The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  The Recorder was about to speak when the door to the Abbess’s room opened. The late Clerun Kordyne’s mate, Clarinna, staggered in. The harewife was wearing a flowing nightgown. Her head was in bandages, her paw in a sling and she looked totally distracted.

  Making a beeline for Buckler, she seized his tunic, tugging on it as she implored him tearfully, “Where are my poor babes, Calla and Urfa? What have those vermin done, where have they taken them? Oh, Buck, bring them back to me, I know you can! Say you will—oh, my little ones. Help me, please!”

  Buckler had never been in such a situation; he was really embarrassed. Clarinna was clinging so hard to him, he could not loosen her grip without hurting her. He felt all eyes in the room on him as he managed to stammer, “Er, yes of course I will, Clarinna, but shouldn’t you be resting in the sickbay, after what you’ve been through?”

  Sister Fumbril came hurrying in. The big otter herbalist was carrying a small beaker of medicine. Abbess Marjoram exchanged glances with her as Fumbril held up the beaker.

  “I only popped into the next room for a moment to make this up. When I got back, there she was . . . gone! Pore creature, she ain’t well at all. Keeps goin’ on about her liddle uns, an’ what beast could blame her? I’d be just the same in her position.”

  The good Sister ’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She’ll fall into a deep sleep if’n I can get this down her.”

  Surprisingly, Diggs took charge of the medicine. “Beggin’ y’pardon, allow me, marm!”

  Almost casually, he pried Clarinna loose from Buckler, chatting amiably to her. “Retrieve your little uns—I should say so, marm. Why, old Buck an’ I were about to dash off posthaste an’ do that very thing. Indeed, we’ll jolly well have the little blighters back here before y’can say Salamandastron, ain’t that right, Buck, wot?”

  Clarinna instantly attached herself to Diggs’s sleeve. “Oh, thank you, Subaltern Digglethwaite, and you, too, Buckler. Are you going to get them right now?”

  Diggs nodded affably. “This very instant, dear lady—but ’fraid we can’t leave until you’ve taken this stuff. Mmmm, smells rather nice, wot, may I taste it?”

  Sister Fumbril caught on promptly to the tubby hare’s ruse. “Mister Diggs, sir, you give that beaker to Miz Clarinna right away. T’aint for you. She’ll need all her strength to care for those babbies once they’re back at Redwall.”

  Clarinna released Diggs. “Yes, I will, won’t I? Calla and Urfa can be very lively, y’know. I’d best be ready.” Taking the beaker, she drained it to the last drop.

  Sister Fumbril put a supporting paw around the harewife, nodding to Skipper, who did likewise as Fumbril coaxed her along. “A nice, soft bed an’ a quiet room are the best things for ye, dearie. You come with us now.”

  Log a Log Jango turned to the Recorder after Clarinna had left. “Don’t let me stop ye, old un. Carry on with what ye was about to tell us.”

  Granvy tapped the open page of the volume he had been studying. “Thank the seasons for ancient records. Funny how places and events get forgotten after a while—”

  Abbess Marjoram cut him off sharply. “Granvy, will you stop dithering and get on with it? What’s the matter—don’t you want to tell us what you found?”

  The old Recorder sighed. “Of course I do, but I blame myself for not studying our Abbey’s history. I’ve always been too busy doing other things.”

  Marjoram nodded. “I, too, friend—so part of the blame rests with me. Tell us now and all’s forgiven.”

  Granvy looked directly at Jango. “Why are your tribe called the Guosim?”

  The Log a Log shrugged. “We’ve always been known as Guosim. ’Tis a word made from the first letters of wot we’re about: Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower. But why d’ye ask? Everybeast knows that.”

  “Aye, but now I know what Corim means—that’s made up of first letters, too: Council of Resistance in Mossflower. Bear with me whilst I explain. In the long-distant past, there was no Abbey of Redwall, just a castle named Kotir. It was ruled by a wildcat, Queen Tsarmina. She commanded a vermin horde, which enslaved the whole country. Well, to cut a long story short, the woodlanders, led by Martin the Warrior, waged war against Kotir and its evil beasts.”

  Diggs nodded stoutly. “Well, good for them, say I. Must’ve been jolly excitin’. Did they win?”

  Buckler nudged his friend. “Stow the gab and listen.”

