The Sable Quean (13 page)

Buckler did as he was bade. “Hmm, strange smell, sort of musty an’ sweet. Smoky, too, but I don’t think it’s coming from our fire. What is it?”

Jango stirred the ashes at the fire’s edge with his rapier as he explained. “It’s a vermin tribe called the Flitcheye. They’re split into two bunches, one lot out o’sight in the trees. The rest are right here inside our camp.”

Buckler knew enough not to make a move. He kept his tone low and level. “I don’t doubt your word, friend, but I can’t see any Flitcheye loiterin’ about here.”

Jango replied with a quick flick of his rapier point. “Over there, in the loam, t’the left o’ those ferns, I saw the dead leaves stir a bit. Flitcheye are experts at camouflage an’ hidin’ theirselves. That smoke ye can smell—sooner or later, it’ll send ye fast asleep. Oh, they ain’t in a hurry. They’ll just wait ’til we’re all settled down for the night afore they comes out o’ cover to murder us.”

Buckler touched the long blade at his side, where he had laid it. “So, I want to wake up in the mornin’. What’s your plan?”

Jango stroked his grey whiskers, smiling thinly. “ ’Tis already in operation, Buck. Just wait for my shout.”

Buckler noticed that the Guosim seated around the fire had pulled their headbands down about their mouths to avoid breathing in the knockout smoke. Feeling about, he gathered a pawful of damp moss to protect himself. Already, Oakheart and several members of the Witherspyk troupe were yawning and settling down, ignorant of the danger.

Buckler nudged Diggs, whose eyes were drooping. He muttered to his companion, “Hush, Diggs, don’t say a word, just listen to me—”

The tubby young hare blurted out, “I haven’t said a blinkin’ word yet, an’ what do I get for it? A bloomin’ sharp nudge in the ribs, that’s what, wot!”

He got no further, because at that moment Jango bellowed, “Logalogalogalooooooggg! Guosim chaaaaaarge!”

Then pandemonium reigned. Roars from Sniffy’s party, mingled with enraged screeches, rang out from beyond the camp. The shrews around the fire sprang up, wielding their short rapiers as the very ground around them seemed to erupt. Ragged, tattered figures burst forth from hiding.

They made a hideous sight in the dancing shadows and firelight, waving primitive weapons as they chanted eerily, “We d’Flitcheye Flitcheye! Haaaayeeee!”

To further confuse the situation, the Witherspyks stumbled to their paws, with Oakheart declaiming, “ ’Tis a foul ambush—save the ladies an’ babes!”

A ragged, shadowy figure seized Trajidia, who warbled dramatically, even in that grave situation, “Murder and abduction has befallen us! Help, oh, help!”

Buckler felled the creature with a swift blow from his sword hilt, echoing Diggs’s war cry as he threw himself into the fray. “Eulaliiiiiaaaa! Give ’em blood’n’vinegar!”

9

Abbess Marjoram stood close to the big tapestry in Great Hall, staring up at the image of Martin the Warrior, the long-dead founder of Redwall Abbey. The figure woven into the fabric of the wonderful picture was that of a heroic mouse, armoured and resting upon his fabulous sword. Above the tapestry the actual sword was mounted on two silver wallpins. It had been forged from a fragment of meteor in the long-distant past by a Badger Lord at Salamandastron. Marjoram gazed into Martin’s eyes—they were strong, the eyes of a true warrior, but with humour and compassion dwelling in them. The Abbess spoke.

“I know it seems trivial, after all the wars and tribulations Redwall has undergone, but I can’t help worrying about our two Dibbuns, poor little things. Martin, who knows, maybe they’ll turn up and my fears will have been for nothing. But suppose something bad has befallen them, what shall I do?”

No answer seemed forthcoming. However, Marjoram sat on the worn stone floor, still staring up at the face of Martin the Warrior. Sometimes it seemed to move slightly in the flickering candle and lantern light which surrounded the tapestry, but that could have been a stray draught moving the material. She continued her vigil, hoping against hope for a response.

Then somebeast was shaking her gently. “Mother Abbess, are you alright?”

Marjoram found herself looking up into the kindly face of her friend Sister Fumbril. The Infirmary Keeper helped her to stand upright, explaining, “I saw you lying there and thought you had fainted away.”

