Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  “Yes,” Galahad said, puzzled.

  “Thank goodness,” Britta said, and shoved her bundle of scrolls into Galahad’s arms. “You can start by copying that entire stack.” And with that, she bustled off.

  Galahad glanced down at the thick scrolls in his arms. Tiny letters in narrow lines marched up and down the parchment on both sides.

  “Copying this will take days,” Galahad said, dismayed. “A year, even.”

  “Who says you’ll be leaving anytime soon?” Red smirked, and as he exited the library, Galahad heard the door lock shut.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Calib kept his head down as he scurried back to the kitchens with an earthenware tray. For the past three days, he’d been working as a server in the Saxons’ kitchens, joining the rows of mice and shrews carrying out trays of bread and cheese through the swinging doors and delivering them to the Saxon guards.

  When he’d first returned from the mines, Calib had tried to find Lylas again. But the head cook, a hare by the name of Jasper, refused him leave to depart the kitchens until the next morning. By then, to Calib’s dismay, Lylas was nowhere to be found.

  He’d also been trying to locate the dungeons without being noticed by a Saxon guard. But there were as many tunnels as holes in a piece of Swiss cheese. He’d snuck into the passageways willy-nilly a few times and gotten hopelessly turned about. After that, he’d realized he needed to be more organized in his approach. Slowly, he would work his way from east to west, making sure that not a single possible place would be overlooked.

  For three days, he’d found neither fur nor whisker of Cecily’s. No one—not any of the miners, forge workers, or kitchen staff—seemed to have seen her.

  Calib entered the smoky, brick hovel of the kitchens, passing the rows of cooking pits that had been dug into the ground like trenches. Cauldrons and griddles hovered above each pit, bubbling with soups and grilled cheeses. The heat was drier, possibly even hotter, here. But at least the smell of rotten eggs from the sulfur mixed with weasel musk had subsided.

  Looking around, he finally spied Jasper, who looked like he was in danger of dipping his ears into the soup every time he reached in to stir it. The white hare ladled out a sample to taste and made a disgusted face.

  “Bad batch! Pour this down the chute,” he instructed a nearby pair of shrews. The two nodded solemnly and came over to maneuver the cauldron off the fire. Then the hare picked up a small sack and hopped over to the garbage chute.

  Calib hurried over to him, careful to avoid slipping on his loose chains, and tapped his shoulder. “Jasper, could I—”

  The hare jumped around, raisins flying from the sack. “I’m sorry! I’m cooking as fast as I can!”

  “It’s just me, Ca— I mean, Warren,” Calib said, almost forgetting he’d given the other prisoners a false name.

  Realizing it was only a mouse, the hare sighed, exasperated and visibly relieved. He gave Calib a hard shove. “Don’t go sneaking up on creatures like that. Thought you were the guards!”

  “Sorry,” Calib said, stooping to pick up the raisins. “I only wanted to know my next assignment. I was hoping maybe you could assign me the dungeons today.” He handed his pawful of raisins to Jasper, who quickly chucked it down the garbage chute.

  “You’ve asked me that every morning since you’ve been tasked to the kitchens,” Jasper said, his large foot thumping the ground in exasperation. “And as I’ve said every day, we don’t serve the dungeons.”

  “But—”

  “Warren, Warren.” The hare shook his head and sighed. A sadness lingered in his eyes. “I know your mommy probably taught you to be compassionate and stand up for what’s right, but that only gets you killed around here—or worse. If you want to survive, the only one you can look out for is yourself.” The hare sniffed loudly, then changed the subject. “Did you know your name means ‘home’ where I’m from?”

  Disappointed and hungry (always hungry), Calib shook his head, not feeling much like talking. He took a nibble from one of the fallen raisins. Sweetness bloomed in his mouth.

  “These taste fine,” he said to Jasper.

  “Shows how much you know about cooking,” Jasper snorted, snatching the last raisins out of Calib’s paws. “But since you’re so eager to seek dangerous knowledge, I have a new task for you, one that will definitely take courage.”

