by Lynne Jonell
Duncan sat curled with his knees to his chin, bruised and wretched. He should have known that Brig would attack the earl on instinct. If only he had thought ahead! He should have run to the raft as soon as he knew the earl was on the island, and given Brig strict orders to stay hidden and silent. Brig would have obeyed orders, and by now they would all have been safe on Tam’s boat and on their way to the island of Dulle. In a matter of hours, Duncan would have been with his mother again.
No one could see him here in the hold; he did not have to be brave for anyone. Duncan buried his face in his knees.
He was not going to clear his father’s name. He was not going to return the princess to her kingdom. He was not even going to get a chance to tell his mother he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant to leave her. And now he had just as good as killed Brig.
It took some time before Duncan was aware that something was breathing near him, breathing heavily.
He slid up against the bars, closer to the sound. He slipped his hand between the wooden slats; he pushed his whole arm through and touched soft, thick fur.
A small sound escaped him, as if he had suddenly been filled with something too big to contain. “Brig,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”
The breathing went on, steady and slow.
“I’m alive, too,” came a meow, and two shining spots, one amber, one gold, floated in the dark at the height of a tall kitten.
Duncan’s nose prickled, and something like tears smarted behind his eyes. He opened his hands and gathered up the little cat as she sprang into his arms. He pressed his face against her furry back.
Fia twined her tail around his neck and purred. “I saw the bad men take you and Brig, and so I sneaked onto the ship when no one was looking. Wasn’t I clever?”
“Very,” said Duncan when he could speak, “but this is a dangerous ship for you. You’ve got to stay in the hold, out of sight.”
Fia gave a small, impatient hiss. “Of course I’ll stay out of sight. But I’m not staying in the hold. I’m going to find out what the earl is up to. This is the same ship we sailed in before,” she informed him loftily, “and I know all the passages and spyholes.”
“Fia!” Duncan protested, but the kitten was already squirming out of his hands.
Her clear, high kitten’s voice came out of the darkness. “Don’t worry. I’ll report every few hours!”
“Report softer, will you?” came a grumbling growl. “My head is killing me, and you have a very piercing meow.”
* * *
“Here’s my report,” said Fia importantly, some hours later. “The earl is sleeping in his cabin. He takes off his bandage at night, and his forehead looks all pale and scabby. Bertram is sleeping in his cabin. He snorts like an old horse. The cook is in the galley baking bread, and the flab on his arms wiggles when he pounds the dough. Two sailors are on watch. One of the sailors is picking his nose. The other scratched his bottom twice and spat three times over the side.” She paused. “And that’s all.”
Duncan wanted to laugh, but he was too worried. “That’s good, Fia.”
“Do you really think so?” said Fia. “It seemed kind of boring to me, so I’ve been doing a few cat tricks to keep things interesting.”
“Cat tricks? What cat tricks? You haven’t been letting anyone see you, I hope?”
“No,” said Fia. “But do you know Cat Trick #8, Bringing Disgusting Gifts?”
Duncan nodded. He was familiar with the gifts that cats liked to leave where they could be found—chewed-up dead mice, for example.
“Well,” Fia went on, “I’ve created a new one. I call it Cat Trick #8½: Leaving Hairballs Where They Are Most Likely to Be Stepped On. What do you think?”
“I think you’d better be sure you stay out of sight,” Duncan said. It was bad enough to see Brig whacked on the head—he couldn’t bear to have Fia end up in a pie.
Fia’s meow was shrill. “But the cook slipped on my hairball and almost fell down. I’m getting revenge, see?”
An annoyed rumble came from the cage next to Duncan’s. “Can you please meow softer? My head feels like a cracked boulder.”
A sudden scraping noise made them all look up. A lantern shone far above, through two levels of deck and a large grating.
“Quiet, everyone,” Duncan whispered. He watched as the squares of the grating faded from yellow lantern light to the gray of early morning. Now he was certain where they were—deep in the earl’s ship, beneath the large opening used for loading cargo. He had seen something else in the brief light from the lantern, too. An iron padlock, holding a bar in place across one side of his cage.
