“IT’S LOOKING PRETTY GRIM,” SAID SPIRES IN A FLASH, quashing his friend’s enthusiasm. He clambered awkwardly into the small opening, with Emiline following. She pulled the hatch closed and the lock whirled and clicked shut.
“We’re in a rather grave situation,” continued Spires.
“They’ve got Scratcher and Portly,” said Emiline, her voice breaking when she heard the words come from her mouth.
Algernon took off his glasses and sat down slowly. Spires was shocked.
“You didn’t mention your mouse!” he said.
“Oh, my!” said Algernon. “This is worse than we could ever have thought possible.”
“Mousebeard’s mousekeeper attacked me,” said Emiline. “She was after the Golden Mice.”
“That girl is a bundle of trouble,” he said angrily. “And where’s she gone?”
“I’ve no idea . . . but there was no way I was going to give her the Golden Mice!”
“If she’s after those creatures,” said Spires, “the best chance she’ll get will be at the execution tomorrow. They’re going to be on display — shown to the crowds to let them know what an amazing thing Battersby’s achieved.”
“They are?” said Algernon. “Then we’ll have to keep our eyes open. We’ll have to do our best to make sure she doesn’t get away . . . .”
Algernon whistled loudly, his mice rushed to the dashboard, and soon the submarine was sinking to the river floor.
“Oh, I’ve made such a mess of it all,” said Spires, ducking in the cramped interior in a manner most unlike a butler. “They kept so much from me, Algernon. It was all that Battersby’s doing. There was so much I didn’t know about. And now Emiline’s friend and mouse are involved too . . . .”
“These things happen, Horatio,” said Algernon calmly. “Do you think he suspects you?”
“I think Battersby must have some doubts, but nothing to go on as yet. Besides, the past ten years will all have been for nothing if Jonathan dies tomorrow. What can we do about it though? My hands are tied.”
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot, my friend. Can you break them out of the prison? With your connections?”
“Impossible,” replied the butler. “I’m going to visit them now, but they’ll be so heavily guarded. No inmate in the prison’s two-hundred-year history has ever escaped, so I think it highly unlikely we would succeed anyway.”
“I suppose we shall have to wait for the morning then,” said Algernon.
“When they bring them out ready for the execution?” asked Spires.
“I think that will be the only opportunity. Just like it will be the only chance to rescue our small friend Portly.”
“But we have to rescue Scratcher too,” pleaded Emiline.
“Has he been taken to Dire Street as well?” asked Algernon.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They were dragging him up the road as we came to see you.”
Her eyes started to well up with tears as the words left her lips, and Spires tried to ease things. “I doubt there would be space for him in Dire Street, what with all the pirates. They’d probably take him to the barracks first for questioning anyway. They’d want to find out what he knows. I doubt he’ll be caught up in all the events tomorrow.”
“Oh, most definitely not,” added Algernon.
“Well, what are we going to do then?” she said, desperately.
“I have an idea!” said Algernon, his eyes opening wide. He started to rummage about under his chair, and open assorted boxes and cases. “You mentioned you were going to visit them?”
“Isiah wants me to check on Mousebeard’s health,” said Spires. “I fear the curse has already taken him.”
“Well, this could be our best and only chance to put our plans in place, Horatio.”
“But I cannot be seen to set them free — it would ruin all our hard work,” Spires argued.
“Oh no, no, nothing of the sort,” replied Algernon, deep in thought. “I think we should utilize all that we have at our disposal. And I need a few things in particular . . . .”
“So you say these Golden Mice could provide us with an unlimited supply of gold?” asked the Mayor, fidgeting slightly in his red velvet gown.
“If we can keep the authorities away from us for a few months — maybe while we slowly negotiate the mice’s safe return to Illyria,” replied Lovelock, watching a smile of approval from Old Town’s leader, “then we should have a large enough base to maintain a sustainable supply of gold fur from. It can be spun into thread with the greatest of ease, and so there should be no trouble in concealing our plans.”
“This is excellent news indeed, Lovelock.”
The Mayor’s cheeks grew rosier as the scale of what they’d achieved sank in.
“And with the capture of Mousebeard, there’s little anyone would do to stop us.”
“It is perfect,” added Battersby.
The Mayor was greatly impressed.
“I hear tomorrow’s execution will draw quite a crowd,” he said. “News has spread fast, and I’ve been informed that people from towns the length and breadth of Midena are traveling as we speak to catch a glimpse of both the Golden Mice and Mousebeard before his death.”
“And all this only serves to raise our standing in people’s minds,” added Lovelock.
“Brilliant, just brilliant. And tomorrow, I take it I shall receive you in the mayoral box?”
“As much as that would be an honor,” said Lovelock, “I have specifically asked the guard who will be conducting the execution if I might have a minute to speak with the great Mousebeard himself before he dies. They have agreed, of course, and that means I will be on quite the wrong side of the wharf to enjoy your company.”
The Mayor tapped his pudgy fingers together and made a slight shrug before continuing.
“Lord Battersby? Would you and the delightful Lady Pettifogger grace me with your presence? We shall be serving only the finest Château de la Souris!”
“I could think of nothing better!” replied Battersby courteously.
“Ah! Wonderful,” said the Mayor joyously. “What a fine morning it shall be, and with such an early rise I must take my leave. You have done a terrific service to Old Town, Mr. Lovelock. I take it you would not be averse to a lordship, like Battersby here?”
