CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

"I'm going with you."

Alexander stood facing down Urthblood on Salamandastron's jetty, right at the foot of the loading gangplank leading up to the Stronganchor. All around them the morning sun reflected and rippled upon the gently swelling coastal waters as lazy ocean breezes added to the idyllic backdrop for this latest confrontation between Abbeybeast and badger warrior.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow that," Urthblood replied. "This is an important diplomatic mission, and I can have no interference."

Captain Wakefern ambled up alongside the Redwall squirrel. "All due respect, Lord, but I've already granted this landlubber passage, worked out 'tween us to our mutual satisfaction, an' I'll not rescind my word without strong cause or reason."

"I have given both cause and reason - or, more to the point, Alexander has himself, with the belligerent and disrespectful attitude he's shown me from the moment of his arrival at my mountain. His presence on this voyage will be most inappropriate, and would only lead to unnecessary complications."

"P'raps, p'raps not. But that's up to the two o' you to hash out on yore own. I'm cap'n, so I say who sails on my ship an' who doesn't - an' right now, I say this bushtail's welcome aboard if that's what 'ee wants."

Urthblood weighed this, his inwardly assessing gaze unflinching. "Very well," he conceded at last, regarding Alex like a bothersome obstacle. "But he must be confined to quarters for the duration of the voyage, and for the entirety of our stay at Southsward."

"Um, no he won't neither," Wakefern said, "Agin, my vessel, my rules. You may be master o' this mountain, but aboard th' Stronganchor my word's law, an' nobeast else's. An' I'll not treat one o' Redwall's leaders any shabbier than I'd treat you, Lord."

"Captain, my mission to Castle Floret will likely involve sensitive negotiations. I cannot risk interference from a creature who has made it abundantly clear he views me as an enemy, and will almost assuredly seek to frustrate my vital efforts in this sphere."

"That's 'tween you an' him after you disembark once we get there. But as far as th' passage itself, no guest of mine'll have any less freedom than any other."

"Did you stop to think, or consider to ask him, what business he could possibly have in Southsward?"

Alex answered for himself. "I've been an Abbey squirrel all my life, and never travelled far beyond the nearer reaches of Mossflower, aside from my two journeys here to Salamandastron. Can I be blamed for wanting to expand my horizons and see more of the lands?"

"So your only interest is in having a vacation for yourself?" Urthblood's statement stood halfway between an interrogation and an accusation.

Forced to the issue like this, Alex unabashedly admitted, "No, that's not my only interest. Somebeast needs to warn the good folk of Southsward what kind of tyrant you are, and impress upon them not to trust you."

The badger turned back to Wakefern. "As you can see, my concerns were entirely valid, and justified."

"Still not my problem. If 'ee wants passage on my ship, 'ee's got it. If he wants t' go on this voyage anyway, knowin' ye'll place him under virtual arrest once you all disembark in Southsward, that's his affair. But I'll not deny him a berth if that's what 'ee wants."

"This is hardly satisfactory, Captain."

"Sea rules is sea rules, Lord, an' yore welcome t' find another vessel to take you to Southsward if you find fault with how I conduct business aboard th' Stronganchor. I was willin' 'nuff to put my other obligashuns aside an' bear you where you needed t' go at yore urgin', but if my ship's not acceptable, feel free t' look elsewhere. Mebbe Cap'n Ramjohn'll take you on th' Goodwill, like 'ee did last summer in yore clash with those renegade shrews. Shall we ask 'im 'fore he weighs anchor an' sails off 'imself?"

Whiskersalt appeared behind Wakefern on the tumble-boulder wharf, clapping the younger otter captain heartily on the shoulder. "Nay 'n' fie, Wakey! I'm shore our arrangements'll suit 'is Lordship just fine, an' we'd not want ter inconvenience Ram an' Chobor an' their fine crew of th' Goodwill, since they've got ports t' visit an' trades t' make of their own, an' must be on their way. 'Sides, with all th' help Lord Urthblood's askin' of us for his nautical alliances, t'ain't as if he can just ride roughshod over our command of our own vessels, now is it?"

This piqued Alexander's attention. "Alliances? With you sea otters?"

Whiskersalt let loose with a barrel-chested laugh. "One could say that, matey, one could! But there's sea otters, an' then there's sea otters! No point goin' into it all now, since there'll be plenny o' time fer that once we're under sail. So, whaddya say, Lord? Are we takin' ye to Southsward, or ain't we?"