  Throwing the last of the raisins down the chute, Jasper gestured for Calib to follow him to a long table, where he had laid out a fresh-yolk omelet topped with tomato skins, chives, and goat cheese on a meal tray. Calib’s mouth watered at the sight of all that food, though it was placed next to a bowl of raw, stinking mackerel bits. “Deliver the Manderlean his breakfast.”

  The Manderlean.

  At the sound of his name, Calib felt something hard—either courage or fear—wedge itself into his chest. Calib took the tray, trying to keep his paws steady.

  “The Manderlean will be in the war tents near the docks,” Jasper said. “The omelet is for our dear warlord. The fish is for that terrible hawk. Don’t mix it up—and don’t let the hawk see you.”

  With a gulp, Calib nodded and quickly ducked out of the kitchens. He checked his reflection against the silver tray to make sure the white patch around his ear was still hidden. He’d taken to rolling inside any extinguished fire pit so that he might pass as a gray mouse rather than a mouse with the tawny gold-and-white fur of a Christopher. He wondered if the Manderlean might recognize him from the Battle of the Bear—even with all the soot covering his fur.

  As he approached the docks, he tried to keep count of how many warships lined the shore of this underground lake. Commander Kensington, he knew, would want to know. There were at least fifty Two-Legger ships, and each one could contain perhaps one hundred Two-Leggers and who knew how many additional creatures inside.

  While an attack on Camelot by sea was nearly impossible due to its position on the lip of a cliff, an attack from the river was a different story. If even just one of these ships made it to the moat, who knew how much damage it could do.

  The underground lake let off a constant steam that stung Calib’s eyes. The rotten-egg stench was so strong here, it made him gag if he breathed too deep. Saxon weasels marched in formation around the shore, running through training exercises and obstacle courses. Calib stayed alert, keeping careful balance of his tray while skirting past any drilling troops.

  Canvas tents were pitched all along the side of the lake. He headed for the largest one with the most guards lining the entrance.

  “Breakfast for the Manderlean!” Calib said to the nearest weasel, perhaps more brightly than he intended.

  The burly guard sniffed the plate, wrinkling his snout at the fish. He stepped aside, giving him just enough space to squeeze past.

  Calib entered alone into a waiting area that was separated from the rest of the tent by a curtain. From the other side, Calib could hear voices.

  “My lord, I assure you, we are looking for him.” The voice spoke quickly, but Calib would recognize it anywhere: Sir Percival Vole! Calib’s paws began to shake—not because of the weight of the breakfast tray or even fear—but in anger. Percival had been responsible for Commander Yvers’s death. He’d kidnapped Cecily and stolen the Grail. The Manderlean may be Camelot’s greatest enemy, but Percival was its greatest traitor.

  “We’ve questioned the weasel who brought you the sword. We have turned the eastern forges upside down looking for the mouse,” Percival continued, “but you should keep your focus on the question of the Grail—”

  “Silence!” The Manderlean’s bark made Calib nearly jump and upset his plates. “The Grail is about as useful to me as a drinking cup right now!”

  “I believe the old commander took the Grail’s secrets to his grave.” Sir Percival’s voice trembled. “But the young Christopher may know more.”

  “I will take matters of the Grail into my own paws going forward,” the Manderlean snapped. “Just find me
that mouse.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Percival mumbled. He was quiet for a moment, seeming to have a debate with himself. Finally, he said, “And the mouse-maid?”

  “What of her?” the Manderlean snapped again.

  “Have you perhaps questioned her? She was very close with the young Christopher. Perhaps she knows something about unlocking the Grail.”

  Calib’s heart jumped. Cecily! They were talking about Cecily! He tried to lean in to catch the next words.

  The Manderlean snorted. “I doubt it. You may do with her as you will. Put her in the mines.”

  There was another hesitant pause from Percival. Then: “I don’t think . . . She’s not exactly a tame mouse.”

  “Then kill her,” the Manderlean said as casually as if he were planning to take a stroll. “There are many mouths to feed, and she is of no use. She can be Theodora’s dinner tonight.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  A gasp escaped Calib before he could stop it, and a second later, the curtain whipped open.

