The Forgotten Map (22 page)

‘I'm afraid this mouse won't be much use to you,' Whisker said to the clerk.

‘Is he dead?' the clerk asked hopefully.

‘I think so,' Whisker lied.

The clerk peered closer at Horace through his monocle and snorted, ‘Humph. He's got you hoodwinked. For a start, he's not a mouse, he's an extremely small dog. That's obvious. And, if he's already dead, I don't need his portrait.' He set up his easel and prepared to draw. ‘You should really choose your friends more carefully next time, young mouse. Not that you'll get a next time.'

Whisker nodded furiously and his hood slipped further over his face.

‘Perfect!' the clerk exclaimed, ‘
Hooded mouse bandit
. It's a good look … most inmates prefer the snarling teeth approach but I personally prefer the more subtle expressions.'

Whisker declined to comment. If he was about to be immortalised through art as a vicious criminal, at least it would be a shadowy depiction of the entirely wrong species.

The clerk scribbled frantically for several minutes and then lowered his pencils.

‘Done!' he declared. ‘Thank you for your patience and most importantly thank you for not spitting. It's terribly off-putting, you know, but most prisoners insist on it. I've tried gagging them in the past, but gagged prisoners make terrible portraits.' He picked up his equipment.

‘See you in court,' he said, scurrying into his office.

For a moment, Whisker wished he'd asked to see the finished portrait, but remembering there were more important things at hand, turned his attention to the sound of puffing and panting coming through the small window behind him.

Intrigued, Whisker pressed his nose against the bars and peered out. Beyond the courtyard he could see the gatehouse. Coming into view, and almost level with the entrance gates, was the book-laden cart. Exhausted-looking crabs pushed and pulled from all sides. Mr Tribble trudged beside the cart, fiddling with an old pocket watch.

‘Nearly there, chaps,' he encouraged. ‘Don't stop now, it's almost seven o'clock and the rain could hit at any time.'

‘Shouldn't we wait outside for the Gatekeeper?' one of the crabs asked.

‘And risk ruining the entire load?' Mr Tribble squeaked in his most important voice. ‘I don't think so. Just a few more feet and then you can stop.'

‘All right,' the crab mumbled. ‘Come on boys – HEAVE!'

The cart rolled forward until it was directly under the portcullis.

‘STOP!' cried a young crab, running across the courtyard. ‘You can't bring that inside. It has to be inspected first.'

‘I have a letter from the Governor,' Mr Tribble quivered. ‘Are you the Gatekeeper?'

‘No,' the young crab replied, ‘he's busy. There was an incident.'

‘Oh,' Mr Tribble gasped.

‘Yes, a very serious incident,' the young crab said. ‘And under the circumstances, I don't think he'd allow you to enter with or without a letter. Do you understand?'

Mr Tribble mumbled nervously, ‘Um … well …' and in the process dropped his pocket watch beside the wheel of the cart.

‘That's not a government pocket watch?' the young crab asked suspiciously.

‘No … my father gave it to me,' Mr Tribble stammered. ‘I'll show it to you.'

He put one paw on the centre of the wheel to support himself and bent down to pick up the watch. Halfway down he sneezed awkwardly and his whole body lurched forward into the side of the cart.

‘Do please excuse me,' he apologised, holding out the watch for the young crab to inspect. ‘I must have breathed in a sesame seed. They seem to be scattered everywhere.'

‘No thanks to your fellow mice,' the young crab sniggered. ‘Here's your watch back. It's a piece of junk. No government employee would carry one of these. I doubt it even keeps accurate track of the time.'

‘I assure you it does,' Mr Tribble said, looking extremely worried. ‘Last time I looked …'

‘Put it away and haul this cart out of here,' the young crab demanded.

Mr Tribble lowered his head and shuffled out. There was a chorus of groans from the crabs as they re-positioned themselves around the cart and took up the strain.

With a collective heave the cart began to roll backwards. It had barely moved when there was a sickening
SCREECH
.

The crabs leapt clear as a wheel spun off its axle and the side of the cart crashed to the ground. Simultaneously, the second wheel, unable to support the weight, splintered into pieces and the entire cart plummeted down.

