“And,” purred Aspen, “if it happens that Padra can no longer be a captain, we will need a new one.” She tipped her head to one side, looking up at the top of Tay’s head as if she were measuring it for a circlet. “We understand each other, Tay.”
Returning to her own dark chambers, Tay brought to mind everything she had ever heard about the Old Palace in the tree roots. Then she went to look at the Threadings—the oldest and most faded Threadings, made long, long ago in the days when some very old creatures claimed to have been told about the Old Palace by their grandparents, who said they had seen it.
This could be exciting. Perhaps Padra really did know. And if he did, why did he go there?
Goodness knows why he was a captain. A pleasant manner, an ability to befriend anything that swam or walked, a bit of organizing and swaggering—anyone could do that. She had been passed over.
Captain Tay. Lady Tay. Lady Tay would do nicely. If she could only discover the Old Palace and disgrace Padra, she could have any title she liked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HROUGH THE WINTER, Urchin was a little less at court and a little more in Anemone Wood. With Padra in charge of food supplies, there were plenty of reasons for going there. There were nuts to be brought from the wood, and butter, cheese, dried fruits, and fish to be delivered. Sometimes, Needle went too. She knew that Scufflen was safe somewhere and that it was something to do with Padra, and that was enough for her.
The more Urchin and Needle went to the wood, the more whispers spread around the island. Animals were telling each other that culling and work parties were a lot more to do with Captain Husk than with the king, and it was Captain Padra who fought for the interests of the ordinary islanders. As more families were affected by the culling law, more parents were led, blindfolded and in secrecy, to the nursery in the Old Palace where Mother Huggen and Moth the mole maid cared for their rescued babies. Now and again a new young animal would suddenly come to play with the others in the wood or by the shore. Everyone was careful not to wonder where it had come from, or whether it had a trace of a limp. They knew.
In the darkness of burrows and tunnels it was whispered that Crispin’s trial had not been all it seemed. And if Crispin hadn’t murdered the prince, who had?
Urchin went to the Throne Room whenever he could, but usually Husk, Aspen, or Granite would be there. The best time to speak to the king was early in the morning, when the sleeping draft was wearing off and the wine had not been brought. From midmorning there was always a flagon and a cup at the king’s side, with another bottle ready when the first was finished. So every morning at breakfast time, Urchin would fill a bowl with water bubbling from the spring and run up the stairs so the king could drink it while it was fresh and new.
Usually, though, he didn’t get past the guards. They would ask politely for the water and promise to give it to the king, but Urchin doubted that it ever reached him. An announcement was made from the tower. Captain Padra was managing the food stores so remarkably well that all the animals were exceptionally healthy for the winter. That meant that they could do more work, which was good for them and kept them warm. They must start an hour earlier in the morning and finish an hour later at night. They could work faster. They could carry heavier loads. The king was said to be considering culling the old as well as the young. There were poor old animals whose bones ached and whose lives were dull, and it was cruel to expect them to cope with cold, dark winters, harsh winds from the sea, and scorching summers. And the younger animals would then not have the burden of caring for them.
On one wild, rough night, animals were huddled in nests and tunnels in the tower, the shores, and the woods. They warmed cordials and told old stories. Some complained about Captain Husk, some about Padra, and some even said that the king was at fault. He was a good king, but grief had turned his mind. Nobody blamed Lady Aspen for anything. She was kind and gracious to common animals, and had cared so dearly for the queen. Just to look at her and hear her sweet voice was a delight for tired hearts and minds.
In the nursery, Moth aired blankets and spooned porridge into milky mouths. Huggen knitted and stitched and made little mitts, as lifelike as real paws, to hide deformed limbs. The nearsighted young hedgehog was being taken for a little tour of the tunnels by a group of kindly moles. His real name was Hoppen, but he was so determined to learn everything he was taught, and so affectionate and eager to please, that they changed it to Hope. Arran, visiting them that night, pointed out that he was old enough to leave the nursery. But he had become something of a pet, and they were reluctant to see him go.
