Peter finally broke through the water’s surface. He was wedged next to Sir Tode, inches away from the lip of the spout. Cold water lapped around his chin. The master thief panted heavily, trying to hear what was happening outside. Had the birds seen them dive into the well? There was squawking all around the rock. It sounded like talking, but it was difficult for Peter to make out any words. Pausing for a moment, he took control of his heartbeat—slow, slower, stopped. Calming his hands, his nose, his ears, he concentrated on the scene outside. There were definitely voices mixed in with the squawking. It sounded like arguing, but that may just have been the way birds talked.
The flock grew quiet as an incoming bird landed among them. “Captain Amos, we found the vessel!” it shouted.
“And what of the warden, Eli?” another raven responded. This one sounded much more confident than the first bird. Its voice reminded Peter of the admirals he had heard marching about his port town. “Did Trolley know why they had come?”
“The warden knew nothing, sir. He claimed they flew eastward. He believed they had magic carpets with them.”
“Rubbish. Carpets don’t fly, not even magic ones. Still, we should patrol the border in case they plan to cross.” The second bird—the one they had called Captain Amos—went on. “Titus, I am holding you responsible for finding these strangers. Take an unkindness of fifty back to the Nest and keep lookout for two travelers—a boy and a cat!”
“You heard him!” Titus squawked. “Flap!”
A group of ravens leapt into the air, proclaiming, “Long live the True King!”
The rest of the flock responded as one. “And long live his Line!” The birds cawed and flapped, cheering the small troop as it disappeared into the skies.
Peter was confused by what he was hearing. The ravens sounded like an army of some kind. They had clearly been alerted to his and Sir Tode’s arrival. They also made reference to some “unkindness” they were plotting, which confused him even more. Were these ravens planning to hurt someone? Perhaps the king? No, they had said, “Long live the True King.” Whatever was going on, Peter knew he and Sir Tode weren’t safe where they were; it would only take one bird to glance casually into the kettle’s spout and they would be discovered.
No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he heard a scratching by his ear—a pair of talons had settled onto the lip of the rocky spout. Peter grabbed Sir Tode, who was still breathing heavily, and pinched his mouth shut. The knight struggled in protest, but Peter expertly began stroking his throat, keeping a firm grip on a special pressure point behind the ears—an old trick he had learned from Mr. Seamus for sedating ornery house cats. Thank you, Mr. Seamus, the boy thought to himself for the first time in his life as Sir Tode became still.
The scraping noise became louder as the raven poked its bill into the spout. “The water is foul this day,” it said, inching closer to Peter’s head. “It smells tainted, as though someone—” His investigation was interrupted by a cry.
“Look here!” a voice called from the base of the rock. “I’ve found signs of a traitor!” The raven at the spout jumped away to join Captain Amos and a few others on the ground.
“I noticed a lump in the sand when I landed,” the first raven went on. “It looks like there’s a weapon inside.”
Peter knew at once that they had discovered his burgle-sack, which he had hidden—apparently not well enough—before climbing the rock. “This blade is not from the armory,” Captain Amos said. Peter listened as the bird pecked at the metal. “It must have come with the strangers.”
These words caught the attention of the rest of the flock, many of whom flew closer to see. “We should patrol the immediate grounds,” Captain Amos continued. “Asher, Jude, search the area for tracks. If they have been here recently, we may be able to follow them.”
Two ravens squawked, “Yes, sir!” and took to the air.
The other ravens set to inspecting the rest of the objects inside the bag. Peter listened to the sound of beaks removing its contents one at a time: his burgle-kit . . . the box of eyes . . . the wineskin . . . the riddle . . .
“Let me see that scroll,” Captain Amos ordered, taking the piece of paper in his talons. After a moment, he turned to the flock. “You should all hear this,” he said, reading the words aloud:
Kings aplenty, princes few,
The ravens scattered and seas withdrew.
