by Alex Milway
The Flying Fox landed back on the sea like a skimming stone, skipping twice before coming to rest on calmer waters. Drewshank gasped for air, just as every other sailor did. He found his footing and stood up uneasily. He surveyed the black waters ahead but could see no sign of the Grak or the whirlpool.
“Water’s breakin’ in below!” shouted Fenwick, who was drenched to the core.
Drewshank looked around at the wreck that had become his ship. Water sloshed back and forth over the deck, and crates and splintered wood lay strewn everywhere. Torn sails snapped in the wind.
“Fix the leaks, men,” ordered Drewshank. “Assess the damage and get the cannons ready again.”
He looked into the distance and his heart dropped. The Grak was spiraling out of the sea once more and it was coming at them.
“That monster’s not done yet!” he shouted.
The crew braced themselves for another onslaught. Screaming loudly, the monster dropped and shot straight at them like a torpedo, sending water and snorts of steam blasting out into the air. The cannons fired out, but the Grak’s huge form lifted into the air and continued to rise until its scaly body was directly above them.
But it didn’t attack. The air was immediately filled with more ear-piercing cries. Drewshank turned to follow its course and witnessed a second awesome Grak rise out of the sea a few hundred meters behind them.
“Of all the luck in the world . . . ,” gasped the captain. “We’re done for!”
The two monsters veered upward to where they clashed high above the masts. Their jaws crunched into each other’s skulls, and they twisted away together, tumbling downward just clear of the ship, until they punched into the water in a writhing mess.
As the two Graks submerged, a wave swelled, caught hold of the Flying Fox, and drove it high up and far out across the sea. Drewshank’s sailor’s legs were trusty, and had served him well in the past, but that was the last straw. His chest convulsed and he was sick on the floor.
Drewshank righted himself and wiped his mouth sheepishly.
“Find some sails!” he shouted queasily to what remained of his crew. “There must be something left hanging from those masts! Get us out of here!”
Tired sailors unhooked themselves from their posts and surveyed the damage.
“Captain!”
Drewshank heard a shout. It was Scratcher, his face blackened with soot and tears. He was holding a taut thin rope over the side of the ship — it was the remainder of the rigging from a broken mast, and something was attached to its end, dragging in the water.
Drewshank and Fenwick ran over. During the battle they’d forgotten entirely about Emiline. They looked desperately to the dark sea and saw the battered remains of the crow’s nest floating along at the end of Scratcher’s rope. Fenwick took hold of it, and the two of them pulled as hard as they could against the waves. As the crow’s nest neared, they could just make out a body drifting behind. Emiline’s small mouse was sitting on her chest, and Chervil was paddling frantically behind.
Lord Battersby watched the storm from his apartment window. Standing stock upright in his light-gray navy uniform, he rubbed his hands against one another with worry. The port of Hamlyn was taking a battering.
In charge of the Old Town Guard’s navy, Battersby was a man of great power. He was tall and broad, and had a strikingly strong and imposing chin.
“I wouldn’t wish to be out in this,” he said darkly, watching the ships rise and fall in the docks, ten-foot waves crashing at their hulls. “It could ruin our plans if the Flying Fox fails to arrive.”
Lady Pettifogger approached Battersby, her diminutive size making him look like a giant. She was beautiful — she knew it too. She held a scarf loosely in her hands, and she played with it casually as lightning cracked outside and lit up the port.
“Drewshank has a solid ship. He’ll make it through,” she said confidently. “Don’t worry yourself.”
Lord Battersby looked pensively at her. “There’s a lot riding on that trumped-up privateer — too much if you ask me, Beatrice. We should never have agreed to all this so willingly. There must have been an easier way?”
Lady Pettifogger shook her head slowly, gave a sultry smile, and placed her hand on Battersby’s solid back.
“Lovelock knows what he’s doing, Alexander. Besides, Mousebeard never runs from a fight, and I’m sure he knows there’s a ship on his tail by now.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said sternly.
Battersby picked up a glass of wine and gulped it down. The storm was intensifying, making the window shutters rattle.