“He’s awful fond of his mum,” said Huggen as she knitted. “They call her Thripple. She doesn’t get here often, but it’s not her fault. They make her work such long hours at the tower. She’s an excellent, neat-pawed hedgehog; she works on the Threadings. He does so miss her.”
“Poor little thing,” said Arran. “How’s the new otter?”
The new baby otter lay sleeping on the hearth. “She’s doing lovely,” said Huggen. “Nothing the matter with her that we can’t put right with love, warmth, and good feeding.”
“Padra’s bringing her mum tonight,” said Arran. “I must get back now. It’s not good for Padra and me to be away from the tower at the same time.”
“Ask him to marry you, why don’t you?” said Moth.
“He’d only laugh,” said Arran.
As the wind howled and beat about the tower, Husk scrambled from the bed and felt for his sword. The hedgehog was coming at him again—Prince Tumble, who wouldn’t stay dead—he was coming nearer.
“Get back!” he yelled hoarsely. “Get back, get back, get back!” Aspen was trying to tell him something, and he pushed her away.
“He’s here!” he croaked. “He’s here! Get away!”
“Nobody is here,” she said calmly. “Go back to sleep.”
It took him a little time before he knew he was awake. Only a nightmare, but real enough to drive him wild with terror. Aspen was taking the sword from his paws.
Unable to stop shivering, he found a cloak and wrapped himself in it. Then he knelt by the deep glow in the hearth, where the embers still gave a little heat.
“Shall I give you something to help you sleep?” asked Aspen.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want it.”
“The draft I give to the king,” she said gently, “is not the draft I would give you.”
“I don’t want it,” he said again, and stayed crouching by the fire. His spies had told him that the common animals were saying Crispin was innocent. If they weren’t all so stupid and inferior, they would have worked that out long ago. But nobody would blame him. He’d stabbed so expertly and so cleanly that there was no trail of blood. He’d carried out enough cullings to know how to do that. He’d cleaned his paws and sword on moss, and burned the moss. There were no witnesses. He’d disposed of all the tokens he’d made of Crispin’s clawmark.
Or had he?
Of course he had. He must have done.
The wind moaned like the crying of an infant, like the mourning of a queen. He did not want to sleep. If Aspen only knew the nightmares he had, she would not try to make him sleep. Worry nagged at him. He would have no peace until he had been to the anteroom by the Gathering Chamber, and looked in the robing chest.
There was not a trace of a leaf. He shook out the robes to make sure, inspecting his own very carefully, turning the cuffs inside out. He tipped up the velvet bag. Not one of the forged tokens remained. He was safe.
The tide was out. Padra swam far from the shore by moonlight until he had to come inland, then ran, fast and low, to a dry cave. He wriggled through until he could hear the scuffling of paws inside and the hissing of low otter voices.
“Nothing to worry about,” he whispered. “It’s only me, Captain Padra. I’m here to take you to see your little daughter. Are you ready? We’ll go overground, then through the water, and I’ll have to blindfold you. Trust me. And don’t
make a sound.”
Wrapped in her dark cloak, in the shadow of a fallen tree, Tay remained perfectly still and watched. Once or twice she lost sight of them, but there was the occasional smooth, swift movement as Padra and a young female otter slipped in and out of the river. At the point where the stream ran underground, she lost them. If her theory was right, they were nowhere near the Old Palace, but a long upstream swim could bring them to a network of tunnels. If all she had learned was true, most of these tunnels were too narrow for a full-grown otter. There was only one big enough, and that one ran northwest through water.
She could follow no farther. She doubted she could manage the swim, and the risks of Padra noticing her were too great. But she had learned enough. On such a cruel winter night, her triumph warmed her. She had worked out the site of the Old Palace. Her name would be remembered. They would weave Threadings about her. Lady Tay the otter, who rediscovered the Old Palace.
And who was that otter with Padra? Some common shore otter who had no business to be there. If Padra had been told where the Old Palace was, he should have kept it secret. He had betrayed his trust. And what was he doing there that meant he had to slip out under cover of a winter night?
