DUNCAN DID NOT GET IN MUCH TROUBLE for being late. When Friar Gregory heard who Duncan had seen at the wharf, he pulled open the large map at the front of the room and launched into a history lesson. The teacher showed the path that Princess Lydia had taken on her royal tour through the Arvidian Islands, and where the ship had battled a terrible storm at the edge of the Great Rift.
Duncan had heard of the Great Rift—a strange, uncharted band of sea with fogs and storms, waterspouts that could destroy a ship, and whirlpools that would suck boats down, never to be seen again. No one had ever crossed it until that great storm of seven years ago. The royal ship had anchored near an unknown island. It was little more than a big rock with high cliffs on every side, the remotest island ever discovered in Arvidia. Suddenly the lookout had pointed to four people in the water, two of them very shaggy, clinging to the remains of a wrecked boat.
Two of them were miners, men who said they came from the land of Fahr, on the other side of the Rift. The other two were not people at all, but their tigers—animals that had scarcely been heard of in Arvidia.
Duncan knew that one of the tigers had been sent to the king, as a royal gift. If Duncan ever got to Capital City, he would visit it at the zoo.…
Friar Gregory walked up and down the aisles. “Now, the ship stayed at anchor for some time. But what happened the day the princess was kidnapped? Can anyone begin?”
Duncan’s hand shot up. He had read about it just this morning. “The Bad Duke—”
“Call him by his proper title, please,” said Friar Gregory. “This is a lesson, not a character assassination.”
Duncan shoved his hands in his pockets. Duke Charles was a bad duke—the worst that had ever been, and no matter how fair Friar Gregory tried to be, nothing would change that. “Yes, sir. That duke told the princess she should set her foot on the farthest island and give it a name. But there was only one narrow bit, on the opposite side, that she could stand on—all the rest was cliffs that no one could climb. So they decided to go to that spot with a small group from the ship.”
Friar Gregory nodded. “Thank you, Duncan. Gavin, what happened next?”
“When they got to the island—” the boy began, but he was interrupted.
“How did they get to the island?” the friar asked. “Was there a harbor deep enough for the royal ship to dock?”
Gavin looked puzzled for a moment. “There couldn’t have been a wharf, sir. The island was uninhabited.”
“Correct.” Friar Gregory stroked his chin. “So, who knows how they got from the ship to the beach? Alison, your hand was up first.”
“They took two ship’s boats, sir.”
“And what are ship’s boats? I thought the ship was a boat.”
“If it’s big enough, we don’t call it a boat—we call it a ship,” Alison answered gravely. “And a ship always carries at least one boat, and sometimes more small boats, like rowboats or little sailboats. The sailors lower them into the water, and they go back and forth between the ship and the shore, like a sort of water taxi.”
“Excellent. Duncan, can you finish the story?”
Duncan nodded. “They sailed around the island and landed on the other side. Once they were out of sight of the ship, the duke and his men attacked the earl, kidnapped the Princess Lydia, and sailed away into the Rift. The earl’s men tried to follow in the second boat, but they were too late. In the distance, they thought they saw a whirlpool take hold of the duke’s boat. Afterward they found a broken bit of the boat with its name painted on.”
“A sad tale,” said Friar Gregory. “How can we be sure it is true?”
“Because there were witnesses!” cried Duncan. “The earl’s men saw what happened, and the earl himself was wounded, almost to death. He wouldn’t have done that to himself.”
“Witnesses can be bribed,” said the friar, “and the earl’s men might be loyal to him, no matter what he’d done. Is there any other way we can know the truth of the tale?”
Duncan’s ears grew warm, and his fingers did a quick double tap on his thigh. Friar Gregory almost sounded as if he were calling the earl a liar. “There were other witnesses, sir,” he said. “A whole shipful of them.”
The teacher inclined his head. “How could people see what happened from the ship, when the fighting was on the far side of the island?”
“May I draw a map, sir?” The book Duncan had read this morning had made it clear. He went up to the board and took a piece of chalk.
“See, here’s how the island curved around the flat bit. But here, past the sandy part, the flat ledge extended out into the sea a long way, like a point, barely above water. It stuck out so far into the sea that if you walked to the very end, you could be seen from the ship.”
