DREWSHANK RANG THE BELL OF THE MOUSE TRADING Center and peered through the small glass panel of the door. The old, battered building slotted perfectly between two smarter houses overlooking the harbor. It was tiny, and a lot less grand than he’d expected. There were no windows at its front, just a sign nailed onto the limpet-riddled stone wall, with MICE FOR TRADE painted in big swirling letters. It looked a most unfriendly place, not at all suited for showing off expensive rare mice. Drewshank wondered why anyone would ever visit it. It was certainly nothing like the one in Old Town, nor even the gleaming new Umberto’s Trading Center situated farther up the road.
He pulled his jacket tighter around his chest and patted down his hair. Eventually a light came on and the door opened.
“Devlin Drewshank. Come on in, it’s been a while.”
Lady Pettifogger stood in the dimly lit entrance, her sharp beauty radiating like a beacon. She beckoned him into the room and shut the door, taking time to bolt numerous locks on the inside. Her long brown hair lilted softly over her shoulders, and Drewshank, unusually, felt nervous. There was something about Beatrice Pettifogger that had always made him uneasy.
The room he’d entered smelled of washed floors and disinfectant, and could easily have been mistaken for a doctor’s office.
“Never one to rush, were you?” she said playfully.
“To this shoddy building?” he said sarcastically. “Or to you? Seeing you again has made me realize why I wanted to stay away in the first place.”
“Devlin!” she tutted. “After all we’ve been through!”
“I’m here for business only, Beatrice,” he said seriously.
“It’s just been so long since I last saw you,” she said, taking Drewshank through to the next room, which was much larger and lit by flickering gas lamps. “I’ve missed seeing your face. And before you make any more nasty comments about my home, Isiah likes to keep it like this for a reason.”
“A reason?” queried Drewshank.
“Obviously, it’s not a reason we freely talk about, Devlin.”
Her voice dropped to a hush and she placed a finger over her lips. “We’d best be quiet in here. These are all the mice that aren’t for sale, and they are so easily woken. They do make such a racket when they’re awake!”
Drewshank suddenly realized the room was filled with cages of all sizes, and within them were mice of all kinds. He’d been too preoccupied with Beatrice to notice before, but now he realized there were also metal bolted doors on each wall, and some even had bars protecting their circular windows. The Trading Center spread out much more than its small front let on.
“So you still have a thing against mice . . . ,” he said.
“Such smelly little creatures. But Isiah does like me to be in charge here. He says I have a knack for spotting good breeding, and on that point I’d have to agree. We’re currently involved in Snapper Mice breeding trials . . . .”
“Breeding trials?” queried Drewshank, his voice squeaking like a mouse.
“ . . . and, funnily enough, I do quite like to see the results,” she added.
“The results?” queried Drewshank once more. He received no reply; instead Lady Pettifogger took a sharp turn onto a staircase and led the way upward.
As usual, Lady Pettifogger was dressed provocatively, in a flowing yet well-fitting red dress, and Drewshank looked on gloomily as she vanished upstairs. He had a terrible feeling that the evening was going to end badly.
“I knew Mousebeard would be an offer you couldn’t refuse,” she said knowingly, opening a door to a glowing orange room, filled with the warmth of a roaring fire. She showed him to a chair and poured him a glass of wine.
“We’d have been closer to our goal too, but you can’t account for sea monsters,” he said, sitting down in an upright and slightly guarded manner. He knew better than to trust her.
“I take it that the ship’s still in one piece?” she said, hopefully.
“Just about,” he replied. “We’re lucky the shipwrights work quickly here in Hamlyn.”
“It’s amazing what a bunch of pirates can achieve when they put their skills to something useful,” she said. “They also make very good spies.”
Lady Pettifogger took a folded map from a tabletop, and passed it to Drewshank. “Without them we wouldn’t have this!”
Drewshank unraveled the browning parchment; it was hand-drawn, and a detailed chart of the seas that surrounded Old Town and Hamlyn, as well as many far-off lands. Islands were sprinkled over it like lily pads, and in the top corner was a wide red circle, scratched into the map in what looked like blood.
“As you know, Lovelock has many contacts around the Great Sea and beyond. We’ve noted every attack Mousebeard’s made in the past few months and plotted them on the map with tiny black mice. We believe that the pirate’s hideout is located at the far reaches of the Cold Sea, somewhere in that red circle on the map. It’s beyond his usual hunting ground, but we don’t know the exact coordinates. It is said that he hides on an island so tall and impenetrable that no one has ever been able to scale the cliffs that lift it into the sky. If you do come across his lair, you may have to find a way past such obstacles if you’re to capture him.”