Marjoram could tell by the evening light from the stained-glass windows that some time had elapsed since she came down to the tapestry. She blinked.

“Er, I’m fine, Sister—don’t know what happened to me, really. I must’ve dozed off. Huh, I must be getting old.”

The jolly otter smiled as she led her to the kitchen. “We all have t’get old at some time, Marj, though I don’t think you’ve quite reached those seasons yet. I thought you’d be someplace searchin’ for Guffy an’ Tassy. What were you doin’, takin’ an evenin’ nap?”

They sat down at Friar Soogum’s kitchen table, helping themselves to beakers of hot mint tea, which was often left steaming on the oven plate.

Marjoram sipped gratefully. “Oh, that tastes good, Fumbril. Actually, I went to the tapestry to see Martin the Warrior. I hoped I might get some hint about our missing Dibbuns.”

Sister Fumbril topped up her beaker. “And did you?”

The mouse Abbess shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Maybe we’ve neglected our Abbey’s guiding spirit. Perhaps he doesn’t speak anymore.”

Fumbril patted her friend’s paw. “Surely not. Martin’s being is in these very stones that surround us—he’s part o’ Redwall. Think now, is there anything in your mind, anything?”

Marjoram shrugged. “Only Corim Althier. My goodness! Where did that come from?”

Fumbril looked up from her tea. “Corim Althier? Did Martin put that in your mind? What’s it supposed to mean?”

The Abbess was really perplexed. “Martin must have spoken while I was asleep. Corim Althier . . . I haven’t the foggiest notion of its meaning. Have you any ideas, Sister?”

Fumbril stirred honey into her mint tea. “How should I know, Marj? I ain’t a riddle solver, or a wise ole scholar. Granvy the Recorder, I think he’d be the one to ask.”

They were about to set off for Granvy’s usual habitat, the gatehouse, when Cellarmole Gurjee came trundling through Great Hall, calling to Marjoram, “Yurr, marm, cumm ee farst, naow. Ee rarscally vurmint bee’s spotted!”

They followed him out onto the side lawn, where a dozen or more Redwallers stood at the orchard entrance, all looking up at the Abbey, pointing and calling out.

“There, up above the dormitories—he’s in the attics!”

Marjoram peered up at the high, tiny windowspaces. “How d’you know? Has anybeast seen him?”

Bribby, a little Dibbun mousemaid, piped up. “H’I see’d ’im Muvver Marj, stannin’ by dat winder!”

The Abbess lifted the babe up. “Show me where.”

Following the line of Bribby’s pointing paw, the Redwallers stared up at the window she was indicating.

Bartij, the big hedgehog Gardener, sighted Globby, the escaped young stoat. “Aye—did ye see? He jus’ popped his head out but pulled it back in quicklike when he saw us all lookin’ up there. That’s the rascally stoat, alright!”

The Abbess clenched her paws decisively. “Then he must be caught. That stoat may have information about our little ones. Fumbril, you stay here and watch the Dibbuns. Bartij, Brother Tollum, will you come with me? Where’s Skipper?”

Friar Soogum answered, “Prob’ly still in the woodlands searchin’ for the liddle uns, marm.”

Accompanied by Bartij and Tollum, Marjoram headed indoors. “As soon as Skipper gets back, send him to us—we’ll be up in the attics.”

It was plain to Globby he had been spotted. He knew they would be coming up after him, so trying to get past them was out of the question. Dusk was falling—he had no lantern or torch with him. He was scared of venturing higher on the dark, winding stairs, and he could not go down.

So he did the only thing he could think of. Barring the door of the little attic room, he crouched in a dusty corner, grasping the knife he had stolen from the kitchen. He had no more to eat or drink and did not know what to do next. The young stoat could see a single star through the small open window. Without comrades around him, all pretence of being a vermin Ravager dropped away. He sobbed quietly, cursing his ill-fated trespass into Redwall Abbey.

Carrying lanterns, the three searchers made their way upstairs. They had four flights to climb, two of dormitories and sickbay, and two of deserted attics, where nobeast had set paw for many seasons.

When they reached the long, gloomy passage, Brother Tollum placed a paw to his mouth. “Hush now—we may yet surprise the villain.”

Taking the doors on the right side of the corridor, they opened them, one by one. The first three creaked on ancient hinges, revealing nothing more exciting than broken furniture shrouded in dust, with the odd bird feather here and there.

