Lyndon was lucky to get out of bed at the best of times. The squirrel was startled awake by every creak from the attic above and every rustle of the oak's dwindling count of leaves outside. In the mornings, Lyndon usually couldn't sit up until midday. Through the night, he would lie awake and silently worry about everything; the flooded cellar, the city, and the tense relationship they had with Ratio.
Mostly, he would think about himself. Twenty-six seasons old and already he looked forty. The city's semi-permanent haze of soot and Martin-knows-what-else the Foundries pumped into the air had dyed his younger, bright red fur an oily rust-brown. Then there was the diet. The vermin insisted on putting meat in absolutely anything that would hold it: Bird meat in pies, fish in wraps, chunks of flesh on sticks and eggs fried in industrial greases.
Lyndon would spend quite some time fantasising about food that did not contain dead creatures. Redwallers were supposed to enjoy candied chestnuts, meadowcream with sweet berries and warm scones with jam straight from the kitchen ovens. It would all be lovingly and carefully crafted by the chef, who would be jolly and always have seconds ready. Here, it was a factory. Everything was slathered in something acidic and the jolly chefs were scarred stoats and peg-legged rats who had taken to cooking after an injury at the docks.
Nobeast seemed pleased to see Lyndon. He missed the friendly atmosphere at Redwall, where your food was served and presented nicely. This evening, his stew had been slopped onto his plate hard enough to splatter his beautiful doublet.
Claws tapped against the attic floor. Ellen was back. The crow stirred overhead, but Lyndon rolled over and tried to ignore her. His large ears flicked. No chance of sleep now. He pulled himself from bed and blearily shrugged on a shirt and breeches. Bare-pawed, he felt his way to the attic stairs.
From outside, faint green light shone through the attic windows. The bioluminescent fungus that the vermin had cultivated grew wild in places, finding its way into moist nooks and eaves of buildings where mud and water had formed pockets of life. Though Lyndon feared the city, he had never seen anything quite so incredible as Mossmire at night. From the embassy's tallest tower, the city was a conflagration of countless bluish-green embers.
"Ellen? You made it back?"
"You fret too much, woodlander," the crow rasped. Her nest was a mix of twigs snatched from the oak and ragged laundry stolen from the countless lines threaded between the city's flats.
"They'll eat you if they catch you. I'm allowed to worry." Lyndon shivered and braced himself, wishing for a fireplace.
The crow coughed derisively. "How fares your merry household, Lynny?"
"Haven't had a decent break since before the Hundred Days Festival. The vermin really take the celebrations seriously."
"You'd understand why, if you'd been there," Ellen muttered wistfully, "You would have seen what ambition and strength the pine marten had."
"I saw the fires. I wasn't so young not to care about him destroying the swamps," Lyndon huffed. He had been a sprightly sixteen-seasons-old messenger back then. The squirrel could still smell the freshly cut timber and the veil of smoke that had been carried all the way to Redwall. Lyndon had run back and forth from the Abbey to Salamandastron for months, carrying frightened letters from the Abbot asking what was to be done with the oncoming wall of scaffolds. The Hundred Days: the birth of Mossmire.
In the end, Lord Beringer came down with a crew of woodlanders and Long Patrollers to confront the self-styled Lord Ratio. That was when Lyndon had first seen him, at the building works. The vermin carried no weapons and his yellow bib was not covered by armour. He was just trying to make the vermin shanty towns more efficient, Ratio had explained. He spouted ideas about encouraging a boom in vermin industry practices, about increased living standards and food distribution. Most bewildering, the pine marten thought the badger had come to help.
In the end, the surprised Beringer consented. Salamandastron poured gold into the project and validated the currency of metal stamps. The Long Patrol was drafted into labour work. In return, Lord Ratio agreed to renounce his title and to limit the city's expansion. Most importantly, no vermin could settle outside the city. Seasons later, when the scaffolds had gone and the city was pressed to its limits, Lyndon returned as a diplomat.
"You seem fond of him, Ellen," Lyndon remarked.
"Fond? He cut down my swamp," Ellen muttered. "The family tree ended up as furniture. But I admire his determination. You, however, waste your time trying to impress him," She stared at the squirrel for a moment. Lyndon has the uncomfortable sensation she was only just noticing how terrible he looked. "You need to impress Folio. The ferret is your key out of the city."
"Perhaps, but I'm worried about Kelp. I just need to talk him out of his siege mentality." Lyndon heard her shuffle in the dark. A horrid thought struck him. "Ellen, you weren't spotted coming back here, were you?"
"Get some rest, Lynny." Ellen fell silent. Lyndon moved forward as if to touch her, then turned to leave.
Kelp stared through the window at the guardhouse. It was a wooden box, painted in black and white stripes, with enough room for one of the vermin to sit on a stool, his pike dripping in the evening rain. The city had no civil guards– every sentry was privately owned. Ferahgo Foundries had the Corpsemakers, a group of idlers with none of the glory of their forebears. Ratio had the Architect's Watch, which specialised in patrolling Gulo Gardens and turning away beggars and ruffians. The pine marten had given the Embassy one guard.
Kelp curled his lip and turned from the window. One flea-bitten vermin with a pike. One was not good enough. There was an entire horde waiting on his doorstep to attack. He would cut down the brutes with sabre, knife or his bare paws– Kelp was more than ready for a fight with the city's inhabitants.
Kelp had enlisted the help of the Embassy's able bodied woodlanders. Procuring weapons was shockingly easy– the foundries would literally sell anything on the spot if you had the stamps. The main trouble had been the whole 'able-bodied' part. There were twenty six woodlanders in the building. Four were children, six were going grey in the fur and seven insisted they were pacifists.
That left nine woodlanders, plus Kelp himself. Yet as he wandered through his armoury, the otter saw only eight swords neatly placed in their racks. Kelp wore his and slept with it. The other missing sword belonged to Lyndon. Kelp's supposed comrade in arms. It had been different when they had first met. Lyndon would do anything to best him. He had once climbed a chimney for a dare. They had sparred together. Now Lyndon's sword was collecting dust in one of the cabinets. Kelp knew why this was happening. It was like a hostage situation, the captives bonding with their vermin hosts. Lyndon was actually growing fond of Ratio and his cohort of rich beasts and factory owners like Folio.
Kelp found the sword wrapped in rags. It was Mossmire's best replication of a squirrel's sabre, curved and short. Kelp weighed it in his paws. Lyndon had not touched it in months. The otter padded up the stairs and hesitated at the landing outside Lyndon's room. He raised a paw to knock. A flicker of doubt was all it took for Kelp to give up.
Dear Lynny,
I would be very grateful for your company in my sparring sessions. It's been too long since our last match. I've oiled and polished your blade. I hope it will still feel familiar to your paws.
~K
Kelp's fireplace burned hot with paper scraps. Previous drafts of the letter had implored Lyndon to talk with him privately, accused the squirrel of becoming a recluse and even asked forgiveness for neglecting their friendship. Kelp stared at the letter. It communicated absolutely nothing he really wanted to say. But it was either that or talk to Lyndon face to face. Kelp knew he had not the courage for that.