Drewshank looked a little amazed by Lady Pettifogger’s information.
“So, our target is simply the Cold Sea? Beatrice, I’d have thought your spies would come up with more than this!” he said.
“Oh come on! You’re the best captain there is, Devlin. If you head north and use the map and your wits, you’ll surely succeed.”
“Well, that’s not in doubt; like you say, I am one of the greatest privateers who ever lived! But even so, Lovelock seemed to think that you had useful information for me!”
Lady Pettifogger leaned toward Drewshank, who shuffled back further into his chair.
“This is Mousebeard we’re talking about, Devlin,” she said, smiling sweetly and holding her arms out. “I’ve told you all the knowledge that we have . . . .”
She paused for a second then spoke softly, “ . . . You know I don’t want to see you getting hurt for our sake — you’re much too special.”
Drewshank struggled not to be charmed by her. But he ignored her outstretched arms and looked at her with what he hoped was his least handsome expression.
“If I die, Beatrice, you can be sure it won’t be for you. I foolishly tried once before, and all it got me was three years in the clink,” he said.
“Captain Drewshank!” exclaimed Beatrice, playfully.
“Three years of breaking up mouse biscuit, dressed in godawful prison attire . . . ” Drewshank’s eyes clouded over, remembering the rotten smell of mouse food as though it were still lingering in his clothes.
Lady Pettifogger reached over and touched his knee softly, and Drewshank had to suppress a horrible feeling of joy.
“It was such a long time ago,” she pleaded. “You never used to be one for grudges . . . .”
Drewshank took that as his cue to make a move. He stood up without a second thought.
“And I hear you’ve now become close friends with that Lord Bumblebee, or whatever his name is,” he said.
“Devlin, you know perfectly well that it’s Lord Battersby!”
Drewshank’s eyes made brief contact with the Lady’s, and he suddenly remembered how they reminded him of his first pet mouse. He kicked himself — he was thinking kindly of Lady Pettifogger — and looked away as fast as he could.
“Well I don’t particularly care,” he said grumpily, “so you might as well stop trying to sweet-talk me.”
“I was doing no such thing!”
She made one more attempt to get closer, holding out her arm to touch him, but Drewshank smiled knowingly and stepped away.
“I think I should be going,” he said. “Your spell is already taking effect.”
Lady Pettifogger laughed. “Those days have long passed, Devlin. I’ve changed — Battersby’s been good for me.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute, Beatrice. And Battersby’s a thug. A pompous, proud military man, with no other talent except waging war,” he said, making a move for the door. He finished his drink and returned the glass to Lady Pettifogger. She stretched up her hand for him to kiss, but Drewshank declined.
“As much as I’d like my heart torn in two again, I’d rather not have it happen this evening,” he said, and made his way out without looking back.
Once the outside door slammed shut, a concealed door opened in the bookcase behind Beatrice Pettifogger. Lord Battersby stepped out angrily.
“Me? A thug?” he exclaimed. “Drewshank was always a fool and a damned fop, and I’m pleased to see nothing’s changed.”
“He’s no fool, Alexander,” said Lady Pettifogger. “You do yourself a disservice by thinking it.”
“You still hold a soft spot for him . . . .”
“No!” she said firmly, approaching him and stroking the war medals on his chest, “but he doesn’t deserve the fate you’ve lined up for him.”
“He’s a cocky you-know-what, and it’s all for the good of Old Town, Beatrice! If we’re going to return our fair city to its past glory, then it’s something that has to happen.”
“You’re right, of course,” she said quietly. “I’ll send a message to Isiah, he’ll be pleased to hear things are going to plan.”
“Oh, he will indeed. Drewshank was a terrific choice of mine, don’t you think?”
Lady Pettifogger smiled briefly.
“Of course, Alexander. He’ll see it through to the bitter end, too. Just like you, his pride will allow for nothing less.”
“From what I heard, it’s been quite a week for Grak attacks,” said Algernon as Scratcher and Emiline followed him up the stairs to his workshop in the roof. “At some point, I’d be very interested in hearing of your encounter.” He turned, leaned toward Emiline, and peered over the rim of his glasses.
