One of the young men put an empty plate in the middle of the table. He spooned a small portion of each dish onto the plate, then bent down, scooped up the mice and sat them next to it.
Pummel and Duckling looked at each other, puzzled.
Arms-mistress Krieg said, ‘Mice garrison, eat.’
The mice picked up morsels of food in their paws and began to nib
ble at them. The arms-mistress watched them closely, but said nothing, until the mice had emptied the plate.
Then she took a half-hour glass from the pouch at her waist and upended it. ‘Mice garrison, fall in.’
The mice arranged themselves in neat rows. Some of them had spatters of gravy on their tunics, or pastry clinging to their whiskers and paws. But they didn’t move until Arms-mistress Krieg said, ‘Scrub.’
The mice immediately began to clean themselves, licking their paws and wiping them over whiskers, fur, ears, nose and tunics with neat, serious movements.
No one else moved. The Young Margrave appeared half asleep, but Otte, Krieg and the servants were still and watchful.
The roast beef grew cold. The fish congealed on the plate.
‘Why isn’t he eating?’ breathed Pummel.
‘Wait,’ whispered Duckling. ‘I think I know.’
At last the half-hour glass emptied. The mice stood in their ranks; Arms-mistress Krieg said, ‘All is well, Young Ser.’
The Young Margrave nodded. The manservant stepped forward again and began to dish out a plateful of food for him. Otte helped himself to bacon and fish.
‘What was all that about?’ whispered Pummel.
Duckling put her mouth to his ear. ‘The mice are his tasters. To make sure no one poisons his food.’
Pummel’s eyebrows nearly leaped off his forehead. ‘Someone might try to poison the Young Margrave?’
‘It’s a risky business being Heir,’ whispered Duckling.
It took Pummel a moment to absorb such shocking news. But then it set him thinking. He had been taught Observation and Vigilance, and to be Alert but not Alarmed. If he could prove himself useful, the Young Margrave might decide to keep him.
He straightened his shoulders and set himself to notice everything that happened.
The Young Margrave finished his meal, laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. (He didn’t eat the fish, thought Pummel. But he liked the pastries.)
The servant lifted the mice back onto the floor. (That man’s got favourites. He tickles them as he picks them up.)
Arms-mistress Krieg said, ‘Mice garrison, march.’ (One of the mice is limping.)
Pummel wasn’t sure whether he should say something or not. But then he thought, They risked their lives for the Young Margrave. He’ll want to know if one of them’s hurt.
‘Excuse me, Arms-mistress,’ he said. ‘I think the mouse fourth from the front has a sore leg.’
The Young Margrave opened his eyes.
‘Mice garrison – halt!’ Arms-mistress Krieg picked up the fourth mouse and inspected it. ‘You are right. I will dispose of it.’
‘What?’ said Pummel. ‘No, I didn’t mean—’
The Young Margrave interrupted him. ‘Give it to Otte. I will kill it later.’
While Otte tucked the injured mouse inside the top of his tunic, Arms-mistress Krieg marched the rest of the garrison out of the room. The servants cleared away the plates and the Young Margrave closed his eyes again.
‘Ser,’ said Pummel.
Duckling tugged at his sleeve. ‘Shhhh!’
But Pummel couldn’t stay silent. ‘Ser, that mouse just risked its life for you.’
The Young Margrave opened his eyes. He didn’t address Pummel; instead, he stared at the ceiling and said, ‘Does this boy wish to keep his job, I wonder?’
‘Yes,’ said Pummel. ‘Of course I do. But the mouse—’
‘Or would he rather,’ continued the Young Margrave, ‘have his nose cut off, and be thrown into the dungeons?’
EVERYONE SEES THINGS DIFFERENTLY
By the end of the day, Pummel was exhausted. Too much had happened, and he had too much on his mind.
But we haven’t been sent away yet, he thought, as he took off his boots, folded his tunic and lowered himself onto the mattress. So there’s still hope. And things will look better after I’ve had a good sleep.
Unfortunately, his cheek was aching more than ever, the straw poked through the mattress covering, and he could smell bed bugs. So although he was tired, he couldn’t sleep, but lay there, scratching and thinking.
He knew that the Margravine had to be tough – it was part of being the ruler of Neuhalt. And the Young Margrave was the Heir, so he had to be tough too.
But what about loyalty? thought Pummel. Doesn’t it go both ways? If everyone, including the mice, is loyal to the Faithful Throne, shouldn’t the Faithful Throne be loyal to everyone?
Including the mice?
It was an uncomfortable thought. The last thing Pummel wanted to do was criticise the Heir. But he couldn’t help worrying about that poor mouse.
At some point he must have fallen asleep, because he woke up with a crick in his neck and the awareness that someone was creeping past his alcove.