Urthblood need hardly have hesitated to consider; all about him on the jetty his own selected forces bustled about, making ready for boarding - twenty Gawtrybe, along with Captain Abellon's full mouse brigade. With so many preparations so deeply underway - and with his urgency so strongly implied - the badger could scarcely back out now over mere assertions of authority to be exercised by his maritime hosts.

"You are," Urthblood said at last. "And with my profound appreciation, Captains. If this Redwaller presents a problem, it is my problem and not yours, and I will figure out what to do about it on my own once we reach our destination."

"That's more like it." Wakefern turned to Alex. "My first mate Torbet'll show you to a berth of yore own. Since yore travellin' light, shouldn't pose any difficulties, unlike these hundred an' one warriorbeasts we gotta try 'n' find room for."

"The actual number is fifty-seven," Urthblood corrected. "Plus myself."

"That's still plenny enuff t' pack us to th' beams stem t' stern," Whiskersalt said. "Good thing over half of 'em 're mice an' not big folks like us otters, or else we'd be in real trouble!"

While Alex headed up the gangplank with his scant travel supplies to accept his assigned quarters and Urthblood's forces worked with the crew of the Stronganchor to get boarded themselves, Whiskersalt and Wakefern went out to the trader vessel moored directly behind theirs. Chobor already held the wheel while the various deckpaws saw to the sails and lines, making the Goodwill ready for her final departure as Ramjohn stood upon the stone pier overseeing from below. Each otter in turn embraced the fondly-regarded mouse captain in parting, bestowing upon him heartfelt wishes for a safe and profitable voyage himself.

"Good tradin', ya old seamouse!"

"An' don't let Tratton's scurvy seascum pilfer one whit more o' yore cargo than the Accord entitles 'em to!"

"Aw, don'tcher worry 'bout me," Ramjohn replied. "I've dealt with these scabtails enuff in recent seasons that I've learnt how t' handle 'em. Look to yourselves; th' one time I granted this badger passage, it landed me almost in th' middle of a war. If he still ain't come fully clean t' you why he needs t' get to Southsward in such a hurry, then sail with care 'n' be wary, 'cos he could have anything in mind."

"Aye, we will," Wakefern assured the mouse. "I'll not be puttin' th' Stronganchor in harm's way if I sense that's how things're headed, not even if Urthblood insists on it. On wave 'n' wake, this's my domain just like Salam'dastron's his, an' not even a Badger Lord's lord over me on me own ship!"

"An' our red-armored friend seems to want our help with those other alliances pretty badly," Whiskersalt added, "so I trust he'd not do anything t' sink all that in mid-negotiation."

"I suspect you two are right. Well, I gave him an earful about what I came here for, not that it looks like it'll do much good. He's so concerned about keepin' peace with Tratton, he's willin' t' overlook a lot of questionable actions by that sea tyrant's crews an' captains, an' I doubt anything I told him's gonna change that. Accord or no Accord, those wavevermin 've always been bullies, an' they'll still pursue their thievin' ways just as far as they can push it. Guess it's up to us t' just put up with it as best we can."

Parting with pawshakes and shoulder slaps and smiles and waves, the two otters watched as Ramjohn clambered up the gangway onto the Goodwill. Almost immediately the plank was pulled up behind him, and as he took the wheel from Chobor and Wakefern and Whiskersalt untied and cast up the mooring ropes, the crew pushed off from the jetty with long poles and trimmed the sails so that the flat-decked trading vessel could clear both pier and the Stronganchor to turn about and point back out to sea. In no time at all the Goodwill's prow was aimed toward the open main, and with canvases billowing before the captured and shape winds, she and her dauntless crew struck out to resume their interrupted journey.

Urthblood, satisfied that all his own forces and materials had gotten aboard the Stronganchor according to his needs, strode to the shoreward head of the jetty where Matowick and a ceremonial contingent of his Gawtrybe stood at attention to see off their Lord. "Command of the mountain is yours, Captain," the badger told him. "I cannot say how long I will be gone, but I am confident you and the others can easily manage things here in my absence. I expect no trouble that you - or, more to the point, my gulls - won't be able to head off before it begins."

"Most likely, Lord - although I daresay those battle birds strike me as a bit more unruly and scattershot since Scarbatta's death. I hope they can remain an effective and unified fighting force."

"I would not worry about that. Captain Lornbill is still understandably growing into the role left vacant by his predecessor. In times of peace such as this, little opportunity presents itself for him to hone his leadership skills under battle conditions, but he carries the experience of his flights against Tratton and Snoga, as well as the recent action out in the Western Plains, and the other gulls fear and respect him. He was the most logical choice to succeed Scarbatta."

