The Heir of Mistmantle (13 page)

“Pity,” said Hobb. “He was the best captain we had in a long time. I always said so. But a king? He can’t handle it.”

A large, muscular hedgehog put down a box of berries and came to join them. “It’s not the king!” argued the hedgehog. “It’s her! There was never any trouble before she came!” He twisted awkwardly to look over his shoulder. “We should get organized. We should call a meeting!”

“I was just doing that,” said Hobb firmly, tipping back his head to look the hedgehog in the eyes. If there was any organizing to be done, he was going to do it, not some lumbering, jumped-up hearth brush.

Crackle hadn’t heard about Longpaw’s announcement. She rubbed infusions of herbs and vinegar into every inch of her fur until, she decided, she smelled like a pickle barrel; then she added more vinegar. Her eyes watered. She had spent long enough making biscuits, and it was time somebody found the princess. What’s it like, she wondered, when everyone admires you, loves you, and thanks you? She wanted so much to find out—but far more than that, she wanted the princess home.

Under the ground, Linty curled up with Catkin in her arms. It was time the baby had some fresh air. When she had climbed up nearer to the surface, she had heard the most beautiful singing, lovely voices that soothed the baby. She had heard a soft female voice, too, calling for Catkin, claiming to be the queen. Catkin had heard it, too, and whimpered, so that Linty had been ready to scramble straight out and take her back to the surface, deliver her to her mother—
but it might be a trick. Maybe it wasn’t really the queen at all.
She had hustled the baby far under the ground again, where the singing would not reach them.

Besides, she had heard other whispers. Stories that sent her hunting for a stone to sharpen her knife. Stories of disease. Stories of Lord Husk! She drew the knife viciously across the sharpening stone. The island aboveground wasn’t a safe place anymore, so what was she to do for Daisy now?

Catkin. The baby was Catkin, not Daisy. But she was very like Daisy.

A movement above made her whip around so quickly that the knife blade swept across her arm and left a trail of blood springing along the wound. Be more careful, she told herself. You’ll hurt Daisy if you’re not careful.

Gleaner wriggled through the Tangletwigs, hugging the bunch of mauve daisies she had brought for Lady Aspen’s grave. Perhaps the muslin would be damp by now, and she would have to hang it on the trees to dry. The daisies would look so pretty against the muslin, and Lady Aspen had always liked pretty things.

The cairn stood bare. There was no muslin. Gleaner stared and shivered.

Who would take the muslin from Lady Aspen’s grave? Gleaner could think of only one name, the name that was already being whispered with fear all over the island.
Husk.
She ran to the bushes, pulling at thorns with her paws. Not a shred of muslin remained. Around the cairn, she pressed close to the ground to search for paw prints. The ground was very dry, but—yes, that was a squirrel print. Definitely a squirrel print. She pressed her own paw beside it. It wasn’t hers. Fearfully, she glanced over her shoulder and all around her.

She should tell someone. Really, she should tell them at the tower, but they wouldn’t listen to her. And she didn’t want other animals knowing about Lady Aspen’s grave, crowding about it, gawping and touching things. They’d spoil it.

“Scatter!” called Fingal. “Is your nose any good? I’ve got really important work to do!”

Scatter’s ears twitched with interest.

“Streams need investigating,” said Fingal. “That might be where the fouldrought’s coming from. But if anything smells, it must be a long way up in the hilltops, because nobody’s found it yet, even in this weather. You can come if you like, but it won’t be much fun.”

“Fun!” said Scatter, and drew herself up in indignation.
“Fun!”

“Come on, then!” said Fingal. “We may as well go at once.”

They chose a stream that, as far as they could tell, wasn’t being inspected by anyone else and set out to follow it uphill to its source. On these hot autumn days, leaves were falling and dancing around the island so that Scatter, who longed to play with them, had to make a great effort to concentrate on what she was meant to be doing. As they climbed, Fingal said the scents were confusing. Farther uphill, he paused.

“There’s a whiff of some strong pong, but I can’t tell where from,” he said. “With all these animals catching diseases, there’s every sort of unpleasant whiff around.” He sniffed again. “Can’t smell a thing in this wind, can you? We’ll keep going farther up. How do you fancy a long trek? All the way up to the top?”

