The Mousehunter (10 page)

Algernon

D
REWSHANK 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.

The room he’d entered smelled of washed floors and disinfectant, and could easily have been mistaken for a doctor’s office.

“Never one to rush, were you?” she said playfully.

“To this shoddy building?” he said sarcastically. “Or to you? Seeing you again has made me realize why I wanted to stay away in the first place.”

“Devlin!” she tutted. “After all we’ve been through!”

“I’m here for business only, Beatrice,” he said seriously.

“It’s just been so long since I last saw you,” she said, taking Drewshank through to the next room, which was much larger and lit by flickering gas lamps. “I’ve missed seeing your face. And before you make any more nasty comments about my home, Isiah likes to keep it like this for a reason.”

“A reason?” queried Drewshank.

“Obviously, it’s not a reason we freely talk about, Devlin.”

Her voice dropped to a hush and she placed a finger over her lips. “We’d best be quiet in here. These are all the mice that aren’t for sale, and they are so easily woken. They do make such a racket when they’re awake!”

Drewshank suddenly realized the room was filled with cages of all sizes, and within them were mice of all kinds. He’d been too preoccupied with Beatrice to notice before, but now he realized there were also metal bolted doors on each wall, and some even had bars protecting their circular windows. The Trading Center spread out much more than its small front let on.

“So you still have a thing against mice . . . ,” he said.

“Such smelly little creatures. But Isiah does like me to be in charge here. He says I have a knack for spotting good breeding, and on that point I’d have to agree. We’re currently involved in Snapper Mice breeding trials . . . .”

“Breeding trials?” queried Drewshank, his voice squeaking like a mouse.

“ . . . and, funnily enough, I do quite like to see the results,” she added.

“The results?” queried Drewshank once more. He received no reply; instead Lady Pettifogger took a sharp turn onto a staircase and led the way upward.

As usual, Lady Pettifogger was dressed provocatively, in a flowing yet well-fitting red dress, and Drewshank looked on gloomily as she vanished upstairs. He had a terrible feeling that the evening was going to end badly.

“I knew Mousebeard would be an offer you couldn’t refuse,” she said knowingly, opening a door to a glowing orange room, filled with the warmth of a roaring fire. She showed him to a chair and poured him a glass of wine.

“We’d have been closer to our goal too, but you can’t account for sea monsters,” he said, sitting down in an upright and slightly guarded manner. He knew better than to trust her.

“I take it that the ship’s still in one piece?” she said, hopefully.

“Just about,” he replied. “We’re lucky the shipwrights work quickly here in Hamlyn.”

“It’s amazing what a bunch of pirates can achieve when they put their skills to something useful,” she said. “They also make very good spies.”

Lady Pettifogger took a folded map from a tabletop, and passed it to Drewshank. “Without them we wouldn’t have this!”

Drewshank unraveled the browning parchment; it was hand-drawn, and a detailed chart of the seas that surrounded Old Town and Hamlyn, as well as many far-off lands. Islands were sprinkled over it like lily pads, and in the top corner was a wide red circle, scratched into the map in what looked like blood.

“As you know, Lovelock has many contacts around the Great Sea and beyond. We’ve noted every attack Mousebeard’s made in the past few months and plotted them on the map with tiny black mice. We believe that the pirate’s hideout is located at the far reaches of the Cold Sea, somewhere in that red circle on the map. It’s beyond his usual hunting ground, but we don’t know the exact coordinates. It is said that he hides on an island so tall and impenetrable that no one has ever been able to scale the cliffs that lift it into the sky. If you do come across his lair, you may have to find a way past such obstacles if you’re to capture him.”

Drewshank looked a little amazed by Lady Pettifogger’s information.

“So, our target is simply the Cold Sea? Beatrice, I’d have thought your spies would come up with more than this!” he said.

“Oh come on! You’re the best captain there is, Devlin. If you head north and use the map and your wits, you’ll surely succeed.”

