AT THE BREAK OF DAY, THE OVERNIGHT FOG HAD cleared and the harbor was bustling with life. Taverns opened their doors and numerous stalls popped up at its outer edges, providing a bright backdrop to the salesmen and sailors who muscled their way along the cobblestones. Fishermen hurried along in their knee-high rubber boots, trying to avoid the reeking, troublesome seadogs making their way back to ship after a night of hard drinking. People of all colors and creeds mingled at the docks, and by day it was an exciting place to be.
With the arrival of ships throughout the night, news had come flooding in of an unusual weather front off the coast of Hamlyn. Three vessels had vanished at sea during the night, and after the sinking of the Lady Caroline in recent days, it did little to settle sailors’ nerves. Not only was Mousebeard in the vicinity, but a treacherous storm threatened their livelihood.
Needless to say, voyages were being diverted or canceled to avoid the menace. Drewshank, however, had no such option.
“Bring all the gunpowder aboard!” he shouted briskly to a hairy sailor on the quayside. Drewshank had gotten little sleep the previous night, but he would make sure the ship left on time.
“Aye, sir!” replied the sailor as he ticked off an entry on a piece of notepaper. Drewshank walked the ship and checked on all the crew: carpenters chipped away on the gun deck, making space for the new cannons; pigs and cows were herded below; sailors climbed the lofty masts with Rigger Mice in tow and mended any broken stitching on the sails.
Captain Drewshank oversaw all these movements and repairs along with his burly right-hand man, Mr. Fenwick. It was a massive undertaking, for the Flying Fox had to be fully prepared to face such an enemy as Mousebeard. High tide was in a few hours, and they had to depart on time so as not to come aground in the shallow route to the sea.
As he went to check food supplies in the mess, a young boy approached. His clothes were far too big for him and he’d tied the trousers into large knots at the ankles to stop him from tripping over. His dark scruffy hair hung limply, and he looked like he’d had a very trying morning.
“Mr. Piper,” said Drewshank, “how are things below-decks? Have you gotten rid of that troublesome mouse yet?”
Mr. Piper, or Scratcher, as he was familiarly known, was only ten years old, and was the Flying Fox’s mousekeeper. Never a boy of great natural ability, Scratcher always had to work hard to get anywhere, but he did a good job of caring for all the nautical working mice that were needed aboard ship.
“Captain, he just keeps escaping,” he said breathlessly. “He’s torn hammocks and sliced crates clean open. A pound of hardtack’s been devoured too. There are crumbs everywhere!”
“This won’t do, Mr. Piper,” replied Drewshank.
“I’m trying my hardest, sir,” the boy said, stooping to catch a breath. “It’s as though he knows every move I make.”
“There’s no time for this. We simply can’t set sail with him onboard. The Fox will soon be looking holier than Reverend Doyly.”
Scratcher stepped back to attention. “Yessir,” he replied snappily.
“As wily as he may be, he’s only a Sharpclaw,” said Drewshank. “Admittedly his claws are the size of daggers, but come on! Exert yourself !”
“But, sir . . . ,” insisted Scratcher, “I’m only a mousekeeper! I’m not trained for this sort of thing. He cuts through my nets and traps. There’s nothing that can capture him.”
Drewshank stuttered. Despite his bravado, he had no idea how to catch the mouse. Still, it would be a stout challenge for the boy.
“Outwit it!” he barked.
“Yes, sir!” replied Scratcher meekly. The boy brushed aside his hair, clenched his fists, and stormed off below-decks.
“Useless boy,” tutted Drewshank unfairly.
When the rising sun hit the window of Emiline’s room, she rose wearily from her bed. Her mouse Portly greeted her with a few high-pitched squeaks, and she wished him a good morning in reply.
The previous night Emiline had made a decision. Whatever else had come to pass by lunchtime, one thing was certain: she was going to be on Drewshank’s ship as it sailed toward Hamlyn. She’d heard the conversation between Isiah Lovelock and Captain Drewshank, and she suddenly knew her future lay outside of a towering mansion in the heart of Old Town. There were bigger and better things for her in this world.
Her bags were already packed. That easy task had been seen to the previous night, but now came the hard part: she had to leave the mansion without being heard.
Emiline picked up Portly’s small travel box and slung it over her back along with her shoulder bag. This carried few things but The Mousehunter’s Almanac, numerous traps, tools, and a few clothes.
