Brian Jacques - Redwall #22 - The Sable Quean

"Aye, an' if'n I had a face like yours, I'd change me job to frightenin' frogbabes!"

"Bottlenose! Baggypaw! Bumptious bum!"

Tura tried hard to hold a straight face, then broke out

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into a fit of the giggles. "Oh, heeheeheehee! Hahahaha! Bumptious bum? Hahaha! Where'd ye get that one? Bumptious bum. Heeheehee!"

Midda could not resist joining in her friend's merriment. "Hahahaha! I just thought it up. Hohoho! It's a good un, ain't it? Bumptious bum, hoohoo!"

Jiddle and Jinty were chuckling, both holding their ribs.

Tura wiped tears from her eyes. "Heeheehee, oh, stop it, please. Bumptious bum, that'd be a good name for old madbrain. Bumptious bum!"

Midda corrected the squirrelmaid. "The way all his spikes are fallin' out, maybe we'd better call him bare bumptious bum. Heeheehee!"

Triggut's insane cackles halted the merriment. From somewhere nearby, he called to them, "Haharrharr, may'aps yew'd best stop all yore noise an' get some rest. Yew start on my new house tomorrer!"

They held their din momentarily, lying down with closed eyes until they heard the crazy hog retreating.

Jiddle opened one eye and waved a paw in his direction. "Good night... bare bumptious bum!"

The smothered giggles continued until they finally dropped off to sleep.

Vilaya the Sable Quean awoke slowly, her left side ablaze with pain. Gliv the stoat was bending over her doing something.

"Lie still, Vilaya. Your wound must be sealed, or you'll bleed to death. This is goin' to hurt."

Gliv drew the spearblade from the fire she had built. Vilaya screeched in agony as the red-hot spearhead pressed against the broadsword gash under her ribs. Smoke wreathed up. A stench of scorched fur and flesh permeated the air.

Peering close, the stoat inspected her work. "That's done the job. Now all ye've got t'do is live an' get well

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agin. I ain't no healer, so I've got no potions or lotions to give ye."

The Sable Quean watched as Gliv bandaged the injury with strips torn from her silken cloak. Vilaya was mystified by the stoat's behaviour.

"I know you. I've seen you whispering with Zwilt. You're one of his spies, aren't you?"

Gliv nodded as she tied the dressing securely. "Aye, I was one of those who did his dirty work."

Vilaya posed the question. "Then why are you helping me now? You probably don't even like me. What's your name?"

The stoat raised the sable's head, bringing a beaker of water to her lips. "Drink this, but take it slowly. I'm called Gliv. I don't like you, Vilaya, but I've got my reasons for helping you. Zwilt thought he'd slain ye. I stopped him choppin' yore head off by sayin' I'd bury ye for the worms an' insects to eat. I will, too, if'n ye don't get over that wound."

The sable pushed the beaker away. "Don't fret--I'll live. So, in what way did Zwilt offend you, Gliv?"

The stoat's eyes hardened at the memory. "He had my mate, Lugg, killed. Lugg was his loyal servant. Zwilt should never have sent him into the water to battle with the giant eel. It was Zwilt's fault. I blame him for Lugg's death. He was a big, trustin' lump of a stoat, but Lugg was my mate. I loved him."

The sable winced as she lay back and relaxed. "And what do you want me to do about it?"

Gliv stared into the flickering fire. "Yore goin' to kill Zwilt soon as y'get well. I've seen ye use that poison blade, an' I knows ye want him dead now. You got yore reasons-- I got mine. I don't care, as long as I can live t'hear the death rattle in Zwilt the Shade's throat! That'll be yore thanks t'me for savin' yore life, Vilaya."

The injured beast spoke imperiously. "Vilaya is my

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name, but to one such as you I am the Sable Quean. You will address me as Majesty!" Gliv curled her lip scornfully.