“Well, that’s not in doubt; like you say, I am one of the greatest privateers who ever lived! But even so, Lovelock seemed to think that you had
useful
information for me!”

Lady Pettifogger leaned toward Drewshank, who shuffled back further into his chair.

“This is Mousebeard we’re talking about, Devlin,” she said, smiling sweetly and holding her arms out. “I’ve told you all the knowledge that we have . . . .”

She paused for a second then spoke softly, “ . . . You know I don’t want to see you getting hurt for our sake — you’re much too special.”

Drewshank struggled not to be charmed by her. But he ignored her outstretched arms and looked at her with what he hoped was his least handsome expression.

“If I die, Beatrice, you can be sure it won’t be for you. I foolishly tried once before, and all it got me was three years in the clink,” he said.

“Captain Drewshank!” exclaimed Beatrice, playfully.

“Three years of breaking up mouse biscuit, dressed in godawful prison attire . . . ” Drewshank’s eyes clouded over, remembering the rotten smell of mouse food as though it were still lingering in his clothes.

Lady Pettifogger reached over and touched his knee softly, and Drewshank had to suppress a horrible feeling of joy.

“It was such a long time ago,” she pleaded. “You never used to be one for grudges . . . .”

Drewshank took that as his cue to make a move. He stood up without a second thought.

“And I hear you’ve now become close friends with that Lord Bumblebee, or whatever his name is,” he said.

“Devlin, you know perfectly well that it’s Lord Battersby!”

Drewshank’s eyes made brief contact with the Lady’s, and he suddenly remembered how they reminded him of his first pet mouse. He kicked himself — he was thinking kindly of Lady Pettifogger — and looked away as fast as he could.

“Well I don’t particularly care,” he said grumpily, “so you might as well stop trying to sweet-talk me.”

“I was doing no such thing!”

She made one more attempt to get closer, holding out her arm to touch him, but Drewshank smiled knowingly and stepped away.

“I think I should be going,” he said. “Your spell is already taking effect.”

Lady Pettifogger laughed. “Those days have long passed, Devlin. I’ve changed — Battersby’s been good for me.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute, Beatrice. And Battersby’s a thug. A pompous, proud military man, with no other talent except waging war,” he said, making a move for the door. He finished his drink and returned the glass to Lady Pettifogger. She stretched up her hand for him to kiss, but Drewshank declined.

“As much as I’d like my heart torn in two again, I’d rather not have it happen this evening,” he said, and made his way out without looking back.

Once the outside door slammed shut, a concealed door opened in the bookcase behind Beatrice Pettifogger. Lord Battersby stepped out angrily.

“Me? A thug?” he exclaimed. “Drewshank was always a fool and a damned fop, and I’m pleased to see nothing’s changed.”

“He’s no fool, Alexander,” said Lady Pettifogger. “You do yourself a disservice by thinking it.”

“You still hold a soft spot for him . . . .”

“No!” she said firmly, approaching him and stroking the war medals on his chest, “but he doesn’t deserve the fate you’ve lined up for him.”

“He’s a cocky you-know-what, and it’s all for the good of Old Town, Beatrice! If we’re going to return our fair city to its past glory, then it’s something that has to happen.”

“You’re right, of course,” she said quietly. “I’ll send a message to Isiah, he’ll be pleased to hear things are going to plan.”

“Oh, he will indeed. Drewshank was a terrific choice of mine, don’t you think?”

Lady Pettifogger smiled briefly.

“Of course, Alexander. He’ll see it through to the bitter end, too. Just like you, his pride will allow for nothing less.”

“From what I heard, it’s been quite a week for Grak attacks,” said Algernon as Scratcher and Emiline followed him up the stairs to his workshop in the roof. “At some point, I’d be very interested in hearing of your encounter.” He turned, leaned toward Emiline, and peered over the rim of his glasses.

