by Lisa Fiedler
A paw went up.
And another.
And still another followed that one. Brown fur, gray fur, black fur . . . large paws and tiny ones, paws of every shape and color were being lifted into the air as the rats and mice and squirrels and chipmunks volunteered to fight. Hopper beamed at the sight of so many outstretched paws.
When all was said and done not a single rodent had declined to join the fight.
Atlantia’s new peacekeeping force had been formed.
And something told Hopper they would be unstoppable.
Construction ceased.
Garfield called in Fulton, who had been Zucker’s personal bladesmith, and charged him with the task of forging as many broadswords, rapiers, and daggers as he could produce. A few rodents were assigned to aid him in this chore, while the rest were gathered in the market to be taught the art of warcraft.
Hopper had one small, strange request for the smithy.
“I already have a new sword, made from a key,” Hopper said, “but I would ask that you make me something smaller.”
“Anything you ask,” said Fulton. “What weapon would you like?”
“A needle,” said Hopper. “Like the ones the royal tailors employed in sewing the palace livery and the vests and tunics worn by Zucker’s soldiers . . . yourself included.”
“A needle?” Fulton repeated.
“Can you do it?”
“I’m sure I could,” said the smithy, baffled by the odd request.
“Good. Make it slim, please, with a narrow eye and a sharp point. And thank you.”
As the swordsmith went off, shaking his head, Hopper took Valky and the basketball rats to join the officers and the elders who had assembled in the large space Titus had once called the Conflict Room. Garfield had taken to calling it the Strategic Planning Area, and Hopper liked that much better. The name had a far more positive ring to it.
There they went over numerous maps and diagrams, including a quickly sketched re-creation of the map Firren had drawn in the dirt for Valky back in Brooklyn Bridge Park. After much careful analysis they had narrowed down their options and determined that Felina’s lair might be in one of three possible places.
Might be.
Possible places.
Needless to say, Hopper was not entirely satisfied with this conclusion. The calculations were all very vague, and based mostly on conjecture, not fact. Simply put, what these likely locations represented were really just three strong guesses. But as far as Hopper was concerned, following these hunches was much better than doing nothing.
All day the rodents prepared for battle and the officers strategized. Hopper hustled back and forth between the training ground and the Strategic Planning Area, offering his best advice and input on swordsmanship and tunnel geography, respectively.
By nightfall he was exhausted, but their plan was in place. They would march out of Atlantia as a single army into the Great Beyond. There they would divide the troops into three separate battalions, each led by an experienced soldier. As time was of the essence, these separate forces would strike out in different directions (based on the three potential locations their analysis of the maps had indicated) in hopes of discovering Felina’s lair. Along the way they would search diligently for Pup, who it was assumed was in hiding somewhere in the tunnels, biding his time, hunting Felina and possibly forming an army of his own. If Pup was found, he would be taken captive—not harshly or violently—and brought directly back to Atlantia by armed escorts, and Ketchum would be waiting to debrief and reindoctrinate him.
Even if they failed in their efforts to contain Pup, the divided army would not give up until Felina’s lair was found. Thereupon they would execute a siege, a battle, and with any luck a victory. Because one thing was certain: Pup could not face off against Felina if the Atlantian army beat him to it and destroyed her first.
Which was why Hopper’s orders to Garfield and Polhemus regarding their attack on the ferals were simple:
Take. No. Prisoners.
Pup’s future . . . and his life . . . depended on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THAT NIGHT HOPPER IGNORED Titus’s redecorated apartment and took for his own room the royal bedchamber that had belonged to Zucker.
Not because he thought himself princely or important. But to remember. To feel closer to his fallen friend.
The room looked remarkably the same as it did the first time he’d seen it. Thanks to the protection of the crickets, much of the palace had been spared from ruin in the aftermath of the camp raid. But for Hopper this was bittersweet. The room still had an air of Zucker about it . . . an energy. It was a sensation of warmth and strength and humor.