"Huh, Quean o' nothin' is wot ye are t'me. When ye slay Zwilt an' command the Ravagers agin, then I'll call ye Majesty. But right now, yore just a beast carryin' out my orders so that ye can stay alive!"

Gliv watched Vilaya's paw straying toward the slender thing she kept slung about her neck. The sly stoat held up the little poisoned dagger in its crystal sheath. Dangling it from its necklet, she shook her head mockingly.

"No ye don't, Vilaya. I'll take care o' this liddle toy until the time comes."

A wry smile hovered about Vilaya's lips. "My my. You are a crafty stoat!"

Gliv nodded. "Aye, an' yore a dangerous sable, so betwixt us we're the right pair for the task. Now, git some sleep, 'cos as soon as ye can stand without fallin' over agin, we'll be on the trail of Zwilt the Shade."

On the streambank, the small fire burned down to grey ash in the woodland night. Two creatures went to sleep, each dreaming of deathly revenge.

Morning broke overcast and sullen, with the rain silencing birdsong. This mattered little to Oakheart Witherspyk, who had the security of Redwall Abbey to oversee. Donning an old cloak and putting his flop-brimmed hat on over the hood, the portly hedgehog mounted the west gatehouse steps. Trudging up onto the battlemented walkway, he looked left and right, blowing rainwater from his snout tip. He snorted disapproval to the leaden skies.

"Bah! Not a single beast on sentry. Where in the name o' spikes'n'spillikins are they?"

He strode the ramparts in high dudgeon, knocking down unattended cloaks, which were propped up on poles to give the appearance of a heavily guarded Abbey.

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Granvy the Recorder emerged from the gatehouse, pulling on his hooded cloak. He shouted to the Witherspyk patriarch, "What'n the name o' seasons are you doing up there in this weather? Get down here before you get soaked!"

Oakheart gestured theatrically about him. "There's not a confounded guard up here. Where've they all gone, may I ask?"

Granvy set off across the rainswept lawn. "Everybeast is where any creature with a grain o' sense should be right now--taking breakfast inside. Come on!"

Great Hall glowed warmly with myriad candle and lantern lights. The air was redolent with cheerful sounds of Redwallers breaking their fast. Friar Soogum and his helpers bustled twixt the long tables, ladling out hot oatmeal and honey. Fresh fruits, golden-crusted ovenbreads, hot mint tea--an array of delicacies to please even the most jaded palate--graced the tables. Abbess Marjoram sat with two Dibbuns perched on her lap, trying to teach them rudimentary manners.

"No no. Put the beaker down. You can't eat and drink at the same time--finish what you have in your mouth first."

She saw Oakheart stamp in and fling off his wet cloak. "You look drenched, Oakie. Come and have some hot food!"

The hedgehog shook water from his hatbrim. "Hot food, is it, marm? How could I sully my dutiful lips with hot food when my blood runs cold at the thought of all those deserters!"

Foremole Darbee dipped an oat farl into a bowl of melted cheese. He wrinkled his button snout at Oakheart. "Doozurrters, zurr? Whut do ee mean?"

The portly hog shook a damp paw in a circle, denoting the outer walls. "Our sentries, m'dear sir. All those volunteers who are supposed, at this very moment, t'be protecting all we hold dear from vermin onslaught! I make it

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my morning chore to check the walltops, an' d'you know, there's not a single guard to be seen up there!"

Sister Fumbril commented blithely, "Why, bless y'spikes, Oakie, is there a vermin onslaught goin' on out there? Nobeast told us!"

A ripple of laughter echoed from the diners. Oakheart stemmed it by pounding a paw upon the table. "That's just the point, don't ye see, marm? There could be a vermin attack, even as you're jokin' about it. Where would we be then, eh?"

Abbess Marjoram nodded gravely. "Point taken, Mister Witherspyk. You are quite right! Attention, everybeast. All those supposed to be on wall duty, leave what you are doing and get back up there on guard immediately, please!"