The Sign of the Cat (16 page)

“Want an extra biscuit, do you?”

Duncan's stomach growled in spite of himself. “No, thank you—” he began, but a grating voice behind him interrupted.

“Not hungry?” Bertram's bulky shoulders filled the doorway. “You must be working too little. Boys are always hungry unless they're slacking. Better put him to work, Cook.”

Duncan was cold, wet, and exhausted from his labors in the driving rain. But his mother had taught him to control his expression; it was part of her game of Noble Manners. He knew his face showed only a distant, polite interest as he asked, “Would you like my help, Cook? I'd be glad to offer it.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Bertram's eyes narrow and his lips compress. “Think you're better than the rest of us, eh, boy? Think you're like the earl, who doesn't want to get his hands dirty.…”

Bertram had clearly never practiced Noble Manners—his resentment was showing all too clearly. Duncan almost smiled. He had thought his mother's teachings on manners were just a frivolous sort of thing—a way of being pleasant at a king's court. He had never before realized what an advantage it gave him, to be able to control his emotions. He had a power that Bertram did not have.

Duncan made his tone even more courteous, lifting his eyebrows the barest degree. “I beg your pardon; I believe I
did
just offer to dirty my hands in the service of the cook. But quite possibly I am mistaken.”

A dull red crept up Bertram's neck to his cheeks, and his shoulders bunched as his thick fingers curled in on themselves. But he, too, seemed to be making an effort to control himself. All he said was, “It's a long voyage, lad … plenty of time for something to happen, without anyone getting his hands dirty at all.”

*   *   *

Duncan sat on a bench under a row of hanging pots, with a bushel of potatoes on one side and a bucket of salt water on the other. A lantern swung above, giving just enough light for him to use his knife. He was used to peeling potatoes—he had done it often enough at home—so he had lots of chances to glance around. Somewhere below was the mysterious room that Fia wanted to investigate, but the galley itself was commonplace. Rows of jars on barred shelves, barrels full of meal and salted beef, ladles and knives hanging above the stove—none of it was very interesting to a spy.

There was, however, a door to an inner storeroom, and Duncan watched under lowered lashes as the cook went in and out.

A cloaked figure stepped into the galley, shedding water from his hat brim.

“Peeling potatoes?” said the Earl of Merrick. “Isn't it your watch below, boy?”

“He offered to help me,” said the cook.

“I see. How very noble of him.”

Duncan glanced up quickly. Was there something in the earl's tone that was almost—mocking?

Perhaps he had imagined it; the earl's expression was perfectly serious as he took off his wide-brimmed hat and dried it on a towel. His bandage had become disarranged, and he pushed it up with long, elegant fingers.

Cook reached for one of the potato peelings and held it up. “Look here!” He smiled, showing his dirty teeth. “I thought he might be a gentleman's son who'd run away from home, with his manners and all, but only a poor man's son knows how to cut peelings this thin. Doesn't want to waste any food, this lad!”

Duncan ducked his head to avoid the gaze of the two men. He watched from the corners of his eyes as the earl dug two hairpins out of his vest pocket, adjusted the bandage across his forehead, and pinned it in place on either side.

A peeling curled from Duncan's knife, and he dropped the finished potato into the water with a plop. It suddenly struck him that it was a little weird to wear a bandage for seven years.

The earl put his hat back on. “I'll be going ashore in my gig as soon as we anchor at this island; I'll have a late supper in my cabin. But a good supper, mind you, Cook,” he added, smiling from beneath his bandage. “None of your leftovers.”

“Aye, aye, sir! I will make you a
very
special supper tonight, sir, if you let me go ashore. I need fresh herbs and some … other ingredients.”

“Very well. You can ask for the jolly boat and two sailors to row you.”

“All hands! All hands to weigh anchor!” The cry pierced the door of the galley, and a rush of clattering feet followed. The slope of the deck changed; the sound of wind grew suddenly less. Duncan guessed they were gliding into the protected bay of the latest island. Duncan stood up—he was one of the hands with a job to do—but the earl turned to him.