She tiptoed through her door, shut it quietly, and told Portly not to squeak. As well trained as he was, he did like to squeak whenever possible. Stepping lightly down each stair, she tried to make as little noise as the creaky floorboards allowed. When she reached the third floor, where one of the windows opened onto the flying-mouse pen at the rear of the mansion, she stopped to look out. As she’d hoped, the butler was outside readying messages, tying them into thin leather harnesses that sit on a mouse’s back. This was one of his early-morning duties, along with collecting the papers and getting Mr. Lovelock ready for the day. He appeared to enjoy this task though, and took great pleasure in letting the mice fly out into the sky.
Of all the mice capable of flight, the most useful was the Red-winged Onloko Mouse. Its long feathered wings, which far outstretched its body, allowed it to fly for days on end without rest, and Mr. Spires was preparing two of these for a long-distance haul. Emiline never quite knew whom Mr. Spires sent messages to — she assumed they concerned Mr. Lovelock’s activities, as his mousetrading empire stretched across the whole globe.
Without the butler around to worry about, she continued steadily to the ground floor and detached the tinkling bell from the front door. It took a great amount of courage to open it onto the street, but eventually she walked out into the gloriously bright day.
The mist had cleared from the previous night and it was perfect weather for sailing. A breeze brushed against her face, and the fresh air filled her lungs. From the doorstep there was a clear view of the harbor, and she could see the brightly decorated masts of the Flying Fox. She had no time to rest. High tide would be upon them soon, so she took one last look at the mansion and ran off down Grandview.
Luckily for Emiline, the winding roads and pokey alleyways were quiet. It was a lot darker and dingier in the main town than at Grandview: creaking, ancient buildings rose up wherever there was the slightest bit of space, and sunlight struggled to reach the ground. Without the small river of bright blue sky that raced above her, Emiline would have found it hard to believe it was daytime. Some shop fronts and street-facing windows were still shuttered, but she could smell the potent scent of baking bread breaking free of the buildings.
The route opened out into Merchants’ Square, and Emiline stopped to check that Portly was coping with the ride. Thankfully, he’d tied his tail tight around a post within his box and was trying to sleep out the journey. It had been a long time since she’d been to this part of the city, and she was blinded by the light reflecting off the grand white marble buildings at the square’s edges. This was the historical heart of Old Town, playing host to the world-famous Mousetrading Hall — its glowing walls bulging with the weight of its own history. Alongside stood the stately Town Hall, where the first Mousetrading laws were passed, and then at the far corner of the square stood Old Rodent’s Academy — the greatest school of mouse learning in the whole of Midena. Its tall pillars and thick oak doors put Emiline’s decrepit Fluffbin’s School of Mousekeeping to shame. But this wasn’t the time for sightseeing. Emiline closed Portly’s box and set off again, flying across the square and back into the winding alleys. With the city rushing past, she felt a little tug as everything that had ever played a part in her life was being left behind.
Eventually, the streets stopped dead, and the glistening marshy fields spread out in front of her. She was on the short road to the harbor, which ended with the town wall and the Old Town Gate, and high on the horizon was the wide expanse of the sea.
She could already hear voices from the docks. Seagulls filled the sky, and the masts of countless ships bobbed gently over the top of the wall. Emiline felt the nerves tingling through her body.
She continued to the Old Town Gate and stood for a moment in thrall to the sight. Sailors and traders were bustling about everywhere; boats of all shapes and sizes rose from the sea. And standing high up above all other masts were the flags she’d seen from Grandview. There was the Flying Fox, the largest ship at port, and it looked wonderful.
“You heading through, miss?” asked the soldier on guard. “Or you just come for the view?”
Emiline was taken by surprise, but she gathered together all her confidence.
“Going through,” she said, pointing to the harbor.
The soldier looked her up and down, and then moved to the gate.
“Right you are, miss,” he said, and let her through.
Emiline ran forward without hesitation. She slipped into the moving crowd, darting back and forth to avoid planks, crates, and all sorts of objects that all were carried at her head height.
Drewshank’s ship was even more magnificent up close and in the splendid light of day. It was made of a radiant dark brown wood, which twinkled with the water’s reflection. Beautiful decorative golden mice embellished the cabin windows, and the top of the bow was edged with golden wings. The detail was so well carved that the angry mousehead that adorned the bow looked as though it might jump down and run at you. The gun deck, highlighted by a band of lighter wood running along the hull, rested much higher than Emiline’s head, and each cannon protruded forth from its metal cover. The Flying Fox’s sails were wrapped and sagging gently, while colored flags fluttered in the breeze from above the crow’s nest. It was everything Emiline hoped it would be, and yet something strange was going on.