  Granvy paused, then picked up the thread of his narrative. “Martin and his friends had to have somewhere to live, a base to operate from. Fortunately, there was an ancestral badger home, place called Brockhall. A brave badger lived there, Bella of Brockhall. She offered them her home, even fought alongside them. As I’ve said, it’s a very long story. But they were victorious in the end, the Corim—that’s what they called themselves. Without those gallant creatures, there would have never been a Redwall Abbey. There you have it.”

  Oakheart Witherspyk stroked his headspikes reflectively. “Hmm, so ’tis possible that Althier an’ Brockhall are one and the same place. D’ye have any ideas as to where we might find it, sirrah?”

  The Recorder shut the big volume ruefully. “Alas, no. It’s so long ago, shrouded in the mists of countless seasons, I’m afraid.”

  Buckler took over. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got so far. This Sable Quean creature is obviously using it as a hideout. But she doesn’t keep her main force, the Ravagers, there. Now, the young uns are probably imprisoned at Althier, and as we’ve established, it ain’t more than a day’s march from here. Remember what she said, she’s returning here soon. At a rough guess, that’s a day for her to get back there, a day’s rest, then back here the day after, right?”

  Jango nodded. “Aye, an’ d’ye recall wot that vermin prisoner said? Most of the Ravager force don’t know where Althier is—they’re kept away from there by Zwilt the Shade. If’n tenscore vermin were camped at Althier, it’d be pretty easy to track ’em, eh, Sniffy?”

  The Guosim Tracker agreed. “That’s right, Chief!”

  Diggs, who had been taking it all in, gave his opinion. “Indeed, old lad. The dreadful old Sable Quean must have just a bodyguard an’ some jailers at her hideaway. That leaves the rest o’ the blighters camped out in the blinkin’ woodlands somewhere. Any ideas, chaps?”

  Skipper had returned; he was standing in the doorway. “Here’s an idea for ye. Wherever the Ravagers’ camp is, it can’t be far from the Quean’s hidin’ place. Find ’em an’ the young uns will be locked up not far away.”

  Foremole Darbee rapped his digging claws on the volume. “Hurrhurr, roight clever thinkun’, zurr. Ee mole cuddent not’ve dun better, boi ’okey!”

  Diggs brightened up considerably. “Then alls we’ve got t’do is find the bloomin’ place, wot?”

  Buckler shook his head. “Wrong. You’ve forgotten two important things, mate. First, those vermin aren’t stupid, especially the two sables. They threatened to harm the young uns if we were spotted tryin’ to follow ’em. Second thing is Redwall itself. We’d be fools to leave it undefended with tenscore armed Ravagers in the neighbourhood. I think we’re in a bit of a cleft stick.”

  Oakheart placed a big paw on the young hare’s shoulder. “You’re right, sirrah, on both counts. But what’s t’be done about our little uns? We can’t just leave them at the mercy of those scurvy vermin.”

  It was a pretty subdued group of friends who were gathered in the Abbess’s room, pondering the results of the meeting. Unable to stop himself, Diggs emitted a cavernous yawn. He recovered his composure. “Oops, pardon me, chaps!”

  Marjoram looked around the group. “It’s late. Without proper sleep, we won’t be good for anything. Consider this—the young ones aren’t in any immediate danger. The Sable Quean knows they’re far too valuable to her alive. She won’t be returning here until the day after tomorrow, so this gives us a bit of time to think things out. Agreed?”

  Buckler bowed to the Abbess. “Agreed, marm, what you say mak
es sense. We’d do well to sleep on it for the moment. A rest might refresh our minds.”

  They broke up then. The Abbess left, followed by Oakheart. Buckler intercepted the others before they could leave. Jango winked at him.

  “Yore goin’ after ’em, aren’t ye?”

  The young hare nodded grimly. “Aye, I’m leaving right now. Diggs, will you see to the defence of the Abbey? I’m puttin’ you an’ Oakie in charge.”

  The tubby hare made an elegant leg. “At y’service, sah, leave it t’me. I’ll shake this lot into some sort o’ Salamandastron shape, by the left I will!”

  Jango pulled a face. “I ain’t havin’ that chunnerin’ fat bucket givin’ me orders. I’m comin’ with you, Buck.”

  Buckler allowed himself a smile. “I was hopin’ you’d say that, mate. We’ll need Sniffy, your Tracker, along with us. Are you comin’, Skip?”

  The brawny otter clasped Buckler’s paw. “You try an’ stop me, culley. I’ll just get me javelin.”