“Can you pick a lock this big?” Duncan asked Fia quietly.
Fia perched on the crossbar and went to work with silent concentration. It was not an easy lock to open.
“I think I broke a claw,” said Fia. “It’s rusty.”
“I’d do it, but my claws are too thick,” the tiger said. “Try my cage, why don’t you?”
“Wait!” said Duncan quickly. “Listen, Brig, if Fia gets your cage open, stay inside, do you hear? No attacking anyone, not yet.”
A gusty sigh came from the cage next door. “Sir, what is the point of unlocking a cage if I’m not going to get out?”
Duncan had an answer ready. “This is just practice, to see if Fia can do it. We don’t want to escape while we’re still at sea—there’s nowhere to run. Wait until the earl’s ship docks.”
“THE EARL’S SHIP?” Brig growled. “Where is he, the scum-sucking villain?”
“Shhhhh!” Duncan reached through the bars and grabbed a handful of fur. “Brigadier, this is an order. Do not growl, or roar, or leave your cage. Do not try to hunt down the earl unless I tell you to do it. Is that understood?”
There was a sulky pause. “But can’t I take one little tiny bite out of him?” the tiger asked. “He’s been a very bad earl.”
“You’ll get your chance,” said Duncan. “Just wait for my order.”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Brig. “I just hope your order comes soon, that’s all. Tigers are not very good at waiting.”
Boys were not very good at waiting, either, Duncan thought as the hours slowly passed. The work of the ship went on above them—he could hear voices and stamping feet, and now and then a new slant told him the ship had tacked—but no one came to check on him, or taunt him, or torture him, or any of the things Duncan had been imagining might happen on his enemy’s ship.
He found out why the next time Fia came down to report.
“The earl and Bertram are arguing,” she meowed. “Bertram says why not just get rid of you now, once and for all, but the earl says he wants information first. He says you can’t tell him what he wants to know if you’re dead.”
Duncan’s stomach seemed to flip within him.
“And the earl says there are too many people on board right now,” Fia continued. “He’s going to wait to question you until the ship docks and he sends everyone away.”
“What,” said Duncan, and his voice squeaked, “does he want to know?”
Fia hesitated. “He wants to know where you got Princess Lydia’s ring.” Duncan’s hand flashed to his neck. The chain was gone, and so was the ring that had hung upon it. If his stomach had flipped before, now he felt as if it had dropped to his feet.
They must have seen it around his neck when he was put in the cage, unconscious. Now the earl knew the princess was alive—and that Duncan knew where.
No. The earl didn’t know that for sure.
Duncan looked up two decks through the cargo hatch, past the grating, where daylight showed. He had a little time—how much, he didn’t know—to make a plan.
He kept his voice calm with an effort. “Fia, you got Brig’s cage unlocked, right? Do mine now.”
The kitten worked at the rusty padlock with concentration, her small pink tongue curling out at moments of difficulty. Meantime, Duncan thought hard. He had some advantages that the earl didn’t know about.<
br />
First, if they were going to Dulle—and Tammas had said so—then Duncan knew every rock of his home island, every path. He knew the baron and the fishermen and the old women who tatted lace in the sun—and he knew the cats. He would have help, lots of help, if only he could get past the earl and Bertram at the moment they docked.
Second, Fia was like a secret weapon. She had listened in on the earl’s private conversations. She was unlocking Duncan’s cage right now. And she could watch from a hidden place and give him a signal the moment the ship was about to dock. Docking was always a tense maneuver, with a lot to be done quickly at the last minute. Every eye would be on the task at hand—and Duncan and the tiger might be able to break free and run off the ship before anyone could stop them.
It struck Duncan that he had never fully realized what a valuable gift Grizel had given him when she taught him to speak Cat. Now, with a cat to spy for him and report back, he was going to be able to defeat even the villain of the nation—or at least have a fighting chance.
“At last!” Fia’s relieved meow broke into Duncan’s thoughts. He looked to see the padlock of his cage dangling open.