“It doesn't matter if you're a poor man's son. I want someone who is smart and quick on the job.” He gave Duncan a half smile. “I've been watching you, and I think you've earned this.” The earl fished inside his cloak, found the pocket he was looking for, and handed Duncan a small piece of thickened cloth.

Duncan turned it over in his hand. Staring up at him was the earl's badge—a wolf's paw, claws extended, on a dark green shield edged with gold.

“Sew it on your cap,” said the earl, “and wear it as long as you are in my service.”

*   *   *

Duncan took his sewing kit above deck, where the light was better, and was surprised at how black and dirty his cap was inside. It smelled funny, too. Sailors didn't do much washing, of course, but after a whole month, he guessed it was time to wash his hair. It had never felt stiff and coarse like this at home.

The rain had dwindled to a fine mist by the time the earl's gig, a small boat stowed on the schooner's deck, was lowered into the waters of the bay. Duncan watched at the railing as the earl climbed down the ladder at the side of the ship, timed his jump, landed in the gig, and was rowed off to shore.

Duncan fingered the badge on his cap. He should be thrilled to have such a badge from the nation's hero, brave and honorable.

The words called up an echo in his mind. He could see his mother's face, gray and bleak. They had just passed children, jumping rope to a mocking chant:
Charles, Charles, Duke of Arvidia.…

His mother had said then that his father had been both brave and honorable. “Never forget that, Duncan,” she had begged, and he had promised.

But
both
men couldn't be honorable. One of them had to be the darkest villain. And a whole ship full of witnesses had sworn that the villain was his father.

Duncan had gone back to finish the potatoes when the cook gathered up two gunnysacks to use as shopping bags and left to go ashore.

“The hairy man is gone! Now we can spy out that room underneath the food place!” Fia leaped down from a crossbeam onto Duncan's shoulder, and her pointed claws dug through his shirt by way of emphasis.

“Ouch!” Duncan's knife made a jagged cut in the potato he was peeling. “Pull in your claws, will you? And just because Cook is ashore doesn't mean I can run around spying with you. I have to finish these first, and then put them on to boil—”

Fia butted his left ear with her blunt, furry forehead, accenting her words with each thump. “I've
waited
, and now it's
time
. Come
on
!” She jumped lightly to the bench and glared up at Duncan. “Kitten business is more important than potato business.”

Duncan suppressed a grin. When Fia scrunched up her face in that sour and disapproving way, she looked just like her mother, Mabel. “Have you grown?” he asked. He hadn't seen Fia much lately, but she seemed longer in the legs and thinner in the face.

“I've been battling rats,” said Fia. “That would make anyone grow. Hurry
up
.” She led the way to the storeroom door, her tail held like a flag.

Duncan tried the knob. “It's locked.”

Fia's blue and green eyes rolled ever so slightly. “Of
course
it's locked,” she said. “Lift me
up.
”

Duncan did not enjoy being ordered around by a kitten, but he obeyed. Fia put out a claw and probed the brass keyhole. There was a quiet
click
.

“You're getting good at this,” Duncan said, and creaked open the door.

The galley storeroom was crowded to bursting. There were barrels on the deck and dried sausages hanging from the beams. There were boxes and bags, casks and bottles, shelves full of tins and a folder stuffed with what looked like recipes.

In one corner was a square open hatch. A luff tackle, three pulleys set in blocks, was attached to the beam above it, and a rope nearly as thick as Duncan's wrist dangled straight down into darkness.

“There! Over there!” Fia shrieked. She rushed to the edge of the hatch and put her head over. Her pink nose quivered.

Duncan took a lantern and leaned over the hatch. “It must go all the way to the hold. Are you
sure
you smelled kittens down in that room?”

Fia's pink nose quivered. “I was sure
then.
”

Duncan knelt at the lip of the hatch and put his head over the vacant space. A dank, slightly decayed smell curled faintly in his nostrils.

