CHAPTER TWELVE
The Drunken Admiral

The children soon realised that Cat’s Cradle was home to more than just the city’s stray felines. A ragged boy with a dirt-streaked face and flaxen hair emerged from the shadows and reached, whimpering, for Milli’s hand. She was on the verge of taking it when Finn roared and pushed her roughly aside.

‘Don’t touch him, he’s an Urchin!’

‘Well, I can see that,’ Milli retorted in her most schoolmarmish voice. The little boy threw Finn a hostile look then turned pleading blue eyes back to Milli.

‘Urchins in Rune are different,’ Finn explained. ‘They befriend strangers and then steal their vital organs to sell to wizards at the markets. Organs fetch a handsome sum if they are fresh and unmarked.’

Milli and Ernest looked at their companion in horror. ‘He hasn’t got any eyebrows, see?’ Finn continued now that he had their full attention.

‘That’s the telltale sign,’ Fennel added hurriedly, for the boy was inching closer, undeterred by the bad publicity he was receiving. ‘Urchins always present as hungry children but they’re skilled hunters. Soon as one has earned your trust, its fingers turn to scalpels and they just reach right inside you to take whatever happens to be most in demand. It’s usually livers around here.’

Finn gave them a knowing look and made an imbibing gesture with his thumb, the meaning of which was lost on our young protagonists. Milli had just enough time to step away from the Urchin, who spat viciously at the twins before shrinking back into the gloom.

‘Thank you,’ said Milli, and for the first time, she felt glad of their decision to allow Finn and Fennel to accompany them on their journey.

As they continued down Cat’s Cradle, they passed an austere sandstone building with large pillars and arched doors through which people hurried clutching purses or lugging heavy sacks.

‘The Pebble Bank,’ a perplexed Ernest read aloud. ‘Is Pebble the manager’s name?’

The twins giggled.

‘Why don’t you try opening the pouch Dame Trumps gave you?’ Fennel said.

Ernest dipped a hand into the pouch and was surprised to find himself withdrawing a handful of pebbles instead of coins. From his geological studies, he immediately recognised them as the polished stones you find on the shoreline, tossed up by the sea. Their colours ranged from dull grey to vibrant shades of red and yellow, as well as some pieces of sea glass rubbed smooth by the corrosive action of sand and water.

Finn picked each piece up in turn. ‘Pinkies, ambers, whittles, soots and swirls,’ he rattled off knowledgeably. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

Fennel saw the children’s puzzled looks and proceeded to give them a lecture on Rune’s unique currency system. Swirls were the highest in value because they contained veins of several different minerals and were very hard to come by. Only the wealthiest and most powerful people had them in abundance. They were closely followed by pinkies and ambers with their earthy tones, whilst soots and whittles had the lowest value. These smooth charcoal-coloured pebbles were easily found, and were used to purchase most of one’s daily sundries, such as milk, apples or perhaps a glazed currant bun.

The narrow alleyway seemed to snake on forever, parts of it so steep it was almost vertical. After a while, the wayfarers felt their steps grow heavy. So focused were they on reaching the end that they barely noticed when the shutters of a window above flew open and a bucket of greasy suds was tipped out, missing them by inches.

By now the sun had set and it was growing dark. A wailing wind blew up and moved through the alleyway. By this I mean that instead of whooshing like ordinary winds do, this one was moaning as if in grief. We all know what a terribly miserable element the wind can be. But who can blame it? Would you be cheerful if you blustered about cities all day, sweeping off hats, turning umbrellas inside out, tearing down washing, toppling chimneys and being cursed by irate people simply for doing your duty? After all, destructive behaviour is only diverting for the first five minutes before becoming just plain sad.

Folks are rarely flattering about the wind. They bask in the sun, dance in the rain and delight in the snow, but the wind is nothing more than a nuisance. A close relative of mine who was employed for many years trying to impart knowledge to children (before adopting the more profitable enterprise of chocolate-making) claimed his charges were always more restless and lacking in focus on windy days. And then there is the well-known proverb, It is an ill wind that blows no good, which inextricably links windiness with bad fortune. Little wonder the wind in Cat’s Cradle was wailing.

‘Bothersome wind! I can barely see where I’m going,’ complained Ernest. He suggested they may need to consider seeking shelter overnight. No sooner had he finished voicing his suggestion than they spied what looked like a tavern ahead. A chipped sign that read The Drunken Admiral creaked in the wind. Ernest assessed the feasibility of staying overnight at the establishment by trying to peer through its murky windows.

Milli shivered and drew her jacket tighter around her. Something told her that wandering the streets of an unknown city with only a temperamental zucchini to help them was not a wise idea.

‘We’d better go in,’ she decided on everyone’s behalf and promptly pushed open the door.

