Welkin Weasels #6: Heastward Ho! Paperback - 2003

Chapter One

Monty Sylver, private detective, was buttering a large piece of toast for his veterinary friend Bryony Bludd, when Jis McFail knocked on the door. The door was ajar and the landjill's whiskered nose was already poking round it. Monty gestured for the stoat to come inside.

'Enter, enter,' he called from the kitchenette. 'Come in, Jis McFail. You know that if the door's open, you don't need to stand on ceremony.'

'But it's the mayor,' said Jis McFail, her voice quavering with awe. 'It's Mr Poynt, Mayor of all Muggidrear.'

'What's the mayor?' asked Bryony, poring over a book on the anatomy of a toad. She looked up. 'Where is he?'

'He's on the doorstep,' replied Jis McFail, her voice still quivering with excitement. 'Standin' there, as fat and white-furred as you like.'

The mayor had actually come up the stairs behind the landjill and was catching his breath. 'Fat?' he wheezed. 'Where do you get fat from? I'm well built. I have big bones. It's the white pelt, it makes me look bigger . . .' Then he suddenly realized he was trying to justify his size to a common landjill. 'Anyway, what business is it of yours?'

Jis McFail's reverence for high office evaporated immediately. 'Don't you come it the big stoat in my house,' she snapped. 'That's my landin' your paws are on. I've entertained better stoats than you in this house, I can tell you. Why, there's Jis Bludd and Jal Sylver themselves, very respected mustelids, and they're not toffee-nosed. You just keep a civil tongue between your fangs, or you'll be out on the street quicker than a cockroach can find a crack in the wall, I can tell you.'

With that she left the mayor standing there, sucking in air, glaring at her. She stamped down the stairs, muttering under her breath.

The mayor went to the doorway and looked in, satisfying himself that these weasels lived in a hovel. See how the wallpaper was peeling!

Look how badly the kitchen range was blacked! The tiles around the fireplace were cracked and worn! And the forelimbchairs were tatty and scuffed around the edges! How satisfying. How comforting. This nasty little flat was nothing like the huge grand manor in which the mayor himself lived, with its flock wallpaper and Ratgency striped upholstery. There was no comparison.

It made the mayor feel important to see how others lived: he had his big house with its big garden, both tended lovingly by his sister Sybil.

'Seen enough, Mayor?' asked Bryony. 'Do come in.'

Jeremy Poynt stepped over the threshold. 'I, er, thank you. Yes. Bludd, isn't it?'

'That's right, Mayor. Bludd by name and blood by profession.'

The mayor winced. He was squeamish. Even a mention of the red stuff and he felt a little giddy.

Monty gave the toast to Bryony on a small tea plate, then turned to Jeremy, wiping the butter from his paws on a towel. 'What can I do for you, Mayor Poynt? Piece of hot buttered toast?'

'Tempting, but no thanks. It's what I can do for you,' puffed the mayor. 'A letter!' He held up an envelope which had been sealed with green wax. 'A letter from the Great Pangolin, emperor of Far Kathay. It came in the diplomatic bag to the queen. I happened to be at the palace at the time and offered to rush it over here. It's addressed to you - the, er, Right Honourable Montegu Sylver.'

Bryony looked up, hot butter dribbling down her whiskers. Despite herself, she was impressed. No wonder the mayor had brought this missive in person. The Great Pangolin! Emperor of Far Kathay! The Orient had always fascinated Bryony. Land of silk and porcelain. The place from whence rhubarb, which had excellent medicinal qualities, had come. Region of big-sleeved mustelid robes, junks and sampans, pointy eaves, long, drooping whiskers and plaited tails. A huge, mysterious country.

'A letter for me?' said Monty, stretching out his paw. 'How nice. I was wondering how old Pango was getting along.'

The mayor gaped. 'Old Pang-? Come off it, Sylver.'

'Yes,' said Bryony, on the mayor's side for once, 'come off it, Monty.'

Monty clicked his teeth. 'Oh, all right. I was going to kid you both that I knew him at university, but, you know, he's never been out of Kathay. I understand the only westerner he's ever met is Marko Poko, a polecat from the continent. It will be interesting to read what he has to say.'

Monty broke the seal and took out the letter, which was perfumed with a kind of musk. The page was long and yellow, embossed with dragons on the back. Monty unfolded it and then paced up and down as he read it, his lips moving with the words.

'Well?' cried the mayor, unable to contain his impatience. 'What's it say?'

Monty looked up. 'What does it say? Why, Mayor Poynt, this is a private letter.'

The mayor clasped his forelegs together in disappointment. 'Aw, please, Sylver. The Great Pangolin. After all . . .'

Monty sighed. 'Well, if you must know, he wishes me to visit him in the Forbidden Palace in Far Kathay. He has some detecting work for me to do. Someone has stolen the precious jade shoes of the Green Idol of Ommm, a god fashioned in the image of a winged tree-shrew. His own mammals, pangolins among others of course, have been unable to discover the whereabouts of the precious paw-wear or the thieves.'

'Ommm's shoes?' cried Bryony. 'Why, I understand they're priceless.'

The mayor, who had never heard of Ommm, and couldn't care less about him, was deeply impressed despite himself. Fancy Sylver being asked to visit by the greatest despot in the world! Poynt might have envied the weasel detective if he had enjoyed travelling, but he hated foreign food, foreign beds, foreign languages, foreign coins and really all things foreign. The one thing he was grateful to Montegu Sylver for was smashing all his sister Sybil's priceless Mole Dynasty porcelain vases. They were huge, offensive things with lots of nasty dragons and squiggly characters on them. Sylver and his crew had shattered the lot after a masked ball at the mayor's place.

Still, here was a weasel who didn't find all foreign things offensive, and was going to travel to the Orient to meet an emperor whose word was law, who meted out justice to millions, whose vast lands stretched from pole to pole, and back again.

Envy, no. Admiration, hardly. Awe, a little.

'Well then,' he said. 'I expect you'll be wanting to pack.'

'If I go,' said Monty.

'If you go?' cried the mayor. 'Why, you have to go. After all, the request came in the diplomatic bag. The queen is involved. She might only be six years of age, but she's got a tongue on her like an asp. I myself, as the courier, am involved now. You have to go.'

'I'll think about it.'

'Well don't take too long,' growled the mayor, 'and when you're ready to go, let me know. I want to send the Great Pangolin a present.' And he stamped off down the stairs.

'You do have to go, you know,' Bryony said, once they were sure the mayor had finally gone, 'don't you?'

'I expect so,' replied Monty. 'But it needs some thought. I'm not going to say yes automatically, just because the mayor and the queen are overawed by an oriental emperor.'

'Of course not.'

“The taste of today in its quips and puns.” -- Times Educational Supplement

“Thrilling and imaginative and reminiscent of Tolkien.” -- Carousel

Garry Kilworth has written many novels for children and adults on science-fiction, fantasy and historical themes.