“Good job,” he said. “You are one talented kitten.”
Fia preened her whiskers and gave her tail a satisfied flick. “I bet I could pass my kitten examinations now with one paw tied behind my back!”
“Could you pass them quietly, please?” mumbled Brig. “I think I need another nap. My head still hurts.”
“My head hurts, too,” said Duncan, “but we can nap later. First let’s go over our plans. Now, listen…”
* * *
Duncan woke to voices from one deck up.
“Who’s going to be left on anchor watch, then?” The words floated down through the cargo hatch from the tween deck. “We’re not all going off the ship at once, are we?”
“Bertram’s on guard,” another voice answered. “And a few are going to the manor house to announce the earl and bring back a carriage. But who cares? We’re off duty! I just want to get my hands on a drink and some decent food for a change—”
“And someone friendly to dance with!” cried another.
Duncan tipped back his head. Through the bars of his cage, he could look up past the cargo hatch and see the first faint star in a far-off dusky sky, the distant crisscross of ship’s rigging, and the big square sail on a yardarm in a bunt, looking like the scalloped edge of a piecrust against the sunset’s pink glow.
They were still moving, but the endless rushing snore of the sea had changed to something quieter. They were in calmer waters, then—the Bay of Dulle, probably. Duncan’s shoulders tightened. When the signal came, they would have to move fast.
He reached through the bars and poked Brig. “Keep your ears open. You’ll hear Fia’s signal before I do.”
“Tigers do have excellent hearing,” agreed Brig sleepily.
Boots clattered across the deck above and thumped down the ladder. Duncan gripped the bars with his hands as two sailors came near.
“So the earl’s going to get a confession out of the boy, eh?” The voice was hushed, but Duncan could hear it well enough.
“I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, not for a hundred silver barons. He’ll end up in prison for tiger stealing—or worse. Hey! These padlocks are open!”
Strong callused hands snapped the locks shut. “Someone was stupid,” said the first sailor, “not making sure they were shut all the way. Lucky the prisoners didn’t escape. How’d you have liked it if a tiger jumped into your hammock with you, eh?”
Duncan gripped the bars; no need to panic yet, Fia could still unlock the cages. Meantime he would try something else. “I’m not a thief!” he whispered to the sailors. “I want to get a message to the king. Can you help me?”
The men’s breathing was loud in the sudden stillness. “No talking to the prisoner—that’s the order,” said the first sailor.
“Now, lad,” said the second sailor, “you’re young, and the Earl of Merrick may have pity on you. Just tell him the truth about that tiger, where you got it and who you’re working for, and things will go better for you in the end—”
“Hey! You down there!” The bellow came through the cargo hatch with the force of a gale. “No talking to the prisoner! Knot the line around that cage and be quick about it—unless you want your shore leave cancelled!”
Duncan tilted his head back. Two decks up, looming over the edge of the large square hole, was Bertram’s unmistakable silhouette.
The deck creaked under the men’s agitated feet. “Sorry, sir,” called their spokesman. “Right away, sir.”
A clatter of feet, high above, and the calling of orders. The yardarms creaked as sails were furled. The windlass clanked. The ship settled straight, its decks no longer at a slant. Suddenly Duncan heard a thin, high meow, repeated twice. Fia’s signal.
“Should I try to bash my way out?” asked Brig worriedly. “I don’t think I can—there’s not enough room to get any force behind my bashing, so to speak.”
The ship had grown quiet. Now and then, a distant burst of laughter or music came faintly to Duncan’s ears, as if a door had been opened somewhere on the waterfront and then abruptly shut again. The sailors must have gone on their shore leave.
Duncan clenched his fists and relaxed them. “Fia!” he meowed softly. “Where are you?”
Clank. Creeeeaaak.
Duncan jerked his head up. Somewhere above him, metal was moving, scraping. What was that sound? If Fia were here, she would do Cat Trick #7—Perky Ears—and find out in no time. Duncan did his best to prick up his ears and listened intently.