Inside the Drunken Admiral, weather-beaten, shaggy-haired seamen sat in groups over foamy tankards. At one end of the room was a long counter that served as the bar, and a fire crackled warmly in a hearth. Above it was a shelf holding a row of earthenware jugs. This was obviously the place where the ordinary populace of Rune gathered to discuss news, swap gossip and escape the daily grind for a few hours. The dimly lit tavern assured anonymity, which is always advantageous for those who do not wish to be recognised or identified whilst drowning their sorrows. Ruddy-faced men and waitresses in frilly petticoats exchanged playful banter. Ernest was sure his mother would not approve of him spending time in such a place—rescue mission or otherwise.

Milli ducked out of the way as a lanky, bearded gentleman, limbs flailing like a beetle in his inebriated state, swiped at her thinking she was someone who owed him money. The man’s words were slurred and his breath smelled of ale.

‘Cough it up, Edgar. I only want what is mine. A lifetime’s service will suffice if you don’t have forty thousand swirls.’

Quickly, Finn grasped Milli’s shoulder and they pushed their way towards the counter.

‘What’s your poison?’ the barman drawled. He looked Milli up and down then said, ‘You look like a Turbulent Tonic lass to me.’ He turned his attention to the twins. ‘And you two look like you need some Wet Dog Rum.’

Finally he glanced at Ernest. ‘I don’t think we have anything strong enough for you.’

(The world in which you and I reside has strong restrictions regarding minors and the consumption of alcohol, but in the Conjurors’ Realm they believed that age should not impinge upon the pleasures of life.)

‘We actually just wanted some supper,’ Milli said to him. She thought it wise to wait a while before deciding if this would be a safe place to stay the night.

‘Never! Not even a Centipede Whisky? Scallops in Scotch, Foot Ale, Sparkling Port, Lancelot’s Liqueur—’

‘No, thank you,’ Milli answered as firmly as she could manage.

The barman shrugged and handed them a tattered and stained menu. The entire page was taken up by beverages but in tiny print at the bottom was a box containing the meals offered by the Drunken Admiral. There were three in total—Admiral’s Log, Admiral’s Hat and Admiral’s Beard—and it was impossible to differentiate between them. They ordered one of each and hoped for the best.

‘Fine choices!’ the barman declared. ‘That’ll be three pinkies.’

Milli instinctively put her hands behind her back, but the astute Ernest withdrew three of the required coral pebbles from his pouch and laid them on the counter.

When the meals arrived, it turned out that Admiral’s Log was meatloaf peppered with chunks of carrot—the careful removal of which tested Ernest’s patience. Milli’s choice of Admiral’s Hat was baked cod in the shape of a canoe, while the twins shared an Admiral’s Beard—fine angel’s-hair noodles tossed with chewy mussels.

The children found a secluded corner at the back of the tavern from which they could observe their surroundings. As they ate, their attention could not help but be drawn to a truculent pair sitting to their right, a well-built woman and a short, muscular sailor with a sunburnt face.

‘You stole my lucky ketchup!’ the woman said accusingly.

The sailor drew himself up to his full height and snorted indignantly. ‘And you have eaten my second cousins!’ he retorted.

‘I never!’ cried the woman. ‘I never ate a human being except for once in desperate circumstances, but that was thirty years ago. Now give me back my ketchup.’

‘Do you like squid?’ the sailor demanded. ‘Particularly when they are char-grilled and served with a squeeze of lime?’

‘My favourite since I was just a tot,’ the woman answered, her mouth watering at the memory. ‘What do you think gave me the whopping great brains I have today?’

‘Then you are a murderer!’ shouted the sailor. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, guzzling my helpless cousins. My own wife is a charming trout and we’ve lived quite happily together since I caught her five years ago. Do you mean to tell me you plan to gobble her up as well?’

‘Well,’ said the woman huffily, ‘I believe we are even. I ate your distant relatives and you stole my ketchup.’

The two decided this was a fair agreement and reparation was deemed unnecessary. Shaking hands, they parted quite amicably.

Milli and Ernest looked at Finn and Fennel for an explanation, but the twins just shook their heads helplessly.

Their hunger satisfied, the children were about to ask the barman about taking a room for the night when two gentlemen collapsed into armchairs by the hearth and began to prepare pipes by stuffing them with shredded celery. A jug of the best rum sat between them. The children did not recognise the black beard and gold earring of the first man, but the second fellow they knew immediately by his lumpy skin and carroty hair growing as blunt as a hedge.

‘What on earth is Mr Ledger doing here?’ Milli hissed. ‘Doesn’t he have accounts to finalise or the cost of abductions to calculate?’

The others shushed her as they tried to eavesdrop, burying their faces in their mugs of cider to avoid recognition.

‘Tell me,’ the bearded man said in a guttural voice, ‘how is the world treating you these days, Ledger? Still working for that barge, Bombasta?’

Mr Ledger blinked his orange eyes as he offered a cagey reply. ‘We all have to put bread on the table.’