Observation and Vigilance! Be Alert but not Alarmed!
Pummel rolled off his mattress and peeped through the curtain, just in time to see Duckling disappearing down the passage with a lighted candle in her hand.
Where’s she going?
He rubbed his eyes. Duckling wouldn’t be walking around the Strong-hold in the middle of the night without good reason. And whatever she was doing, she might need help.
He picked up his own candle, which he had left burning, and hurried out of the alcove, hardly noticing that the small leather pouch he had left in his boot was now clutched in his fist.
Duckling had managed to contain her impatience all afternoon and into the evening. She had smiled and nodded and made herself agreeable, while watching for a chance to escape.
Now at last it had come.
I’m on my way, Grandpa, she thought. Better start packing your bags. We’ll be out of the city by morning, and out of Neuhalt by tomorrow night.
She crept down the passage with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. She had no idea where her own clothes were, and she wasn’t about to go looking. What would she say if she ran into one of Arms-mistress Krieg’s soldiers?
I’m getting out of here. Bye bye.
‘Might as well put my head straight on the chopping block,’ she whispered to herself as she slipped into the room where they’d spent most of the day.
She was creeping past the table, with its books and scrolls, when she heard a voice behind her.
‘I want to help.’
Duckling spun around so fast that the blanket flew off her shoulders and landed on the nearest stool.
‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed.
‘Same as you,’ whispered Pummel. ‘I want to help.’
Same as me? thought Duckling. Is he escaping too? No, that doesn’t make sense. I’ve got to get rid of him.
She picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders again. ‘Help how?’
‘Two sets of eyes are better than one, aren’t they? For checking?’
‘Checking what?’
‘Everything. If someone might try to poison the Heir, they might try other things too. We need to make sure no one’s hidden themselves away in these rooms.’ Pummel shut his eyes, as if he was thinking. ‘We should look in all the clothes chests. And behind the tapestries. And under the tables.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Is that everything?’
Duckling forced a smile. ‘I think so. How about you take the rooms to the north of here and I’ll take these ones.’
Pummel didn’t move. ‘When Ma and I search for a lost cow, we always go together—’
I’m going to scream, thought Duckling. I really am.
‘—because everyone sees things differently. Maybe she’ll miss something, or maybe I will, but the other one’ll pick it up.’
Duckling said, very carefully, ‘We’re looking for assassins, not cows.’
‘Which makes it even more important,’ said Pummel. ‘Because a cow wouldn’t creep up behind you and whack you over the head. But an assassin might. You check this room while I keep a lookout.’ And he turned away from her, as if t
he whole thing was settled to everyone’s satisfaction.
Duckling rested her forehead against the nearest tapestry, wondering what she was going to do now. Pummel was more stubborn than she’d realised—
She heard him stifle a yawn, and turned back to him. ‘I really think we should split up, Pummel. Otherwise this’ll take ages and we won’t get enough sleep, and we’ll be too tired to keep a proper eye on the Young Margrave. I’d hate to have something bad happen to him, just because we dozed off.’
Pummel yawned again. It must have been catching, because Duckling yawned too, and shivered. The room was growing colder, and her breath made little puffs of whiteness in the air. Her legs felt weak. The flame of her candle guttered in its holder and began to die.
She leaned against the tapestry. Her eyes drifted shut.
Beside her, Pummel mumbled, ‘Something – wrong.’
‘Mm,’ said Duckling.
She didn’t mean to start humming. The sound formed in her throat accidentally, and then accidentally slid into the shiny little tune. ‘Mmm. Mmm mm-mm.’
The breeze came out of nowhere and wrapped itself around her, as warm as a breath of summer. The candle flame brightened. Some of the strength came back into Duckling’s legs and her eyes opened, just as a cat came howling through the nearest doorway and launched itself at Pummel.
The cold had forced Pummel’s eyes shut and muddled his mind. I need to sleep, he thought.
Beside him, Duckling was resting against the tapestry, which suddenly looked far more comfortable than Pummel’s bed.
He took a step towards it. He would rest too. He would slide down the wall, and by the time he got to the floor, he’d be asleep.
Except there was something hot in the palm of his hand. Something burning.
He tried to drop it, whatever it was. But it wouldn’t let go. It stuck to his hand and kept him awake just long enough …
… for a cat to come yowling out of nowhere and thrust its claws into his bare foot.
‘Ow!’ he yelled.
At the same time, Duckling leaped away from the tapestry and raised her blanket as if she was going to throw it over the cat.
‘No!’ cried Pummel.
It was the same cat he’d seen in Tooth and Claw; the one that had sneaked into the Strong-hold. But now her fur stood on end, and her eyes blazed up at him.