by Lian Tanner
Pummel looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘The gargoyles.’
‘You heard the gargoyles?’
‘Shhhh!’
‘Sorry.’ Very carefully, Duckling whispered, ‘What did the gargoyles say?’
‘You don’t believe me,’ said Pummel. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. But I heard them, Duckling. They were whispering, Kill the girl, kill the girl.’
Duckling stood very still, trying to make sense of it. The gargoyles spoke? They wanted to kill me?
It sounded like one of Grandpa’s stories. The Murderous Gargoyles of Neuhalt, and How I Defeated Them.
But Pummel wasn’t at all like Grandpa, who made up adventures and pretended to be a hero. Pummel was honest. If anything, he was too honest.
What’s more, he’d just saved her life. He could have been killed, but he’d done it anyway.
For the first time, she understood just how shameful it would be to escape from the Strong-hold and leave Pummel to take the blame for the murder of the Young Margrave.
Duckling wasn’t used to shame. Grandpa didn’t believe in it.
She cleared her throat. ‘Uh – why would the gargoyles want to kill me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Pummel. ‘But it must be part of the same plot, mustn’t it? We stopped the assassin, so someone’s trying to stop us.’
Duckling looked up at the remaining gargoyles, and shuddered. ‘Then we’d better watch out for each other, as well as the Young Margrave.’
WHO CAN WE TRUST?
They trailed the Heir and his friends for the rest of the day, staying well away from the gargoyles and keeping an eye out for any more murderous ‘accidents’.
At nightfall, when they sat down at one of the long trestle tables that had been pulled out from the walls of the Great Chamber, Duckling whispered to Pummel, ‘Only eat from plates someone else has already eaten from. And make sure they really did eat, and it wasn’t just pretend.’
Pummel’s eyes widened, but he leaned his staff against the table and followed her advice.
Duckling didn’t really think anyone would try to kill Pummel. Whoever was behind the Scheme needed him alive – at least until the Heir was dead. But they’d obviously decided that they didn’t need her.
Which made the whole thing personal.
I’ll teach them to throw gargoyles at me! she thought. When Grandpa and I escape, Pummel’s coming with us. Maybe I’ll take the Heir too. Wouldn’t that be one in the eye for whoever wants to kill him!
She chose her own beaker of weak ale, and kept a tight hold of it so no one had a chance to swap it. At the second-highest table, Grandpa was doing the same as a matter of habit.
At the highest table, the Margravine and the Young Margrave didn’t eat until white mice had tested every dish. When Duckling craned her neck, she could see several other troops of mice, including one for the Grafine and Adelheide, and one for Graf von Stoen and his family.
These people are so suspicious of each other, she thought. And I don’t blame them.
She turned to Pummel and whispered, ‘We should work out who we can trust.’
‘Apart from each other?’
To her surprise, Duckling realised that she did trust him now. ‘Yes, apart from each other. How about Otte?’
‘Definitely,’ said Pummel.
‘Probably,’ said Duckling. ‘And the Young Margrave? I don’t suppose he’d try to murder himself, so he’s in the clear. How about Arms-mistress Krieg?’
Pummel looked shocked. ‘We can trust her.’
‘No, I don’t think we can. That physician fellow? Berl?’
‘Well, he’s a physician, so he must be—’
‘I’ve met some villainous physicians. What about Adelheide?’
Pummel hesitated. ‘You’re going to say no, aren’t you? Well, I say maybe.’
‘Graf von Stoen? He’s the fellow up there. See? The one with the moustaches?’
‘I haven’t met him,’ said Pummel. ‘But he looks—’
‘You can’t judge people by how they look. I wouldn’t trust him an inch. How about the Grafine? I wouldn’t trust her either. Or the Margravine.’
‘You don’t trust anyone!’
‘And you trust everyone,’ whispered Duckling, ‘which is a dangerous habit.’ If things hadn’t been so serious, she would’ve grinned. She’d never had a conversation like this before.
Pummel narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re different from when I first met you.’