Lovelock allowed himself a dry smile.
“If you believe it necessary . . . .”
“Oh, I do!” he replied.
“I’ll show you to the door,” said Battersby, rising from his chair.
“Thank you once again, gentlemen,” said the Mayor, and promptly left.
Alone once more in his office, Lovelock withdrew a tightly bound bundle of papers from his desk and placed them in front of him. He flicked through the yellowing pages, each one describing a few details of a different mouse accompanied by a roughly scribbled drawing. He’d never shown anyone these papers. They were from the building on Stormcloud Island that changed the course of his life, and were no one’s business but his own.
Each mouse that adorned the pages was a mystery, and quite possibly had never existed: at least he’d never seen a note about any of them in any mouse book anywhere. The old hag that he stole the pages from assured him they were of no worth, but he didn’t believe her. There was something about a series of markings at the bottom of each page that intrigued him. He had no idea what they meant, but they meant something, he was sure of it. And after all, if he’d never seen the pages he’d never have thought to write The Mousehunter’s Almanac.
Suddenly a knock came on his door, and Battersby returned.
“They’ve finished the search, Isiah. A number of soldiers ran after a boy, but we’ve no news of that yet. Whoever broke in seems to have left as quickly as they came. Everything is intact,” he said.
Lovelock felt enormous relief at the news. “That’s wonderful, Alexander,” he replied. “These mice will change our future — of that there can be no doubt.”
“Do you need me for anything else, Isiah? I probably should be going myself . . . .”
Lovelock paused for a moment.
“As a matter of fact, there is a small thing,” he said. “I’ve never shown anybody these papers before, but I wondered whether you might be kind enough to take a look.”
Battersby walked to the desk and flicked through the pages.
“Mice?” he said.
“Most unusual ones, and I wondered if you had any idea what these inscriptions are at the bottom?”
“That’s some sort of code, Isiah. I’m not the best at these things, though, but back at the barracks I have some friends who work on these sorts of ciphers. Smedley’s particularly useful — I could get him to take a look?”
“Yes, that would be excellent,” Lovelock said. “Hearing news of Mousebeard in Old Town made me remember them again.”
“Mousebeard?”
“Oh it’s ancient history now, you understand, but I never did get to the bottom of these pages. Probably best to keep them as much of a secret as possible.”
“I’ll do my best for you, Isiah. Secrecy is what I’m good at after all . . . .”
The two men finally shook hands, and Lord Battersby departed, leaving Isiah Lovelock alone with his thoughts of Mousebeard.
It was still a few hours before dawn and the Old Town Guard were amassing at Pirate’s Wharf. The extensive wooden scaffold, erected on the water’s edge, was being inspected for the last time, with every screw tightened, and each rope secured. The gibbet stood empty, waiting for its next occupant — the great pirate Mousebeard. Not even a breeze was riding the river, which flowed slowly on its way out to sea.
While preparations were made for their execution, Mousebeard and Drewshank were huddled awkwardly in their prison cell. The pirate could feel his life ebbing away as the curse fulfilled its deadly promise. His once bulging body was thin and gnarled, and he was continuing to lose weight; his skin drawing closer to every bone. As he rested, his breathing was forced and irregular, and with each exhalation the blackness of his beard faded a little bit more to gray.
A key turned slowly in the prison door, and Drewshank stirred. Through the drift of greasy lank hair that dropped over his eyes, he watched a cloaked man walk in, his polished shoes clomping on the floor. He remained quiet and still.
Mousebeard moved a little, moaning in pain as he shifted along the floor. “I thought everyone had forgotten about me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Left me with only rats for company. Not a mouse anywhere.”
The man knelt down and placed his hand on the pirate’s shoulder. He withdrew a small rum bottle from his cloak and held it so that Mousebeard could swallow every last drop.
“You’ll last until the execution, won’t you?” asked the man quietly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see me hang . . . .”
“Excellent,” said the man, “then things will surely go as planned.”
The pirate raised himself slightly and took hold of the man’s cloak.
“You’ve come to help me?” he asked wearily, his mind clouded with tiredness.
“Jonathan, has this curse eaten your memory too?” The man bent lower and whispered directly into Mousebeard’s ear. “It’s Horatio Spires . . . .”
Mousebeard tugged the cloak tighter, and a weak smile brightened his haunted face.
“ . . . Of course I’ve come to help, and before the hour’s out, you’ll be free once more. As long as this damned curse doesn’t consume you first.”
“They’ve taken my mice,” said the pirate.
“I know they’re in safe hands, but for the time being they’ll have to stay where they are.”
Drewshank finally broke from his silence. He sat upright, tugged at his chains, and motioned to the man. Spires saw him stir and raised a finger to his lips to stop him from speaking. He crept over to Drewshank and whispered to him.
“Keep Mousebeard alive. He’s your ticket out of here. I’m sorry about this mess, but your friends have come to help you escape. It’s not going to be easy. Stay calm to the last . . . .”
Spires quickly retreated to the door, and before he left placed something on the floor. Drewshank was certain he saw movement, but it was so dark he thought it was probably his overactive imagination. And no matter what Spires had said, he couldn’t shake the fear of the scaffold from his mind.