"Perhaps. Although I still do worry about the fallout from the actions we've taken this season. And that Redwaller going with you ... if we'd had a little more warning of his intent, we might have been able to detain him until you and the Stronganchor were away."

"His presence will complicate matters in Southsward, undoubtedly, but I will cope. My negotiations with Floret will be as one lord to another, and I can be most persuasive in such treating. The searat problem must concern Southsward more than what goes on at Redwall or in Mossflower, so it may be Alexander's protests will avail him little with them."

"As you say, Lord."

"I regret that your furlough with your wife and son could not have been longer, as you deserve, but I cannot allow Tratton to make inroads in Southsward if that is his aim, and I have put off this mission far too long already."

"It's quite all right, My Lord. It's not like you're sending me somewhere else again. I'll be here with Perri and Elberon, and I expect I'll have lots of time to spend with them. My main concern is how to handle Ambassador Erzath. So far we've succeeded in keeping your departure a secret from him, but sooner or later he's bound to figure out you're no longer at the mountain. Even if you have already stopped dining with him regularly as of late."

"It cannot be helped. Just limit his contact with any searats who should tie up in my absence, and closely monitor any correspondence he attempts to send, censoring it as you see fit. I will strive to return before this becomes too much of an issue."

"Yes, My Lord. The longer we can keep Tratton from finding out you've left Salamandastron, the easier I'll rest. Will you be keeping in regular touch by gull?"

"Only if necessary. I expect to be too fully occupied with events down there to issue any kind of regular reports, and would advise that you do not seek to contact me unless something unforeseen arises that you deem warrants my attention. I do not anticipate any such circumstances, and will leave such to your discretion."

Taking his leave of the caretaker Gawtrybe commander, Urthblood returned to the boarding gangway of the Stronganchor, where everybeast else was now aboard, with only the two otter captains waiting on the pier for him. "So," Wakefern prompted, "are we catchin' this tide, or not?"

"We are. My purpose is too vital to permit the inconvenience of one intransigent and hostile Redwall squirrel to waylay me further. Let us be off, and see if we can make good time to Southsward."

With that, the badger and the two otters strode up the gangplank, which was quickly pulled up after them, and shortly thereafter the Stronganchor had joined the Goodwill in untying from the jetty, turning about and pointing herself out toward the open main.

00000000000

It didn't take long for the crew of the Redfoam to learn to leave Latura alone.

A close cabinmate of the ill-fated, one-eyed crossbow rat Scringewart had snuck down to the rowing galley the second night out from Salamandastron with knife in paw, intending to draw it across the ratmaid's throat in retaliation and send Latura to Hellgates after his friend. Fate might have arranged for a relatively mundane accident like the would-be assassin tripping and falling on his own blade, but clearly the forces protecting Latura felt that a less ambiguous message needed to be sent. Thus, as the conniving searat made to carve a second smile into the neck of the rat prophetess, he found himself swallowing his own tongue not at all of his own volition, and there in the aisle was he found the next morning by the waking oarslaves and the newly-risen Crackmaster, face swollen and lips blue and eyes bulging in terror. It was a sight not easily forgotten.

The brutish slavemaster certainly did not forget - although, by the third day out, he too bore livid reminders not to molest Latura, in the form of two ugly welts - one on each cheek, and each perfectly matched against the other - where lashings aimed at the ratmaid had inexplicably backfired as if his practiced whip paw had suddenly reverted to that of a bumbling novice, curling back to crack their fury against his own flesh. One time could have been discounted as the most freakish of freak accidents, but after the second mishap, the hulking rat knew to keep his weapon of discipline well clear of Latura.

Palter, chained alongside his fellow villager ever since the only-partially-successful culling ceremony abovedecks, directly benefitted from his current proximity to the off-limits ratmaid, since any punishment directed toward him that happened to stray too close to her might result in another backlash against their tormentor. Palter had incurred his share of stinging bruises before Crackmaster figured things out for himself, but now a mantle of cautious protection shielded him, and he could rest easier than many of his rowing mates.