‘I hear there are plans afoot; plans that will unite the provinces once and for all. Any truth in the rumours?’

Ledger’s gingery whiskers twitched nervously. ‘I don’t know anything about plans,’ he answered. ‘What I do know is that I need another drink.’

The bearded man was not ready to let the matter drop. He leaned in closer. ‘They say an onslaught is on the cards, planned for just after Black Harvest. Word is Lord Aldor has finally cracked the code to overcoming the Fada. But I expect he will fail as he has before.’

A mottle-faced Ledger almost choked on his rum. ‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ he spluttered with unexpected venom. ‘The Illustrious One cannot be defeated this time, and anyone with half a brain should pledge their allegiance to him or suffer the consequences.’

Mr Ledger’s eyes glittered in the firelight and he bared sharp little razor teeth. His friend gave a throaty laugh, pleased with the response his tactic had elicited.

‘Things are going to get a lot better around here once the Master controls all five provinces.’

‘All in good time,’ Mr Ledger answered as he gulped down his last drink.

‘There are some who hold themselves too superior to mix with the likes of us,’ his drinking companion added.

‘Not for much longer, my friend,’ said Ledger, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink to the new Realm. Soon may it be upon us.’

The children stared at one another in dismay as they realised there was a very important question they had neglected to ask. They had assumed that time was on their side and that they would find and warn Queen Fidelis well before the day of any battle arrived. After all, Battalion Minor was in its infancy and could hardly be relied upon as a formidable force. But what if the battle was already upon them?

Milli looked around the crowded tavern. She saw a group sitting beside a fountain of rum, tossing in pebbles to wish misfortune on their enemies and rivals. She looked at a cluster of rowdy men who were using each other’s toughened chests as dartboards. She took in a pair of warty women sticking pins into the effigy of a fairy. Milli did not need Olive’s inner sight to tell her these people were not on their side.

Finn nudged her and nodded to the posters displayed on the walls around them. They showed inflammatory messages holding the Fada responsible for the current ruinous times. One depicted citizens of the realm with empty purses whilst the Fada cavorted in the moonlight around piles of precious stones that arrived by the cartful. It carried the slogan: Unite the Realm—share in its bounty. Another poster showed a dim landscape drained of colour. In the foreground hungry children foraged for potatoes. Above them fairies flew in chariots of gold feasting on delicacies. Below the image was the grim statement in red ink: Our hopes are fading—thank the Fada.

Another poster showed a map of the Realm balanced on one crooked pinkie finger; its slogan read: One Realm—one leader. The messages were clear. The Fada were selfish, capricious beings totally oblivious to the plight of those around them.

‘Too superior to mix with the likes of us,’ Mr Ledger’s companion had said.

The barman informed the children that Black Harvest was a night of feasting for the folks of the Realm. It celebrated the alliance between nature and magic made at the beginning of time. It would take place in exactly three days.

Three ambers and a whittle bought the children a place to sleep for the night. A flight of rickety wooden steps led them to their room, which was long, narrow and lit by oil lamps. It was sparsely furnished with two beds, a bassinet and an armchair. Too exhausted for further discussion, the children fell into bed. Milli and Ernest topped and tailed in one and the twins took the other. Although the mattresses were lumpy and draughts blew under the door, the room was luxurious compared to the barracks at Battalion Minor and their prickly bedding. It was wonderful to feel the touch of real linen against their skin, even if it was not as crisp as it should have been given the rates the innkeeper charged. The twins, accustomed to cramped sleeping arrangements from their time with the Lampo Circus, were soon snoring away. Milli and Ernest thrashed about for some time, trying to accommodate one another’s limbs. After much grumbling and shifting of positions, they too drifted into a fitful sleep.

When morning came, the children were stiff and had dark shadows beneath their eyes, the reason being that experts recommend a minimum of ten hours of sleep per night for young people (a fact not worth mentioning to parents) and they had certainly not attained that quota. A simple breakfast of milky tea and gritty oat cakes helped them to gather their thoughts. After consulting the zucbeacon, which instructed them to continue east, they departed the Drunken Admiral.

This time as they walked they decided they would not allow themselves to be distracted by anything happening around them. Time passed a lot faster in this manner and soon the close-set tenements of the alleyway known as Cat’s Cradle fell away to reveal cottages with shingled roofs and smoking chimneys dotting the landscape. The cottages in turn became more and more sparse until they disappeared altogether. Now the city was far behind them. The children did not stop until they came to a dense wood.

‘And here, folks, we have the Wood of Tartar,’ Finn announced.

All sound was extinguished amongst the trees, as if the place had been smothered by silence. For a moment, returning to Runis to deal with obnoxious goblins and organ-hungry Urchins seemed more appealing, but all four children knew they could not turn back. Each taking a deep breath, they faced the gloomy and ominous forest.