“Take this to Padra,” he said, and extending a sharp, shaking claw, he scored his mark into it. “This is my authority to take charge of food stores. And another leaf.”
Urchin fetched one. The king marked that one, too.
“This is for Anemone Wood,” he said. “It is my pledge to the animals that there will be no rationing, on my word of honor.” He sighed deeply. “My dear queen would not have wanted rationing.”
Presently there was a padding of paws and a few splashes as Lugg brought the water. The king sipped, closed his eyes in pleasure, drank deeply, and called for more.
“This reminds me of being a young hedgehog,” he said. “Take a drink, Urchin. I want that water sent every day. I feel clearer in my head than I have for months. Why is it so hot in here? Open a window! And tell me more about Anemone Wood!”
It was a long time before the king dismissed him. Bright with eagerness to share the good news, Urchin pattered back through the corridors with Lugg.
Not far from the Throne Room, he stopped. His nose twitched. There was a fusty smell. He couldn’t remember what it reminded him of and wasn’t sure he wanted to, but it troubled him. It cast shadows over the day.
“Come on, young 'un!” called Lugg, and Urchin was glad to hurry after him and leave that nasty smell with its odor of creeping evil. He was about to bolt back to Padra’s chambers and tell him what had happened, but then he remembered Brother Fir hobbling away in his wet tunic. Perhaps he’d better go and make sure Fir was all right. It was the sort of thing Padra would want him to do.
He found Fir kneeling by the fireplace in his turret room. The stained tunic had been sponged clean, and he was draping it over a stool near the fire to dry.
“Are you unharmed, Brother Fir?” asked Urchin anxiously. The priest looked around with a twinkle in his eye.
“It would take more than a little wetting to do me any harm,” he said. “I seem to have survived most things over the years. But I think I need a little drop of hot cordial, and someone to share it with.” He took the little saucepan that was warming at the edge of the hearth, and poured steaming cordial into two wooden cups. “And I have wanted to talk to you, Urchin.”
He pushed the wet tunic across the stool to make room for Urchin, who sat down. Fir heard the story of what had happened in the Throne Room, then he sipped a little cordial, and began.
“Padra did tell me, you know, about your extraordinary adventures”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“the night the queen died. But I would like to hear it all from yourself, and particularly about the underground place where you followed Husk. Quietly, Urchin.”
Urchin told him. It wasn’t easy to talk about, and he couldn’t remember much. The fear and the sense of evil in that place came back to him like a bad dream as he spoke. But he told Fir all he could, and at the end, Fir simply said, “and I suppose you have no intention of trying to find the place again?”
“Certainly not, sir!” said Urchin.
“Quite right,” said Fir. “You mustn’t. Well, well, run along to Padra and tell him all you’ve been up to. Keep out of Husk’s way.”
After Urchin had gone, Fir knelt for a long time, gazing into the fire, deeply thoughtful. So that was where it was.
It was a story known, as far as he could tell, only by himself and the king. It was a story from far, far back, before the moles had ruled the island and built their palace. It was the story of a squirrel king who hated the Heart and loved hate, destruction, and power. Any creature who opposed him was dragged underground to be killed and thrown down a pit, or thrown down alive; and the place of these murders was said to be infected by fear and horror. It had been sealed up after the evil king’s death, and soon nobody knew where it was. But Husk must have found it.
“We have ignored it too long,” Fir murmured to himself. “Too long. If Husk found it, so can I. And I must. It must be prayed in. And it needs to be blessed with light. Candles. Hm. I need candles.”
He would need strength, too. He closed his eyes and prayed. There would be a hard battle for Mistmantle, and this was his part in it.
As Urchin was leaving the Throne Room, Husk reached the end of the corridor. He paused to lean his paws against a windowsill, and tried not to shake.
It had been a long day, that was all, with so much to do. He had needed to go back to the dark dungeon and the pit to renew his strength, and now his paws were grimy and cobwebbed. He’d need a wash before he went to the Throne Room.