Their fellow oarslaves' opinions toward Latura seemed mixed. All regarded her with a sense of measured awe ever since the chain-breaking, crossbow-misfiring, back spasm-wracked triple miracle which had saved half their condemned numbers, but uncertainty permeated their forlorn ranks as well - uncertainty as to just how much Latura's presence might protect the rest of them, and for how long. For those on the lucky back end of the chain line who'd been spared a watery grave, their gratitude was palpable. As for the rest, they looked to Latura with a weary wait-and-see attitude, not sure yet whether she would ultimately prove a boon or a curse, whether she would turn out to be a limited sort of savior to ease their lot or a lightning rod to draw the wrath of their cruel masters. With her worth to the majority still to be tested and shown, most eyed her with aloof and appraising hesitance, waiting to see how her participation in their enforced group misery would affect the entire game.

And then there were the other galley rats, the ones already occupying the forward rows when the land rats from Salamandastron had been brought aboard the Redfoam and escorted down to their nightmarish new home. It transpired that they too were searats, but unlike the captain and crew who ran the ship, these sea rodents had fallen out of favor with their superiors, or else committed offenses insufficient to warrant death but still serious enough to have them stripped of everything, including their freedom, and slapped in chains for the remainder of whatever life was left to them. They didn't converse much, either amongst themselves or most certainly not with the woodland rats delivered here by the less wholesome provisions of the Accord. If some unspoken hierarchy held sway here, they occupied the upper echelon, and not just through their position at the fore of the galley. They might be slaves themselves, but they were still searats, members of the mightiest maritime empire to ever exert its power over wave and wake, and they carried some of that perverse pride with them even into shackled servitude. The new arrivals were barely worth their own flesh and fur - especially now that so many of their least-worthy dregs had been saved by virtue of a snapped chain - but the searat rowers, they were part of something special, even if they now suffered in the warped and wretched bowels of that society.

Not that they wouldn't have throttled their masters in a heartbeat, offered the chance.

Crackmaster was, of course, far above dishing out to his rowers the slop which passed for food, so that menial task fell to some of the lowliest of the Redfoam's deckpaws - including, in a cruel twist of irony, two of the young land rats First Mate Laverty had personally pulled out of the half-doomed culling line. Now those rat lads enjoyed an awkward largess which left them free to move about (under orders and watchful eyes, of course) and perhaps someday even join the crew as full members, even as they now waited upon their chained relatives down in the rowing galley - a duty which, consequently, left them torn on how they ought to feel, and tortured at the plight of their kin, in spite of their loved ones' relief and thanks that at least their youngest had escaped the worst of this.

For this modicum of greater freedom, however, the server lads lacked any say in when the gruel would be delivered to the chained prisoners - and now, three days out from Salamandastron, it had become clear that the galley chefs of the Redfoam turned their attention to the oarslaves only when it suited them, according to their whims and not tied to any set schedule. The concepts of breakfast, lunch and dinner lost all meaning to the captives, who might receive three meals a day or might as easily get only one, at any random time of the morning, afternoon or evening. Then again, given what was being presented to them as food, none of them were particularly likely to complain about missed mealtimes.

It was this poor excuse for sustenance - and the unfortunate, inevitable consequences of ingesting it - that now made Latura comment, "Gee, wish they'd put holes in these seats. That'd make things more conveenyent."

A gruff male rat named Potdar in the row ahead of them grumbled, "Wouldn't wanna sit on a hole all day 'n' night - you'd get piles sumpthin' terrible."

Spratley, another male rat seated alongside Potdar, muttered, "I'm gettin' piles even without any hole unner my backside! This hard plank bench'll be th' death o' me, long 'fore that whip claims me!"

"The splinters ain't fun down there neither," Potdar added. "But even if there was holes, ain't t' say they'd still clean up after us any more'n they do now ... "

Their few days so far in shared bondage had made conversation like this more natural, allowing the new oarslaves to learn a little about each other. Palter and Latura had discovered that the two males in front of them, along with their hardbitten companion Vernita and another rugged female named Zarephath chained farther forward in the galley, had been part of a band who'd settled in a former badger cottage in southern Mossflower to live peacefully in the deep woods, when the shrews fell upon them with savage fury, slaying two of their number who resisted and taking the survivors into captivity, where they eventually joined the group of twoscore rat prisoners who were marched all the way to the coastlands and into a far worse kind of incarceration. Across the aisle in the port bank of rowers sat Tarnise, the unfortunate mother whose babe Laverty had cruelly cast over the side, and who had nearly met such a fate herself; for the past two days all she'd been able to do was weep to herself in her own private misery, refusing to engage in any conversation with her fellow slaves. To her left and right, and behind her, and behind Latura and Palter, were all the other rats whose lives had been saved by that broken chain, the living ghosts of sadistic intent who'd managed to remain alive in this world against all odds. If the searat slaves here viewed themselves as above (and literally before) the recent arrivals from the mainland, then the ones condemned to culling by Crackmaster were the lowest of the low, looked down upon by even the other woodland rats, those who'd been judged fit to survive and serve. Would the inadvertent salvation of these lowliest of the low bear repercussions for all the rest of them? None of the land rats there really knew how things worked aboard a searat ship, what rules or laws or customs - spoken or unspoken - held sway in this crucible of wretchedness, or how any disruption to the norm might ripple outward and catch them all in its ill effect.