Hopper could almost picture the prince propped against the pillows after he’d sustained a wound fighting Firren and the Mūs soldiers; Marcy had fed him hot broth.
Odd it was to think of Zucker fighting against Firren. But there had been so much confusion then, so many secrets and misunderstandings.
Zucker had pulled through, of course. Hopper had begun to believe then that there was nothing from which his friend the Zuck-meister could not recover.
Maybe he had been wrong.
A few hot tears bubbled out of his eyes, dampening his whiskers.
There was a knock on the chamber door, followed by a voice. “Hopper? May I come in?” It was Valky.
Hopper wiped at his eyes. “Of course.”
Valky stepped in, looking troubled. “I was just wondering . . . if you thought Pilot’s found Ace yet?”
It was a thought that had been gnawing at the back of Hopper’s mind all day. His preoccupation with the battle plans hadn’t succeeded in driving off his worry for the courageous tuxedo cat whose whereabouts remained unknown. Brave and good-hearted as he was, Ace was still a relatively small and fragile animal, and the storm had created more dangers than Hopper cared to think about: drifts and plows and freezing temperatures.
But Hopper forced a smile. “I’m sure Pilot found him,” he replied. “In fact, I’ll bet they’re both safe and sound right now, back at the deli, feasting on eggplant parmigiana.”
Valky grinned, relieved.
“How are your accommodations?” Hopper asked, wanting to change the subject.
“Very comfortable. I’m in a room near the kitchens. The rats opted to bunk with some of the other new Atlantians. Seems there are a couple of squirrels who once spent a winter in the dugout at Yankee Stadium, and they’ve all become fast friends.”
Hopper laughed.
“Well,” said Valky. “Good night, then.”
Hopper wished the chipmunk a restful night’s sleep and Valky was gone. But the moment he closed the door, it opened again.
Hopper actually gasped at the sight of the rat standing in the doorway. Then he beamed. “Marcy!”
“Hello, Chosen One! It’s lovely to see you.”
“And you,” said Hopper. “I was so worried about you.”
Marcy gave him a demure smile. “You of all rodents should know better than to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Hopper grinned, recalling the way she’d slapped him (hard!) to prove to Titus that she was loyal to the throne, when she was really as much a rebel as Firren and Zucker. And every bit as impressive as her physical strength had been the speed with which she’d crafted such a clever plan.
“Where have you been?” Hopper asked. “They tell me you come and go with some frequency. Are you a soldier now?”
“I’m many things,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But I’m always careful.”
Hopper was glad to hear it. “How are your brothers?”
“Bartel and Pritchard are quite well.” Marcy swept across the room in her full skirt to where Zucker’s writing desk stood, gleaming in the pale light. She leaned against the edge and smiled at Hopper. “They are ready and willing to fight with you tomorrow.”
“And you?” Hopper asked. “Will you march as well
?”
A look of hesitation flickered across the pretty rat’s face. Hopper watched her, her paws fidgeting behind her skirts, and immediately felt bad for making her nervous. “You don’t have to fight,” he said quickly. “I’ll understand if you don’t.”
“I can’t say for sure if I will be there,” she said at last. “But I will try to join you in your quest. If you don’t see me there among the troops, please know that I’m there with you . . . if only in spirit.”
Hopper gave her a grateful smile; that was plenty good enough for him.
Abruptly Marcy pushed away from the desk and strode across the chamber to throw her arms around Hopper. “I have to go now,” she whispered in his ear—the bitten one she’d wrapped in gauze the day they met. “Always know that I have faith in you.”
With that she hurried to the door, her dainty paws skipping, her skirts rustling.
Hopper stared after her, trying to make sense of her odd behavior. But then, the battle had everyone on edge.
