The Mousehunter Read Free Page A

Portly’s face as his nose twitched through the vent, he wanted it too.

The Sharpclaw Mouse
    THE SHARPCLAW IS ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN AND MOST FEARED OF ALL
mice, due to the huge dagger-like claws on its front paws. These claws are almost as long as the mouse itself, and are capable of slicing through wood and metal with effortless ease. The size of its claws doesn’t seem to hinder it, however, as the Sharpclaw has evolved strong hind legs to compensate, allowing it to run almost upright.
    Throughout history, Sharpclaws have always proved problematic to humans, and the land of their origin — the isle of Umber in the South Seas — is now little more than a barren lump of rock due to the mouse’s propensity for destroying anything in its path.
    MOUSING NOTES
    It takes a particularly strong mousebox or cage to contain a Sharpclaw, and in view of this, only the most fearless of collectors or hunters should attempt to keep or catch one. Due to mousing regulations, the species requires an expensive license to be kept in captivity because of its ferocity. Therefore, Sharpclaws are only suitable for rich collectors with more money than sense.

The Privateer
    T HE CARRIAGE TRUNDLED ALONG THE TWISTING ALLEYS and then the roads that led through the marshes out of Old Town. The fog was thickening, and the driver followed the glow of lamps for direction.
    Mr. Lovelock’s butler sat bolt upright, maintaining his calm demeanor despite the sense of unease growing in his stomach and the cold air stinging his face. The harbor was approaching, and there were many places he’d much rather be. Once the carriage arrived at the town gates, the driver pulled tight on his horse’s reins and stopped sharply.
    “This ain’t somewhere I’ll be going, sir,” he said.
    “But I’ve enough money to pay double for your services, driver. Carry on,” said the butler briskly.
    The driver leaned forward and peered deeper into the fog. “No. Money’s no good to me when I’m dead, sir. You go and I’ll await your return,” he added, lowering the reins.
    The butler sighed and stepped down to the floor. Taking a lamp from the carriage, he held it aloft and stared into the murky gloom. The harbor lay beyond the rusting iron gates before him. A soldier stood upright at their side, his face weakly lit by a lamp attached to a wall behind. He stamped noisily, took hold of the gates, and pushed them open.
    The Old Town Gate had stood for a long time, welcoming people to the town, but also keeping any unwanted seadogs at bay. The butler tightened his cloak and pulled his hat down to obscure his eyes. He walked forward as the gates squealed shut behind him.
    Through the thick fog, the butler could see the faint swinging lights that sat atop the bows of ships, and he could smell the salty sea more clearly. The dull clanking of buoys and mastbells littered the air like the sound of lost sheep on a mountaintop, and the distant raucous banter of rum-soaked sailors drifted along on the wind.
    He gripped the dagger underneath his cloak and walked more quickly.
    The ground was of hard cobblestones, and the butler’s footsteps rang out rather too loudly. He walked past a number of gloomy buildings, their purpose obscured by the fog, and neared the waterfront. The ships were slightly more visible now, looking like the shadowy forms of a ghostly armada in the distance. He found some steps that took him down to the quayside, and stopped dead at the low sea wall, trying to shield himself from the sea spray that threatened to ruin his immaculately polished shoes. Out on the water, he could see the ominous shadows of bows and masts, their shapes emerging and vanishing with the movement of the fog.
    From behind him, he heard footsteps. He turned quickly, thrusting the lamp out. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm and he was bundled to the ground. His lamp flew to the floor and smashed, extinguishing the light immediately.
    “Release me!” shouted the butler,