  Sir Percival Vole snarled down at him. His eyes were still rimmed with leftover kohl from when he had masqueraded as Mistress Pearl. He’d lost some weight, which made his previously plump cheeks sag like slack sails. His teeth were black as ever, but Calib could no longer distinguish the smell of his rotten breath from the smell of sulfur all around.

  The vole stood with his arms crossed and his footpaw tapping impatiently. For a second, Calib thought a flicker of recognition crossed Percival’s face, but then it passed.

  “You’re late with the breakfast, prisoner,” the traitor of Camelot said. He stepped back a little so that Calib could enter with the tray.

  “My apologies,” Calib mumbled out of the side of his mouth, disguising his voice a few octaves lower. He wished he had his friend Barnaby’s gift for accents at that moment. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Sidestepping Percival, Calib made his way to the large rectangular table at the center of the tent. At its head sat the Manderlean, studying an open scroll.

  Calib suppressed a shudder. The golden mask still covered the creature’s face, making it impossible to tell what kind of animal he was. The lack of features made the Manderlean even more mysterious—and terrifying.

  With eyes that seemed to be lit by coals, the Manderlean scrutinized Calib intensely. Calib dropped his eyes to the table and saw that it was covered with maps. Carefully, Calib set the tray of eggs and raw fish in front of the creature, and bowed.

  The Manderlean stayed still, making no move to eat—or dismiss Calib.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sir Percival snapped.

  Calib’s breath caught. He’d messed up somehow. They know— A screeching caw from outside the tent interrupted his swirling thoughts.

  “Theodora becomes very cranky when she’s not fed in a timely manner,” the Manderlean said. “And when she’s cranky, she’s known to put mice on the menu.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Calib grunted, quickly grabbing the bowl of fish from the table. “I’ll take care of it straight away.” And before the warlord could examine his new prisoner further, Calib scurried out of the tent.

  Theodora the hawk was roosting in a birdcage near the back of the tent. She was hooded, wearing a leather helmet that covered her eyes, blinding her to her surroundings. Still, the claws of her talons gleamed and looked as if they’d been freshly sharpened. Her beak hooked cruelly.

  “I hear you, groundling.” Calib jumped as Theodora clapped her beak together. “Come closer. Have you brought me my fish?”

  Gritting his teeth, Calib hurried toward the cage and pushed the bowl through the bars.

  “Y-yes, ma’am,” he stuttered from the ground. Though he was terrified, he was slightly in awe of the hawk’s sense of hearing. She couldn’t see him because of her hood, and as far as he could tell, hawks weren’t known for their keen sense of smell. By only listening to him walk, she’d been able to tell what he was.

  Suddenly, Theodora flared her wings, and the gust of wind from her feathers knocked Calib back onto his tail.

  He scrambled to his feet as Theodora let out a piercing burst of laughter. “Sieer! Sieer! Careful, groundling, unless you want to end up in the Wolf’s Mouth. That’s where the misbehaving beasts go!”

  There was an awful squelching sound as Theodora dug her beak into the fish and began to gulp down strips of scales. Feeling queasy, Calib turned and left the war tents.

  Things weren’t looking good.

  Calib was a prisoner for Camelot’s biggest threat. Sir Percival was still at-large, plotting Camelot’s fall. And Cecily was almost certainly going to die at sunset.

  But for the first time since he’d arrived, Calib had a confirmation that he was on the right track. He’d learned that Cecily was still alive, along with some idea of where she might be.

  The Wolf’s Mouth.

  Cecily was somewhere in this fortress, and he would find her—before it was too late.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Galahad’s hand cramped with exhaustion. For three days, he’d been transcribing the most boring of scrolls from Gaelic into Latin, the only break being when Red would come to collect him, and with two or three Saxon guards, escort him back to his room.

  Galahad wanted to scream with frustration. He was no closer to discovering where Morgan was hiding the Grail, and he hadn’t even seen Excalibur since the first night it had been taken from him. Thankfully, he still had Merlin’s Mirror, but it had remained simply a mirror, showing Galahad only his own tired eyes.