From where Whisker stood in the eastern tower, the sounds of the collapsing cart were partly muffled by the chimes of a grandfather clock in the clerk's office. It was seven o'clock. The chimes only reached three when an even louder sound rocked the fortress.

A gigantic
KABOOM
exploded from the rear of the prison, shaking the stone walls and sending Whisker tumbling off his feet. Confused cries came from the clerk's office, as the soldiers tried to comprehend what had happened.

‘JAIL BREAK!' the Gatekeeper yelled. ‘TO THE DUNGEONS! PROTECT THE SALLY PORT! SECURE THE PRISONERS!'

A dozen crabs scuttled from the office and headed for the staircase. The Gatekeeper continued yelling from the centre of the group, ‘DROP THE PORTCULLIS! CLOSE THE FRONT DOORS!'

Seconds later, the clerk burst from his office, carrying a notebook. He scurried after the crabs, mumbling, ‘The paperwork for this will be a nightmare.'

Whisker turned back to the window. Two crabs on the top of the gatehouse tugged on a large metal handle. The young crab at the entrance desperately waved his claws in the air to grab their attention.

The next moment, the sharp metal teeth of the portcullis tumbled towards the ground. There was a piercing, crunching sound as the portcullis impaled the cart and stopped. The portcullis lay in a mass of paper and wood, unable to move up or down. The cart and its contents were completely destroyed.

Whisker was about to try to rouse Horace when he heard several more crabs entering the tower.

‘… I saw it all from the northern tower,' one said excitedly. ‘Two empty barrels lying under a mangrove tree. No one's down there now and the secret door is still intact. All they managed to do was blow up a chunk of rock. The door is completely sealed with rubble. They'll never get in and the prisoners can't get out. I can't wait to tell the Gatekeeper the good news. He's sure to give me a promotion …' The voice faded out as the crabs descended the staircase to the dungeons.

Whisker crouched next to Horace on the cell floor.

‘Wake up, Horace,' he whispered.

Horace sat bolt upright.

‘I was never asleep,' he spluttered, ‘I was improvising …' He took a huge breath and looked around in confusion. ‘W-where are we, Whisker?'

‘In the heart of the prison,' Whisker said. ‘But don't worry, the crabs are in the dungeon, the back door is sealed shut, and the front entrance is wedged open for our escape … All we need is a quick way out of this cell.'

‘Leave it to me,' Horace replied, ripping off the sole of his boot. He pulled out a strange golden object, attached it to the stump of his hook and staggered towards the locked door. With one twist there was a soft
click
and the door swung open.

‘Skeleton key attachment,' he said proudly.

Whisker grinned back. ‘Don't tell me – best thing you ever bought.'

Silently, the two rats slipped off their boots and tiptoed from the cell towards the dark staircase of the dungeons. Horace grabbed his hook from the small table on the way.

Whisker glanced down at the open letter in the candlelight. The subject line read,
Important Raid Information.
Before he had time to consider its importance, his tail slid the letter from the table and stuffed it in his pocket.

‘Bring the candle, too,' Horace whispered.

Whisker picked up the candle and the two rats scampered down the twisting staircase, arriving at a small landing. Thick iron doors stood open on either side of an archway. Beyond the doors, the staircase continued into blackness. Whisker could make out the muffled sounds of frantic soldiers far below.

‘It's time we locked them in with the other scoundrels,' Horace mused.

Whisker moved to the left door and tried to pull it shut. It barely moved.

‘Lend me a paw, will you?' Horace whispered, straining at the other door.

Whisker put down the candle and leapt across the passage to help him. With both of them straining as hard as they could, the door slowly began to swing shut.

‘Where's Fred when we need him?' Whisker groaned between heaves.

‘Having fun with my dynamite,' Horace muttered.

With a dull thud, the door slid closed and the two rats paused, panting for air.

The sound of voices grew louder.

‘Hurry!' Whisker squeaked, dashing to the second door.

It was even harder to push than the first. The candle flickered as a waft of stale air drifted through the gap.

The voices became clearer.

Whisker dug his toes and tail into the grooves of the stone floor and with every ounce of his strength, gave the door an almighty push. It moved, but not enough.

