“We’re fellow prisoners,” Peter said. “And we’re looking to get to the ravens’ nest.”
The old men responded with concerned chuckles. “I’m afraid you’ve got it backward, sonny,” a stout one named Patch said. “You’re trying to keep away from the Nest. Far as possible, in fact. Here, sit down and have yourself some dust maggot; maybe that’ll clear your head.” The old men all shuffled closer, urging Peter and Sir Tode to join them around the fire, which they relit. The two newcomers sat down, realizing just how hungry the previous day had left them. Over dinner, the prisoners introduced themselves as Patch, Clipper, Cough, Bogie, and Twiddlesticks.
“Those are all burgle trades,” Peter said upon hearing their names. “Just like Old Scabbs.” Scabbing, if you are not aware, is the art of swapping goods. For example, if you were interested in stealing a ruby ring off of someone’s finger, you would take the ring and leave a bit of twine tied ’round a pebble so that the victim wouldn’t notice that their precious jewelry had gone missing until they actually looked at their finger. This is exactly what Poor Old Scabbs had tried doing when he replaced the lemon from Peter’s bag with a rock.
“Of course, chum!” the one named Twiddlesticks said. “We’re all called after our thieving specialties—just like you, Peter Nimble.”
“Who says I’m a thief?” the boy protested.
The one named Bogie leaned close. “Why, when you been at it as long as us, you gets a feel for it, hmm?”
“And from what I spy, I’d say you was among the very best,” Clipper added. The other men muttered in agreement, saying things like, “Those fingers!” and “Slinks like a shadow!”
Peter blushed, remembering what Professor Cake had said at the beginning of their journey about him being a great thief. “Thanks, I guess.”
While enjoying their grub(s), Peter and Sir Tode listened to the old men share stories about life in the Just Deserts. The men explained how the ravens slept heavy at night and let the prisoners roam free—provided they remained completely hidden during the day. Sir Tode treated them to a harrowing retelling of what had happened to Poor Old Scabbs, and how he was now buried at the foot of Kettle Rock.
“That’s a shame,” Clipper tsked. “He had a right nice tooth, he did. I’ve half a mind to visit the grave—only it’s too dangerous, seeing as how the ravens is always flapping about there.”
“So you won’t go near Kettle Rock?” Peter said. “Even at night?”
“Not a chance,” the thief named Bogie said. “I ain’t ventured by there in eight years, not since my first run-in with a pair of guard birds.” He raised his hand, showing off his three missing fingers. “Only reason Scabbs went anywheres near that place is on account of him being touched in the head.”
“If you don’t go to Kettle Rock, how do you find water?”
The old men all smacked their mouths in wistful silence. “Oh, you gets used to it,” Cough said, wheezing.
This was just the opportunity Peter had hoped for. “Maybe I can help with that?” he said to the men. “My friend and I have come here because we need your help. We have to get something back that the ravens stole from us.”
Patch spat bitterly into the sand. “’Course they stole from you, sonny. That’s what they do is steals from us till we gots nothing left. Why, everything we ever had in the world is locked up in that Nest of theirs.”
The tallest of the group, Twiddlesticks, slid close to Peter. He placed a long, spindly arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t mean to let you down, chum. But it’s not likely we’re going to cross those birdies again. We’re lucky they let us live at all.”
“If there’s one law in the Just Deserts,” Clipper added, “it’s that you be good and grateful that the ravens is so soft on us. They have good cause to wants us dead!” A few of the others groaned at this sentiment.
“But what did you do to make them hate you all so much?” Sir Tode said. “I’m sure it’s a story worth hearing.”
The men lowered their heads, hemming awkwardly. Only Clipper answered, muttering something about how “awful bad” they had behaved. “Why, the sound of those cries shivers me right to this day,” he said.
Peter felt a flash of annoyance at Sir Tode’s changing the topic of conversation. Who cared what these old men had done? What mattered was the mission. He rose, returning to his subject. “My companion and I are going with or without you. However, if you agree to help us, I can give you something in return.” He pulled the rumbling wineskin out of his bag. “Clear, fresh rainwater.” He uncorked the end and began to pour the bottle’s contents out onto the sand. Seeing this, the prisoners dropped to the ground, took handfuls of mud into their mouths, and sucked the grains dry, moaning with relief.