Hopper sat down on the plush bed and carefully emptied his pockets, arranging the scrap of blue felt fabric, the pink ribbon, Keep’s shredded pocket, the piece of Beverley’s apron. Lastly, he withdrew the purple fragment that had torn away from Zucker’s sleeve in his attempt to free Firren from the exterminators’ trap.
He smoothed this piece lovingly as he placed it among the others.
Before Hopper lay a patchwork of his past, and despite the shabby appearance, every scrap he’d collected told a story, taught a lesson . . . made a promise.
Hopper picked up the tool he had personally requisitioned from Atlantia’s best swordsmith: a sewing needle.
With a deep yawn and a heavy sigh he set to work.
“Aye.”
The whispered syllable floated across the room and into Hopper’s dreams. His eyes fluttered, but he was reluctant to open them because in the dream he was once again with Zucker; they were hunched over the gleaming desk in the prince’s chamber, and Zucker was teaching Hopper how to write. In the dream Zucker appeared as an ephemeral presence hovering beside Hopper like a ghost. But deep within the peacefulness of his slumber Hopper could hear the prince’s voice as plainly as if he were really there beside him:
“These are the letters, kid. Put ’em together, they make words. Words have meaning. We use them to send messages. . . .”
In the dream Hopper was writing a message. A note to himself. Or maybe the note had already been written by someone else. Perhaps he was only reading it. Or dreaming it. It was difficult to be sure; he was lost in his slumber, which made the images all very hazy and indistinct.
In the dream Hopper could feel the crispness of the paper. Shiny paper, tattered at the edges. He could see the specific lines and squiggles of each individual letter but could not make out what the note said. Still, it seemed terribly real.
“Hopper . . .”
Zucker?
Startled, Hopper opened his eyes, blinking out of the dream even as his mind reached for it. It was still nighttime. He lifted his head, surprised to find that it had been resting on the desktop. Then he remembered . . . he’d been half asleep when he moved his sewing project from the bed to the desk to take advantage of the better lighting; he must have nodded off in earnest sometime after that.
The voice came again: “Aye.”
Not Zucker.
“Oh.” Hopper shook off his drowsiness to smile at Firren. “You’re back. Did you find the missing Rangers?”
“Every last one,” Firren said with a triumphant nod. “All unharmed.”
“I’m so glad.”
“So am I.”
“Have you met with Garfield and the others?” Hopper asked with a yawn.
“Yes, I went directly to the Conflict—I mean the Strategic Planning Area as soon I got back. They’ve filled me in on your arrangements for tomorrow. The Rangers and I will be ready to march out in the morning, spread out among the three battalions.”
“I wish we knew the precise location of Felina’s lair,” said Hopper. “That would certainly make things easier.”
“It would,” Firren concurred. “It’s hard to believe that no one but Titus and his nasty goon Cassius ever knew where it was. I suppose Felina was smart enough to recognize there was always the chance the rodents would turn on her.”
“I guess I’d hide too,” said Hopper, “if I had as many enemies as she does.”
Firren motioned to the fabric spread across the desktop. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Oh. I was sewing,” Hopper explained.
“Really?” Firren laughed. “I never thought of you as the domestic sort.”
“It’s a flag, actually. A banner, like the ones in the Runes, where the rodent armies are marching out, proudly flying their colors and . . .” He blushed when he realized she knew exactly what he was describing. “Well, you know . . . because you drew them.”
“Yes, I did.”
“See, I’ve been collecting these scraps of material,” said Hopper. “Each one reminds me of something important. Some of those things were exciting, others were sweet, but most were just plain scary. When we march against Felina, I want to do it under this banner because it’s a symbol of how far this journey has brought me—how far it’s brought all of us—and of the many examples of selflessness and courage that have been shown by so many along the way.”
“By no one more than you, little one,” Firren whispered. “Remember that.”