“These creatures become monsters when humans meddle with them,” he added, suddenly becoming serious. “Two Grak incidents in the Great Sea in the space of a week is no coincidence!”
Algernon continued to the top of the stairs, where they reached a dead end. He pushed aside a dirty painting of a yellow, flea-ridden mouse to reveal a hidden lever, and he pulled it violently. With a click and a thud, a trapdoor dropped open above them and a ladder slid down.
“Go on,” he said, and ushered them hastily upward.
Emiline and Scratcher clambered up onto the floor above them into darkness. They heard the trapdoor close behind them; light and the sound of squeaking mice filled the room.
The mousekeepers gasped as the workshop revealed itself before them. It was a mass of copper pipes, machinery, and flashing numbered dials; shelves were filled with books and instruments, and the walls covered in pictures of whales, mice, and islands. Algernon was always one to experiment with the latest technology, and the workshop was gently lit not by gas lamps but by the cool glow of electric bulbs.
Scratcher’s eye was taken by a clockwork metallic globe that was ticking madly on a little table. He went over a little fearfully and picked it up, and watched the islands and countries spin around.
“What does it do?” he asked, but Algernon didn’t hear. He was whistling strangely.
At his call, a band of brown Boffin Mice scurried across the floor. Emiline clapped her hands with excitement — she’d never seen any up close before. It’s easy to identify them because of the white ring of fur around each of their eyes and their two sticky-out teeth. If you saw them at a distance, you could almost swear they were wearing glasses.
“Ah, watch out for them,” Algernon said as the mice ran up the wall to a small ledge. “I call this my Marvellous Mouse Machine, although the name’s open to discussion.” Emiline noted that every time Algernon spoke, it was as though his mind was already racing ahead onto the next sentence.
“What Marvelous Mouse Machine?” asked Scratcher.
“You’ll see!” laughed Algernon.
The Boffin Mice ran up to a shiny metal panel and pressed some buttons, one at a time, until a huge crack sounded through the workshop and a large portion of the roof folded inward. The night-time sky opened up above them and half of a gigantic gleaming copper telescope slipped gracefully downward into the room, with its small eyepiece stopping just in front of Algernon’s face.
“There we go, take a look through here,” he said excitedly.
Emiline took hold and peered into the telescope. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was looking at a far-off shore, lit by the moon. In the blue light she could make out a creature moving slowly, and it eventually dawned on her that it was a Giant Himolo Mouse, its body taller than the trees.
“It’s a Giant Mouse!” she said excitedly. “But they’re extinct?”
“A Giant Mouse?” interrupted Scratcher. He nudged Emiline out of the way and looked for himself. “Wow,” he breathed.
“Isn’t it marvelous,” chuckled Algernon. “You can see all sorts of mice through there if you look hard enough! There’s a special setting just for mice — you could look at buildings or stars if you’d rather, but who’d want to do that?”
Emiline couldn’t believe it. “But why don’t you tell people about the Himolo Mouse! This is the greatest discovery in years!” she said.
“Oh no! No, never. As soon as one of those rich mouse collectors who only care about money got their grubby mitts on it . . . well I wouldn’t like to think about it.”
Algernon gestured to the mice, who raced onto the telescope and pressed a few more buttons along its side. It creaked and twisted, and gently rose back into the roof, closing off the hole to the sky at the same time.
Portly had become very excited by Algernon’s Boffin Mice, and he slipped out from Emiline’s hair and climbed to the top of her head to get a better view.
“You’re not bored with all this, are you?” Algernon asked, while his hands scoured the surface of the table for something interesting.
“Not at all!” declared Emiline. “Portly here seems very impressed.”
“Ah! What a splendid Grey!” said Algernon, taking a moment to see Emiline’s mouse. Portly’s ears shot to attention.
Suddenly remembering his role as host, Algernon rushed to find two little wooden stools among the debris of his workshop. He brushed a mess of twinkling objects off one, and they burst open with tremendous flashes of light as they hit the floor.
“Oh, sorry!” said Algernon absently.
Emiline took her hands from her eyes and sat down next to Scratcher. Opposite them, Algernon looked serious once more.
“So then,” he asked, “you’re sailing with the dashing Captain Drewshank.”
Emiline blushed slightly. “I couldn’t think of anything better,” she said excitedly.
“And I hear you’re out to capture Mousebeard — old Drewshank never takes the easy life, does he?”
“I know he’ll find him,” added Scratcher.
