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Chapter 20. Retrograde Analysis
by Daskin
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"I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go."
-Theodore Roethke
###
Daskin sat, hunched, atop his own luggage chest, his traveling cloak pulled tightly about his narrow shoulders. The visual effect of all this was to make him seem even smaller than usual, and in the darkness he was hardly visible. They'd been traveling… how long? Maybe a few hours, maybe it was close to morning. Daskin was fairly sure he'd nodded off once or twice, but couldn't quite recall waking up—he remained still in that hazy state of half-consciousness.
"Mmmmff. Dunno what—oh, no, you bally well oughtn't touch that." Daskin's head snapped toward the sudden sound, and he squinted through the dim—Fjord remained in a somewhat different half-conscious state, his eerie, blank stare punctuated by delirious rambling.
"Oh, cut out yer babbling, ya daft nugget," a voice rumbled in the darkness. That would be the hedgehog, then, the burly, smelly beast they'd taken on to hasten their flight. Daskin found the accent comforting; it reminded him of home.
The cart bounced a little, and something slid along the floor and jostled Daskin's footpaw. He reached down and picked it up—it was Hector's chess set, a pretty folding board not dissimilar to the one Juniper had bought for him. Daskin ran his paws over the carved lines between the squares, feeling the soothing order of the board and the slight scratches that declared, softly, that the board was not just a decoration for some noblebeast's end table but had been played hundreds of times.
"No, you can't make me, I say! A chap is entitled to refuse an ear-extension if he so pleases. Mary, I don't—"
Daskin felt a surge of irritation. The hare dancer had been knocked utterly senseless in the explosion, he supposed, but—Daskin shuffled over to the hare, who continued to mutter insensibly. He stared into Fjord's glassy eyes for a long moment.
"Who're—oh! It's the fellow in the fine hat. You're all silver. I say, that's a dashing color on you, but have you considered green? I'm told it's quite fashionable these days, wot?"
Daskin lashed out with the chessboard, catching Fjord across the temple; the hare dropped all at once to the floor of the cart. Daskin found himself breathing heavily, very much awake, and several members of the troupe—those who had been roused by the noise—regarded the ferret kit's outburst with slack-jawed amazement.
"I thought," Daskin began to proclaim, "it might—" he mumbled, "—might wake him up."
Hector shifted position as though to speak, but paused a moment, watching Daskin. Something passed between the fox and the ferret, a flicker of communication in dim silence, and then—
"That's our clever little Silver!" Juniper piped up, his cheerfulness perhaps a bit strained in its very intensity. "He'll wake up and be good as new—"
"—assuming the little twit hasn't killed him," Alastia snarled.
Daskin stumbled a bit on the way back to his seat. Fjord groaned.
"Oh, dear. My head feels as though a parade of hedgehogs in wrought iron boots have been doing the bally merengue on my skull, and wait just a tick... Where am I?"
Daskin swallowed.
"You're with Hector's troupe, we've left the Abbey. You've been babbling nonsense since the tower fell…"
###
From the lawn, Daskin felt more than heard the bell tower fall—first the rush of air from the firestick exploding, and then the shockwave from the collapsing tower itself ruffled his fur. This was it, then; the tension he had sensed in the truce's wake had been broken, and in grand fashion. Surely, mere hours after the truce's conclusion, this explosion could not be a coincidence.
As shrieks died down to a clamor of angry voices and the occasional cries of the wounded, Daskin wandered casually in the direction of the rubble. He had to get closer, to find out what had happened… his instincts, of course, were screaming for him to find Hector and, above all else, get out. His heart throbbed in his chest, making him so acutely conscious of his own heartbeat. Even in the darkness, Daskin expected the occasional beast walking past him to witness his heaving chest and pull him aside, whether for medical attention or out of suspicion.
And above his own heartbeat and the sound of countless voices, he heard… something. A young voice, younger than his own, crying out. He looked around, and in the dim spotted somebeast just beyond the edge of the collapsed tower, hidden in the shadow of a huge block of stone. He padded over, quietly.
"Hello? Are you hurt?"
Daskin was close enough to see her now—a female weasel kit. She didn't respond, whimpering and grabbing at her shoulder. He thought for a moment, considered leaving her there; he didn't need to be weighed down, and she'd no doubt be picked up by somebeast shortly. Daskin took another look.
"Can you walk?"
"I wan' my, my Poppy!" As she spoke, the weasel kit attempted to stand and succeeded for a fleeting moment before swaying a bit. She slumped against the stone. Daskin sighed, and threaded one paw around her back to support her.
"What's your name?" Daskin struggled a bit, his own legs and back crying out as they tried to support the weasel's weight, pulling her upright. He couldn't lift her, not entirely.
Sniffle, sniffle, hiccup… "I'm—my named Ella."
Daskin managed to half-lift, half-pull the smaller weasel along with him. He knew he'd seen an infirmary during his wanderings before the show, but where?