  Before the Abbey bells had tolled the midnight hour, they slipped away by the east wallgate—Buckler, Jango, Sniffy, Skipper and Big Bartij, the Gardener and Infirmary assistant. They were dressed in muted green cloaks made from old Redwall habits, and armed.

  Diggs bolted the east wickergate behind them, whispering, “Good luck, you chaps, an’ if ye come across any vermin, give ’em blood’n’vinegar, wot!”

  15

  Flib lay alongside Guffy and Gurchen in the dry woodland gully where the Warrior mole Axtel Sturnclaw made his temporary camp. Axtel had gently tucked his old cloak about Guffy and Gurchen, his dark eyes moist as he stroked their heads. The two little moles were sleeping deeply, but despite all she had been through, the Guosim shrewmaid could not rest; Flib was pretending to be asleep. Then she opened one eye and saw the big mole watching her. He grunted quietly.

  “Shudden’t you’m be asleepen, miz? Ee needs yore rest.”

  Flib sat up. “I’ve tried, but it ain’t much good. I suppose I’m not in a sleepin’ mood.”

  Axtel covered the dead embers of their fire with soil. “Hurr, then you’m can be keepen watch round yurr.”

  Flib agreed readily. “Righto, I don’t mind keepin’ guard if’n ye want a spot o’ shuteye.”

  Axtel thrust the war hammer into his belt. “Shutten eyes b’aint furr oi—you’m watch o’er ee likkle uns whoilst oi bee’s gone.”

  Flib was filled with curiosity. “Where are ye goin’?”

  Standing upright, the Warrior mole stretched his huge paws. “Back daown yon tunnel, to ’elp yore friends, miz.”

  The shrewmaid leapt up. “I’ll come along with ye—”

  She sat down hard as Axtel nudged her with his paw. He stood over her, wagging a thick digging claw under her nose. “Ho, no you’m b’aint, moi deary. Oi sayed stay yurr an’ watch ee likklebeasts, an’ oi means et, boi ’okey!”

  The look in his eyes, and the set of his powerful body, told Flib that it would be unwise to argue the point.

  She tried to appear nonchalant. “Do as ye please. ’Tain’t none o’ my business. When’ll ye be back?”

  Axtel crouched down in front of her. He smiled and ruffled her ears. “Oi’m gurtly sorry you’m can’t cumm, Miz Flib, but this bee’s wurk oi does best alone. Naow, thurr’s vikkles an’ drinks in moi pack, if’n ee gets ’ungered. Oi gives ee moi wurd, oi’ll cumm back yurr soon as oi can.”

  Flib nodded. “Fair enough, mate, but have ye got a weapon t’leave with me, just in case . . . ?”

  Axtel went and rummaged in his pack. He chuckled. “Yurr—oi tukken this frum a vermint, he’m won’t be a-needin’ et no more.”

  He passed her a long dagger, a typical vermin weapon. It was a stiletto, both edges sharp, with a keen point.

  She wielded it, feeling the balance. “Huh, heavy enough t’do a bit o’ damage with, eh?”

  The mole produced a walking staff and a length of cord. “Ee’d do well t’make a spear of et, miz.”

  The Guosim maid applied herself to the job. When she looked up, Axtel Sturnclaw had gone.

  Flib lashed the cord tightly, securing the dagger by its handle to the pole. Hiding it under some dead leaves within easy reach, she lay down, murmuring to herself, “Hah, any vermin out there plannin’ on payin’ us a visit, just come on, that’s all I’ve got t’say. Just come on!”

  Back down inside Althier, the captives found themselves in a different cavern. It was smaller and had a narrow entrance but no door to keep them locked in. However, there were four guards posted there, tough-looking rats, two armed with crude swords, the other two with spears. After a while, as the prisoners were fed and watered, Midda sat with Tura, feeding the babies as they discussed their position.

  Midda spooned warm cornmeal to Borti, commenting, “At least the food’s better than it was. There’s a bit more of it, too, and the water looks fresher.”

  Tura was trying to feed the two harebabes at once. They fought greedily for each mouthful. The young squirrelmaid nodded toward the guards. “They seem better, too, not cruel like those two foxes.”

  Jinty, the Witherspyk hogmaid, sitting nearby, huffed, “Better, are they? Well, just you try gettin’ by them an’ escapin’ from here. Huh, you’ll see how much better they are!”

  Midda cleaned little Borti’s face up with a damp rag. “Don’t talk about escape anymore, Jinty. Not with Flib and Flandor both dead.”