“He will? Mousebeard’s name strikes fear into the hearts of sailors for good reason, you know!” said Algernon seriously. “For one thing, he’s supposed to take immense pleasure in tying up his prisoners and feeding them, one limb at a time, to Short-fanged Sea Mice. I doubt he’s a man who’ll give up easily . . . .”
“Drewshank can do anything when he puts his mind to it,” said Scratcher confidently.
“Yes, maybe you’re right. He certainly survived that sea monster. But you two should take extra care of yourselves. Good mousekeepers are a dying breed in these lands.”
“We’ll be fine, Algernon,” replied the boy. “We’ve survived the Grak — what worse thing can come at us?”
“That’s all true, Mr. Scratcher, but never believe you’re past the worst when you’re at sea. It has a terrible way of surprising you when you least expect it!”
He turned to look at Emiline.
“And you know how the Grak became Grak, don’t you?”
“Yes . . . ,” said Emiline.
“Well, have you asked yourselves who dropped the Long-eared Mice in the water in the first place?”
“Drewshank thinks Mousebeard could have been involved,” said Scratcher eagerly.
“Hmmm,” replied Algernon.
“You don’t . . . ,” Emiline was about to ask a further question, but was interrupted by Scratcher, who had taken to nosing around the workshop. He came to a stop in front of a dusty old photograph.
“Who’s this?” he asked, looking at the three people standing on top of a mountain. One was far shorter than the others, yet he looked the most happy as he held a particularly fine Triplehorn Mouse. Its head was as large as a fist just so that it could carry the three hefty horns.
“Oh, that was me a long time ago,” said Algernon, “back in the days when I went mousehunting. What a mouse that was — only the second to be found on the island of Dundinia. That’s Isiah Lovelock in the middle. He’s now rich and famous, having written that fascinating book.”
“Isiah Lovelock? He has the best mouse collection in the world,” said Emiline. “I was his mousekeeper.”
“Ah! I should have known. He always could tell a good mouser,” said Algernon, who went and reacquainted himself with the photograph. “We don’t get on too well these days; he’s grown a little too big for his boots — thinking he can run the mousetrading world and all. He thinks he owns us all sometimes. You’re wrong about his collection though.”
“I am?” said Emiline, greatly surprised.
“Mousebeard the pirate has the greatest collection. But I wouldn’t tell that to Lovelock . . . ,” he added with glee.
“Mousebeard?” choked Scratcher and Emiline together.
“Oh yes, everyone knows that!” Algernon said, matter-of-factly.
“Who’s the other person in the picture then?” said Emiline, greatly intrigued.
“He was a good friend of ours. We lost him while on a voyage to an island a long way from here. Jonathan Harworth was his name.”
“What happened?” asked Scratcher.
Algernon looked slightly put out when he heard Scratcher’s question, and he rustled his hair and walked back to his table.
“Something rather horrible, and I don’t care to go into detail,” he said. “It was a long time ago now . . . .”
Scratcher tried to delve deeper. “What was it?” he asked.
Algernon closed his eyes and thought hard.
“Young man,” he finally said to the boy, “in this world everyone harbors a secret; some people even have two. Isiah Lovelock probably has at least three, and I don’t doubt that Mousebeard has near five. But I’m not going to say anything more on the subject.”
Emiline considered quizzing him more, but thought better of it. Algernon remained quiet for a few moments while he picked up and arranged some papers. He wasn’t one to be still for long, however.
“Aha!” he said, suddenly jumping into life and running to a large tank of water. “Yes, yes, yes!” he exclaimed. “I remember why I invited you up here! My rocket-powered Whale Mouse attachment.”
Emiline looked on in bewilderment as Algernon opened a sliding door into the tank. In a burst of bubbles, a bloated Whale Mouse shot into view, with a small gushing metal attachment on its back.
“With the aid of my invention, this little mouse can swim at the equivalent mouse speed of eighty miles an hour. I’ve yet to find a good use for it, but the mouse seems incredibly pleased.”
Leading out from the tank was a large glass tube that traveled around the room. Algernon lifted a lever, another door in the tank slid across, and the streamlined yet rotund mouse shot out into the tube. He happily powered around it, without a care in the world, making three passes of Emiline in the space of only a few seconds.
Emiline stared in amazement. On top of her head, Portly was looking on, incredibly jealous.
“He’ll be zooming around there for hours now,” Algernon said excitedly. As he spoke, a bell rang from near the trapdoor.