The combination of noises was oddly familiar. It sounded like gears, pulleys, maybe a chain all working together. He knew he’d heard it before, somewhere, sometime.
His cage slid, scraped—and then it was rising. The ropes around it tightened as they took the strain. Duncan rocked sideways and then back against the corner as the cage tipped abruptly. Overhead was the dark shape of a heavy iron hook and a long linked chain above it. He could see the sharp tip against the evening sky, and slanting lines of ropes pulled tight. The cage swayed, turning gently in the air as it was raised inch by inch up through the cargo hatch.
As the cage slowly cleared the upper deck, he could see the arm of the crane that was lifting him. It was a harbor crane, mounted on the wharf with an arm that could swing over a ship to lift out cargo and then swing back to set the cargo down.
The ship was docked at a long pier, in a deep-water channel. With growing excitement, Duncan gazed through the bars of his cage at the lights lining the waterfront, the lanterns on poles—it was the island of Dulle. He was home.
But the wharf was empty of anyone who could help. Fishing boats were huddled far up on the beach, and even the harbormaster’s hut was dark. And the waterfront places where the sailors were eating and drinking and dancing were too noisy for anyone to hear Duncan if he yelled.
Duncan took a deep breath and knotted his fingers around the rough bars. Where, oh where was Fia?
The long arm of the crane swung the cage across the deck, and Duncan swung dizzily with it. The gangplank passed beneath him, and now he was suspended over the dark gap of water between the ship and the massive wooden piers. He could see the man at the controls of the crane; it was Bertram. So the blurred figure standing at the railing must be the Earl of Merrick.
The cage dangled in midair, twirling slightly. Duncan twirled with it, his ears perked and ready for the slightest hint of a meow. Fia had to come. She had to.
He scanned the darkening waterfront. Weren’t there any cats out there?
But no—they would have recognized the earl’s ship. They would stay far away from the man who stole kittens and put them in a crate. Still, Grizel knew he had been taken away on this ship; maybe she would come.…
“Oh, Grizel,” he murmured, filled with a sudden longing for her comforting weight in his lap, for the steady grumble of her purr. She had t
ried to teach him what she could, and even in his last glimpse of her she had been offering good advice. She had signaled in Cataphore everything he needed to know.
Perky Ears. Back Up. Claws Out. They were classic cat strategies for dealing with an opponent who was larger, stronger, who had you backed into a corner. Grizel had signaled danger to him with her tail and given him all the advice she could think of in Cataphore; she had known Duncan had an enemy and would need to defend himself.
And she had told him who that enemy was, he realized suddenly. Fia had told him that Grizel had spelled “watch out for eels” with her tail. But Fia had gotten the last word wrong. It had been earl.
The tall man at the railing lifted a long, straight hook and caught one of the ropes that was knotted around Duncan’s cage. The cage stopped its lazy twirling with a jerk.
Duncan staggered slightly and glared through the bars. The Earl of Merrick watched him from the railing a few feet away, smiling with one corner of his cruel mouth.
“It’s such a pleasure to see you again, my boy,” said the earl, “but the little excitement with the tiger interrupted our chance to chat.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a shining chain that Duncan recognized. A ring dangled from it, gleaming gold.
“So,” said the earl, “are you going to let me know how you got hold of Princess Lydia’s ring and what you were doing with a tiger from Fahr? Or shall I tell Bertram to drop you into the sea?”
CHAPTER 24
The Rusty Lock
DUNCAN’S HEART PUNCHED INSIDE HIM like a fist. Below, water as black as tar sucked and splashed at the low-tide marks on the pier. The thought of being lowered into the sea in a cage filled him with horror.
The lantern on the dock cast its light upward to the ship’s railing where the Earl of Merrick stood, making his face a mask with dark hollows for eyes. The slit that was his mouth opened, formed words.
“Is the princess still alive?” The earl showed his teeth in a terrifying parody of a smile. “How did you get the ring?” He gave the hook a twist, and Duncan’s cage rocked a little.