Peter replaced the cork, cutting off their supply. “This skin contains a bit of magic inside that can give you enough water for ten lifetimes. If you help us, it’s yours.”
The prisoners looked to one another, their mouths still full of sand. Peter dangled the prize before them, letting them hear the rumbling rain cloud trapped inside. The five men watched the wondrous wineskin, their bodies swaying back and forth ever so slightly.
Twiddlesticks spat the sand from his mouth and stood up. “Right, chum. What’d you have in mind?”
Peter knew that the key to succeeding with a major burglary was preparation. If they were to have any hope of getting the Fantastic Eyes back, he would need as much information as possible. “First I need to know about this Nest,” he said to them.
“It’s like this,” Twiddlesticks explained. “The Nest is big . . . real big. It sticks out of the sand like a giant’s thimble. Guard birds are everywhere—especially in daytime, when they’re all flapping about.”
Peter nodded. “So we need to hit them before sunrise, while they’re still asleep. That way we will only have to deal with a few guards and not a whole army.” He turned to the old man named Patch. “I’m going to need a diversion. What materials have you got with you?”
“Nothing much. Maybe a few scraps o’ sail and whatnot.”
Peter scowled, thinking. “You’ll have to pull more things together for this job. Can you fashion an axe?”
The thief responded with a delighted cackle. “I think I sees what you’re up to, sonny. I’ll get right on it!”
“Twiddlesticks, you’ll do locks with me.”
“Of course, chum,” he said, cracking his knuckles.
“Bogie, we’re going to need you to go in there and learn the layout first. Just find out where the locks are and how many guards are stationed at what posts.”
The thief named Bogie sighed. “I was afraid of that . . . it’s only, I’m out of practice something awful.”
“I’m sure it’s been a long time,” Peter said. “But some things you never forget. Meet us back here in an hour.”
“Right, right.” Bogie picked himself up and marched toward the horizon.
Sir Tode almost swallowed his tongue as he watched the prisoner walk away. With each step, Bogie’s figure blended into the surroundings until there was nothing left. “Why, he’s disappeared completely!” Only when the knight squinted his eyes and looked in the exact right place could he make out footprints forming in the sand. “Is that a thieving magic?”
“No, just a knack,” Peter said. Unable to see for himself, the boy was glad to hear that Bogie was so good at his trade. It seemed every thief here possessed skills beyond anything he had encountered back home—skills that nearly rivaled his own. He just hoped that it would be enough. “Cough,” he said, returning to the plan. “I’ll need you to distract the guards when we get there. Think you can pull them away?”
“Easy-peasy,” Cough said, already collecting a supply of good pebbles for his pouch.
Peter moved to the last of them. “And that brings us to you, Clipper. I need you waiting at the cough to jump out and—”
“N-n-no, sir!” the thief interrupted. “I know what you’re gonna ask of me, and I won
’t do it!”
“We need you,” Peter persisted. “Without you to clip, the guards will be able to alert the whole flock, and then we’re good as dead. You can use my bag.”
“I said no! I’m not doin’ it again!” By now the old man was choking back dry sobs. “I agreed to help nick the joint, but I won’t clip nobody—it’s too much!” He backed away from the group.
“Be reasonable, chum,” Twiddlesticks said, a note of menace in his voice. “You know the boy’s plan won’t bloody work without a clipper. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
Peter folded his arms. “I need a clipper. And if I don’t get one, the deal is off. No wineskin.”
“Wineskin, pshh!” Clipper kicked the sand. “This whole business stinks something awful! I don’t want no part in it! Never again—I swore it!” He stepped close to Peter, whispering, “You watch yourself, little one. There ain’t no shelter in a den o’ thieves!” This was a well-known thieving proverb, but the boy hadn’t the slightest idea how it applied to his situation. Before he could respond, the old man turned heel and ran for the hills. Peter listened to him stagger over the dunes, moaning, “Never again!”
