until he encountered Skor and his creatures. The vixen was a Seer, but she was also a very shrewd thinker. No matter what refinements had been added to his vessel, she knew that corsairs, and searats, would be foolhardy to attack the sea otters on their own territory. Recalling the vermin bodies floating in a bloodstained sea and the blazing ship limping off, savagely beaten, Shekra was certain a second foray would only result in failure. Through listening to the gossip of those who had been aboard on that bumbled raid, it was obvious that they were of a like mind with her. However, it did not do to discuss such things with Razzid as captain. Moreover, Mowlag and Jiboree, the Wearatâs closest aides, were ever on the alert for mutinous talk.
Shekra knew it was a dangerous situation to which a solution had to be found. Some serious thinking was called for. The answer came one evening, sitting in the galley with other crewbeasts. It was after supper as they were sipping grog when an old corsair stoat began plinking on an unidentifiable stringed instrument and singing. It was a common vermin sea song, full of self-pity induced by swigging quantities of potent grog. Shekra listened to the singerâs hoarse rendition.
âO haul away, mates, haul away, hark âow the north
wind wails.
Thereâs ice upon the ratlines, in the rigginâ anâ the sails!
Â
âWhen I were just a liddle snip, me mammy said tâme,
Donât be a corsair like yore pa, âtis no good life at sea.
O follow not the searatâs ways, or yeâll be sure to end
yore days,
beneath the cold anâ wintry waves, âcos corsairs âave no
graves!
Â
âO haul away, mates, haul away, hark âow the
north wind wails.
Thereâs ice upon the ratlines, in the rigginâ anâ the sails!
Â
âI scorned wot my ole mammy said, now lookit me
tâday,
aboard some vermin vessel, oâer the waves anâ bound
away.
The cook is mean, the capânâs rough, I lives on
grogânâskillyânâduff
I tell ye, mates, me life is bad, now Iâm grown old anâ
sad.â
Shekra passed the singer a beaker of grog. âAye, âtis right, mate, but once ye follow the sea, there ainât no goinâ back. I know âtis too late now, but tell me, wot would ye have done, ifân youâd stopped ashore? Been a farmer mayhaps?â
The old stoat chuckled humorlessly. âWot, me be a farmer? Huh, sounds too much like âard work. I wouldâve liked tâlive the easy life, in some sunny ole place. Aye, with others to cook me vittles, anâ a nice soft bunk tâsleep in. Where yore sheltered from storms anâ cold in the winter, wid a big roarinâ log fire to toast me whiskers by. Ah, thatâd be wot Iâd âave liked!â
Shekra nodded, her brain working furtively. âIt sounds good tâme. Wonder ifân there is such a place.â
A youngish searat offered a suggestion. âThat big stripedog mountain place, where all the rabbets lives, that looked alright tâme.â
The vixen sounded scornful, knowing which way she was leading the conversation. âNo chance of gettinâ anywhere near that mountain. Those rabbets are warriors, just like the wavedogs. Yeâd be slain afore ye knew it. Now, the Red Abbey place, thatâd suit me. Dâye know it?â
The youngish searat shook his head. âRed Abbey place?â
The cook, a fat greasy weasel, dipped a tankard into the grog barrel. âAye, Iâve âeard tell of it. Ainât it rightly called the Red Abbot place?â
Shekra nodded slyly. âRight, mate. Wotâve ye âeard tell?â The cook finished half his tankard in one swig and belched. âSomewheres in mid-country it is, with a forest growinâ round. My granpa saw it once. Said it was all built oâ red stones. Woodlanders, treemice, âedgepigs,
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