“I’m just not cut out for all this plotting and scheming,” he said, placing his hand on the wall. “Put me on a warship any day.”
He looked down at Lady Pettifogger and she smiled again, her enchanting green eyes flickering in the lamplight.
“It won’t be long now, Alexander. You have a whole fleet awaiting your command at Eiderbeck. You’ll soon get the battles you crave . . . .”
Hearing these words calmed Lord Battersby, and he placed his arm around Lady Pettifogger awkwardly. His shoulders lowered and a wry smile formed on his face, showing the lines of age around his eyes.
“And then the fun will really begin . . . .”
When the mist had cleared from Emiline’s eyes, she felt a sharp pain at the top of her head. There was a lump the size of an egg under her hair, and she pressed it gently, wincing with pain all the while. Her body ached with tiredness. She was lying on a bed in a strange and unfamiliar room. The walls were blue but slightly moldy, and there was a strange smell all around.
A draught was fluttering the moth-eaten curtain, and the dying rays of sun filtered into the room. At the end of her bed sat Chervil, the ship’s cat, and his forthright stare turned to a slight curled smile as he saw Emiline rise.
“Hello!” she said gruffly. She was surprised at how dry her throat was. Portly scuttled up onto her shoulder, ran under her hair, and squeaked.
And then Emiline remembered the sight of the mast tumbling below her. She remembered hitting the cold water, seeing the black murky deep consume her, and then no more. She was alive, at least, but she’d like to know where she was.
Pulling herself up further, she looked out of the cobwebbed window and saw a bustling sea front and harbor. There were street vendors and sailors everywhere — although judging by their colorful but dirty clothes, they were more likely pirates. Mouse traders and boat-builders all jostled for attention in the last minutes of the day, and it set her mind racing. For a moment it even stopped her head from hurting.
Emiline impatiently unlatched the window and leaned out to get a better view. The salty air filled her lungs, the caws of seagulls filled her ears and she got a much clearer idea of where she was. Unlike Old Town, the houses were relatively low and squat, and they were all uniformly constructed of gray, yellowing stone. They varied little in scale as they rose up both sides of the harbor, but their higgledy-piggledy arrangement created a shimmering patchwork in the dying rays of the sun. It definitely wasn’t Emiline’s home city, and it dawned on her that they must have reached Hamlyn.
Emiline would have been surprised if she had known how much this strange place was related to Old Town. Hamlyn was a noisy place, full of tight alleyways and rough-and-ready taverns. Such an unruly place showed few signs of riches and wealth, but, unknown to Emiline, her old master held a great influence over it. Hamlyn had been linked to Old Town for many years, serving as a useful outpost and stopping point for trading and naval ships en route to other lands in the Great Sea. As such, its population consisted of pirates, privateers, and old seahands wanting a rest from the sailing life. Old Town paid little attention to its lawlessness and the black-market dealings that took place there, simply because it liked to use Hamlyn for its own means whenever the need arose. The Old Town Guard rarely interfered, and this proved beneficial for all parties, including Isiah Lovelock, who had two Mouse Trading Centers on the islan
d. Without the gaze of the authorities, his empire had full control over its trade in mice.
Emiline stepped off the bed, battling the dizziness that threatened to send her back under its covers. She picked up her bag and mousing belt that lay beside her, opened the creaky wooden door, and found herself in an uneven wood-timbered corridor. She could hear laughter and cheering from the floor below, but her attention was taken by a huge mouse plodding toward her. It was almost waist-height, with thick tree-trunk legs and ears that drooped down to the floor. It looked like an Elephant Mouse, but Emiline had only ever seen one in The Mousehunter’s Almanac before. They weren’t your typical everyday mouse, and Emiline was taken aback by how friendly it seemed.
The mouse made a deep, gravelly yelp of a squeak as it approached and stopped in front of her, nudging her leg with its side. Upon its back was a tray carrying a glass of water, and Emiline took it and drank deeply, as she was so thirsty. The mouse squeaked again and wandered off happily. If everywhere outside Old Town was this wonderful, thought Emiline, leaving Lovelock’s mansion was the best thing she’d ever done.