  Jinty’s twin brother, Jiddle, picked up a pebble and hurled it angrily at the wall. “Well, what are we supposed to do? Just sit down here ’til we die like a pack of silly frogs?”

  The pebble he had thrown bounced off the rock wall. It ricocheted, narrowly missing one of the guards, who strode across to Jiddle and jabbed him none too gently with a spearbutt.

  “Did yew chuck that stone just now, eh?”

  Midda put Borti down. She stood up, facing the rat aggressively. “He never chucked any stone—I did!”

  The rat, whose name was Gilfis, was slightly taken aback. “Er, well, don’t throw any more stones, see!”

  Midda imitated her sister Flib, acting tough. “An’ wot’ll yew do if’n I don’t, eh?”

  One of the other rat guards had heard the exchange. He swaggered over, paw on sword hilt. “I’ll tell ye wot we’ll do, cheekyface. We’ll give yer a good hidin’, that’s wot we’ll do!”

  Tura was tugging Midda’s sleeve to make her be quiet. However, the shrewmaid was not to be silenced. She thrust her chin out belligerently. “Why don’t ye call yore two mates, eh? Between the four of ye, it shouldn’t be hard. I’ll bet yore good at beatin’ up helpless prisoners. Big brave vermin!”

  The one called Gilfis pulled his friend away. “Leave it, Fidra. If’n we lay a paw on ’er an’ the Quean gets t’find out, we’ll both be in the soup!”

  They retired to the cave entrance, with Midda calling after them insultingly, “Go on, quick, afore yore scummy vermin Quean finds out. Lissen, rats, I’m a Guosim shrew from a real warrior clan. One Guosim’s worth ten of yew scringe-tailed cowards!”

  Tura managed to gag Midda’s mouth with her paw. “What are you acting like this for, friend? Be quiet!”

  Midda pulled her friend’s paw away. She chuckled. “I’m enjoying it—my sister Flib was like that. She was a real tough one. I could be just like her, you know.”

  One of the captives, a mouse of about four seasons, upbraided Midda. “Aye, an’ get yourself killed like your sister. Wot’ll happen to your baby brother then?”

  Midda subsided and clasped Tura’s paw. “I’m sorry. I really spoke out of turn there. I won’t do it again, promise. It only puts us all in danger, making enemies of the guards.”

  Tura smiled at her friend. “I’m glad you realise that.” Suddenly the squirrelmaid began to chuckle. She had to cover her mouth to hide the merriment as she spoke. “Did you see that vermin’s face, though? He didn’t know what to do when you challenged him!”

  Jiddle was good at impressions; he aped the guard.
“Er, well, don’t throw stones anymore, see!”

  His impersonation was so good that all the captives began laughing. One of the guards called from the entrance, “Belt up in there an’ stop that silly laughin’!”

  Jiddle shouted back, repeating the words exactly like the rat guard. Helpless laughter broke out amongst the young captives; even the babies joined in. The one called Fidra stormed in, waving his sword.

  “Shuttup, all of ye! Silence, or there’ll be no more vittles for ye, not a single bite, d’ye hear?”

  Midda was rocking back and forth with baby Borti in her paws. They were both giggling hysterically.

  Then Jinty yelled back at the guard, “Go on then—starve us t’death, wot do we care? But I wouldn’t like to be you if’n yore Quean finds out. She’ll have ye roasted alive, then slain!”

  This time there was no reply from the vermin. Tura commented bleakly, “I think they got your warning. But wot’s the use of it all? There’s no more chance of escape. They can do exactly wot they like with us down here. We might never get out of this place.”

  Little Tassy sobbed brokenly. “Never see the sun again, or the woodlands, or Redwall Abbey. I couldn’t bear it—I’d sooner just die!”

  Midda glared at the squirrelmaid. “Thanks for that, Tura. You’ve really cheered pore Tassy up. Listen, if’n ye can’t say anythin’ good, then keep yore mouth closed, that’s my advice!”

  Tura felt immediately sorry; she hugged the tiny Redwall squirrel to her. “Hush now, Tassy, don’t cry. Why, I’ll bet there’s all sorts of search parties from your Abbey scouring Mossflower to find us at this very moment. Right, Midda?”

  The Guosim maid nodded confidently. “No question about it, mate. Aye, an’ wot about my dad, Jango Bigboat? He’s a Log a Log Chieftain. Hah, he’ll have the woodlands teemin’ with Guosim warriors just searchin’ for us. They’ll find us sooner or later, I’m certain. Come on, dry yore eyes, little un.”