He heard scurrying paws in the corridor. Some nuisance, some sharp-eyed twitch-nosed animals who couldn’t let well alone. He pressed back into an alcove, hidden by the shadows. From the royal apartments came a guard mole—one of Padra’s cronies—and the freak squirrel. He was coming to hate that little page.
By the time he reached Padra’s rooms, Urchin had forgotten about the moment of fear in the corridor. But to his great disappointment, Padra wasn’t back. The chamber was lonely and silent. Urchin made himself a nest of cloaks and moss by the fire, wrapped the precious leaves in his own cloak, folded it into a pillow, and settled down to wait. For a long time he lay awake, gazing into the fire, reliving his meeting with the king. He slept at last, but lightly, and every swish of the waves outside disturbed him. When he dozed again, something seemed to scuttle about in the dark.
Crabs sometimes got in here, being so near the shore. And beetles. That was all, He was more than half asleep. And as Urchin slept by the Spring Gate, somewhere in the darkness of the tower, in the high corridors overlooking the sea, there was a scream.
Lady Aspen leaped from the silken-draped bed and ran to open the bedchamber doors. Guards were running through the corridors.
“Leave me a lamp and return to your posts,” she commanded. “My lord had a nightmare, that is all.” With the lamp in her paw she glided back to the bed, where Husk was sitting upright, his fur stiff with bristling, his eyes wide and staring.
“He’s there!” he whispered.
Aspen shook him gently, and he shuddered. His fur was damp with sweat.
Husk knew he was in his own bed, but the nightmare was still there. He felt the deathly cold of it. If he shut his eyes, even only to blink, he saw it again. In his nightmares the dead Prince Tumble crawled out from the darkness and scuffled through the tunnels that led to the dungeon, covered in dust and cobwebs, bloodstained, turning his head in the dark, sniffing for him, seeking him out.…
He dared not shut his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HE DOOR OPENED AND SHUT QUICKLY. Urchin was suddenly awake, sitting upright on his nest as Padra came in, shivering, with sand in his wet fur.
“Still here, Urchin?” he said. “You shouldn’t have waited.”
“I had something to tell you,” said Urchin. It was a bitterly cold morning, so he pushed logs onto the fire and prodded it with a poker. While he made breakfast, he told Padra everything he had done the night before, leaving out the bit about “Padra the Plodder.” Padra grinned and occasionally said “You did what?” and “Cheeky little rodent!"; but now and again he would put a claw to his lips to remind Urchin to speak quietly. Finally, Urchin put the king’s leaves into his paw, and Padra turned them in delight.
“Well done, you cocky young ear-twitcher!” he said. “It could have gone disastrously wrong and I suppose I should warn you never to do such a thing again, but I’m impressed. I should give you my sword and circlet now, but they wouldn’t fit you. You’ve made more work for me, you know, putting me in charge of the stores.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I don’t mind! Husk will think it’ll keep me out of mischief. It won’t, because I’ll bring in Arran to help. And you can trot back and forth to the wood now and again to keep a check on the stores there. Give you a chance to see Apple and your friends. But wherever you go, keep your eyes and ears sharp.” He lowered his voice. “Were you followed last night?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“I was,” said Padra.
“I think it’s that slithery mole.”
“Gloss?” asked Urchin.
“Sh!” said Padra sharply. “I led him a dance and shook him off by going through water, and I even did that the long way around. And stayed late, and came back through water, which is why I’m so late. Or so early.” He yawned. “And so tired. But I’ll…”
“There was someone here last night!” said Urchin, and his fur bristled with fear as he remembered. “I heard something. Scuffling. I woke up a bit, but I thought it was just a crab.”
Padra slipped down to all fours and examined the floor, his nose and whiskers twitching as he searched and sniffed. Finally he stood up, called for Lugg, and glanced around outside before drawing him in.
“Lugg, were you in here last night?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Some mole was,” said Padra. “Mole tracks.” He examined his bed. “Moles have been through this, too. Arrange a guard on this chamber, day and night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Urchin,” said Padra, “where did you keep the king’s leaf tokens last night?”