On trying the fourth door along, the Abbess turned to her companions, silently mouthing, “Locked.”

Brother Tollum took over. He rapped the door sharply, his sepulchral voice booming out, “Come on out—we know you’re in there, vermin!”

There was no reply, so Bartij tried. The big hedgehog had a naturally gruff voice: “The longer ye keep us waitin’, the worse ’tis goin’ t’be for ye, so git yoreself out ’ere, ye scallywag!”

There was a sob in Globby’s voice as he shouted back, “Come out, an’ wot for? So ye can drag me down t’that cookin’ place an’ beat me wid one o’ those long paddles. Lissen, youse, I gotta big knife ’ere, an’ I’ll gut the first un who comes in ’ere. So go ’way an’ leave me alone. Go on, clear off!”

This time the Abbess tried, speaking in a soothing tone. “Globby—it is Globby, isn’t it? I promise you won’t get beaten. Come out. We just want to talk.”

The young stoat’s reply was scornful. “Lissen, I ain’t comin’ out fer you or nobeast . . .”

Brother Tollum whispered to Marjoram, “Keep him talkin’. I’ve got an idea.”

He crept off along the passage, leaving the Abbess to continue reasoning with Globby.

“You’ll have to come out sooner or later. Don’t be silly, friend. Unlock the door—you’ve got my word that you won’t be hurt.”

Globby laughed bitterly. “Hah, so you say. But when we talk, if’n I don’t give ye the answers yore after, then ye’ll turn me over t’dat big riverdog wid the paddle, an’ he’ll belt the daylights out o’ me tail. Yew lot must think I’m stoopid!”

Meanwhile Tollum had raced downstairs and grabbed a coil of rope. The tall, thin Bellringer was still in his middle seasons, sound in wind and limb. Carrying the rope, he made the speedy ascent back upstairs, passing the floor in question, and sprinting up to the floor above it. Counting the rooms, he entered the fourth one, then knotted one end of the rope over a crossbeam, paying it out of the window. Tollum did all this with silent efficiency, not wanting to give away the element of surprise.

With squirrellike agility, he vaulted through the window, holding the rope out with both paws. Kicking hard against the wall, he bounded out from the Abbey into space. Tollum swung hard at the open window, unable to see his quarry in the darkness.

Globby had run to the door to hurl more insults at his tormentors. He heard the sudden whoosh of displaced air and turned, grasping the knife, thrusting it forward.

It was ill fortune for both creatures. The knife sank deep into the squirrel’s midriff, but his outstretched footpaws, rigid with shock, smashed into Globby’s narrow chest just below the throat. Fatally injured, both beasts slumped to the floor.

The pair outside the door heard the crash and the thud of bodies falling to the floorboards.

Abbess Marjoram pounded on the door. “What is it—what’s going on in there?”

“Step aside, Marm. We’ll soon see!”

It was Skipper, returning from the woodlands. “Righto, Bartij, mate, both together . . . one, two . . .”

On the word
three,
they charged the door together. There was a splintering snap of the wooden bar which held the room locked, then the door burst open.

Skipper was at Brother Tollum’s side instantly. The Abbey Bellringer was sitting with his back to the wall, staring at the knife plunged deep into him.

The otter cradled his head as he slumped to one side. “Tollum, can ye hear me, mate? It’s Skipper!”

The normally saturnine squirrel smiled oddly. “Who’s sounding the bells? I can hear my bells being tolled. They sound . . . so beautiful. . . .”

Abbess Marjoram knelt at Tollum’s side, clasping his paw. “Hurry, Skip—run and get Sister Fumbril. Tell her to bring herbs, dressings, salve, anything!”

Prying the Abbess’s grip loose, the brawny otter lifted Brother Tollum bodily. “Too late, marm. This goodbeast’s gone.”

Marjoram looked suddenly lost. She stared blankly at the Otter Chieftain. “Brother Tollum dead? It’s not possible. I’ll go and get Sister Fumbril myself!”

Bartij stopped her hurrying from the attic room. Taking Marjoram’s face in both paws, the big hedgehog assured her softly, “Take Skipper’s word, marm. Pore Tollum’s already gone to the quiet meadows. Let’s take a look at the other one. We need to get some information out of him, even if’n ’e is hurted.”