Hopper accepted the praise with a grateful smile as he ran his paws over the banner, smoothing out the crooked seams and wishing he were better with a needle. He’d tried to form the scraps into a tidy rectangle, but the edges were lopsided and the center had turned out lumpy. His stitches were uneven—too big and loose in some places, small and tightly gathered in others. All in all, though, he thought it was quite a beautiful thing. There was a humble, unassuming quality to it that was in keeping with what he stood for.
“May I see it?” Firren asked.
“Sure.”
As Hopper lifted the patchwork flag from the desktop, a slip of paper fell off the desk and onto the floor.
Firren bent to retrieve it. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know,” said Hopper. “I don’t remember seeing it there before, but then, I was awfully tired.”
When Firren read what was written on the paper, her eyes went wide.
“What?” cried Hopper. “What does it say?”
The rebel handed the note to Hopper.
HERE IS THE LOCATION OF FELINA’S LAIR. YOU WILL FIND YOUR BROTHER CAMPED OUT IN AN OLD SHOE JUST WEST OF THERE.
LA ROCHA
Below the signature script was a crudely sketched map with a large X indicating the precise spot where they would find the feral queen’s encampment, and slightly to the left of it a smaller one, presumably marking Pup’s hideout.
Hopper noticed the paper was shaking; he realized this was because the paw in which he clutched it had begun to tremble. His eyes bored into the paper so intensely he was surprised it didn’t go up in flames.
A message. And a map. Pup’s location.
“I thought it was a dream,” he murmured. “I thought I’d dreamed of a note . . . but it was real.”
Hopper shook his head in amazement. “Firren, do you really think La Rocha was here? Do you think he actually snuck into my chamber to leave me this message?”
Firren was equally perplexed. “If he did, perhaps someone saw him. Has anyone else been here besides you?”
Hopper thought back. “Well, Valky came to ask if I thought Ace would be all right. And Marcy.” He smiled. “She just popped in to welcome me back. And now you. But I’ve seen no one else. Certainly not a mystical cockroach.”
Firren’s brow was knit low in concentration. Hopper could see that she was allowing herself to wonder, she was daring to believe. . . .
If this message was true and the information accurate, they were halfway to their goal. They could save
Pup and defeat Felina.
And why wouldn’t it be true? Why would La Rocha lie?
Hopper looked at the note again, wanting to trust it.
But something was wrong.
Something about the writing . . . the curve of the letters, the slant of the words. And La Rocha’s signature . . .
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crinkled slip of paper he’d been keeping there with the fabric scraps. The note that had been delivered to him on the steps of the palace following the raid on the camps and the fall of the city.
First he compared the two pieces of stationery. The original note was scrawled on a flimsy piece of yellow paper with pale gray-blue lines across it. He’d seen plenty of scraps like this one fluttering around the tunnels—always with human notations about court appearances and cross-examinations written on them.
The new note was written on a much heavier stock of paper. It had one rough edge, as though it had been torn out of a book’s binding, and a glossy sheen. The page looked old to Hopper, brittle and discolored, as though it had been blowing around the subway tunnels for quite some time. Hopper knew that La Rocha’s Sacred Book contained several pages of varying quality and condition. So although this disparity was significant, it proved nothing.
The map, along with La Rocha’s message about Pup, appeared in a wide margin surrounding a block of uniform text—lettering that looked as though it had been printed not by a person or a rodent, but by a machine. These words told of an empire in a place called Rome, of gladiators fighting in a building called the Colosseum.
Now he compared the penmanship, holding the notes side by side and examining the writing.
All the wind went out of him. His throat tightened and his eyes burned.
“It could be a hoax,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?” Firren demanded.
“It’s possible this note is a fake.” Hopper showed her the old, crinkled note and then the new one. “This might not be La Rocha’s penmanship. It could be someone else’s writing.”
Firren considered this. “Okay, well, perhaps the information is good, but whoever sent this message assumed you would believe it only if you thought it came from La Rocha.” Absently, her paw went to the handle of her sword. “So they forged the note in an effort to get you to take it seriously.”