“In my cloak, sir,” said Urchin. “I slept on them.”
“Good lad. That’s what they were looking for. Husk probably got back from wherever he was—I’d give a good night’s fishing to know where that was—and came back to find the king with a clear head, absolutely determined to refuse rationing, and sending out tokens to prove it. He probably sent a mole to search these rooms in the hope of stealing the tokens before we could spread the good news—which we must, sharpish.”
Urchin, too, bent and inspected the floor. Now that Padra had pointed it out, he could see the faint empty prints of mole paws. It was unsettling to feel that he wasn’t safe in Padra’s own chambers.
“Can I look at my own room, sir?” he said.
A few shreds of moss had fallen from his nest, and the satchel he sometimes carried had been put away a little too neatly. He bent to examine the floor, as Padra had done.
“That’s enough,” said Padra softly. “They don’t have to know that we’re on to…” He stopped and listened with paw on sword, then flung open the door with a broad smile.
“Fir!” he cried. “Brother Fir, you should have sent for me. I would have come to your turret—you shouldn’t be laboring up and down stairs.”
“Hm,” said Fir. “Very kind of you, young Padra, to remind me of my great age. However, squirrels are generally good at climbing, though we wouldn’t expect an otter to realize that, would we, Urchin? But Urchin is too young to bother with stairs. He nips in and out of windows and runs down walls.”
“And thinks I don’t notice,” agreed Padra. “Fir, have you had breakfast? I hear the king’s been throwing things at you.”
“Hm,” said Fir when he had heard everything. “I’m actually rather pleased that the king threw that drink. Most of it hit the wall. Best place for it. Sleeping draft. Hefty one.”
Padra’s whiskers twitched into a frown. “This is serious,” he said. “Sleeping drafts! Can’t we stop her?”
Fir held out his wrinkled paws to the fire. “No, we can’t,” he said. “I had a word with Lady Aspen. She made no problem of it. She said she makes the king’s drafts herself. Following the deaths of his wife and son, he’s been very distressed and sleeps badly, so of course she offers him sleeping drafts at night. He knows what they are, and drinks them gladly. She even offered me the recipe, quite needlessly, of course. I knew how to make the things before Aspen was a chubby little bobble with burrs in her fur and sticky paws, but I don’t use them. Best not to. And if the king has Husk topping off his wine all day and the good lady tucking him up with a sleeping draft at night…Hm, His Majesty’s royal brains aren’t his own.”
“It’s worse than we feared,” said Padra.
Fir stood up. “Make your move soon, Padra,” he said, and his voice was no more than a whisper. “Urchin has done well for us. Follow it up. And take care.” Before he left, he gave them both his blessing.
“May your hearts be open to the Heart that made you,” he said as they knelt. “May the Heart nourish you in all that is good.”
“You will need it,” he added as they rose. “You will need all the strength the Heart gives you.”
Arran was put in charge of the food stores as Padra’s deputy. There were some strange happenings in the early days—berries were spilled, beech nuts were found to be damp, and flour went missing—but within a week she had the stores well guarded, and had personally chosen every single member of her staff. It wasn’t difficult. Plenty of animals knew how their babies had been saved from culling, and who to thank for it. Padra and Arran could count on their loyalty, and most of the otters would serve her faithfully because she was one of their own. They all agreed that, if ever it came to a row, they’d rather fight on Arran’s side than against her.
Aspen was worried. Husk still had nightmares. When he learned that Urchin had outwitted him, his fury had lasted for days. And now there was a continuous chain of squirrels running up and down the Throne Room with nothing better to do than to carry fresh spring water.
On a morning when Granite had taken the king to visit the graves, Husk and Aspen met Gloss in the Throne Room. Of course, Husk did not sit on the throne. He stood tall and straight in front of it, paw on sword hilt, with Aspen beside him. Gloss slipped noiselessly into the room, and Husk’s gaze was as cold as the winter sky.
“You were told to watch Urchin,” he said. He was quiet and dangerous.
