and he thinks the island needs delivering, and there’s a Marked Squirrel on Mistmantle, then we get it for him, right? Your Majesty, shall I put the freak in its cell for you?”
“I should show him off,” said the king thoughtfully. “The question is, how to make the best use of him to get what we want? I shall take advice about it. I should like to know what the dear Commander thinks; she knows such a lot about so many things. Yes, take him to his room.”
“Delighted to, Your Majesty,” grunted Granite. Trail, Bronze, Granite, and two hedgehogs marched forward and escorted Urchin back through the hall of mirrors, up a winding stair.
“You’ll have all you need,” said Trail. “Don’t try to escape. There are archers everywhere.”
“Enjoy your home comforts,” said Granite. “I’ll give it three days. Four, if your luck holds.”
Urchin was pushed into the turret and heard the clang of bolts and locks behind him, then a shuffle of paws. At least two guards would be at the door.
He took a good look at the room, closed his eyes, and opened them again in case he was dreaming. With its deep soft rug, draped curtains, a table set generously with food and drink, and plump, colorful cushions, his prison cell was furnished more luxuriously than the king’s chambers at Mistmantle.
They still hadn’t told him what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t want to wait to find out. There had to be a way out. Deep-blue curtains, tasseled and brocaded, hung at the only window, but when Urchin examined it he found it locked fast and protected with iron bars set into the stone. A bed had been made up with blankets, and he dived underneath it to scratch at the floor. It was made up of small wooden floorboards. He might be able to lift one and escape, if he could first find out what was underneath—dropping into a guard room wouldn’t help. There was a fireplace, too, but no fire laid in it, so with the energy of hope, he jumped into the grate and darted up the chimney.
It soon became a tight squeeze, then even tighter, and though Urchin drew in his shoulders and made himself as small as he could, the chimney was too narrow for him. Furious with frustration, he wriggled down again, brushed soot roughly from his fur, and threw himself into inspecting every inch of the cell. He searched the fireplace, looked under the rug, ran up the walls, and scrabbled with his claws at the ceiling, and finally dropped back to the ground and kicked the cushions. He was far from home, trapped, and furious at the injustice of it.
“I’ll get out,” he said out loud. “Heart help me. I promise you, King Crispin. I promise you, Captain Padra.” He kicked the cushions again, and looked enviously down from the windows at the squirrels outside enjoying their freedom.
But were they free? Like the animals he had seen on the march, they were outside but they didn’t look free at all. They had a timid, scared air about them, hardly ever stopping to talk to each other, glancing anxiously over their hunched shoulders. At this time of year they should have been harvesting food, but wood and stone were heaped in the barrows they wheeled about, and he understood now about the gray film over everything. It was a layer of dust from the mines. As night darkened, he said a prayer for his friends on Mistmantle, settled down among the cushions, and didn’t even try to sleep.
He did sleep, though, lightly and at last woke in the dark. Someone was in his room. He felt their presence. He heard them breathing. Beneath his fur, a shiver crept through his skin.
There was a sour, fusty smell, like singed fur and vinegar. It drew closer.
Urchin stayed still, his eyes shut, listening. It would be safer not to provoke them. Stay still. They’ll go sooner that way.
Somebody whispered, and he recognized King Silverbirch’s voice.
“Isn’t he a little treasure? And we’ve got him safe and sound. We need to make the most of him.”
The squirrel
“I should show him off,” said the king thoughtfully. “The question is, how to make the best use of him to get what we want? I shall take advice about it. I should like to know what the dear Commander thinks; she knows such a lot about so many things. Yes, take him to his room.”
“Delighted to, Your Majesty,” grunted Granite. Trail, Bronze, Granite, and two hedgehogs marched forward and escorted Urchin back through the hall of mirrors, up a winding stair.
“You’ll have all you need,” said Trail. “Don’t try to escape. There are archers everywhere.”
“Enjoy your home comforts,” said Granite. “I’ll give it three days. Four, if your luck holds.”
Urchin was pushed into the turret and heard the clang of bolts and locks behind him, then a shuffle of paws. At least two guards would be at the door.
He took a good look at the room, closed his eyes, and opened them again in case he was dreaming. With its deep soft rug, draped curtains, a table set generously with food and drink, and plump, colorful cushions, his prison cell was furnished more luxuriously than the king’s chambers at Mistmantle.
They still hadn’t told him what he was supposed to do, but he didn’t want to wait to find out. There had to be a way out. Deep-blue curtains, tasseled and brocaded, hung at the only window, but when Urchin examined it he found it locked fast and protected with iron bars set into the stone. A bed had been made up with blankets, and he dived underneath it to scratch at the floor. It was made up of small wooden floorboards. He might be able to lift one and escape, if he could first find out what was underneath—dropping into a guard room wouldn’t help. There was a fireplace, too, but no fire laid in it, so with the energy of hope, he jumped into the grate and darted up the chimney.
It soon became a tight squeeze, then even tighter, and though Urchin drew in his shoulders and made himself as small as he could, the chimney was too narrow for him. Furious with frustration, he wriggled down again, brushed soot roughly from his fur, and threw himself into inspecting every inch of the cell. He searched the fireplace, looked under the rug, ran up the walls, and scrabbled with his claws at the ceiling, and finally dropped back to the ground and kicked the cushions. He was far from home, trapped, and furious at the injustice of it.
“I’ll get out,” he said out loud. “Heart help me. I promise you, King Crispin. I promise you, Captain Padra.” He kicked the cushions again, and looked enviously down from the windows at the squirrels outside enjoying their freedom.
But were they free? Like the animals he had seen on the march, they were outside but they didn’t look free at all. They had a timid, scared air about them, hardly ever stopping to talk to each other, glancing anxiously over their hunched shoulders. At this time of year they should have been harvesting food, but wood and stone were heaped in the barrows they wheeled about, and he understood now about the gray film over everything. It was a layer of dust from the mines. As night darkened, he said a prayer for his friends on Mistmantle, settled down among the cushions, and didn’t even try to sleep.
He did sleep, though, lightly and at last woke in the dark. Someone was in his room. He felt their presence. He heard them breathing. Beneath his fur, a shiver crept through his skin.
There was a sour, fusty smell, like singed fur and vinegar. It drew closer.
Urchin stayed still, his eyes shut, listening. It would be safer not to provoke them. Stay still. They’ll go sooner that way.
Somebody whispered, and he recognized King Silverbirch’s voice.
“Isn’t he a little treasure? And we’ve got him safe and sound. We need to make the most of him.”
The squirrel
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