The Mousehunter (29 page)

“Well, I must leave you all,” he said to Miserley and the guard as he made his way up. “Keep me informed of any findings!”

With that, the guard walked off, his rifle over his shoulder, and Miserley stood staring at Spires.

“What?” she said firmly.

“You look like a mousekeeper,” he said, listening to the crowd cheer wildly in the background.

“And what of it?”

“I knew a girl your age who was a terrific mousekeeper, with blond hair and a little Grey Mouse. I just wondered if you knew her?”

Miserley sensed something odd in the butler’s tone.

“What?” she asked with feigned confusion.

Since Battersby had left, the crowd had swelled into the area, trying to get a better view in what limited space there was. Spires stood motionless, but his face was stern.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said, swaying slightly with the bustle of the crowd.

“You don’t know Emiline?” he asked, moving a step closer to the girl. Spires knew it was now or never. “Are you sure?”

As soon as they’d been totally consumed by the crowd, Spires grabbed the girl. His hands squeezed hold of her wrists and he twisted her sharply around before she could clutch her weapons. He took hold of her mousing belt and tugged sharply, breaking the metal clasp and tearing it from her as she attempted to kick out. The mousebox attached to it came away freely, and he pushed her forward into the surging crowd — her cries of frustration smothered by moving bodies.

Making sure no one had seen his actions, Spires turned and tore off toward the scaffold and to where Emiline stood waiting.

Mr. Droob continued measuring Scratcher’s rope as the executioner freed the chains on all the other prisoners’ legs. A soldier stood next to Mousebeard and made sure he was upright. Nooses were looped over their heads, and the crowd’s chanting of “Mousebeard” grew ever louder.

“Havin’ to die next to a worthless privateer,” spat Scragneck, hissing under his breath, “is worse than having yer eyes poked out wiv mouse horns!”

“Shut up!” growled Drewshank, looking to the sky. He breathed in and found his mouth felt like sandpaper.

“Leave him to die angry,” said Mousebeard gruffly.

Drewshank glanced at the pirate and noticed his beard twitching. He hadn’t seen it do that since his mice had been taken away.

Once again, the Town Crier returned to the platform and marched along in front of the condemned.

“And so here we are, and here he is in his last moments . . . the pirate Mousebeard.”

The crowd went wild.

“Shhh!” he said noisily, bouncing his hands up and down to quiet the crowd.

“But we’ve one more surprise for all you patient onlookers . . . .”

He paused for effect and then pointed to a carriage moving through the densely packed wharf.

“Let me welcome the world-famous mouse collector, Isiah Lovelock!”

The crowd fell silent with reverence. Most of them had never seen the man out in public before. The carriage stopped at the base of the scaffold, and Lovelock stepped cautiously down. He looked along the river and hesitated before walking onto the platform. He seemed to be breathing lightly, as though the salty air that flew down from the sea was not to his liking.

Mousebeard saw the man and let out a stifled laugh.

“Finally, we get to meet . . . ,” said the pirate.

“You have to go,” said Spires, moving easily through the silenced crowd toward Emiline.

“What?” she said. “But Miserley, Scratcher . . . ”

The butler pushed the mousebox into Emiline’s hand, and she heard a bright squeak from its inside.

“Spires!” she said happily. “You did it!”

“I did, but she’s still out there and will be intent on getting her own back. You must leave now. Go back to Algernon, otherwise everything could fail.”

Emiline prized open the mousebox, and a sprightly Portly rushed up her arm and came to rest under her hair.

“Go, Emiline! What are you waiting for?”

The butler’s tone was insistent. Emiline wanted to hug the man, but he was looking at her sternly.

“Go!”

“Thank you, Mr. Spires,” she said, running away as fast as she could.

With Lovelock’s first step onto the platform he felt his chest ache. He stopped and clutched his heart before proceeding further. It was as though his blood were freezing. He stumbled slightly, but then righted himself, and took a few short breaths. Mousebeard watched keenly as the man struggled over the decking toward him.

Both of them felt a buzzing within their bodies: a tingling from the toes to the top of their heads. It was as though sparks of electricity were gathering between and around them. Drewshank looked from left to right, watching both men with amazement. A blue light was now forming around the platform, emanating from the mortal enemies and getting brighter as they grew closer.

The crowd began chattering in excitement — they weren’t exactly sure what they were witnessing. It was clear that there was something unearthly about the two men. As Lovelock walked farther along, passing the vile Scragneck, the executioner approached him.

“You all right, sir?” he asked.

“I’m fine! Yes!” he said, waving the man away. Lovelock was in control of the pain in his body, but it was growing stronger and stronger with every second.

“Jonathan,” said Lovelock, his face fading from its usual gray color to white, “I’m glad to see you’re finally in the place where you belong.”

Mousebeard shifted his neck to move the noose slightly then looked straight into Lovelock’s eyes.

“I’m glad to see the curse still affects you too,” he said. “Your breathing is heavy. Your chest hurts. As we speak your life is seeping away. Just being this far from land clearly makes you feel as bad as it makes me feel good.”

“But I had to see you one last time, old friend,” Lovelock said bitterly. “I can cope with a small amount of pain just to enjoy your downfall. That old witch thought she could separate us for ever, but how wrong she was. And with you dead, the curse must die too.”

“You’ll never be free of me, Isiah, whether in this world or the next.”

“You’re a dead man, Jonathan. You’re of no bother to me now.”