Only a stranger may bring relief,
But darkness will reign, unless he’s—
The birds absorbed these words in silence. “A traitor?” one bird whispered. “Who would dare summon a traitor?”
“Someone who is either very foolish or very desperate,” Captain Amos replied coldly. “Whoever wrote this petition, it is clear they do not know of us.”
A grumbling rose up from the flock. “Ten years we have waited for word from the other side,” a voice called out. “And this is what we get?”
“How much longer will Justice ignore us?” another cried, to which several more ravens squawked in agreement.
“Peace, brothers!” Captain Amos called out in a reproving tone. The birds fell silent to let their leader speak. “I hear your concern, but we must remember to keep faith.” Peter sensed that the bird was fighting to suppress his own disappointment. “It is clear that these strangers are somehow connected to our tale—but whether for good or ill remains to be seen. Perhaps this box will hold the answers we seek?”
Peter cringed as he heard the sound of a beak pecking against the keyhole. He silently prayed that ravens—even murderous talking ones—could not open locks . . .
Click.
The boy listened, horrified, as the birds lifted the lid and peered inside. “Sweet Justice,” Captain Amos said after a moment.
The ravens crowded closer and began to whisper amongst themselves. “What magic is this . . . But Simon, Mordecai . . . Could it be . . . ?” Soon every voice in the group was chanting the same thing: “The Line! The Line! The Line!”
Peter did not understand what any of this meant. All he knew was that these ravens had discovered the Fantastic Eyes and were somehow alarmed by what they saw. He could hear their hundreds of hearts beating faster and faster. “The Line! The Line! The Line!” The chanting continued until it was interrupted by the return of Asher and Jude.
“Traitor approaching!” they squawked. “Port side!”
The flock fell silent and immediately leapt to action. Every bird that was perched upon the rock hopped clear and glided to the sand. Peter could tell they were waiting for something, but what?
A new voice answered his question. “Keep away, LittleBoy!” it cried, approaching with frantic footsteps. “Keep far away from Kettle Rock, says I!”
Peter realized at once who it was. Old Scabbs must have woken up and followed their tracks to this spot. He clenched his jaw and silently begged for the man to turn back. As little as he liked the crazy old felon, he liked the ravens even less.
But Old Scabbs kept on. “LittleBoy and KittyPet must heed what Old Scabbs says. Get out of daylight, before—!” His voice left him as he topped the ridge to find a thousand ravens waiting for him. The old thief fell to his knees, choking with terror.
Captain Amos hopped forward. “Traitor, you have been shown mercy on the condition that we never see your miserable pink carcass again.”
“O-O-Old Scabbs knows it, he does!”
“You have returned our consideration by flaunting your accursed face during daylight. Even more, you have trespassed upon our sacred rock.”
“Old Scabbs is sorry, he is! Terrible sorry! Please, don’t peck him to pieces! The ravens is kind and merciful! They forgave him once before—Old Scabbs remembers it!”
“Once, and never again. That was our promise.”
“Promise, says you?” A bitterness crept into the man’s voice. “Don’t tell Old Scabbs of promises! By promises, he should be a rich man!” The outburst was met by cold silence, and Old Scabbs instantly reali
zed that he had made a grave error.
“I see our mercy was wasted on you,” the raven said. “We shall waste it no longer.”
“W-w-wait!” The miserable old man scrambled to his feet, getting an idea. “The ravens never asked why Old Scabbs come by their rock. He was coming to bring the ravens a gift! Two juicy little strangers, mmm! Leading them straight to the Nest, Old Scabbs was!”
Peter heard these words, but could not believe them. Was Old Scabbs really planning to betray them? The old man gave a devilish cackle. “It’s true! A plump kitty cat and fresh little blind boy! Just for your—”
His words were cut off by a storm of flapping and squawking. “Nooo!” he howled as the birds attacked.