“Go on.” Friar Gregory clasped his hands, smiling.
“The duke and the earl were there, together with the princess. They were clearly seen, silhouetted against the setting sun. All at once, the duke pulled out his sword, struck the earl a cowardly blow, and pushed him off the ledge. Then Duke Charles threw the princess over his shoulder and ran out of sight, back to the beach and his small boat. By the time the ship managed to raise anchor and work its way around the island, the duke had sailed off into the Rift. The earl’s men tried to follow in their small boat, but first they had to pull the earl out of the rocks where he had fallen. They were wounded, too.”
“Excellent,” Friar Gregory said. “Full marks. Now, for extra credit, who can tell me why the duke would do such a thing? He had lands and power already. What good would it do him to kidnap the princess?”
Duncan gazed out the window. Who cared why the duke had done it? He was just plain bad, through and through.
Suddenly there came a clatter of hooves and a snorting of horses. A gleaming black carriage stopped at the monastery gates.
The bell at the gate tinged sharply. The gatekeeper shuffled out with the key. Every student’s neck craned as gray trousers emerged from the cab, then muscular shoulders and a bald head. A disappointed sigh moved across the classroom like a breeze over a field of dry stalks. “That’s not the earl,” someone said as the man strode toward the monastery office.
Duncan’s chair clattered to the floor. He was on his feet, staring. “It’s the earl’s man! The one who paid me!”
How the cheering started Duncan didn’t know, but Friar Gregory was pounding on the desk to restore order when the door to the classroom opened and the headmaster’s assistant poked his head in.
“Duncan McKay? You’re wanted in the headmaster’s office. Now.”
* * *
Duncan hesitated at the half-open office door. He didn’t want to interrupt when the headmaster was talking.
“… the only son of a widowed mother. Yes, we’re very proud of the lad—and although it hasn’t yet been announced, I think I can tell you that his score on the national test couldn’t possibly be better!”
Duncan flushed. He could see the headmaster’s profile as he sat at his desk, and the legs of the man sitting in the chair opposite, crossed at the knee. The gray trousers had ridden up on the crossed leg, and a wedge of hairy calf showed above the stockings. Duncan reached out a hand to knock.
“Come in, my boy!” Father Andrew was beaming. Duncan stepped forward and gave a quick bow, aimed halfway between Father Andrew and the stranger.
“Sit down, Duncan. I was just telling Mr. Bertram, here, a few things about you. You seem to have caught the earl’s interest! The Earl of Merrick, Duncan!”
Duncan found it suddenly very hard to breathe. In the pause, a cream-colored cat wound her way into the office and settled under Father Andrew’s desk. Her green eyes stared at Duncan from the shadows. Meeoow? she questioned. Mrrraowwow?
Duncan shook his head slightly. No, he hadn’t found Fia; but didn’t Mabel have any more sense than to interrupt? He couldn’t exactly meow about her missing kitten, not now.
Mr. Bertram cleared his throat. “You ran off too quickly, young man.” His tone was friendlier than it had been on the dock. “The earl wanted to speak with you.”
“Me?” Duncan’s voice squeaked with astonishment. He tried again, lower down. “Me, sir?”
“You interested him. He said, ‘That’s not a common boy,’ and told me to follow and give you this”—the man held out a silver coin—“as a reward for your unusual quickness and courtesy.”
Duncan stared at the glinting coin on the man’s palm. A silver piece! It was more money than he had ever earned at once.
Mabel crept out from under the headmaster’s desk. “We can’t find any of the monastery kittens,” the cat told him in a quick, insistent series of meows. “Have you seen Old Tom? I want to ask him some questions!”
Duncan didn’t dare meow back. “At the wharf,” he said under his breath, still staring at the coin.
“Yes, yes, the earl saw you at the wharf,” said Mr. Bertram, sounding impatient. “Take it, boy, can’t you?”
“And what do you say to the gentleman?” prompted the headmaster.
Duncan gave his head a small jerk to clear it. It was confusing to have two conversations going at once, and it was making him look like a fool.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the coin with another small bow. He felt with delight the weight of silver in his hand—heavier than the coppers he was used to—and tried valiantly to ignore the cat who was still attempting to get his attention.