He could be preparing a rebellion. Treachery! And that otter with him wasn’t his girlfriend. But Tay was remembering something. It was another piece of the puzzle. The last baby brought for culling had been an otter. A baby female otter. She remembered that, because Husk had been absent, and Granite had been furious to learn that Padra had attended to the culling. The more she thought, the more she understood.
She should go straight to Captain Husk, but Husk did have a way of taking all the glory for himself. This was her triumph. For the moment, she would be very cautious about how much she told him. Husk would get his evidence at the Spring Festival, as he wanted. Not before.
Fir was up late, too, stretched on the floor of his turret room in prayer. If the worst was true, Mistmantle needed the Heart, and he needed courage as never before. Finally, when Mistmantle slept, he took a lamp in his paw and a basket of candles on his arm and limped slowly down the spiral stair. The worst must be faced. The place of wickedness must be blessed.
Urchin woke up early in the morning, wriggled out of his nest, and looked into Padra’s chamber just in time to see the captain flop onto his bed and fall asleep. He spread a warm cloak over him and slipped away to draw a bowl of spring water and patter up the stairs to the Throne Room, but Captain Granite guarded the door.
“Spring water for the king, sir,” said Urchin.
“Leave it with me,” ordered Granite, but the king’s voice rose past him.
“It’s Urchin! Let him in! Urchin, are the spring flowers out in Anemone Wood yet? Fetch some more water for Captain Husk!”
Urchin glanced past Granite long enough to see the king looking bleary-eyed, with Husk in front of him. Husk turned sharply.
“Oh, please do!” said Husk, taking the bowl, and Urchin scampered back to the spring. He was back as quickly as he could, with more water, but the door was shut and Granite glared down at him.
“Take that away,” growled Granite. “It’s not wanted.”
There was no point in arguing. Urchin scurried away down the corridor, found a window where he could empty the bowl, and remembered just in time to look down.
“Oops,” he said. He’d nearly drenched Brother Fir, Needle, and a young squirrel with spring flowers in her paws. Brother Fir looked up.
“Come and join us!” called Fir. “It’s a lovely morning! Spring’s here at last!”
Urchin had recognized the other squirrel. It was Crackle from Anemone Wood, who had wanted to work in the tower.
“Hm!” said Fir as Urchin joined them. “Is that water for us? Jolly good. Needle and I have just taken a long walk and had a most interesting talk about Threadings. And we met our little friend here in the wood.”
“Urchin, you look all grown up,” said Crackle shyly. “All groomed and everything, and you walk differently.”
“Do I?” he said.
“You’re becoming a true tower squirrel,” said Fir. “This delightful young squirrel has brought flowers from the wood for the king.”
“Oh!” said Urchin. “He was just asking me about those. He wanted to know if they were out yet.”
Crackle gasped. “He asked you? You’ve seen him?”
“Then,” said Fir, “if the king is asking about the spring flowers, we must take them to him before they wilt. If I go with you, my dear, you’ll be allowed in.” And he limped up the stair with Crackle clutching her flowers beside him.
“What’s Crackle up to?” asked Urchin.
“She’s not up to anything,” said Needle snappily. “I met Brother Fir this morning in a corridor—he was looking at some Threadings, and I wanted to talk to him because I was worried. Husk wants the new Threadings ready for the Spring Festival; and we’re all working so hard to finish them, we’re not getting enough sleep, and we make mistakes. They’re all those new Threadings with the kings and queens looking like Husk and Aspen. Brother Fir and I went for a long walk and we met Crackle, and she was crying. Since Gleaner came here, she doesn’t have a friend.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Urchin.
“Don’t be like that!” she snapped. “She only used to be spiteful because she was trying to stay friends with Gleaner. And when Gleaner honors the wood by setting her paw in it, she just boasts about Lady Aspen. Crackle’s trying hard to be my friend—she’s much nicer than she was. And we’re so desperate to finish the Threadings, she might get a job in the workrooms. I should be there now. If I’m late, I’ll be in trouble. Good-bye, Urchin.”