‘Come on,' he said in frustration. ‘Hurry up and close.'

Through the narrowing gap, Whisker saw a flash of claw, followed by a loud shout.

‘NOW,' Horace cried. ‘PUSH!'

With one last desperate attempt, Whisker closed his eyes and pushed. He felt a puff of air rush past his cheek and, with an echoing
CLANG,
the second door slammed shut. For a moment there was silence. Then Whisker felt a vibrating
THUD
from the other side of the door.

‘Your key, Horace!' he cried. ‘Quickly! Use your key.'

Horace slid his skeleton key into the lock and jiggled it from side to side.

‘It won't budge,' he groaned in frustration.

The thudding continued.

‘Hurry,' Whisker panted, bracing himself against the door. ‘I can't hold them out for much longer.'

The candle started to flicker and Whisker glanced down at Horace, fumbling in the shadows. Below the lock, he caught sight of a long shaft of steel.

‘Use the bolt!' he exclaimed. ‘Slide it across. Forget the lock.'

Horace grabbed the bolt with his paw and, between crashing jolts, slid it into position. With a small
clunk
, the doors were secure. Whisker fell exhausted to the ground. Horace tried the lock one last time and gave a little cheer when the key turned without resistance.

‘It simply needed some gentle shaking,' he mused.

‘It won't hold them forever,' Whisker puffed. ‘They're sure to have a spare set of keys. We need to jam the lock.'

‘With what?' Horace asked.

Whisker looked around. All he could see was the smouldering candle on the ground.

‘Perfect,' he said, picking it up.

Horace grinned. ‘I think it's run out of puff, anyway.'

Whisker wedged the molten stump of the candle into the lock and everything went black. The banging grew louder but Whisker knew the crabs had no chance of escaping. The guards were now the prisoners. Two squads of the Blue Claw were trapped in the dungeon. Even their secret escape door was blocked, thanks to Fred and the Captain.

Blindly, the rats fumbled their way up the dark stairs to the ground floor. Horace picked up Ruby's telescope from the table.

‘It would be a pity to leave it behind,' he remarked, swinging it through the air. ‘I'm sure it could crack a few shells if it came to a fight.'

Whisker hoped it wouldn't come to that.

‘So which way to the western tower?' he asked.

Horace pointed to his right. ‘This way. Through the great hall.'

The two rats threw open a door at the end of the corridor and entered a huge deserted hall. Long rows of tables ran the length of the room. Thin wafts of smoke drifted through the rear windows – a lingering reminder of the seven o'clock siege.

‘What a heavenly fragrance,' Horace said, sniffing the air.

Whisker turned his head and looked through the windows facing the courtyard. The remaining crabs were busy yelling at each other and trying to remove the cart and its contents from the portcullis. The entrance doors to the prison were partially shut, but the cart prevented them from fully closing. Whisker wondered if the crabs had discovered Fred's hidden layer of stones built into the base of the cart.

‘Tribble did well,' Horace whispered as they darted towards the prison kitchen.

‘He's a clumsy genius,' Whisker agreed. ‘You should have seen him sabotage the wheel when he picked up his watch.'

Whisker stumbled over a pile of pie crusts and followed Horace through a small door near the kitchen stoves. As every minute passed, the prison grew darker. They ran down a dim passage until they reached a door marked
Storehouse
.

‘We're in the western tower,' Horace whispered. ‘Take the next staircase.'

On the opposite side of the corridor they found what they were looking for. The rats bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and soon reached an open archway.

‘The arsenal floor!' Horace exclaimed, slowing his pace.

‘Keep going,' Whisker hissed.

They continued climbing until they reached the next archway.

‘Try this level,' Whisker said, stepping through.

The companions entered a small foyer. A line of three closed doors stood in front of them. Each door had a small square window for prisoners' food. The flaps on the two outer doors were closed, but the flap on the central door was wedged open and something unusual dangled from it: a soldier crab. Its body, legs and left claw were clearly visible, but its right claw disappeared through the square hole into the room beyond. A set of keys lay on the floor in front of it. It squirmed hysterically but froze when it realised there were two hooded creatures staring at it.