As he finished speaking, Lovelock staggered slightly, and a ripple ran through the crowd. He pulled himself together and walked away from Mousebeard.

“And thanks for your help, Drewshank,” he added breathlessly before stepping down. “You’ve been most helpful — I’m just so sorry it had to end in this way.”

Drewshank growled like a true pirate.

Lovelock left the platform and raised his hand for the execution to resume. The drums started up again, rolling faster and faster. The soldier at Mousebeard’s side walked away.

“Don’t forget the boy,” said Mousebeard firmly. His beard rustled and then fell completely still.

The soldier looked back at the pirate. “What?” he said.

“Don’t forget the boy!” he barked again. Mousebeard’s voice was terrifying, and suddenly Mr. Droob arrived, hot and bothered, with a replacement rope. He threw it over the scaffold with the soldier’s help, and looped it over Scratcher’s head. The executioner approached and hurried him along, as he made sure everything was correct.

“Look, it’s got to be right!” snapped Mr. Droob.

“Just hurry up!” shouted the executioner.

Suddenly all Scratcher could hear were the drums rolling. Eventually Mr. Droob stopped his work and motioned to the executioner.

“It’s done,” he said, grateful to leave the platform.

Drewshank clenched his fists behind his back and gritted his teeth. He looked at all the faces in the crowd baying for his blood. He’d been to executions before but never fully understood how violent and horrible they were.

“They really want to kill us,” he muttered.

“That’s humans for you . . . ,” said Mousebeard, his voice reaching its usual volume and depth.

The crowd was shrieking.

Drewshank took one last look at the beautiful blue sky. The sun had risen past the tops of the buildings and cast strong shadows across the whole of Old Town. He breathed one final, fulfilling breath that reached the bottom of his lungs.

The drum roll stopped.

The trapdoors unlocked.

The prisoners dropped.

The Cadaver Mouse

A BEASTLY MOUSE THAT THRIVES ON ROTTING MATTER — WHETHER
human, animal, or plant-based — you are more likely to smell the Cadaver Mouse before you see it. Often mistaken for a rat, the Cadaver Mouse enjoys the dark and roams around in packs, hunting for the next meal. These animals are rarely kept in collections, though it has been known for certain, darker sections of society to breed them and keep them in their cellars. The famous murderer, Obern Crown, was even said to have asked for his corpse to be thrown to his Cadaver Mice after his execution.

There really are nicer mice to keep.

MOUSING NOTES

It’s wise to stay as far away from these creatures as you can, as they mainly spread disease.

The Tail End

E
MILINE HAD LEFT THE PACKED STREETS AND REACHED
the deserted riverside downstream of Pirate’s Wharf with little time to spare. The chants of the crowd carried down the river. The view of the scaffold was now partially blocked by a wooden barricade on the river path intended to restrict movement so close to the site of execution. Emiline knew that just on the other side were armed soldiers, but they would be far more interested in the hangings than the goings-on along the river.

At the inside curve of the river, Emiline saw the copper dome of Algernon’s submarine breaking the surface. He’d cunningly covered it with a few pieces of scrubby bush that had fallen in the river, and it was well concealed a short way out from the river bank.

“Algernon and his submarine . . . ,” said a voice from behind Emiline. “I figured there had to be some way you escaped the island.”

Emiline span round and saw Miserley.

“You’re not going get away this time!” said Miserley, two daggers held at the ready. Emiline sighed.

“Emiline? Is that you?” said Algernon, his head and arms appearing from the hatch. He shoved all the greenery out of the way.

“You keep out of this, little freak man,” said Miserley, pointing the dagger in his direction. “It’s between me and Blonde here!”

“Stop calling me that!” said Emiline. Miserley just looked at her with a sneer. Portly rushed onto Emiline’s shoulder and squeaked as angrily as he could.

Miserley leaped forward and lunged with her daggers outstretched. One pierced Emiline’s jacket as she twisted to avoid the attack: it caught her between arm and body, and she clamped her elbow tight to trap Miserley. Sensing blood, Weazle couldn’t hold himself back. He rushed onto Emiline’s shoulder and snapped at Portly with his dirty teeth. The Grey Mouse swiped his small paw in defense before running under Emiline’s hair. Weazle followed, biting hard at the smaller mouse’s tail. Emiline heard a loud squeak of distress close to her ear and, still holding onto Miserley’s arm, kicked out, knocking the other dagger to the ground.

Emiline kicked out again, her anger rising, and this time aimed hard into Miserley’s stomach. Her attacker crumpled in two, and Emiline released her arm and pushed her back. She felt the other mouse move under her hair and grabbed it, bringing it out for Miserley to see swinging from her fingers. Portly continued to squeak sadly, and appeared at Emiline’s shoulder; the end of his tail was completely bitten off and a small trail of blood was running down Emiline’s jacket.

“You want me to kill it!” said Emiline, filled with rage. “You want your mouse to die? I’ll kill it!”

Miserley snarled and flicked her hair to the side in a gesture of defiance.

“Do it, Blonde!” she said, trying to call Emiline’s bluff. “Go on, I dare you! You don’t have the guts.”

Weazle twisted his body and stared at Emiline with his jet-black eyes. She faltered, and Miserley sneered in disgust.

“Emiline!” shouted Algernon, who had brought his submarine directly behind her. Its engine was chugging along contentedly. “It’s Spires . . . the sign!”