“What was that about?”the boy said, turning back to the rest of the group.
“Ignore him,” Twiddlesticks said. “He’s a coward with a conscience.” At this, the other men chuckled. “You still got us. Bogie can clip well enough. He’s not as fast, but he can tie a knot with the best of ’em.”
Peter sighed. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work. “So it’s settled. We meet back here in an hour and head for the Nest.”
“Right!” The men sprang from their seats and started off in different directions.
Peter and Sir Tode now sat alone before the warm fire. “I hope this works,” the boy said, showing uncertainty for the first time. “These men are great thieves. But I’m not sure they can be trusted.” He patted the rumbling wineskin in his bag, just to double-check that it was still there.
“Peter?” Sir Tode cleared his throat. “Have you got any job for me?”
The boy had been afraid the knight would ask this. “Not tonight. I’m going to need you to just stay close.”
“But—”
“These men are experts. You’re going to have to trust me.” He offered a halfhearted smile. “Don’t worry, though—I’m sure your gifts will be of use soon enough.”
The thieves returned within the hour, each one practically giddy with anticipation. Twiddlesticks had rubbed his finger joints with some sort of foul-smelling worm extract that left them shining and slick. He was now talking sweetly to each of his long fingers, calling them his “lovelies.” Bogie had come back early and was already drawing a map of the Nest’s layout in the sand for the others. Cough had his pouch crammed full of smooth, round pebbles, perfect for throwing.
When Patch came around, the group nearly had a heart attack. He was wearing what (from a distance) looked exactly like a ragged military uniform. “The warden!” Sir Tode gasped as the axe-wielding figure lumbered over the hill.
The prisoners instantly jumped to their feet and ran for the dunes. Peter waved his arms, calling them back. “It’s just Patch! I can smell him.”
The others hesitated for a moment. They looked behind them to see the “warden” on the sand, doubled over with laughter. “I got you sorry lot!” He shook so hard his wig slipped off, revealing Patch’s ruddy face. “Got you good, I did!” The thieves tiptoed closer until they were all huddled around him. The man had somehow dyed his rags to look the spit-and-image of Officer Trolley. The axe they had been so afraid of was just a few scraps of splintered wood.
“Well, I’ll be snickered,” Twiddlesticks said. “It’s really you.”
“Told you I was good!” Patch twirled his wig on one finger. “None of you lot believed me before when I says I was the best patch there ever was! Shoulda seen your ruddy faces when I come over that hill, though! Showed you good, I did!” He launched into new fits of laughter.
“Excellent,” Peter said, nodding. “If he fooled all of you, he’ll definitely fool the ravens.”
The group took off for the eastern horizon shortly after midnight. In order to keep pace, Peter suggested that Sir Tode ride in his bag. “This might be a good place for you to stay during the mission,” he said in an effort to spare the knight’s feelings. “If I’m in trouble, you can spring out and surprise whoever’s attacking.”
Sir Tode was beginning to feel left out. “The professor gave me one job, Peter—to be your eyes. How can I do that from the bottom of a bag?”
Peter ignored the question and kept walking with the thieves.
The moon lit their way as they dashed over cool, sandy hills. Peter heard muffled heartbeats, but they encountered no one. “Where are all the other prisoners?” he finally asked Twiddlesticks.
The old thief hemmed. “Oh, they’re around, chum. Just shy is all.”
The group reached the Nest about an hour before dawn. Peter ducked behind the closest hill and let Sir Tode out of his bag for a breath of fresh air. “What’s it look like?” he asked his companion.
Sir Tode peeked over the crest. “Good heavens . . . it’s gigantic.” For once, he was not exaggerating. The Nest that stood before them was at least a hundred feet high. The entire thing was made from scraps of wrecked boats. It was indeed shaped a bit like a massive thimble, only more narrow. Rising up from its base were four turrets, each guarded by ravens flying night watch.
Sir Tode huddled close to his friend. “Peter, are you sure about this plan? We don’t know the whole story behind this place.” He cast a nervous glance at the four prisoners creeping over the dunes. “And these men—”
“—are the only chance we have,” Peter said. “Besides, without them, I can’t get back the Fantastic Eyes and finish my mission.”