Oops, thought Duckling. ‘That’s because I’m guarding the Heir now,’ she said quickly. ‘I have to be different. So do you.’ And she turned to the ancient graf on her other side, hoping he might know what had happened to the Young Margrave’s older brother, the one who’d disappeared.
But she’d picked the wrong man. He might have been a warrior once, but now he could hardly lift a beaker without spilling it. He mistook Duckling for his mother, tried to pick a fight with one of the stuffed bears, and said, ‘Mice. Micey mice mice,’ when Duckling quizzed him.
Then he tapped his finger on the table, mumbled, ‘They know …’ and fell asleep in a puddle of spilled ale.
Duckling, who hadn’t slept at all last night, felt like doing the same.
When the Heir went back to his rooms, she and Pummel followed, and saw him safely to his bedchamber. Then, while Pummel took first watch, with his staff grasped firmly in his hand, Duckling went to bed.
THE HUNT
Pummel’s third day in the Strong-hold began very much like his second. He rose early, splashed his face with water, ate the bread and cheese he’d saved from supper, and went to chat to the cows for half an hour. He came back just in time for the Young Margrave’s procession to the Great Chamber.
Duckling was waiting for him and they walked together in silence, behind Physician Berl. When they reached the Great Chamber, they took up the same positions as yesterday.
‘No trouble last night?’ asked Pummel, when the roar of conversation had risen high enough to cover his voice.
‘Nothing.’ Duckling yawned. ‘We’ll have to take turns keeping watch again tonight. And the night after. Can’t see when we’re going to get a proper sleep, not with an assassin around. Maybe we should ask Otte to help.’
Pummel heard someone hurry past and glanced up to see a man handing something to Arms-mistress Krieg. The arms-mistress inspected it, then strode up to the Margravine and whispered to her.
‘We could ask that cat too,’ said Duckling. ‘If we can find it.’
‘Cat?’ said the Margravine.
For one heartstopping moment, Pummel thought their conversation had been overheard. But then the Margravine said, ‘I have never heard of a cat killing a man.’
The noise in the Great Chamber lessened as everyone realised something interesting was happening.
‘Nor have I,’ said the Grafine. ‘Are you sure, Arms-mistress?’
Arms-mistress Krieg held up a clump of grey fur. ‘It attacked one of the beekeepers. This was found in his hand.’ She turned to the man who had brought the news. ‘The creature slashed his throat?’
The man nodded. Pummel’s breath hissed between his teeth.
‘What does it look like, this cat?’ demanded the Young Margrave.
‘It is from Outside,’ said Krieg. ‘They say it is grey with spots, and bigger than our Strong-hold cats.’
‘No,’ whispered Pummel. ‘I don’t believe it. The cat wouldn’t do that. We have to tell them—’
‘Shhhhhhh!’ said Duckling.
‘A dangerous beast, if it is true,’ murmured the Margravine. ‘Perhaps—’
The Young Margrave bent closer to his mother and said something.
She nodded.
The Young Margrave leaped to his feet. ‘A hunt!’ he cried. ‘Trial by hunt!’
‘No!’ shouted Pummel. But his voice was drowned out by the thunder of approval.
Duckling grabbed hold of him. ‘Do you want to get us killed?’
&nbs
p; Halfway down the chamber, someone was calling for horses. Pummel wrenched his arm out of Duckling’s grasp. ‘That cat’s clever, Duckling. I’m not saying she wouldn’t ever hurt someone. But if she did, she wouldn’t leave a trail. Not like this.’
‘You’re sure?’
Pummel nodded.
‘Then someone’s trying to get rid of her, just like they tried to get rid of me. We’d better tread very carefu—’
She broke off as Arms-mistress Krieg beckoned them to the foot of the throne. ‘Young Ser,’ said Krieg. ‘Will you be wanting your new companions with you?’
The Young Margrave shook his head. ‘They do not know the Strong-hold well enough.’
Something snorted wetly on the back of Pummel’s neck, and he spun around. He could hardly believe that anyone would bring a horse into the Great Chamber. But there it was, towering over him, as big as a hay cart. Its eyes rolled. Its great hooves tramped the rushes.
