Duncton Quest (69 page)

“Bailey?” repeated Henbane, her eyes narrow, her talons lusting for the feel of his innocent flesh.

“Yes,” said Bailey. “And my sister Starling and my other sister Lorren and....”

“And?” purred Henbane.

“You haven’t said your name,” said Bailey coming even nearer.

In the shadows Weed blinked. The mole was not dead.

Henbane’s talons had retracted somewhat. The mole was unpleasantly close to her. And then the mole....

“
Never
do that again!” said Henbane, rearing up.

“I only touched you,” said Bailey. “Your fur’s funny.”

There was a long silence. Weed blinked again. He was sweating now, though the day was not overwarm. The tedious youngster was
still
alive.

And then Henbane laughed. Laughed as if she had never laughed, laughed so much that the guardmole who had failed to apprehend Bailey came running, and stared. Henbane laughed almost hysterically.

“What’s funny?” said Bailey.

She stopped as fast as she had started. She had seen the guardmole.

She said to Bailey, “Stay here and don’t move.”

She went over to the guardmole.

“Did you see this young mole pass by?”

“No, WordSpeaker. I...,” he hesitated. Henbane killed him. And Bailey stared, wide-eyed, just stared. He stared at the blood on her talons. He stared at the guardmole slumped before her. He stared at a second guardmole, who had come running and was now grey of snout and shaking with fear until he was killed too.

Then Bailey said, “I don’t like you.”

At which Henbane turned on him, angry now, that anger she had started with redoubled, trebled, quadrupling as she seemed to ripple with it and Bailey backed away from her as she slowly advanced on him, until his back was against the Stone, which rose high above him.

Watching, Weed gulped.

“Also,” said Bailey, “I don’t think the Stone likes you, it doesn’t like you at all, and it will never like you and if Starling was here I know what she’d say, I know exactly what she’d say, she’d say, she’d say...” As he spoke these last words his voice had begun to waver, and his eyes to fill with tears, and he looked from Henbane to the dead guardmoles and back again.

Then to watching Weed’s astonishment Bailey, trembling yet determined, came out from the shadow of the great Stone of Duncton right up to her, as if he was not in the slightest bit afraid, and he said, “Starling would tell you to go away and never, ever, ever come back.
Go away
!” He screamed it out, and began to cry.

At which, to Weed’s yet greater astonishment, Henbane, conqueror of moledom, daughter of Rune, WordSpeaker, Henbane of Whern stared at the youngster mole aghast, her eyes wide, and her mouth working, and she reached forward a paw and pushed or, more accurately, half lifted Bailey aside, and then turned and waved him to be still, not unkindly, but in some way that told them both it was better that he shut up now, he had said enough because
because
 – and she raised her talons and crashed them down where Bailey had been, and stared at the humus and leaf all ripped and churned. Then she raised her talons again and brought them down, but gently, so gently, as a mother might, where Bailey had been and she lowered her snout and she too began to cry.

Nomole,
nomole
must see her. No one but must die. Weed acted quickly. He came out of the shadows and Henbane did not respond as normally she might: with anger at his sneakings. She ignored him, her sobs as passionate as her anger or her hatred, terrible to hear; the sobs of a pup never once allowed to cry, who cries at last.

Weed allowed no others near, but this wretched, idiotic Bailey. He stayed whimpering. Nomole else.

Then when she had stopped Weed said, “You had better rest, WordSpeaker,” his voice respectful but authoritative.

She nodded, not looking at him.

“He’s coming,” she said, meaning Bailey.

“I’m not,” said Bailey.

Weed grabbed his shoulder and hissed, “You are, youngster, yes you are,” and Bailey, very frightened suddenly because this mole’s snout twisted and made him think he was going dizzy, said, “Yes!” And as if they were two pups, Weed herded the most powerful mole in moledom, and, until a few moments before, the weakest, down into the Duncton tunnels, to a chamber well out of sight.

Henbane was not seen again by grike for days. Not by Sleekit, nor even by Wrekin, though Wrekin soon had things to report. She was not seen for days, but laughter was heard, and a youngster was seen, Bailey by name.

But then another grike disappeared, and another died. Henbane must be told. Weed said he would, perhaps he did, but Henbane did not appear. Just that laughter, like pups playing down there, and a warning that if Bailey was found, eating up on the surface, he was not to be touched or harmed.

Grumblings then, and Wrekin enraged. What was the WordSpeaker up to? Demands to see her. Weed smiled.

“Does she know what’s happening? Does she know that there are still killings going on in this miserable system? Does she know the Duncton moles who escaped have been sighted And she
plays
?”

“She knows,” said Weed.

It was more than two moleweeks before Henbane appeared, and when she did that Bailey mole was at her side. Nomole dared say a thing. She summoned Wrekin, and Sleekit, and several others.

She stared at them and seemed to be thinking, though what she had to say suggested she had thought a lot already. Bailey said, “Come on, ’cos I’m going to show you the Eastside where my burrow was.”

Whispers. A Duncton mole. More whispers. Henbane smiled.

“I’ll come, Bailey, soon now. Leave us for a time.
Leave
us.” It was said kindly, in a voice none of them had ever heard. A voice that made her seem almost
mole.
Bailey left for the surface.

She turned to Sleekit and said, “Tell me, where is scalpskin still prevalent nearby?”

“Avebury had it,” said Sleekit promptly, for it was her job to know such things. “But nearby, well... East Bladon, Frilford and some at Wytham. And —”

“Yes?” Henbane’s voice was terse and efficient.

“I said Avebury had it, and that’s true, but it seems to have been replaced there by something worse. Eats a mole, churns a mole’s skin, terrible... Some say that this disease will replace scalpskin. It is not pleasant.”

“Good. Now listen all of you. I am aware that moles are hiding in Duncton. I have heard of the new killings from Weed. I do not think we will easily find the moles responsible, and nor do I think we should bother. Such a covert campaign is not easily defeated, if ever. Nor is a system such as this ever easily destroyed. Was Whernside ever destroyed after Scirpus went there, despite all the efforts of the scribemoles of the Stone over the centuries? No it was not. But I have had a thought...” Her eyes narrowed, her voice lowered and slowed.

“I want arrangements made that moles afflicted by scalpskin and any other scourge – the more catching the better – are brought to Duncton. In fact, are summoned to Duncton. If the Duncton moles wish to desert the place then let us find moles who will not. Moles who have nowhere else to go. See that every diseased, idiot and crippled mole in those systems is brought here, all of them, Weed,
every one
.”

“I will,” said Weed, pleased to see that Henbane’s spirits and cruel guile were recovering.

She turned to Wrekin.

“Your surmise about a tunnel was right. The charming young Bailey has confirmed it. The Duncton moles used a tunnel, and though some died many escaped. Perhaps too many.

“So... your guardmoles have a task, Wrekin. The moles Tryfan, Spindle, Comfrey, Alder, Mayweed and Marram are to be found, and brought to me, wherever I am. Alive. These names Bailey has given me. Any other mole of Duncton, whoever they are, wherever they are, however long it takes, is to be found and killed. I repeat: found and killed.”

“We have already had reports that a group of them are moving east,” interrupted Wrekin.

“Good.”

“We have sent out a force after them.”

“Good indeed. But others may escape. Use any means you like to find out where they have gone to. If Tryfan is the mole I think he is, he will disperse his moles. Fine.
Find
them. Kill them. We are going to destroy this place by making it a system of shame, of disease, and an affront to the Stone that rises over it. Nomole will ever wish to be associated with it again in any way. We will also destroy forever the moles who once lived here and those who call themselves Pasture moles. From this moment Duncton is no more.”