“I’m going to the wood tomorrow to see Apple,” he said. “Do you want to come?”
“What have I just told you?” she said. “I haven’t time!” And she trundled away.
Urchin went back to the Spring Gate to find Padra awake and eating a fish. As he opened the door, Padra looked past him.
“Lost your shadow, then?” he remarked.
“Shadow?” said Urchin.
“Gloss,” said Padra. “He’s never far from you. He’s so sly, he’ll double-cross himself. Now, while we have a moment…”
He opened the door, looked both ways, put his ear to the ground to listen for moles, and finally, with a claw to his lips, knelt in the hearth. The ashes were barely warm, and he spread them in a pale dust across the hearth.
“I wanted to take you along these tunnels myself,” he whispered, “but there might not be the chance, not if we’re both being watched. So here it is.” He drew a few lines and circles in the dust. “That’s the place we both know about,” he said, and Urchin, knowing he meant the Old Palace, felt his heart quicken with excitement. “There’s the tower. I can’t put in every single tunnel, but these are the main ones.”
Drawing and whispering, Padra sketched the plan of the tunnels. Urchin watched intently. There was an entrance in Hollybank Hill and another under the bank at the east shore, and one through the stream, but not possible for squirrels. Urchin hoped he’d remember, but it was complicated.
“And here,” said Padra. “If you follow it long enough, this tunnel should come out under the tower, but I don’t know exactly where. I’ve never followed it all the way along. Take a good look at it.”
When Urchin had looked, Padra stood up before the hearth. “Now,” he said, “without looking, tell me the nearest entrance from the north rocks when the tide’s out.”
“Sandstone Bank,” said Urchin promptly. “But, sir, why do I have to know this?”
Padra knelt and looked earnestly into Urchin’s face.
“We don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, Urchin,” he said. “If they watch me even more closely, or if I’m arrested—yes, I know it’s an unpleasant thought, but it could happen—I won’t be able to go the the Old Palace anymore, and you may have to go for me. More to the point, you may need a place of safety yourself or for yo
ur friends. So you need to know this.”
“Yes, sir,” said Urchin. Suddenly, danger seemed very close and real. His fur bristled. He wanted to say “Don’t get arrested, sir,” but it seemed silly, so he didn’t.
Padra went on asking questions until he was satisfied that Urchin had remembered it all, and finally said, “Keep reminding yourself of this. It should be written on your heart and mind. Keep it secret, and never forget it.” Then he swished his tail, and the only map of the routes to the Old Palace was a pile of ashes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
N HIS OWN CHAMBER, HUSK SHOOK WITH ANGER. When the door opened, he jumped. Aspen glided in. “You left the king alone,” she said. “He’s distressed.”
“I had to calm down,” he said, spitting out the words in a low, tight voice. “Brother Fir brought in some little common squirrel with a paw full of weeds. We had important matters of state to discuss, and now the king just wants to talk about poppies and spring buds. Fir takes too much on himself, just because he’s the priest. Padra’s wretched page put him up to it. He’s dangerous.”
Aspen inspected her reflection in the mirror. “He could have an accident,” she said. “He could trip over something, or stumble into something, or fall out of something…yes!” She turned with a smile of inspiration. “He falls out of things. I’m told he makes a habit of tumbling out of the sky.”
Husk froze. Ice was in his spine. His nerves prickled. In a second he had hurled himself across the chamber to grip her by the shoulders, and she staggered against the wall.
“What do you mean?” he gasped.
“My lord!” cried Aspen.
He gathered himself together. “My dear,” he said, “pardon me. I am so sorry, so very sorry. Please—are you hurt? Please, tell me exactly what you mean about ‘tumbling out of the sky’?”
“If you are quite sure you want to hear,” she said reproachfully, “it’s simply something Gleaner told me. She overheard Brother Fir telling him about the day he was found.”
The Urchin of the Riding Stars Page 13