The ship was quiet, and there was no movement upon deck. She approached its mooring and realized all its sailors were on the quayside, watching excitedly for something to happen aboard.
“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to get the attention of a tall red-cheeked sailor.
“Go away!” he replied harshly.
“Excuse me, sir!” she said defiantly. “Would you please tell me what’s happening!”
The sailor turned round and peered down at her. He had piercing, aggressive eyes, and he took hold of her forcefully.
“There’s a Sharpclaw onboard, causin’ havoc. Will that do ya?” he said angrily.
“A Sharpclaw?” she gasped.
Suddenly, the crowd stirred and cheered, and the sailor turned back to the ship. A fully armored figure had come charging onto deck, spear in hand. Whoever it was wasn’t very tall, and Emiline figured it must be a mousekeeper. She barged her way to the front of the crowd to try and see better.
The mousekeeper stopped dead in his tracks and raised his spear to strike. He thrust it down, and as the spike vanished from view the Sharpclaw jumped high into the air, its gleaming, menacing claws primed and ready for a strike. It landed feet first back onto the spear and then sliced down with its claws, shearing the weapon in two.
The crowd hushed. The mousekeeper jumped backward, and the Sharpclaw dropped out of sight. Emiline crept along the sea wall. She eventually reached the gangplank and saw Captain Drewshank resting against a pile of chests, his hand placed on his head in frustration.
“Captain Drewshank!” said Emiline confidently. Although she was nervous about approaching the man, this was no time for her to give in to nerves. “I can catch that Sharpclaw,” she said proudly. “Let me help out that mousekeeper you’ve got onboard!”
Drewshank looked at Emiline. It was clear he was unimpressed with her stature.
“That boy needs a challenge like this from time to time,” he said. “I doubt a small girl like you can help.”
The crowd cheered and started to laugh. Drewshank and Emiline turned to watch a hanging bag of sand fall from the masts and hit the mousekeeper full on the head.
“Gah!” shouted Drewshank. He sensed the crew were enjoying the situation too much. And at this rate the ship could never be ready to sail at high tide.
“Captain Drewshank!” said Emiline with exasperation. “He’s useless!”
Drewshank’s nerve broke.
“Oh, go on!” he muttered. “You couldn’t do much worse . . . .”
Emiline jumped up immediately and passed Drewshank her shoulder bag and Portly’s box. He unwittingly accepted them, and let her onto the ship.
All the sailors cheered as if another gladiator had entered the arena. Emiline was a little concerned about her lack of armor, but she paced over to the stunned mousekeeper and checked if he was okay. He seemed to be breathing all right, and he started to stir as she tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “can I borrow your helmet?”
Before he could give an answer, she’d yanked it free of the boy’s head.
Emiline looked around her and spotted the mouse descending the mast. Once she’d spotted its extraordinarily long talons, she knew it was the escaped mouse from Lovelock’s collection. That was the only Sharpclaw in Old Town — somehow it must have hitched a lift with Drewshank.
“Come here!” she said, creeping up to the mast. The Sharpclaw leaped to the ground and scurried to the top of a wooden trunk. It appeared to recognize Emiline, and stopped to stare at her.
“I’ll get you, mouse!” she declared. While holding the helmet in one hand, she loosened a net from her belt and held it out at the ready. She knew the net couldn’t hold the mouse, but as she slung it out, and the Sharpclaw reared and slashed violently with its claws, the one thing it wasn’t expecting was a solid iron helmet to come plummeting down on top of it.
She immediately jumped onto the trunk and knelt firmly upon the helmet and the restless, wriggling mouse beneath. It was scratching frantically at its sides, but at least for the moment it was secure.
The crowd roared from the quayside, and Captain Drewshank charged onto deck.
“Fantastic! I thought we’d be stuck here for days!” he bellowed, and returned her bag and mouse box. “What’s your name?”
“Emiline,” she replied proudly, clearly struggling to maintain her hold on the jostling helmet.
“Do you have much planned for the months ahead?” he asked hopefully.
“Not that I know of,” she said, “and yes, I’d love to sail with you!”
Drewshank laughed.
“Of course! You can teach Mr. Piper here a thing or two!”
Scratcher had risen gently to his feet and was standing unsteadily. He looked thoroughly depressed.
“Ah! Mr. Piper,” cheered Drewshank, “meet Emiline. She’ll show you how to catch mice!”
Emiline saw him attempt a smile, but only manage a small grimace. He looked quite friendly, she thought, if a touch helpless. Drewshank called the sailors to get on with their jobs and ordered Scratcher to fetch the strongest iron-lined chest he could find. He duly returned with a battered old box the length of his arm, and after he squirted a dash of Knockout Spirit under the helmet, the Sharpclaw fell gently to sleep. Emiline cautiously pulled the creature out and secured it in the chest, ready for returning to Lovelock’s collection.