She followed the Elephant Mouse as it lolloped along and eventually reached a narrow staircase that led to where all the noise was coming from. She watched it turn sideways in the staircase so that it wedged itself firmly between walls, and then it clomped downward one front and back leg at a time.
At the bottom of the stairs, the expansive room that emerged before Emiline’s eyes was filled with bearded sailors and laughing women. Tables stretched around the room, with tall candles flickering at their centers, smoke lilting up into the rafters above.
At these tables, people were playing games with their pet mice on their shoulders. Dice and small mouse counters were being thrown on checkered boards, and any scraps of food or coins that landed on the floor were quickly collected by Scavenger Mice, who always found a happy home in Mousing Taverns. Hamlyn’s potent Pipsqueak Beer was swilling over tables and down throats at an alarming rate, and the atmosphere was one of slight chaos. It was an inn — a dark, rowdy, pirate- and mouse-infested watering hole — and Emiline loved it.
“Emiline!” shouted Scratcher, jumping up and running over to her. “You’re awake! It’s been days!”
“Days?” Emiline questioned.
Scratcher took her glass and dragged her to a table where Drewshank, Fenwick, and a number of other sailors were standing and smiling ecstatically. Their clothes were looking a bit battered since the last time she saw them, and some of the men carried cuts and bruises on their face. Drewshank, however, looked as snappy as ever.
“A welcome sight!” said Drewshank happily, beckoning Emiline to take a seat.
“Elbert!” shouted Fenwick to the bar boy, as Emiline sat beside him. “A pint of Pipsqueak for our brave mousekeeper here!”
He placed his hand on her shoulder and smiled cheerfully as he drank from a huge tankard of his own. His mouse sat languidly on the table, and Portly scurried across to greet it. Trumper burped a squeak of greeting, leading Fenwick to apologize for letting him sip his beer.
“It’s good to see you back in the land of the living,” said Drewshank. “Nothing has ever wrenched Chervil from the ship before, but he wouldn’t leave your side. I guess he’s pleased you saved his life, as we all are, and we have to be thankful for small mercies.”
Emiline looked puzzled.
“We lost many men to the Grak — eaten whole or swallowed by the deep. I even received a cut across my eyebrow! You were lucky, Emiline!” Drewshank stared mournfully into his beer, then banged the table. “What Long-eared Mice came to be doing in the sea off Hamlyn is a question I want answered.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Fenwick, “if it were that Mousebeard who put ’em there.”
The table immediately went silent.
“You could be right,” added Drewshank. “Not only cannons lie in our path, but angry sea monsters.”
Emiline’s mind wandered again at the thought of Mousebeard and the Grak. She remembered being terrified as a child at the entry in The Mousehunter’s Almanac about Long-eared Mice, and how they turned into sea monsters when they came into contact with salt water. As she was reliving her horrific experience once more, a voice pierced the din and brought her back to the real world.
“Is she awake? Is she alive?” it shouted. A short man came barging through the room, barely able to see above the shouting people and tables. He was dressed in neat, yet oil-splattered, work clothes, and his little face was almost covered by enormous round glasses.
“Ah! She made it, Drewshank, I knew she would! I told you that potion would do the job!”
The man took Emiline’s hand and shook it vigorously, all the while inspecting her for any continuing signs of damage.
“I’m Algernon Mountjack!” he said brightly, perching on the end of the bench next to her. “Welcome to the Giant’s Reach — the best inn in Hamlyn!”
Drewshank cut in, fearing the short man’s gusto might overwhelm Emiline.
“Thank you, Algernon, it seems your cure worked wonders! That Fire Mouse spit really does make good medicine,” he said.
Emiline and Scratcher both felt suddenly sick.
“But I told you it would! Now, Emiline,” Algernon said, in his supercharged manner, “I hear you’re a famous mousekeeper, and I think I like you already. If you have time I’ll show you my workshop. I’m currently working on a rocket-powered attachment for my Whale Mouse. I think you might be interested? Yes?”
