Read Online The Sable Quean by Brian Jacques - Free Book Online

little un. Ye look about ready t’drop. Sit down here an’ try to get some rest. I’m Tura.”
    Midda was grateful to Tura, who laid Borti down on a pile of rags and dry grass. They sat beside each other, with Flandor squatting before them. He kept his voice to a low murmur.
    “You’ll soon find out about Thwip. He’s a wicked ole fox who’s in charge of us. Him an’ his mate, Binta—she carries a cane, an’ he uses a whip. ’Spect that’s how he got ’is name. Don’t do anythin’ to anger either of ’em. They enjoy bein’ cruel an’ tormentin’ us. Best thing t’do is just be quiet an’ do as they tell ye.”
    Midda leaned back against the rock wall. She felt bone weary. “I’ll do as I’m told, but the first chance I get, me’n Borti are goin’ to escape.”
    Tura grasped Midda’s paw tightly. “That’s foolish talk, friend. Have ye heard of the Ravagers, a big vermin mob? The one called Zwilt is their commander—nobeast can run from them. Huh, escape? D’ye know where you are? None of us do. Even if’n ye did get out o’ here, where would you run to, eh?”
    Midda roused herself indignantly. “I’m a Guosim, an’ my father’s Jango Bigboat. He’s a Log a Log, Chieftain of all Mossflower shrews. So if’n me’n Borti are prisoners here, he’ll find out. Hah, an’ when he does, that Zwilt, aye, an’ the one they call the Sable Quean, they’ll be sorry, believe me!”
    A gaunt-eyed bankvole nearby scoffed, “Huh, everybeast says somethin’ like that when they first get here. Ferget about escapin’. Ye’ll soon see it ain’t no use, right, Flandor?”
    The young otter gritted his teeth. “Maybe, maybe not. Someway, somehow, there’s got t’be a way out to freedom. I’d sooner die now than spend the rest o’ my days rottin’ in here, mate. But we can’t rush things. First we’ve got to make a proper plan. Another thing, we’ll only tell those we can trust.”
    Midda was surprised. “Y’mean there’s prisoners here who’d tell Thwip that we were escapin’?”
    Tura nodded. “Aye, poor sillybeasts who’d do anythin’ for an extra mouthful o’ food. That’s the way it gets some, after a while in here. Quiet now—here comes Thwip an’ Binta!”
    The door was opened. Two guards dragged a steaming cauldron in, followed by another two lugging a tub of water. Then the foxes swaggered in. Thwip was large and fat; he flourished a long whip, making it crack. Binta leaned on her yew cane, favouring a limp. Thwip folded his whiplash.
    “Well, ain’t yew lot the luckybeasts? A nice, dry roof over yore ’eads, comfy’n’warm. Good vittles an’ drink aplenty—huh, ye don’t ’ave t’do a thing to earn ’em. Just sit there nice an’ quiet, eh, Binta?”
    The vixen drew an imaginary line with her cane. “Line up single file an’ be still. Anybeast pushin’ or shovin’ will get a taste o’ this rod an’ no vittles. Two pawfuls apiece, then line up over there for water.”
    As they hurried to get into line, Thwip pushed his whip stock under Midda’s chin. He leered at her.
    “New, are ye? Well, git t’the back o’ the line, go on!”
    Tura went with her, whispering, “You’ll have to fetch Borti, or he’ll get none.”
    Midda glanced at her baby brother sleeping peacefully. “Leave him there. He needs his rest. I’ll try to get enough in my paws for both of us.”
    The gaunt squirrelmaid replied, “I’ll see if I can manage to grab a bit extra, too.”
    It was the poorest of food, obviously the remains of their captors’ meal mashed up with roots, leaves and a bit of wild oatmeal, all boiled in water to produce a pitiful gruel. There was also a single ladle of brackish water apiece for the young prisoners.
    Borti woke briefly. He ate some of the mixture, which his sister and her squirrelfriend had saved for him, murmuring drowsily, “M’wanna go ’ome . . . go ’ome. . . .”
    Midda picked him up and rocked him, singing a little song she had made