The Song of the Winns (27 page)

“Quick,” Keaters urged. “Throw it to me. The guards will be coming 'round with dinner soon.”

Still, Alistair hesitated. He wanted to throw the scarf, wanted to escape this miserable cell, but something was holding him back. Keep it safe, and never lose it, his mother had said when she gave him the scarf. Keep it safe. . . . Now that he knew how valuable the scarf was, not just because it was a memento from his mother but because of the secret knowledge it contained, it was more important than ever to keep it safe. And how well did he know Keaters really? Tobias's source had said that Emmeline and Rebus shared this cell, but there had been no mention of Keaters. Now Keaters was here and his parents were not. Then again, Keaters knew all about Alistair and his brother and sister, knew about Rebus and Ebenezer's boyhood adventures. How could he have known if not from Emmeline and Rebus? And he even knew Slippers Pink—they had joined FIG together.

“Throw it,” Keaters repeated impatiently.

Alistair stood clutching his scarf, racked with indecision.

Suddenly he heard a key scraping in the lock of the cell door.

“It's the guards!” Keaters yelped. “If they catch us like this we've had it. It's now or never, Alistair. Throw me the scarf or I'm going without you.”

Trembling with fear, Alistair quickly balled up the scarf and prepared to throw it, just as the cell door burst open.

18

Settling Old Scores

W
hen Alice and Alex reached the kitchen, Cook was banging pots and pans around on the stove with even more force than usual.

Alex seemed nonplussed by the scowl on Cook's face, and Alice took advantage of his silence to ask, “Is something wrong, Cook?”

“I'll tell you what's wrong,” snapped Cook. She gave the onions sizzling in butter in a large frying pan a brisk stir then cracked an egg into a bowl and snatched up a whisk. “General Fancy-pants wants a six-course dinner for some visiting mucky-mucks. ‘And mind you make it a special dinner, Cook,'” she said, imitating the general's high voice. “‘My guests have very discerning palates.'” Cook dropped the whisk, picked up a small knife, and with a flick of her wrist expertly minced a clove of garlic. “Meanwhile, it's four o'clock already, the general will have a fit if his tea tray isn't in his office when he returns,
those potatoes won't peel themselves”—she inclined her head toward a teetering mound of potatoes on the large kitchen table—“and them fish won't bone themselves”—she waved her elbow in the direction of a bucket of fish on the draining board—“and my useless kitchen hand is in bed with the measles. That's what's wrong, girlie.”

“We'll deliver the tea tray for you, then come back and peel the potatoes,” Alex offered. His bad mood seemed to have vanished.

“You will?” Cook looked as surprised as Alice felt. “Well . . . all right then.” She swept the garlic into the pan with the onions and gestured to a large silver tray on which was placed a plate with an assortment of cookies and cupcakes, three porcelain teacups on small saucers, three silver spoons, a silver sugar bowl, and a small jug of milk. “You can take that one, boyo, and girlie, you take the teapot. And mind you hurry back.”

Alex carefully picked up the tea tray and Alice the silver teapot etched with a flower motif, and they headed for the stairs.

“What did you do that for?” Alice demanded as the kitchen door swung shut behind them. “I don't want to go anywhere near General Ashwover's office.”

“Yes, you do,” Alex contradicted her. “Think about it, sis: from what Cook said, the general isn't in his office at the moment—which gives us a great opportunity to snoop around. Maybe we'll find out something important that we can report back to FIG. All we've learned so far is how to shovel manure.”

“I suppose you're right,” Alice conceded. “But let's be quick about it. We don't want to end up in the dungeon.” She felt a chill as she thought of that lonely young mouse Alex had described.

They kept their mouths shut and their heads down as they reached the main hall. Sentries armed with spears were posted at every door and on each side of the giant staircase.

“What are you doing here?” asked one of the red-coated guards suspiciously. “I thought you worked outside with Fiercely.” He looked pointedly at Alex's muddy feet.

“Cook said we were to deliver the general's tea tray to his office,” Alex told him. “Kitchen hand is sick.”

The guard sniffed at the tea tray appreciatively. “Wish she'd send a tea tray to me.” At a hiss from the sentry on the other side of the stairs he straightened and said brusquely, “Second floor.”

Up the wide crimson-carpeted staircase they scampered to the second floor. There they encountered two more sentries, each guarding a long corridor.

“Tea tray for General Ashwover,” Alex said.

The guard to their right indicated over his shoulder with the point of his spear. “Last door on the left,” he said.

The corridor was lined with portraits of mice in heroic poses: one stood on the prow of a ship in a stormy sea; another had his foot on the head of a slain dragon. But as they got closer to the end of the corridor, the portraits were all of Queen Eugenia: standing, sitting, singing, speechifying and, in one, stamping her royal foot.

“Guess who's the president of the Queen Eugenia fan club,” said Alex.

He tapped lightly on the last door to the left and, when there was no response, led the way into the general's office.

