The Rogue Crew by Brian Jacques Page A

mouses an’ such lives there. They ain’t short o’ vittles neither.”
    Shekra added her own embellishment to the cook’s narration. “Aye, somebeast once told me there’s orchards there with ripe fruit ’angin’ off all the trees. Strawberries too, blackberries, enough honey to sink a ship, a big lake full of fishes, birds an’ eggs, many as ye please!”
    The old stoat singer shook his head wistfully. “The Red Abbot place, eh? Sounds wunnerful. Why ain’t we been there? Woodlanders ain’t warriors like wavedogs’n’rabbets.”
    The vixen shrugged. “’Cos it’s in mid-country an’ ships couldn’t reach it. Corsairs don’t go nowhere widout their ships. But wot am I talkin’ about? This Greenshroud can go anyplace now—land or sea, it don’t matter, do it?” An air of excitement suddenly pervaded the galley.
    â€œWe could go there, I’d wager we could!”
    â€œHah, wouldn’t be no trouble slayin’ a load o’ woodlanders!”
    â€œAye, an’ it’d all be ours, just for the takin’, mates!”
    â€œWe’d live like cap’ns an’ . . . an’ . . . er, kings. I wonder if’n their grog’s any good, Shekra.”
    Now she had sown the seed, the vixen left the galley, calling back to her shipmates, “They’ve prob’ly got cellars loaded with barrels o’ the finest drinks, or they should ’ave, wid all that fruit juice. It might taste nice an’ sweet!”
    She wandered out on deck. It was a fine spring night, with a hint of summer promise on the breeze. Jiboree came down from the stern deck. “Ahoy, vixen, where’ve ye been? Cap’n Razzid wants ye.” Wordlessly, Shekra followed him to the master cabin.
    The Wearat was taking supper with Mowlag and Jiboree. Wiping moisture from his damaged eye, he glared at Shekra through his good one. It was always unnerving to be scrutinised by his cold stare.
    Shekra tugged an ear in salute, unsure of why she had been summoned. “Cap’n?”
    Razzid put aside the grilled herring he had been nibbling, keeping Shekra waiting as he wiped his lips and drank from a fine crystal goblet of good-quality grog. He spoke just the one word: “Well?”
    Shekra swallowed hard, her paws trembling. “Did ye want me, Cap’n?”
    The Wearat continued to stare, knowing the effect it had.
    â€œWell, yore my Seer, ain’t ye? Tell me wot ye see.”
    The vixen breathed an inward sigh of relief. “I’ve been waitin’ on ye to ask me, sire. A moment please.” She shook out the jumble of stones, wood, shells, feathers and other objects from her pouch. Selecting what she required, she began murmuring.
    â€œVoices of wind and water, say
what fate may bring this Greatbeast’s way,
Omens of earth, of wood and stone,
is thy message for him alone?”
    She cast three stones upon the table, two of common grey, one a black pebble, pitted and marked. The grey stones bounced from the table onto the deck. The black one stayed on the table, close to Razzid.
    Closing her eyes, Shekra spoke. “I speak to none but you, Great One.”
    The Wearat dismissed his aides. “Leave us.”
    Both Mowlag and Jiboree shot hate-laden glances at the vixen. They left the cabin—though, once outside, they pressed their ears to the closed door in an effort to learn what the Seer had to say.
    Shekra went to work with an air of mystery, which she created by sprinkling powder on the table candle. It produced green and black smoke, which swirled around both her and Razzid. The vixen picked up the black, pitted pebble from the table, showing it to the Wearat. “This stone is thee, Razzid, marked by wounds, yet still tough and hard. Watch where it falls and know thy fate, which only the omens can foretell.”
    She cast it back onto the table, together with a lot of