“Well done, Emiline,” said Scratcher sourly, at the least trying a little to be friendly.
“Easy when you know how,” she said, sliding from the trunk and returning his helmet. “I’ll help you learn, if you like?”
“I suppose,” replied the boy quietly.
From the edge of the ship, Emiline heard a familiar voice.
“Drewshank!” it called. “How is everything? Ready to sail?”
The captain turned and greeted Isiah Lovelock and his butler as they stepped onboard. They’d been watching Emiline’s display of mousehunting from the quayside and had remained unseen up to now. It was such a rare occurrence to see Isiah Lovelock that all the crew stopped in their tracks to get a look.
“Is that Isiah Lovelock?” asked Scratcher, his jaw thoroughly dropped.
Emiline was about to reply when something odd happened. Lovelock took a few more steps along the deck and then suddenly stopped, clutching his chest. His head bent over, and his hand clung to his knee to stop from toppling over. He looked to be in pain, breathing heavily, struggling for air. His butler rushed to his side.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Spires, uncertain as to what had happened.
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” replied Lovelock. “Just an old war wound playing up. Come on, let’s carry on. We’ll not stay long . . . .”
He put a handkerchief to his mouth, and his pain seemed to subside, but he held his chest and made only a few more steps onto the boat before halting.
“Drewshank!” he called, punching out the words breathlessly. “How is everything? Ready to sail?”
“Back on course, thankfully, due to this mouser,” he replied. “Are you all right?”
Lovelock raised one hand in acknowledgment, stretching himself upright. His breathing continued to be forced.
“Ah, Emiline,” said Mr. Spires. “We’d wondered where you’d gone to.”
Emiline walked closer and nodded to her employer. Drewshank’s face looked puzzled.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“She works for me. Emiline’s my mousekeeper,” replied Lovelock, leaning against the rigging to steady himself.
“She’s only a mere mousekeeper?” asked Drewshank. “Her title sells her short — she could be a mousehunter with those abilities!”
“You have your bag and your mouse there, Emiline,” quizzed the butler. “You weren’t planning on running away?”
Emiline’s face started to glow red.
“Captain Drewshank has asked me to sail with him,” she said rather sheepishly.
“No. There’s no way you can leave Mr. Lovelock’s service, Emiline,” said the butler firmly.
“Spires!” snapped Lovelock, authoritatively. “Let me decide these matters.”
The butler fell silent.
“She has too much spirit at times, but Emiline is certainly one of the best mousekeepers around,” he said. “Yet if she thinks she would do better onboard this ship than in my employment, then maybe I should let her go.”
“Emiline could be of great worth to us,” added Drewshank.
“Fine. So be it. Spires, arrange for the employment of a new mousekeeper. It’s good to have a change once in a while.”
“Yes, sir!” he choked.
“Now, Drewshank, show me that things are in order,” said Lovelock. He took the captain aside and made for the quayside once more. The butler remained with Emiline and seized the chance to talk to her.
“Emiline, this voyage isn’t safe!” he said worriedly. “You know exactly where it might lead, and with all these pirates!”
Emiline smiled.
“They’re not pirates, Mr. Spires, and this could be everything I ever dreamed of.”
“Very well . . . ,” he said, delving deep inside his cloak, “ . . . then take this. It might help keep you safe, and if you ever come face-to-face with that godforsaken Mousebeard, don’t be afraid to put it in him.”
The butler withdrew a sheathed dagger and passed it to Emiline. It was an ornate, ancient object, with a lumpy red handle. When Emiline pulled it from its casing, a magnificent etched silver blade was revealed. Emiline couldn’t take her eyes off it.
“Like I said, if you come across danger, don’t shy from using it.”
Emiline held it up in her hand, letting its surface sparkle and fizz in the light.
Spires cast a glance at his master and then back to the mousekeeper.
“You take care now, Emiline,” he said finally, and clutched her shoulder in a rare moment of affection.
“Of course I will!” she replied, reassuring him with a smile and placing the dagger into her bag.
Spires nodded, and went to join Lovelock and Drewshank. The ship was crawling with sailors once more. In a few hours Emiline would be leaving Old Town for the first time in her life, and sailing with none other than Devlin Drewshank. It had been an exciting day already and it wasn’t yet lunchtime.
“Come on,” called Scratcher, restlessly, “I’ll show you to our quarters.”