The man holding it said, ‘Your horse, Young Ser.’
Behind him, more and more horses were crowding through the main doors, tossing their heads. Grooms followed them, carrying enormous saddles. The dogs that prowled the chamber began to howl with excitement.
The Young Margrave waved at Pummel and Duckling. ‘Go,’ he shouted. ‘And if you value your lives, keep out of the way of the hunt.’
The children edged away. ‘How can we protect him if he’s on a horse?’ whispered Pummel.
‘We can’t,’ said Duckling.
‘Then we’ll protect the cat instead!’
‘Yes,’ said Duckling. ‘She was useful the other night.’
Pummel pulled back a little. ‘It’s not just that. The cat’s innocent, Duckling. This is wrong.’
‘That’s what I was going to say next.’
‘It’s about justice.’
‘I was going to say that too.’
‘So we can’t let them catch her. We’ve got to find her before they do.’
‘Let’s start with the cow byre,’ said Pummel. ‘The cat was there yesterday morning.’
They ran across the baileys, dodging chickens and small children. Somewhere behind them, a war horn blew. It was a dreadful sound, like the wailing of dead souls, and it sent a shiver down Pummel’s spine. The chickens and the children dashed for cover.
After the war horn came a song. At least, Pummel thought it was a song, though it might just as easily have been a scream of fury.
Whatever it was, it set the gargoyles to whispering again:
There was no one in the cow byre, apart from the cows. The children tore through it, from one end to the other, calling, ‘Cat, are you here? Frow Cat?’
But the cat did not answer.
‘Where next?’ asked Duckling.
The whispers were growing louder. They crowded into Pummel’s mind, and made him want to fight someone.
‘Can you hear that?’ he asked Duckling.
‘Hear what?’
It was then that the hunt burst out of the Keep like a clap of thunder. Pummel had no idea how so many enormous horses could get through the doors at the same time without crushing each other, but they did. Their hooves clattered across the hard ground. Their riders shouted; the dogs yelped. The very air seemed to seethe with fury.
‘Let’s try the kitchens,’ said Duckling.
They ran to the kitchen huts, but the cat wasn’t there. Neither were the cooks and spit boys. Pots boiled over, roasts were starting to burn. Everyone who was not part of the hunt was hiding from it.
By the time Pummel and Duckling came out of the kitchens, the hunt had broken into a dozen smaller parties, and there were horses everywhere, bolting across the baileys with their riders yodelling on their backs. Dogs sniffed behind sheep pens and under carts. The wail of war horns bounced off the walls, until it was impossible to tell where the sound came from.
Pummel looked at the towers and groaned. ‘We’ll never find her in time.’
‘Then maybe the dogs won’t find her either.’
‘They’ve got her fur. If they can catch her scent, they’ll be able to track—’ He stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Duckling.
‘I…’ began Pummel. He felt edgy all of a sudden, as if the old bull was trotting up behind him and if he didn’t turn around soon he’d be in trouble.
But the old bull was a hundred and fifty miles away, and there was nothing at all behind Pummel except the wall of the kitchen huts.
At least, nothing he could see.
‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘I’ve just got the creeps for some reason.’
‘The sooner we find that cat, the better,’ said Duckling.
Pummel nodded towards the other side of the bailey. ‘Is that the Bear Tower? Let’s look in there. You lead the way.’
Duckling narrowed her eyes at him, as if she knew he was up to something. But all she said was, ‘It’s as good a place as any.’
Halfway across the bailey, with Duckling ahead of him, Pummel slipped the leather pouch from his boot. He checked to make sure that Duckling hadn’t turned around, then undid the string and held the raashk to his eye.
It wasn’t quite so much of a shock this time, which was just as well. All around him were the ghosts of the Strong-hold, with their cut throats and their broken heads. Some of them were tugging at his clothing or tapping his shoulder. Others danced in front of him, frantically waving their hands.
When they realised he could see them, they stopped dancing, and their frantic waving became a frantic pointing.
They want us to go back to the Keep.
