The Song of the Winns (25 page)

“Stand to attention when you see the general,” Lester barked at Alice and Alex.

So this was General Ashwover! Alice and Alex
obediently stopped their shoveling.

“General, these are the two newest additions to our household. Their father was killed in the line of duty in the Crankens, and their mother fell ill and died. They're from Tornley.”

“Tornley, eh?” said the general.

“Yes,” said Lester. “Interesting place, Tornley. I'm very fond of the Parmesan they make there.” He looked at the two young mice blandly.

Alex affected a look of surprise. “Really?” he said. “That's odd. We're famous for our mozzarella.”

The general turned to his lieutenant. “Quite right. I don't know what you're on about, Lester. They make mozzarella in Tornley, not Parmesan.”

“My mistake,” murmured Lester.

“It's the way that the mozzarella is aged that makes it so special, isn't that right, young man? How is it aged, exactly?”

“Er, yes sir, General,” said Alex. “It's aged in icy crevasses.”

“Icy crevasses? Well, that is unusual.” Fortunately, before he could inquire further, the general's nose began to twitch. “Let's move on, shall we, Lester? The smell around here is a bit, er, ripe.”

“The tulips in the eastern part of the grounds should just about be blooming, General,” Fiercely Jones offered, and the trio moved away.

Alice and Alex picked up their shovels and resumed work.

“The general isn't nearly as scary as I'd imagined,” Alex mused after a few minutes. “I wonder how come he's so—” But before he could finish his thought they heard a distant bellow and looked up to see a dozen or more Queen's Guards rush past.

“What's going on?” Alex asked one of them.

“Something afoot in the flowerbeds,” he gasped.

“In the flowerbeds?” Alice and Alex looked at each other, mystified.

“Let's go see,” said Alex, and still clutching their shovels they hurried after the Queen's Guards.

When they reached the edge of the crowd, they pushed through the sea of red coats till they had a view of the offending flowerbed. There, clearly spelled out in purple tulips, was the word “FIG.”

“Oh!” Alice exclaimed.

“Disgraceful, isn't it?” said a guard to her right.

The general was roaring his outrage at Fiercely Jones. The gardener, whose hat had fallen off, stood ashen-faced before him.

“WHAT is the meaning of this?” roared the general.

“I don't know,” whispered the terrified gardener.

“WHO is responsible?” roared the general.

“I don't know,” the gardener whispered helplessly.

Suddenly Alice's arm was seized in a tight grip.

“Hey!” she said, pulling away, but the grip tightened.

“Let's ask Raz and Rita,” said a smooth voice by her ear. Lester moved forward, dragging Alice by the arm and pushing Alex along in front of him.

General Ashwover turned to the gardener's helpers, fur bristling. “What do you two know about this then, eh?”

As Alice gaped at the general, Alex said, “I'll tell you what I know: it's an abomination.” He spat on the ground beside him. He turned to address the red-coated crowd. “If my father were here . . .” He waved his shovel threateningly. “The culprit must be caught!”

As the crowd of Queen's Guards shouted their approval, Lester released his grip on Alice's arm and moved to Alex's side. “And caught he will be!”

The crowd shouted again, though somewhat less enthusiastically now seeing as it was Lester doing the talking.

“This matter will be fully investigated,” Lester promised, though to Alice's ears it sounded like a threat. “And you mark my words”—his gaze traveled around the gathered crowd—“the perpetrator, or perpetrators, will be punished.” The final words were spoken in a menacing hiss. Had Alice imagined it, or had his gaze lingered on her and Alex?

As the crowd dispersed, and she and Alex walked back to the garden bed where they'd been spreading manure, dozens of questions clamored in Alice's mind. Who would plant the word FIG in the flowerbeds, and why? Was there really a FIG supporter here at the palace? Maybe there was even another undercover FIG agent here? But then would another undercover agent really put them all at risk by alerting the Sourians to their presence? That didn't seem very smart. No, more likely, someone was
trying to frame her and Alex. . . . Someone like Lester; he was always trying to trap them, it seemed to Alice, with his supposedly innocent mistakes about the Parmesan of Tornley or their father's small ears. But why would he frame them unless he knew the truth? And if he knew the truth, why bother to frame them, why not just throw them in the dungeon?

When they reached the garden bed, Alex threw down his shovel. “This is ridiculous,” he growled. He started to stalk away across the grass.

“Alex—I mean, Raz, where are you going?” Alice hurried after her brother. “Raz, wait!”

“I'm going to the kitchen,” Alex ground out when she'd caught up. “I'm going to tell Cook I can't keep working like this on one pathetic meal a day—and then I'm going to tell Lester exactly what I think of him and how he treats the orphans of a Sourian hero.”

“No!” said Alice. “You can't go see Lester. It's too dangerous. It's just the hunger that's making you act like this. Al—Raz, stop!”

17

Keaters

S
lippers Pink?”