Sir Tode fell silent for a moment. “I thought it was our mission . . . ,” he murmured softly.
Peter and the thieves assembled behind a dune facing the rear wall. Bogie filled them in with a few more details. “Now, I seen three guard birds at each side, that’s six in all. There’s a couple more flappers at each high turret and maybe the odd patrol bird inside. The main barracks is where the birds is sleeping—you don’t want to linger there. You should find a staircase that’ll take you straight to the toppermost level. That’s where they hides their treasure. Now, there’s locks plenty on that door, so Twiddlesticks and sonny gots their work cut out for ’em.”
“Think you can handle it, chum?” Twiddlesticks asked, nudging Peter.
The boy grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Just try and keep up.” Despite the unpleasant company, he was beginning to enjoy being in his element—here was a whole band of adults that admired and respected his abilities. He helped Sir Tode into his satchel and slung it over one shoulder. “Are we ready?”
“Of course,” the others replied.
By now you have witnessed how truly gifted Peter Nimble is, despite his handicap. You have heard him referred to as a master thief by multiple authorities, and you have seen him work his way out of numerous dangerous situations. You may be thinking that his blindness is no handicap at all, and that it somehow gives him an advantage over the average seeing person. Some of you may even be thinking to yourselves, “Boy! I wish I were blind like the great Peter Nimble!” If you are thinking that, stop right now. Because whatever benefits you may believe that blindness carries with it, you must understand that there are just as many disadvantages.
For example, if you were to give an order to a bunch of thieving prisoners, and they answered “of course” while smiling to one another and rubbing their hands, you would see this and know that they were planning something terrible—which was exactly the case here. Peter Nimble, however, could not see this, and therefore was not alerted to any immediate danger. Normally, Sir Tode would spot this sort of thing, but since he was confined to the bag, the shifting eyes, rubbing hands, and nasty smiles went undetected.
“Good,” the boy said, totally oblivious. “Let’s get to it.” And with that, Peter, Sir Tode, and four untrustworthy thieves crept toward the Nest.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PETER NIMBLE NICKS the NEST
Peter’s plan had several parts. The first was to get past the perimeter guards; the next was to take care of the ravens on the turrets. Luckily, he had an expert patch, a brilliant cougher, and a serviceable clipper.
Peter and the others hung back while Patch—still dressed exactly like Officer Trolley—went out to meet the guards. If you haven’t guessed, a “patch” is someone who disguises himself, usually in fine clothes, in order to get close to a target. Patches generally operate near or within gaming rooms, wedding chapels, and other spots filled with well-dressed, stupid people. Peter knew from the conversation at Kettle Rock that the ravens were on speaking terms with the warden; he only hoped that the guard birds wouldn’t see through the makeshift disguise too quickly.
“Hey, you lot!” he heard Patch call in his best Officer Trolley imitation. “How goes the night?”
“It goes as it should, warden,” one of the ravens replied. “We fly vigil, protecting our sleeping brothers. Why are you so far from your post? You know you are not welcome here.”
“Ease off. I was only in the area and thought I’d say hello.”
“Which you have done. Now, go before we lose patience with you,” the bird said.
It sounded to Peter like Officer Trolley and the ravens were not on the best terms. Still, they weren’t attacking him . . . yet.
While Patch tried his best to keep the conversation going, Cough crept past the guards and around the side of the structure. His body was buried under the sand with only his eyes and nose poking out for air, like some kind of bearded crocodile. When he was within throwing distance of the Nest, he lifted his arm from the sand and tested the wind.
A “cough” is a burgling trick where you create a distraction by making a noise. The most common cough is when an amateur thief hurls a rock through a nearby window, hoping to draw a dim-witted watchman away from his post. Cough, however, was no amateur, and when he set to throwing rocks, the effect was nothing short of magical. Taking several pebbles from his pouch, he tossed them one at a time into the darkness. With each flick of his wrist, another stone fell, sounding exactly like a footfall in the sand. To enhance the deception, he tossed his voice in the same direction, making it sound as though two people were whispering as they ran past.