Pummel wrapped his hand around the tooth so Duckling couldn’t see it, and called, ‘I don’t think she’ll be in that tower after all.’
Then he turned around and hurried after the ghosts so that Duckling had little choice but to follow him.
ONLY A FOOL WOULD TAKE IT SERIOUSLY
Pummel was behaving strangely, and Duckling didn’t like it. She was used to him being straightforward – and suddenly he wasn’t.
He led her into the Keep, but didn’t bother searching the ground floor. Instead, he ran straight for the stairs. Up he went, and up and up. Every now and again he put his curled fist to his eye like a pretend telescope. Then he said, ‘Up here’ or, ‘Round this corner’ or, ‘Along this passage.’
He probably thought Duckling didn’t see him doing the telescope thing. But she did.
They passed the Young Margrave’s floor and kept going, until the stairs grew narrow and winding, and Duckling’s legs ached. The sounds of the hunt were faint.
‘The cat’ll be safe enough if she’s up here,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to get a horse up these stairs. Let’s go back down.’
‘No,’ said Pummel. And he kept climbing.
There’s something he’s not telling me, thought Duckling. It’s like the gargoyles. Only different.
She tried curling her own fist, and saw nothing through it but stairs and stone walls. ‘Pummel—’
‘We’re nearly there! Don’t stop.’ And Pummel began to leap up the stairs two or three at a time, even though he was breathing as heavily as Duckling.
She ran after him, up the stairs, around a corner, past a stinking privy and into a long dusty passage with spiderwebs on the walls and an unglazed window at the far end.
And there was Otte, sitting beneath the window, his crutches on the floor beside him and his face red with effort. Behind him, half hidden by his body, was the cat, struggling furiously against some sort of net.
Otte was the first to recover from the surprise. ‘Please do not call the hunt,’ he cried. ‘The cat did not harm anyone, I am sure of it—’
‘Then why have you tied her up?’ demanded Pummel.
‘I did not tie her up,’ said Otte. ‘I found her like this. I have been trying to set her loose.’
‘Ssssss!’ hissed the cat. ‘Frrree me! Frrrreee me!’
Otte bit his lip, but to Duckling’s surprise he said not
hing about the astonishing fact that the cat could talk.
Pummel threw himself down beside the younger boy. ‘Be still,’ he said to the cat. ‘I can’t see the knots otherwise.’
The cat hissed a couple of times, then stopped struggling. In the ensuing silence, Duckling heard a horn. It was louder than it had been a moment ago. Somewhere below them, something roared, like the distant thunder of waves.
‘They are inside the Keep,’ said Otte.
‘They won’t come all the way up here, will they?’ asked Duckling.
‘I do not think so,’ said Otte. ‘Not unless—’ He broke off as the horn sounded again. His face lost its colour. ‘Not unless they have her scent,’ he whispered.
Pummel was tearing at the knots. ‘We have to get you out of here,’ he said to the cat.
‘Rrrrrelease me and I will get myselffff out,’ hissed the cat.
‘I’m trying,’ muttered Pummel.
Duckling wanted to run for her life. All those horses! All that fury! The hunt was coming, and anyone with any sense would make themselves scarce.
But something held her there.
Pummel trusts me. He said so last night.
Grandpa would have called it a weakness, and mocked her for it. It is all very well to pretend to be trustworthy, my dear. But only a fool would take it seriously.
Duckling licked her dry lips. She should look after herself and leave the others to their fate; it was the only sensible thing to do. They weren’t family, which meant they didn’t matter.
But Pummel had saved her life.
She took a step closer. ‘C-can I help?’
‘No,’ said Pummel. ‘I think I know what to do now.’ He held his fist to his eye. ‘Yes, I can see it!’
This time, the knots fell apart easily. With a wriggle, the cat was free. But when she tried to stand, one of her hind legs collapsed under her.
‘You won’t get far like that,’ said Pummel. ‘We’ll have to hide you.’
Below them, the roar of the hunt was growing louder. The dust on the walls trembled, and so did Duckling’s knees.
‘I think,’ said Otte, ‘that I had better hide too.’