“Excuse me, my captain,” said Gloss smoothly. “My lady only told me to find someone else to watch the foundling squirrel. I myself have been shadowing Captain Padra, as you ordered, and have had both their rooms searched.”
“And found nothing!” rasped Husk. “What do you have to say?”
“Only,” said Gloss sweetly, “that I have served you well in the past.”
Husk knew it. Gloss had served him very well, almost too well. He knew too much.
“You have served excellently,” said Husk. “You have been well rewarded, and you will be rewarded again. Have you learned anything about Padra?”
“Otters have unnatural habits,” said Gloss with distaste. “I can follow him so far—he seems to head for the far side of the wood, or perhaps the west shore—but sooner or later he always slips into water, and I lose him.”
“We need an otter to track an otter,” said Husk. “Very well, Gloss. Leave Padra to me. Watch Urchin. When your eyes close, make sure somebody else watches him. Now, go.”
The mole bowed politely, and slipped away.
“Slimy as an otter,” said Husk. “Nasty, creepy beast. But we need him. His eyes are poor, but he has the hearing of a bat and can smell out a worm at a hundred paces. I need an otter to spy on Padra, and there can’t be many we could trust. The brainless beasts think they’re heroes.”
“Dear Tay would do it,” said Aspen.
“She’s a lot older than Padra,” said Husk. “And she’s more interested in law and ancient history than in splashing around streams and all that ottery stuff. But we’ll see.” He opened the door and called for a guard. “Send me Tay,” he ordered.
Aspen took a nut from a dish and nibbled daintily. “We can’t possibly enforce rationing now,” she said.
“No,” said Husk, and smiled unpleasantly. “We must make the best of things. If everyone has plenty of food, who will get the credit for it?”
She smiled back at him. “You will!” she said.
“And if there isn’t enough, it’s the king’s fault,” he said. “Or we could blame Padra the Pathetic.” He laughed a wild, high laugh that made Aspen bite her lip. “At the Spring Festival, they must see that everything good on this island is from me, and everything bad is from the king.”
“How easy!” she said, to reassure him.
“But if the Spring Festival is to be the turning point,” he said, “two things must happen. Firstly, the king must appear to be so broken with grief tha
t he is half mad, and cannot go on being king.”
“And secondly?” she asked.
“Secondly,” he said, “Padra is to be publicly disgraced and arrested.”
There was a tap at the door. “Mistress Tay,” said the guard, and Tay strutted into the room on her hind legs, smoothing her dark whiskers.
“I need an otter I can trust,” said Husk abruptly. “I need Captain Padra observed.”
“Difficult,” she said. “Not the sort of task to which I am accustomed. But whether you could entrust it to any other otter—that’s really very debatable indeed.”
“Will you do it?” demanded Husk.
Aspen moved in front of him, stepping softly, her voice gentle and persuasive.
“Captain Husk is most concerned,” she said. “We have reports of Padra going at night to the far side of the woods near the west shore, but without a powerful swimmer he can’t be traced farther. He may be up to something most disloyal. Even a plot against the king—who knows? He was very friendly with a certain squirrel we prefer not to mention.”
“West of the woods?” said Tay. “That’s interesting.”
“Yes,” said Husk impatiently. “You’re an expert on the old stories. Do you believe in the Old Palace? Do you believe it exists?”
“I believe it may, Captain,” she said.
“He knows,” muttered Husk. “Padra, Crispin. I’m sure they knew. Wouldn’t tell me, of course, but I’m sure they knew. I’m sure that’s where Padra’s going, and if he’s going there, it’s because he’s up to something. Something he doesn’t want me to know about.”
“I see, sir,” said Tay. “Well, sir, all I can say is that if you will offer me the task, I will undertake it. Anything I can find out about Padra, I will.”
“I want evidence against him,” growled Husk. “Evidence that can be brought to the Spring Festival. Evidence that will get him arrested.”
“It will be a great pleasure to find it,” said Tay with dignity. “And a privilege.”
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