Mr. Bertram uncrossed his legs. “By the way,” he said, “if the boy could be excused from school this afternoon, I’d be happy to give him a tour of the schooner, and present him to the earl, too. The earl was very impressed with Duncan … McKay, was it?” He smiled. “I am sure the boy reflects great credit on your school. Perhaps he could tell the earl about the superior education he has received at this fine monastery. The Earl of Merrick is a very great supporter of education, you know. A very great financial supporter.”
He reached to shake the headmaster’s hand, but Mabel crouched in front of him, meowing desperately up at Duncan. “Old Tom tried to tell us that kittens were going missing. If only I had listened more carefully—mrrrroooooww yow yow yow yowwwww!”
Mr. Bertram took his foot off Mabel’s tail. “I’m sorry. I seem to have stepped on a cat.”
“Oh, dear!” Father Andrew watched in concern as Mabel streaked out of the room. “I hope there was no damage done.”
“No,” said Mr. Bertram, inspecting the top of his shoe. “She didn’t scratch the leather at all.”
There was a little silence.
“Oh, damage to the cat, you meant!” said Mr. Bertram, smiling.
* * *
Duncan bounced a little on the cab’s leather seat and looked out in delight as the landscape jolted past. This was much faster than walking. In fact, his whole life seemed to be speeding up suddenly; he felt a little dizzy. He could not get over the feeling that he was dreaming, somehow.
But the intoxicating smell of leather and sweet oil, the brisk clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, and the jouncing he got as they bumped along the cobblestone streets had never been a part of any dream he had had.
Mr. Bertram was asking the usual questions that grown-ups asked children. How old was he? What did he like about school? Where did he live? What did his mother do? Was she home in the afternoons, or did he let himself in with a key?
That last question wasn’t usual. But Mr. Bertram had a special fondness for keys, he said; it was a hobby of sorts, and he liked to see all the different kinds. Duncan handed over the house key that he kept in a buttoned pocket. He was glad Mr. Bertram was quiet as he examined the key. It was more fun to watch the rapidly moving landscape than to answer questions.
It wasn’t until the cab had passed the third cluster of cats that Duncan realized something unusual was going on. He opened the window and hung his head out so far that the straps of his cap fluttered in the breeze, but he couldn’t hear anything distinctly—just a jumble of agitated meows.
The stevedores were still loading the schooner. A large crate was rolled out of a shed, bound with ropes and fitted with a padlock. As Duncan followed Bertram up the gangplank to the schooner, the harbor crane’s iron hook swayed down on its chain and was attached to the ropes. Duncan watched from the deck as the crate was slowly raised, bit by bit, from its pallet on the dock. He took a step closer and then another step. There was a faint noise—something he could barely hear.
“I’ll go and find the earl,” said Mr. Bertram, behind him.
“Yes, sir,” said Duncan, never taking his eyes from the crane. “Oh, I forgot—may I have my key back, please?”
“Certainly, certainly—it’s right here,” said the man, fumbling in his pocket. A moment later Duncan heard a tiny ping.
“Oh, how unfortunate! I seem to have dropped it into the deck vent,” said Mr. Bertram. “Don’t worry. It will be below somewhere. I’ll be right back.”
Now the crane’s great arm was swinging the crate over the deck of the ship toward the large square hole in the deck—the cargo hatch. A man on deck had a long hooked pole to guide the crate in its slow journey.
Duncan wondered if he was hearing things. There it was again—a thin, pitiful crying, barely audible amid the shouts of men and the grinding of machinery. It sounded almost like a kitten, crying for its mother—no, more than one kitten. It sounded like a whole crate full of kittens, swinging overhead.…
Choking with horror, Duncan looked up as the crate’s shadow passed across the wooden deck. It was almost to the cargo hatch—they were going to lower it into the hold—
“NO!” he shouted. He waved his arms at the crane operator; he ran at the man with the long pole, grabbed his arm, and yanked hard.
Confusion. Yelling. The crane operator turned, startled, and the boom swung partway back. A man let go of his rope. Another pulled his too hard. The pulley block shifted, the load tilted crazily, and the hook unhitched. The crate hurtled down, crashed onto the deck, and splintered into pieces. Kittens of every color poured out, crying, scampering for the gangplank. One white kitten lay motionless on the deck.