“These creatures become monsters when humans meddle with them,” he added, suddenly becoming serious. “Two Grak incidents in the Great Sea in the space of a week is no coincidence!”

Algernon continued to the top of the stairs, where they reached a dead end. He pushed aside a dirty painting of a yellow, flea-ridden mouse to reveal a hidden lever, and he pulled it violently. With a click and a thud, a trapdoor dropped open above them and a ladder slid down.

“Go on,” he said, and ushered them hastily upward.

Emiline and Scratcher clambered up onto the floor above them into darkness. They heard the trapdoor close behind them; light and the sound of squeaking mice filled the room.

The mousekeepers gasped as the workshop revealed itself before them. It was a mass of copper pipes, machinery, and flashing numbered dials; shelves were filled with books and instruments, and the walls covered in pictures of whales, mice, and islands. Algernon was always one to experiment with the latest technology, and the workshop was gently lit not by gas lamps but by the cool glow of electric bulbs.

Scratcher’s eye was taken by a clockwork metallic globe that was ticking madly on a little table. He went over a little fearfully and picked it up, and watched the islands and countries spin around.

“What does it do?” he asked, but Algernon didn’t hear. He was whistling strangely.

At his call, a band of brown Boffin Mice scurried across the floor. Emiline clapped her hands with excitement — she’d never seen any up close before. It’s easy to identify them because of the white ring of fur around each of their eyes and their two sticky-out teeth. If you saw them at a distance, you could almost swear they were wearing glasses.

“Ah, watch out for them,” Algernon said as the mice ran up the wall to a small ledge. “I call this my Marvellous Mouse Machine, although the name’s open to discussion.” Emiline noted that every time Algernon spoke, it was as though his mind was already racing ahead onto the next sentence.

“What Marvelous Mouse Machine?” asked Scratcher.

“You’ll see!” laughed Algernon.

The Boffin Mice ran up to a shiny metal panel and pressed some buttons, one at a time, until a huge crack sounded through the workshop and a large portion of the roof folded inward. The night-time sky opened up above them and half of a gigantic gleaming copper telescope slipped gracefully downward into the room, with its small eyepiece stopping just in front of Algernon’s face.

“There we go, take a look through here,” he said excitedly.

Emiline took hold and peered into the telescope. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she was looking at a far-off shore, lit by the moon. In the blue light she could make out a creature moving slowly, and it eventually dawned on her that it was a Giant Himolo Mouse, its body taller than the trees.

“It’s a Giant Mouse!” she said excitedly. “But they’re extinct?”

“A Giant Mouse?” interrupted Scratcher. He nudged Emiline out of the way and looked for himself. “Wow,” he breathed.

“Isn’t it marvelous,” chuckled Algernon. “You can see all sorts of mice through there if you look hard enough! There’s a special setting just for mice — you could look at buildings or stars if you’d rather, but who’d want to do that?”

Emiline couldn’t believe it. “But why don’t you tell people about the Himolo Mouse! This is the greatest discovery in years!” she said.

“Oh no! No, never. As soon as one of those rich mouse collectors who only care about money got their grubby mitts on it . . . well I wouldn’t like to think about it.”

Algernon gestured to the mice, who raced onto the telescope and pressed a few more buttons along its side. It creaked and twisted, and gently rose back into the roof, closing off the hole to the sky at the same time.

Portly had become very excited by Algernon’s Boffin Mice, and he slipped out from Emiline’s hair and climbed to the top of her head to get a better view.

“You’re not bored with all this, are you?” Algernon asked, while his hands scoured the surface of the table for something interesting.

“Not at all!” declared Emiline. “Portly here seems very impressed.”

“Ah! What a splendid Grey!” said Algernon, taking a moment to see Emiline’s mouse. Portly’s ears shot to attention.

Suddenly remembering his role as host, Algernon rushed to find two little wooden stools among the debris of his workshop. He brushed a mess of twinkling objects off one, and they burst open with tremendous flashes of light as they hit the floor.