By now Peter had given up stilling his heartbeat. He had also forgotten all about stroking Sir Tode’s neck. The two were shaking with terrible fear; Old Scabbs was being pecked to pieces not twenty paces from where they hid. Peter’s lips trembled as he held his friend close. He could taste Sir Tode’s salty tears, which were streaming down his snout and into the water. They huddled together, listening to the final cries of their former guide.
There was a solemn hush in the moment after the execution. Captain Amos spoke again, this time more softly. “Traitor, we shall bury you in one piece. That is more than you deserve. May the worms of the earth show you similar kindness.” He raised his voice to the flock. “In Justice we say . . .”
“Long live the True King!” the others cawed back. The ravens somberly went about digging a shallow hole in the sand for Old Scabbs’s remains. Peter listened intently to every sound, and as he did, he wondered about the man’s dying words. Would he really have delivered Peter and Sir Tode to these wicked creatures?
Peter’s mouth had gone completely dry; he sipped some of the water around his neck but found himself too nauseated to swallow. “P-P-Peter?” Sir Tode whispered as quietly as he could. “Are we going to die?”
To this question, the master thief had no answer. Outside, the birds had completed their task and moved on to other matters. “Eli,” Captain Amos commanded. “Take the weapon and this box to the Nest. Real or not, we cannot risk letting them fall into our enemy’s hands.”
“Yes, sir!” the raven named Eli responded. He snatched the objects in his claws and started for the horizon.
Captain Amos turned back to the flock. “Brothers, it is a great riddle indeed that brings blind strangers and rhyming-scrolls to our deserts. Whether or not the Line has returned remains to be seen. As always, we steel our beaks, sharpen our claws, and wait for Justice.” Peter detected a new urgency in the captain’s voice. “We can only assume that our enemy has learned of the strangers as well. I have no doubt he will try to strike. And if he does, we shall not fail a second time!” He beat his great wings against the air, soaring high as he squawked, “LONG LIVE THE TRUE KING!”
There was a mighty roar as a thousand birds flapped after him. “AND LONG LIVE HIS LINE!!!”
Peter and Sir Tode waited until nightfall before wriggling back down the rocky spout. This was even more difficult than swimming up, and by the time they worked their way to the base of the kettle, they barely had strength to kick to the surface.
They came up to cool moonlight. Peter rolled himself onto the top of the rock and listened to the desert air. Far, far away, he could hear footsteps. Maybe more prisoners? He listened again for the sound of wings or talons or caws. Nothing. He helped Sir Tode onto his back and climbed down to the sand below.
The ground around the kettle was still heavy with the stench of violence. “Do you see him?” he asked, shivering a bit.
“To your left, about thirty paces.” Sir Tode led him to a small mound in the sand. They stood in silence over Poor Old Scabbs’s grave.
“No one deserves that.” The boy’s voice was tense with rage. Peter was no stranger to violence or even death, but nothing had prepared him for this. Old Scabbs had been murdered in cold blood. Peter could not say how, exactly, but he knew that this event had profoundly changed both him and his journey. He returned to the base of the rock and began collecting his scattered possessions. The ravens had left everything but his fishhook and the box of Fantastic Eyes. Among the items, he found Old Scabbs’s precious lemon. Peter carried it to the grave. “Sleep well, old thief,” he said, crushing the fruit in his hand. The cuts on his arm stung as the juice ran down his wrist and dribbled over the sand.
Sir Tode stepped to his side, blinking across the endless desert. “It sounded like those birds understood our riddle.”
“Of course they did,” Peter said bitterly. “It’s about them. Whoever wrote it needs us to stop the ravens.”
Sir Tode suppressed a shudder. “I hope you’re wrong. They’ve got us beat in numbers and strength. Even with the Fantastic Eyes, it would be suicide.”
These words filled Peter with fury and shame. The professor had specifically warned him against letting others learn of the Fantastic Eyes. And now, thanks to the ravens, he had failed. “Our first step is to steal the eyes back. Then we’ll worry about fighting.” He hefted his bag over one shoulder and started off in the direction of the great spire, the spot the birds had referred to as the Nest.