But they were learning. And, to their rue, they would keep on learning in the days to come.

The ratlad Carlton stopped at Latura's row with his bucket of gruel, his equally young helper Tallyrand following at his heel with ladle and a stack of ancient, chipped wooden bowls. The two youths doled out their sad portions of the equally sad nourishment, passing the filled bowls out to any who would receive them; in spite of how Crackmaster worked his charges, some still found the slop served to them unpalatable to stomach ... and some of those now showed signs of weakness and sickness, if they'd dared decline too many meals. It was beginning to look as if the last rat had not gone over the side of the Redfoam this season.

Latura passed a bowl to her neighbor Tadrousse, a ratmaid nearly as slight as herself and only somewhat older. Tadrousse accepted the offering with distinct lack of enthusiasm and only a hint of appreciation - and that only because it had come from Latura. "Dunno if'n I'll be able t' keep this down any better'n th' last batch o' this dreck."

"Gotta try, Tadpole," Latura encouraged, using the playful nickname she'd assigned to Tadrousse, which was the only way she'd be able to remember any name at all for her benchmate. "Mebbe they put some seaweed in with it this time."

"That's what I'm afraid o'."

Taking a bowl for herself from Palter, Latura sniffed at it, whiskers wrinkling, then dared a sip, forcing it down before the foul broth could linger too long on her tongue. "Yuck! This's worse'n Big Bird's hardytack!" Complaining no further, she downed the rest of the gruel in one continuous guzzle until she emptied her bowl.

Palter showed considerably greater hesitance over diving into his own helping, raising it to his lips and lowering it again, then trying anew. Glancing aside at him, Latura egged him on. "Ain't like it's got mold in it."

"Might improve th' flavor," Tadrousse complained after forcing down a swallow of hers.

Across the aisle, the bereft ratmum Tarnise took in her gruel with the same pinch-nosed gusto that Latura had.

Having completed their gruel-dispensing rounds, Carlton and Tallyrand found Crackmaster standing over them with an evil grin. "Well, now that ye're finished with the easy part, let's put you two whelps to some real work! Yer mums 'n' dads an' all th' rest 've been makin' a mess o' my rowin' galley, an' I'm gettin' tired of th' stink!" In truth, the hulking rat's sense of smell had dulled and died seasons ago, but he wasn't about to share that now. "Time t' wash out 'neath these benches, pick up th' filth an' swab up th' stains, an' make this place bearable to my nose agin! Here're yer bucket's 'n' mops 'n' shovels. Do a good job o' it, or next time I'll make you do it without 'em!"

As the two hapless juveniles set to their unpleasant new assignment, Palter said to Latura, "Lattie, whaddya see? What 'appens next? How does this turn out fer us?"

"Um ... you hadta go t' sea."

"Yeah, I know!" Palter fought to keep his voice low in spite of his exasperation, not wanting to draw the attention of the sadistic overseer. "I'm already at sea! We all are! But this can't be all that's left t' us fer all our remainin' days. It can't be. What becomes of us now?"

She squinted her eyes as if trying to see far away, then shook her head. "Dunno. Can't see. It's all tumbly 'n' clouded."

"Y' saw th' chain was gonna break," Tadrousse said from Latura's other side. "Y' knew what was gonna 'appen then."

"Cos it were right in front o' me," Latura explained. "Ain't nuthin' right in front o' me right now. Just gotta row, an' eat what they give us, an' sleep when we can, 'til we get to the island."

"Island?" Palter sat up straighter. "Is that where we're goin'? What happens to us there?"

"Happens to us where?"

"At the island?"

"What island?"

"You jus' said 'til we get to the island' ... "

"I did? Gee, wunner what island that is ... "

Tadrousse slumped and looked away, not that there were too many other places to look in these surroundings.

Palter lifted his footpaws as Tallyrand, grimacing, worked on the soiled deck beneath him. "Well, if'n there's an isle in our future, an' no awful fate's awaitin' us there, I hope we get there soon. 'Cos anything would be better'n this!"