Alistair rushed to the door, grabbed at the bars of the opening and pulled, but the door was shut fast.

“What . . . ?” Pressing his face to the bars, he could just make out a figure hurrying down the corridor. “Slippers? What's going on?” Anxiety made his voice come out high and squeaky. “Slippers!”

But there was no reply. The corridor was silent and deserted. Slippers Pink was gone.

Alistair sank to the ground and put his head in his hands, his thoughts whirling. Where were his parents? Tobias's source had been sure they were here, had given them specific details about which cell Emmeline and Rebus were in. Was it possible the source had lied, that Alistair had walked into a trap? Maybe—and the thought so filled him with despair that he let out a small choked sob—maybe his parents had been dead all along? But if
this was a trap, didn't that mean Slippers was part of it? She had been right behind him—she must have been the one to lock him in the cell. Perhaps she had been trying to lose him in the underwater tunnel, had been disappointed when he surfaced in the pool! Yet why would she do such a thing? The only thing of value he had was his scarf, and the song, and Slippers already knew the song, and she would have had plenty of opportunities to take the scarf if she'd wanted it. And besides, he had seen the look of joy and relief on her face when he had emerged from the underwater tunnel. There was no way that was faked. He trusted her. After everything they had been through together, how could he not?

Alistair raised his head and leaned it back against the door to stare at the shadowy ceiling, trying to think more calmly. If it wasn't Slippers who had slammed the cell door shut, then who? Maybe that hadn't been Slippers hurrying down the corridor. But who else had known he would be here? There was no one else around. And where was Slippers now?

He continued to sit, dazed, staring at the ceiling, for a few more minutes, until the cold of the stone floor began to seep into his fur. Tightening his scarf, which felt a bit stiff and scratchy after its dousing in salt water, he stood up and began to pace, moving between the door and the small patch of light from the high window, rubbing at his arms to warm himself.

He didn't know how much time had passed—it could have been anywhere from five minutes to an hour—when
he heard a snuffling from a dark corner of the cell where the light from the window couldn't reach.

His heart leaped. Could it be . . . ?

In three steps he was there, kneeling down by a huddled figure, reaching forward to touch rough fur. “It's me,” he said. “Alistair.”

But the huddled figure gave a squeak of alarm and sprang up, and Alistair saw that it was neither his mother nor his father, but a small, shabby black mouse who was rubbing his eyes and glaring at Alistair with a mixture of suspicion and fear.

“Wh-who are you?” demanded the black mouse. “Where are Rebus and Emmeline?”

Alistair's plummeting spirits rose again. “They're my parents! I came here to rescue them. Do you know where they are?”

“If I knew where they were, I wouldn't have asked you.”

“Oh,” said Alistair, “of course. Sorry. But I was expecting to find them here.”

“Me too,” said the black mouse. He sounded more puzzled than suspicious now. “They were here when I fell asleep.” He smothered a yawn and looked around the cell with a slightly bewildered air, as if Emmeline and Rebus might be hiding in the shadows. “That must have been some deep sleep though. I still feel a little groggy. Maybe the guards put something in my breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” said Alistair. “It's late afternoon now.”

The black mouse yawned again and stretched. “Like I said, some sleep. And you're Emmeline and Rebus's son,
you say? Odd coincidence, you turning up right when they've disappeared.” His sleepy expression had turned shrewd and watchful.

“I know it must seem that way, but . . .” Alistair shrugged helplessly. “I . . . I really thought they were going to be here. I haven't seen them in four years.” Something in his voice must have convinced the black mouse that Alistair was who he said he was, because when the prisoner spoke again it was in a softer voice.

“So which one of the three are you then, eh? You're obviously not Alice. Not big enough to be Alex. And then there's that ginger fur, which none of the others have got, right? You must be Alistair.”

Alistair just stared. “How did you . . . ?”

“Oh, I've heard all about you from your parents. After all”—the black mouse held his arms out wide to indicate the empty cell—“there's nothing to do in here but talk.”

It pleased Alistair to think of his parents talking about him and his brother and sister to this stranger. It wasn't that he thought their parents would have forgotten them exactly, but it did make them feel closer somehow. Nothing could make up for the disappointment of bursting into the cell to rescue his parents only to find them gone, but at least he was now in the company of someone who had been speaking to them that very morning.

“How are they?” he asked.

The black mouse paused as if searching for the right words. “We're none of us who we were after a stay on Atticus Island. Emmeline is fearful thin, and Rebus's fur is
a bit patchy.” He rubbed his shabby black fur ruefully. “But they're in as good spirits as can be expected. They were lucky to have each other.” He smiled somewhat sadly. “If only I had my wife with me . . . Not that I would wish her in this evil place,” he added hastily. “Only, it does a body a power of good to have company. I was in solitary before they put me in here with Rebus and Emmeline.” A shadow of despair passed across his face, then he brightened. “But now you're here. And, forgive me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say something about a rescue?”