"My name's…"
Slow, deep breaths. His legs burned, his back shrieking as he hunched to carry Ella along. Her chest hitched, he could feel it, and as close as they were he could smell blood on her, raw and metallic. The heat coming off the little weasel frightened him a bit as well. Did it mean she was badly hurt?
"My name's Daskin."
Oh, no… don't get distracted, idiot!
Ella whimpered, clutching at Daskin's cloak. Daskin gagged. The tie at his throat strangled him slightly, and he wriggled it into a slightly better position.
"They call me Silver, the troupe does. So it's what you'd best call me, if anybeast asks. So they know who I am, you see." Daskin muttered the last sentence through gritted teeth. He'd saddled himself with a lame weasel kit and a great deal of unnecessary risk; his position was crumbling. Mo chreach! he thought, then smiled a bit as he imagined his parents hearing him say that aloud, like some common beast.
One step, then another. They made it to the infirmary door, and Daskin became again aware of not just the kit's panting and whimpers but his own, which formed a sort of painful counterpoint.
"Oh dear, and who is this? Have I seen you before, dearie?" a mouse clucked at him, scooping Ella into her arms.
"She said her name's Ella," Daskin wheezed. "I found her near… what's left of the bell tower."
"Well, you did quite right to bring her here," the mouse said, her voice sounding quite as though she were scolding him, and she glared at his shoulder. Daskin saw a large smear of blood there, where it had oozed from a cut on Ella's cheek. Little chance of getting this cleaned, then. "What did you say your name was?"
Before he could reply, two beasts spoke at once—
"Ella!" Another weasel, young and worried-looking, his nose bloody, had followed them into the infirmary.
" 'is name's Das—Daskin!"
The infirmary sister's eyes widened, and she hesitated a split-second before turning to the newcomer. Daskin was already pushing past the weasel, through the door, as he heard her shout…
"That's him! He was saying all these horrible things! Then he escaped and he killed her!"
And Daskin was gone, this time cursing aloud as he sprinted down the corridor. She knows now, or she'll figure it out soon enough. Have to get out.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
He made a break for the troupe's cart, feather still bobbing ludicrously as he ran. As soon as he arrived, he dove into the back of the cart, burrowing in between crates and chests that held the troupe's equipment and belongings.
Daskin didn't move until several minutes after he felt the cart rumbling down the road.
###
Daskin pulled himself out from between two boxes that had moved to squash his knees against his chest… whether they had moved to serve as furniture for beasts riding in the cart or simply due to the cart's bumpy ride he couldn't tell, covered as he was with a cloak and two blankets that smelled of fox and mildew.
"Wha—and who do we have here?" Hector yelped as Daskin emerged next to his footpaws. "You've been on here all along?"
Daskin nodded. "We're in trouble."
The fox's eyes narrowed. "Don't I know it," he said, and then raised his voice. "Oy, Juniper! Your ferret's here, and no 'plot devices' involved!"
"Daskin!" the otter chirped. He momentarily let go of the cart, which he was helping to push along. It lurched perilously leftward as the other side pushed faster, and Juniper almost ended up under the wheel before he caught up, practically skipping.
###
The troupe sat in a circle around the campfire, Daskin at Juniper's side. Every few minutes, as Daskin turned to follow one piece or another of the conversation, the otter would swiftly poke him in the side and then act ostentatiously nonchalant as Daskin turned and glared.
Fjord wandered over to sit on Daskin's left, brandishing Hector's chess board at the kit. "I hear this is what you jolly well slapped me senseless with, eh?" The hare frowned. "Er. Slapped me sensible, rather, wot?"
"Yes…?" Daskin replied.
"And… yes. And! Hector said that you play a good game, so I thought by way of being mates we ought to play, if you're up for it?"
Daskin's eyes lit up, and he reached for the board in Fjord's paw. "Sure."
The hare nodded vigorously and began to set up the board. "Err, these ones with the funny little hats go here, right?"
Daskin suppressed a groan. "Yes. Ow!" He turned to glare at Juniper, whose paws were behind his back as he examined the stars overhead.
"Your move."
Quite shortly, the world was gone—his soreness, the distracting otter, and even the hare's annoying mannerisms. Only the game remained.
I go there, he goes there, I go there…
A few moves in, Fjord had already begun frowning, sketching out little diagrams in the air with one paw. His ears folded over at the tips.
"I think I may be about to suffer some casualties, wot!"
"Eeep!" Daskin leapt from his seat, grabbing Juniper by the shoulders as he pounced onto the otter's chest, raining blows on one brawny shoulder. "Stop—that—you—nuisance!"
Daskin turned back to the board and studied the position for a second.
"Put it back." He glared at Fjord.
"Er, wot?" The hare feigned innocence, which was of course completely ludicrous.
"Pawn. Here." Daskin tapped a mysteriously empty square with one claw, shooting the hare another accusatory glance. Fjord plunked the pawn back onto the square. Daskin moved it forward without even looking at it, and then pounced on Juniper again, this time jabbing him in the ribs.
"Er, I do hate to disturb you, but it's your move."