The room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, which faced the door. Light flooded in from the two windows behind the desk, framed with brocade curtains. A door was discreetly set into the wall to the left of the desk, while to the right was the largest portrait of the Queen they had seen yet, in which, standing beside her in a blue jacket bristling with medals and lavishly trimmed in gold braid, was General Ashwover himself.

“Shut the door behind you, sis,” Alex instructed.

“Okay, but we have to be quick,” Alice urged again. “The guards know we're in here.”

Alex had deposited his tray on the desk and was already rummaging through the drawers.

“This one's just full of paperclips and rubber bands,” he said. He slid it shut and pulled open a lower drawer.

Alice carefully placed the teapot beside the tray and started flicking through the pile of papers on the general's desk. “Ah, this is more like it,” she said. “Alex, look at this—it's an order requesting a thousand more troops be sent from Souris to Gerander.” But before she could speculate on the significance of the order, she heard voices in the corridor.

“Alex, someone's coming,” she whispered.

“Quick,” said Alex. “Under the desk.”

They had barely slipped out of sight when the door opened. Peeping out from their hiding place, Alice saw the furry gray legs of the general stride into the room.

“Oh good,” he said, “the tea tray is already here. And I see Cook has made my favorite cupcakes with passionfruit frosting.”

He moved toward the tray, revealing the legs of his two visitors. One pair of legs was silvery gray, the other coal black.

Alice started so violently she banged her head on the underside of the desk.

She heard a soft “Ouch” and knew that her brother must have banged his head too. Her heart racing, she turned to look at her brother. She could just make out his eyes gleaming in the shadows. “It couldn't be,” he breathed, just as a voice said sweetly, “But, General, dear, will a thousand more troops be enough to subdue the Gerandan rebels once and for all?”

Alice and her brother knew that sweet voice all too well: it was Sophia, and those coal-black legs no doubt belonged to Horace.

This was confirmed when a familiar gloomy voice asked querulously, “Why don't those rebels just go home and let us get on with it?”

“This is their home, Horace,” Sophia reminded him. “At least it was. But soon,” she added, with obvious satisfaction, “it will be our home—and dear Queen Eugenia's. But surely we will need more than a thousand troops, General?”

Alice's mouth dropped open. Her home? And Queen Eugenia's home? What on earth did she mean?

“No, no, you misunderstand, Sophia,” the general was saying as he rounded the desk and dropped into his chair. “One thousand troops is merely an advance party. We will have at least five thousand to accompany Her Majesty when she journeys from Grouch to Cornoliana. By the time she declares Cornoliana the new capital, and herself the Queen of Greater Gerander, we will also have several thousand more troops amassed at the border of Gerander and Shetlock, and the entire Sourian navy ranged off the Shetlock coast. Then we will give President Shabbles of Shetlock a choice: Shetlock can reunite with the kingdom of Greater Gerander voluntarily—or we will take his country by force.” There was a scraping sound as the general pulled the tea tray across the desk to sit in front of him.

“It sounds like an excellent plan, dear General,” Sophia said approvingly.

“Thank you,” said the general modestly, his voice muffled by a cupcake. “Her Majesty was gracious enough to say that she, too, thought it a fine plan. I was thinking of suggesting that we rename the capital Eugeniana in her honor.”

“Lovely,” said Sophia absently. Her legs had moved closer to the desk on which the tea tray stood. “Those cupcakes do look delicious,” she said.

“Mmmph,” the general agreed, but he made no move to offer them around.

Sophia sighed and sank down into one of the chairs pulled up to the desk. Her feet were so close that Alice had to shuffle backward so that Sophia didn't feel Alice's breath on her toes.

“And how are matters progressing with Songbird? I hope our contribution has encouraged him to sing more sweetly.”

“Lephter!” the general called, and a shower of crumbs sprayed onto his lap and the floor around his feet.

“Sir?” Lester oiled into the room so fast he must have been outside eavesdropping, Alice thought. She was reminded suddenly of Tobias's secretary, who also seemed to be perpetually lurking outside his superior's office.

“Update us on Songbird's latest communiqué, will you?”

“Certainly, sir,” Lester replied. “He became quite cooperative once he found out we had a hostage.”

“I'm glad to hear it. And well done to you for that idea, Sophia and Horace,” the general said, generous with his praise if not his cupcakes.

“Songbird has now given us a lot of valuable information, but I'm afraid he is being rather obstinate on the matter of Zanzibar. He is still refusing to reveal Zanzibar's location. Though it seems he's willing to betray almost anyone else. See here, he's given us a full list.”

There was a rustle of paper then Sophia said, “Ah, this makes it all nice and clear.”

“Sophia, what is it?” asked Horace. “Tell me.”

“It's a list, Horace, dear,” said the silvery mouse. “It is a complete list of the heirs to the House of Cornolius, and
their last known whereabouts—though a few seem to be merely ‘in transit.' And there's no mention of Zanzibar's hiding place, of course.”

“How long is the list?” queried Horace. “I thought there was just one other heir besides Queen Eugenia: Zanzibar.”