“Oh no! That’s young Elbert downstairs, calling for assistance,” he said. “I’m sorry to cut short this delightful discussion, but we’d best head down now. Maybe we can do it again soon? There’s plenty more things for me to show you!”
Scratcher and Emiline agreed and made their way back downstairs. Algernon sealed his workshop shut and charged off, waving goodbye as he passed them.
Among the rabble in the inn sat Drewshank. He was relaxing quietly in a booth to himself, supping from a bottle of Blind Mice Beer. Chervil was curled up tightly on the table in front of him, and he greeted the young mousekeepers as they entered the room. He was quite subdued after his visit to the Mouse Trading Center.
“So you’ve visited Algernon’s workshop,” he said, his voice tired.
“It’s amazing!” proclaimed Scratcher, idly stroking Chervil’s head.
“He’s certainly a character,” Drewshank replied, sipping some beer.
“How was Lady Pettifogger?” asked Emiline, sensing that something had occurred.
“Same as she ever was,” he said, in an unusually downbeat manner. “And that worries me. Something doesn’t sit right with all this business. I’ve been caught out by her before, and I’m starting to smell something terribly whiffy about this whole mission.”
“That’ll be the Elephant Mice,” said Scratcher, as one of the huge mice passed by with beers on its back.
“Maybe,” grumbled Drewshank. “There’s definitely some stinking mice involved in all this, of that we can be dead sure, but I wish I knew what they were. Still, I shouldn’t burden you with these things . . . just keep your eyes and ears open. Lovelock and Pettifogger are tricky customers with cronies everywhere. I just know something’s up, but I can’t tell what.”
The sun broke the top of the horizon, casting a bright red glow across the tall rock of Hamlyn. From the Flying Fox, Drewshank watched the morning light hit the buildings rising up all over it like the spines on a porcupine.
On the quayside, the sellers and fishermen were already sorting out their stands, and sailors were loosening their boat moorings as Drewshank oversaw the last of the supplies arriving on deck. He was anxious about the journey ahead, but he was determined, as ever, to see his commission through.
Drewshank and Fenwick had come to the conclusion that they should take a course north, just as Lady Pettifogger had suggested, but they had nothing more than the map to go on.
“Mildred!” he shouted, stepping down onto the quayside.
A thin boy with strawlike hair approached, carrying a long stick with a dried fish attached to its end. His head was covered by an ill-fitting helmet that was the uniform of a Weather Teller. More commonly referred to as fish danglers, Weather Tellers were found at every port, standing quietly day after day ready to reveal the weather forecast with the help of a dried fish. Weather telling was regarded as a noble trade by sailors the world over, as the specially prepared fish were usually very reliable.
“Yes, Mr. Drewshanks,” he replied keenly, ever getting his name wrong.
“Any news on the weather?”
“Of course, Mr. Drewshanks, but you won’t like it!”
“I won’t?”
“Fog, sir,” said the Weather Teller sternly, looking intently at the fish on the end of his rod. “It’s twisting slightly to the left, see.”
Drewshank felt his heart sink.
“And occasional squalls to the north,” he added.
“Thanks, Mildred,” said Drewshank in exasperation, as he returned to the ship. “Those fish . . . they ever get it wrong?”
“No, Mr. Drewshanks. Only if they run out of salt, but my fish was freshly salted only yesterday.”
“Oh well,” replied Drewshank finally, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yes, sir . . . ,” called the Weather Teller. “Take care, sir!”
Ten minutes later, a loud whistle blew and the Flying Fox’s gangplank slid onto deck. Four small paddleboats, waiting for the word from the captain, let their oars hit the water and took the strain. Ropes lifted from the water and the Flying Fox gradually pulled away from its berth in tow.
Aboard ship, it would have seemed that no one on the mainland was concerned about their voyage, but that could not have been further from the truth. Lord Battersby stood by his window and watched the Flying Fox, charting its course out to sea. He held detailed notes of the gun placements before him; his spies had done a good job at checking out the Flying Fox and its crew. He knew exactly what it was capable of.
And at the other end of the harbor, Algernon had taken no rest that night and watched the Flying Fox’s departure through his telescope. He then promptly scribbled a note in his indecipherable hand, and readied a Messenger Mouse for flight.
It was safe to say that, unknown to Captain Drewshank and his crew, their actions were being watched very closely indeed.