"Mmm." Daskin surveyed the board, then slid his queen to a square adjacent to Fjord's king. He shifted position and feinted another pounce, snickering as Juniper jumped back and raised his paws in self-defense.
"I think you've gotten yourself into a spot of, wossname, bally awful trouble," Fjord gloated, snapping up Daskin's queen.
"Check." Daskin had moved again, lightning-fast.
"You know wot my mum used to say? Well, one of my mums. Fellow can never have too many, eh? She said: nobeast ought to go against a military-type creature in a game of strategy. Bred into us hares."
"Still your move, rabbit," Daskin drawled.
"Hmph, no proper respect, that's the problem with the younger generation, don'cha know." Fjord focused on the board.
"It's forced, you know."
"Yes, anybeast can see that, it's as plain as the nose on yer muzzle. Hmph. 'Forced,' indeed." Fjord moved.
"Good game, mister Fjord," Daskin said. "Checkmate."
"But I—but—" The hare's mouth moved a bit, wordless, as he examined the position. "Clever little brat."
"I wouldn't mind playing you again. You might learn something," Daskin continued, smirking. The hare had earned the winding-up, he decided. May as well enjoy it.
Fjord slapped the board with one paw, sending a few pieces flying. He stomped off, though where he intended to stomp off to was rather unclear, all things considered. Around the other side of the fire, Hector watched the hare take a few paces into the darkness, hang his head, and begin to trot back. He extended one paw in a relaxed gesture, beckoning for Daskin to approach.
"Probably best for you to get some sleep, otherwise Mama Kenzie'll have me made into a hat when I bring you back. C'mon, back to the cart, you can share a corner with Juniper if you like."
###
Inside the rather dingy tent, Daskin sat at Hector's side; Hector wrapped one arm around the kit. "Hector…" Daskin shifted uncomfortably. He reached one paw under his tunic and drew out the letter he'd concealed there. "Are we being followed, do you think?" Daskin asked, voice as low as he could make it, and barely a whisper.
"Possibly." Hector considered a moment. "Probably, even."
"I still have this, in case…" He gestured with the letter.
"It took me a day or two, but I did realize what that letter must be." The fox's light, conversational tones took a dramatic turn. "You ought to burn that thing the first chance you get."
Daskin sighed. "I don't think it matters, either way."
"It may not matter to you, but then you are going to end up safe and sound if anybeast can possibly help it," Hector snapped. "And if somebeast pursuing us, if some such beast gets a paw on that letter? What then?" Hector pulled his paw away from the ferret kit, and inched away almost imperceptibly. "What does it look like, if somebeast suspected of murdering the Abbess of Redwall holds that?"
"The Abbess? Somebeast killed—"
"Yes." Hector gave a curt nod.
Daskin cast his eyes to the floor, searching among the detritus of the cart for an answer, and finding none. He felt his eyes brimming with sudden tears. Hector played well enough to see the right moves, most of the time. This time, the fox's analysis… was stunningly clear-headed. And he'd missed it.
"I'll burn it. I don't want to, but I'll burn it." Daskin rasped, and crashed into Hector's side, sobbing. "Please, please help me, just let me get home. Please."
###
Daskin stared into the embers of the fire, feeling only his stomach churning. He knew his own thoughts were unclear, but he could do little but feel. His stomach, his sore legs, the heat of the fire at his chest and the cool of the night at the back of his neck. He felt, and could no longer, on this tiring, painful night, think.
The smoke stung his throat and eyes, and if he tried hard enough, he could imagine that this was the only cause for his tears. He held the letter out over the dying campfire, for a long moment…
###
Juniper regarded the ferret kit with concerned eyes. "No need to cry, I was just teasing you earlier, you know."
"It's… it's not that," Daskin couldn't help but laugh at Juniper's mournful expression, though he still sniffled a bit.
"Well, that hare Fjord is just a big bully sometimes, I ought to give him a kick for hassling you—" Juniper scowled his best scowl.
"…or that…"
"I give up. I guess you're the victim of long-muzzle disease, makes you look all sad. A traaaaagic end for a little ferret. Leave me your hat. I like that hat."
"You can have the hat."
"No, no, looks better on you. It's dashing."
Daskin laid down on the blanket that had earlier covered him, the one that smelled like fox. It was strangely comforting.
"Do you ever wonder how—I can't quite say it right. How you got somewhere?"
Juniper cocked his head to one side. "Not really."
"How am I lying in a cart, in a field, in the middle of nowhere, posing as a member of an acting troupe? How did that happen?" Daskin's voice rose a bit, to almost a whine.
Juniper was silent, and then: "Dunno." He slung a warm paw around Daskin's shoulders. "Maybe because you think too much."
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To Whosoever May Read This Letter, The bearer of this letter is Lord Daskin Stirling, our only heir, and he and his entourage are under the full protection of Stirling House. We shall answer for any and all of his actions. However, if Lord Daskin is detained or harmed in any way, Stirling House shall consider such harm a deliberate act of warfare, and respond accordingly. Beware. Lord Angus and Lady Claire Stirling, of Marshank and the Eastern Sea