Sir Tode shook his head, walking alongside him. “I agree with the basic principle, Peter, but how are we going to pull it off?”
“Simple.” The boy gestured toward the rolling dunes, dotted with wrecked ships. “We’re getting help.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A DEN of THIEVES
Peter and Sir Tode continued eastward under the giant moon, trying their best to forget the mortal screams of Old Scabbs. The faint breeze, which had long since dried their clothes, pushed softly against their faces. The terrain of the Just Deserts was growing hillier, making it more difficult to maintain a straight line. Being from a port town, Peter knew how to navigate by the stars—the only problem was that he could not see them. More than once Sir Tode had steered them off course by misunderstanding the boy’s directions.
“No,” Peter said, realizing they had veered south once again. “The Pole Star is the big one.”
“Well, they all look bloody small, if you ask me! How am I supposed to tell the one from the other?”
The two argued about this and many other things, until they finally agreed to put their navigating frustrations aside and do some thinking about the riddle. “Let’s assume that the ravens are working for the king,” said Peter, who had since memorized the words.
“So that’s settled, then? The king is evil?”
The boy nodded. “If the ravens work for him, then he’s definitely evil. Also, Captain Amos called Old Scabbs a traitor—we have to figure out why.”
“Perhaps he and the other prisoners tried to stop the evil king?”
“But how? What was their crime?”
Sir Tode considered this question. “The note mentions ‘kings aplenty.’ You don’t think there could be more than one? Perhaps a good king and a bad king are at war?”
“It could be . . . and maybe it’s the good king who’s written this note and needs us to rescue him?”
“Or perhaps the bad king wrote it?” Sir Tode said. “Or someone else altogether?”
“It’s all so confusing!” Peter grumbled. “If only we knew how the stupid riddle ended. I’m sure that last bit is the key to this whole puzzle.”
By this point you have probably guessed, like the ravens, what the last words of the note were. For anyone familiar with rhyming verse, figuring that out would be a simple matter of compiling a list of potential rhymes with “relief” and trying out all the words to see what makes the most sense. Sadly, because Peter was too busy being a thief instead of a schoolboy, he was still having trouble figuring out this vital clue.
“Whatever the answer, I’m sure it’s right under our noses,” Sir Tode said. “But between my whiskers and your blindness, we’ll have a rough time spotting it!”
Peter didn’t share Sir Tode’s amusement. “At least I have an
excuse,” he muttered. Ever since their ordeal at Kettle Rock, he had found himself growing more and more irritated by the knight’s constant foolery. They had witnessed a grisly murder, and yet Sir Tode continued to treat everything like some kind of game.
They continued in silence until reaching a series of escalating ridges, at which point Peter stopped. “There’s a campfire down there, behind that second hill,” he said, sensing the change in temperature. “Someone’s just put it out.”
Sir Tode had learned better than to argue with his friend’s uncanny senses. He stared into the darkness, wondering what awaited them. “Peter,” he said nervously, “you know we don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do,” the boy replied, wishing he still had his fishhook. “Stay close.”
A few minutes later, they were standing over a wrecked boat named the Snark Hunter. Beside it were the remnants of a bonfire, where someone had been roasting centipedes. “It looks like a campsite,” Sir Tode whispered. “Only it’s deserted.”
Or rather, it looked deserted. Peter listened to the cool air—there were definitely heartbeats nearby. The boy raised his open hands and cleared his throat:
Blinded and binded in whitest yarn,
Here comes Peter Nimble, who means no harm!
There was a brief pause, then came the sound of several men pulling themselves out of the sand where they had been hiding. Peter heard five in all. Each smelled quite a bit like Old Scabbs and probably looked no better.
“We thought you was marauders,” one of them explained, embarrassed.
“Or Officer Trolley,” another said.
“Or ravens,” spoke a third. And at this final thought, each of them shuddered.