He sat back on his heels, calculating how long it would it take Cook to shop for supplies and get rowed back to the ship. They'd have to hurry.

He loosened the rope's end from the cleat on the wall and pulled. The pulleys creaked, and the dangling rope straightened, swinging as it rose. Up through the hole came a large iron hook with a sling attached. Duncan passed the rope's end around his body, under his arms, and took a good grip. Then he set his foot in the sling, hung the lantern from the iron hook, and slowly, carefully, lowered himself and the kitten down through the decks. Unlike every other hatch Duncan had seen, this one did not open onto the deck spaces around it. They were in some kind of narrow shaft. Duncan looked up as the square patch of dim light above grew faint and far away.

Thunk.
Duncan's feet hit bottom unexpectedly, and he fell to his knees. His grip slackened on the rope, and the heavy iron hook dropped. The lantern's light went out.

“Ow!” Duncan gripped his shoulder where the hook had struck him a glancing blow. Fia's eyes were two points of light, glowing amber and golden in the dark, and when she blinked, he could see nothing at all.

“Light a match, and then you can see,” Fia suggested.

“I was just going to,” muttered Duncan, fumbling in his pocket. The match flared with a small spurting sound, and it gave him enough light to find the lantern and set it upright. A second match lit the candle within, and when the flame was steady, he stood up and looked around by its glow.

The curve of the hull told Duncan that he was on the port side, below the waterline. He was in a small room, and a strange-looking machine was before him. Made of green-painted iron, it stood on six legs like some metallic monster. At the top was a large, square funnel, or hopper; to the left was a sort of wide spigot, with a basin beneath. In the center were two blocks that came together like a press for stamping out flat sheets of metal, and on the right was a wooden handle, worn from long use, that turned like a crank. A tub, a drainage board, and a scarred wooden counter filled the rest of the space; Duncan scarcely had room to take two steps in any direction.

Fia's small body pressed against his ankle, trembling.

Duncan bent down to pet her. “What's wrong?”

“Kittens were very afraid,” whispered Fia. “Right there.” She pointed with a paw that wasn't quite steady.

Duncan lifted the lantern to look more closely at the big machine. At shoulder height was a handle like a lever, sticking out of a long vertical slot—it looked as though it was meant to move back and forth. There were letters painted on the metal.
“G—R—I
,” he read aloud, but the long handle cast a black shadow across the rest, sharp-edged like a knife.

Duncan moved the lantern to read the rest of the word.
GRINDER
.

He squatted down to read the word on the lower end of the slot.
SQUISHER
.

Duncan felt suddenly cold.

“I smell your scent here.” Fia had left the safety of his ankle and prowled a little distance away. “Here, by the tub.” She pawed at an empty jar that rolled along the floor. “What does this spell?
J
—
E
—
T
—
B
—
L
—
A
—
C
—
K
—
S
—
H
—
O
—
E
—
P
—
O—
I can't tell what the next letters are. There's something dark smeared on them.”

Duncan picked up the small jar of shoe polish. It was empty. Who had been polishing shoes down here? He turned abruptly. “I've never been in this room before in my life. And if you're wrong about smelling my scent, maybe you're wrong about smelling kittens, too.”

There was a thump. Duncan cocked his head.

“What?” Fia poked her nose in the air again.

Duncan could hear the slap of waves on the hull, and the ship's timbers creaking. Somewhere behind the bulkhead, a rat squeaked. But he had heard something else.

It was time to get out of there. Duncan leaped for the dangling rope and jammed his foot into the sling again. “Hang on, Fia.”

With a luff tackle, Duncan could pull himself up hand over hand, inches at a time. It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few minutes before his head cleared the hatch of the galley storeroom.

The door was still shut. With a last heave, Duncan lifted himself enough to get a foot onto solid wood. One hand still clung to the rope; with less weight on the sling, the hook shot up and Duncan lurched. His other arm flailed madly for balance. His fingers brushed a shelf, and a folder of papers fell to the deck.