“I’m sure she’d love to see it,” said Drewshank firmly, “but I think she might like a bit of quiet now.”
“Ah, of course,” said Algernon. “I’ll look forward to taking you round.”
“That would be perfect,” said Emiline cheerfully.
“Yes, it would,” he replied. “You’ll find me behind the bar when you’re ready. Oh yes, one more thing. That Beatrice Pettifogger was asking after you, Drewshank. Said she had something for you.”
Before Drewshank could utter a reply, Algernon had shot off at a cracking pace, picking up a few glasses on the way. His excitable manner could be as infuriating as it was endearing.
“Is that Lady Pettifogger?” asked Fenwick, slightly concerned.
“I’m afraid it is,” said Drewshank, sighing. “I suppose I should go and grace her with my presence. There’s only so long I can put it off.”
He huffed and rose slowly from the table.
“She’s probably only got a bundle of trouble for you, sir!” said Fenwick.
“I know . . . ,” the captain replied regretfully. “I’ll be careful. Could you return to the Fox and check that the repairs are coming along all right? See if you can find any more sailors to join the crew too. As you know, we’re a bit thin on the ground.”
“Aye, sir,” he replied, “but what about Emiline here? Can’t leave her with old Algernon — he’s a nut!”
“She’ll be fine if Scratcher stays.”
Drewshank patted the boy on the back. “I’ll return to pay Algernon for the room, and get you two and Chervil at the same time. Get as much rest as you can, Emiline; if the ship’s in order we’ll be off as soon as we can, and I’ll need you to be at your best.”
Everyone stood up and left the two mousekeepers to themselves.
“How’s your head?” asked Scratcher, watching Emiline take Portly from her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she replied, “but we should go and visit Algernon’s workshop. Can you see him?”
“But the captain told you to get rest!”
“Don’t be boring.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
It was clear that Emiline’s injuries were healing quickly.
The Sylakia Mouse
RECOGNIZED AS THE FIRST HUMAN-DESIGNED MOUSE (ITS NAME DERIVES from the ancient Andirian word sylak, meaning “to build,”) the Sylakia was conceived and bred with one purpose in mind — money. A hybrid of numerous stout-bodied mice, it wa
s initially deemed exceptionally useful for factories, where it was kept to run on treadmills to power machinery.
Notable for its thick legs and high arching back, the Sylakia has since become a cause célèbre for Old Town, where it was first bred. Now known to suffer from a peculiar strain of arthritis in its tiny joints, the Sylakia feels immense pain from a young age. Unfortunately, the protracted breeding process that resulted in the Sylakia also bred out most vocal capacity, so the animal had little way of showing its suffering throughout the long hours it worked. However, after nearly sixty years of use by the populace, the Mouse Liberation Front highlighted the Sylakia’s cause, and it is now banned from any workplace.
MOUSING NOTES
An unusual mouse to find in any collection these days. For better or worse, the Sylakia is a vanishing breed.
Algernon
DREWSHANK RANG THE BELL OF THE MOUSE TRADING Center and peered through the small glass panel of the door. The old, battered building slotted perfectly between two smarter houses overlooking the harbor. It was tiny, and a lot less grand than he’d expected. There were no windows at its front, just a sign nailed onto the limpet-riddled stone wall, with MICE FOR TRADE painted in big swirling letters. It looked a most unfriendly place, not at all suited for showing off expensive rare mice. Drewshank wondered why anyone would ever visit it. It was certainly nothing like the one in Old Town, nor even the gleaming new Umberto’s Trading Center situated farther up the road.
He pulled his jacket tighter around his chest and patted down his hair. Eventually a light came on and the door opened.
“Devlin Drewshank. Come on in, it’s been a while.”
Lady Pettifogger stood in the dimly lit entrance, her sharp beauty radiating like a beacon. She beckoned him into the room and shut the door, taking time to bolt numerous locks on the inside. Her long brown hair lilted softly over her shoulders, and Drewshank, unusually, felt nervous. There was something about Beatrice Pettifogger that had always made him uneasy.