  And yet, no matter how many hours Galahad spent in the library, Britta always seemed to be there more. She was there when he arrived, and she remained when he was escorted off.

  The girl was relentless, barely taking time to eat the food the guards would bring in. Occasionally, she would stop and ask Galahad for help with a word. If Galahad knew the answer, he’d tell her, and her quill would scritch-scratch across the parchment once more.

  But today, for once, Galahad couldn’t hear the scritch-scratch. Looking up from his scroll, he saw Britta’s curly hair spilled out across the table as she lightly snored. Her quill was still in her hand, ink dripping from the tip onto her notes. Galahad scanned through what she had written, and realized Britta was creating a code to translate Merlin’s ciphers.

  Galahad frowned. He was running out of time. He needed to master Excalibur before Britta could unlock the wizard’s secrets. As quietly as he could, he stood up and moved to the section of the library that had caught his eye the first day: Magical Properties.

  He scanned the spines and the fluttering tags of the scrolls: “Henges,” “Divination,” “Prophecy,” “Magicians” . . .

  “What are you doing here?”

  Galahad jumped at Britta’s voice. Turning around, he saw her standing with her arms crossed. Her quill was tucked behind her ear, dripping droplets of ink onto her neck. “We have to keep translating!”

  It would have sounded much more intimidating but for the loud yawn that escaped her.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” Galahad asked. “You’ll be able to work faster if you’re not so tired.”

  “No.” Britta shook her head adamantly. “I’m not . . . sleepy.” She yawned again. “Fine, maybe just a little.” She plopped into a nearby armchair.

  “Why do you work so hard?” Galahad asked, hurrying over to the table where a guard had left a bread-and-cheese plate.

  “It’s hard to justify taking a break when you’re trying to save Saxony,” Britta said wearily. She took a bite of bread.

  “Saxony?” Galahad asked, surprised. “Why would anyone want to save Saxony?”

  “Why? Because that’s my home, silly!”

  “You’re a Saxon?” Galahad exclaimed. In his experience, the Saxons were a ruthless, warlike bunch. Nothing like the studious researcher before him.

  “Yes, I studied at the best schools there,” Britta said, pride glowing in her voice.
“That’s why Her Majesty brought me here. So I can help my country.”

  Curious, Galahad asked, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The land is drying up,” she said matter-of-factly. “Crops are dying. Animals are fleeing. So we had to flee too. But I believe in Morgan le Fay. She’s the smartest sorceress I’ve ever met. The only orchards that are still blossoming are the ones she’s enmagicked. She’s our best hope for survival.”

  Galahad could barely wrap his mind around Britta’s words. He couldn’t imagine the queen he’d met helping farm the lands and calling trees to burst into bloom. That didn’t match the stories he’d heard about her at all.

  But then again, Britta didn’t match his image of a Saxon. He’d only ever met Saxon guards and warriors on the battlefield. He’d never stopped to think that they too must have families. Children his age. Academies.

  Speaking about her home seemed to have woken Britta up. She headed back to her desk. Looking down at where she’d left off, she read something, then asked, “How do you translate this?” She tapped her finger at a word, and Galahad walked over to look at it.

  “‘Potion,’ I think,” Galahad said, reading over her shoulder. “And you say your research is going to save Saxony?”

  “Yes.” Britta nodded as she jotted something down. “Queen Morgan believes that many answers can often be found in libraries— Oh!” she broke off, and stared at her parchment. “I think I’ve figured something out!” Standing up, she rang a little bell on the wall. A moment later, a Saxon guard strode in.

  “Give this to Her Majesty,” Britta said. “Quickly!”

  She turned to Galahad, her face aglow. “Thank you!” she said. “I think with that last word, I might finally be on to something!”

  But Galahad was barely paying attention. His heartbeat had jumped into his throat as he scanned the scroll Britta had asked him to look at. The handwriting was oddly familiar. He’d seen it before in Camelot’s own library—the hasty scrawl of Merlin.