“I’ll do anything for Mistmantle!” said Scatter earnestly. Looking for polluted streams wasn’t as exciting as saving a baby, but at least she was doing something useful. So she scampered on uphill, chatting to Fingal, pausing to raise her head and sniff the air. They climbed farther up and farther north, where trees were sparser.

“Hang on,” said Fingal, and stopped. His nose twitched. “Something nasty. This way, I think. Farther up, and follow this stream.” A waft of south wind cooled their faces, and he turned his head in disgust. “Fire and flood, something’s deader than it ought to be! Are you sure you want to come with me?”

“Yes, please!” said Scatter. It was getting exciting now. And her nose wasn’t as sensitive as Fingal’s.

Crackle was tired, dispirited, and lonely. She hadn’t meant to come this far. She had just meant to go to the top of the next ridge—then she’d thought she’d go on to the trees—then she’d decided she may as well go to the rock, which didn’t look far, and would give her such a good view—now she was tired, hot, thirsty, and a long way from home. She’d rationed the water in her flask, but even so, climbing uphill on a hot day, she’d finished every last drop.

She flopped down in the heather. She hadn’t found a trace of Linty and the baby. She wasn’t the rescuing heroine who would bring the baby home. She was a long way from home and alone, with a wasted morning behind her. With both paws she pulled up a stalk of bracken and fanned herself.

A pleasant, musical sound of water reached her, making her ears twitch. She must be near a stream, which was exactly what she needed. The sound of water dancing over stone made her thirstier than ever. She was tired, but not too tired to look for it. Clambering uphill and over rocks, struggling through tall brackens, coughing as dust and pollen tickled her dry throat, she came at last within sight of the stream. In the hot weather it ran slowly and was shallower than it might have been, but sunlight sparkled on it as it rippled over the stones. It seemed to call her.

She hurried to it, scenting the heathery air. She sniffed as she bent over it, but smelled only the overpowering scent of thyme, rosemary, and vinegar on her own fur. The water must be all right. Crackle bent down to drink.

Something hit her across the shoulder so hard that it knocked the breath out of her and hurled her sideways. Rolling over, shocked by pain, she struggled to her paws and found her voice as somebody caught her from behind and held her tightly.

“Help help help help help help help!” she yelled, and stretched out her claws as she fought, kicked, and tried to bite the paws that held her. “Get off me!” She stopped thrashing to tip back her head and take a good look at her attacker.
“You!”

“Yes, only me, sorry,” said Fingal, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just had to stop you touching that water. Couldn’t you smell it? Farther upstream it stinks something disgusting. Didn’t you know we’re not supposed to drink from the streams?” He helped her to her paws, and she dusted herself down.

“Nobody told me,” she said plaintively.

“You’re covered in that pongy stuff that the queen’s been giving out,” observed Fingal. “I don’t suppose you could smell a thing. Good thing we were here. Aren’t you supposed to be in the tower? Who’s baking the biscuits if you’re not there? And you’ve set out uphill on your own.”

Crackle’s lip trembled. She was shaking.

“Leave her alone,” said Scatter, and put her paws protectively around Crackle. “She was probably looking for Catkin, weren’t you, Crackle? And she’s upset.”

“I didn’t mean…” began Fingal, but Crackle was sobbing violently into Scatter’s shoulder.

“I only…I only wanted"—she gulped—"to help.” She stopped sobbing, pouted, and hiccupped. “And I nearly…I could have been
poisoned!”

“Yes, but you weren’t,” said Scatter, hugging her. “Fingal stopped you in time. You’re all right. Fingal, she’s had a very nasty fright!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Fingal. “Sorry to be a very nasty fright. The fact is, Crackle, I saw you bending over that stream, and it scared the whiskers off me, because I’m pretty certain that water’s polluted. It smells worse farther upstream, so we need to keep climbing uphill to find the source. You can come with us if you like, but it’ll be pretty unpleasant.”

Crackle dried her eyes on the back of her paw. “I’ll come,” she said.

The steep uphill climb led them through a pine wood (which, as Fingal observed, smelled a lot better than the water did) until the trees grew thinner and they stood on almost level ground near the thin trickle of a stream, which fell halfheartedly into a pool. Crackle and Scatter took a few steps back when they saw the pool, and Crackle couldn’t help turning her face away. Even Fingal held his breath.