CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

"Um ... what's yer name again?"

Latura's one-eared weasel escort couldn't help but crack a somewhat pained smile as the two of them strolled the east walltop, the ratmaid positively flouncing along in the bright, peach-colored taffeta dress the Abbey sisters had made for her. This new garment gift was so much cheerier than anything Latura had ever had back in her home village, and she clearly treasured it, wearing it every day since being presented with it.

"It's still Smallert, missy. Hasn't changed since this mornin', when last you asked."

"Oh. Never was good at 'memb'rin' things like that. Da says sometimes I forget who he is, but I think he's fibbin'. I'd never forget Da."

Smallert nodded. "Aye, 'tis good t' know yer own kin. An' I'll not blame ya fer lettin' some names slip - there's so many beasts 'round here nowadays, even with all th' slaves gone off to th' quarry, I'd not wanna try 'n' 'member them all m'self. But once you've been at Redwall a spell longer, I'm sure you'll start gettin' more of us straight in yer mind."

"Hmmmmebbe. Where's Greenpup? He's usually th' one who walks me about the Abbey."

Smallert nodded down toward the sunlit south lawns. "Looks like he's just finishin' up another class with all th' youngrats. Mebbe you'd like t' sit in on those sometime? Wager you'd learn lots about Redwall's heroes 'n' history if'n y' did."

"Aw, it'd never stay in my head, not that way. I'm terrible at 'memb'rin', 'member? Things I know, things I keep straight in my head, I gotta learn other ways from beasts just tellin' me. What I know about Redwall I already knew, without bein' told."

"Um ... how's that again?"

"They got beasts buried all over th' place here. Sometimes it's hard t' hear 'em, 'cos o' th' red warrior - 'ee don't like deadbeasts talkin' outta turn. But I know 'bout Redwall same way I knew t' come here in th' first place. I just ... know, is all."

"Ah. Er, that's quite a gift y' got there, Lattie. Must be sumpthin', knowin' what-all ye're able t' know. 'Bout th' future, an' hidden things, I mean."

She shrugged. "Comes nat'ral to me. Never been any other way, so it's all I know."

"You really think Lord Urthblood an' Martin th' Warrior 're at odds, like y' said? Used ta serve that badger m'self, an' even though I don't no more, I allers had 'im figgered as workin' fer th' good o' th' lands. Hard t' reckon him as any kinda enemy of Redwall's, or a threat t' decent folk."

"Dunno 'bout what's good fer th' lands, but me 'n' my family's decent folk, or so it's allers seemed t' me, an' he ain't bein' very decent toward us. He's at th' center of th' bad red. It's all comin' from him. Altho' ... "

"Aye?" Smallert prompted.

"Lately I been seein' things makin' me think mebbe it's more'n just him. It's all kinda hazy an' tumbled t'gether, but ever since comin' to this place, I been seein' other parts o' th' bad red that seem t' go against 'im, 'stead o' comin' from him. Th' red terrors ... "

"Red terrors?"

Latura nodded. "Can't ever see more'n glimpses of 'em, like sumpthin's hidin' 'em, but what I seen's like nightmares wide awake. Fangs, blades, arrows, blood ... "

Smallert shuddered. "Think y' just gave me my nightmare fer t'night! Tho' sounds like you could almost be describin' Foxguard th' way things stand nowadays - fox blades, Gawtrybe arrows ... an' foxes got fangs, an' they've both spilled their share o' blood over th' seasons. May'aps ye're just seein' it from a rat's point o' view, which would be purty nightmarish, when y' stop an' think about it."

"Gotta stay away from th' tower. Stay away - it becomes a bad place. Bad, bad ... "

"Well, fer you I reckon it already is. Our Sparra tell us a lot of th' Gawtrybe're still there, so it'd be death or slavery fer any o' you rats t' try 'n' go there - not that you'd make it that far, with those Northlanders patrollin' all right around Redwall. Yup, we're bottled up in here tighter'n a - "

"Hey, it's Lattie th' Ratty!"

Cuffy, Francy and Padgett came jostling along the walltop toward them, dodging the hares, squirrels and shrews standing watch. Latura had become popular with certain of the Abbey's children, who delighted in her harmlessly clueless demeanor, and they frequently sought her out for a few moments' amusement whenever they could.

"Hm - looks like Cyrus has let 'is class out. Makes sense, since it's almost midday an' he's gotta help Cyril ring th' bells."

Lattie grinned at the approaching youngbeasts, calling out, "Hullo, Frouse! 'ullo, Cor! 'ullo, Pole!"

Padgett gave a gruff, mole-ish giggle at the ratmaid's silliness. "Hurr hurr hurr! They'm doan't be uz's names, mizz!"

"I'd never 'member yer real ones, but I c'n 'member Pole th' mole, Frouse th' mouse, an' Cor th' dor!"

They all laughed at this, as they so often did at her addlebrained antics. "You're a pip, Lattie Ratty!" Francy declared, using a term he'd picked up from the Long Patrol. "Say somethin' else funny!"

Latura's brow furrowed. "I ain't a funny beast by nature, tho' some seem t' reckern I am - I dunno. But why'd you call me a pip? Ain't that th' seed from inside an apple, or pear? I don't wanna be in the middle of a fruit - it'd be all wet 'n' sticky!"

With this simple utterance, she fulfilled the boisterous trio's demand for merriment without even realizing it, sending them into gales of youthful laughter. She started to smile at their amusement, even if she didn't fully understand its source, but her smile quickly disappeared as she looked past them to the two squirrels ambling toward her along the walkway. "Uh oh," she muttered. "'ere comes bad red."

Mina and Matowick walked right up to Latura, either oblivious to her discomfort at their presence or not caring. "Ah, and here's the unassuming maid who started all this fuss," Mina told the Gawtrybe captain. "The one whose prophecy and future sight led all of these rats to shelter at Redwall."

Matowick looked Latura up and down appraisingly. "Is that so? Well then, this is one ratmaid I really must spend some time speaking with."

Latura bristled at this suggestion. "Go 'way. Ye're th' bad red, wanna take us all away where we don't wanna go, an' don't belong."

"Well, yes, those are Lord Urthblood's standing orders, in accordance with the treaty he signed with King Tratton. But His Lordship isn't here now, and you've got the protection of Redwall, so nobeast will be able to make you go where you don't want to. Now, it's almost lunch time, and it would be my honor to share the meal table with so special a rat as yourself, so that I might hear more of your side of things. And who knows? Maybe you'll be able to share some insight with me that can change Lord Urthblood's mind about this entire situation, and help your friends and family."

"Ye're lyin'!" Latura spat at him. "Ye're all just th' bad red, wantin' bad things fer us, an' I ain't talkin' t' you no more!" Folding her arms over the breast of her peach taffeta dress, she clamped her mouth shut, turning her head dismissively.

Matowick scowled at her. "You'd spurn me, even thought it might help you and all your fellow rats? That's not very smart."

Smallert stepped forward. "She said she didn't wanna talk t' you, an' I can't blame 'er, not with what you lot're tryin' t' do to her lot. So move along an' stop pesterin' her."

Matowick shot the weasel an icy glare. "I don't take orders from murderers, or former soldiers who disgraced themselves as abominably as you did. What the Redwallers saw in you to allow you to live here among them I'll never know."

Now it was the three youngbeasts who came to Smallert's defense for defending Latura.

"Don't you talk about Smalley like that! He's a goodbeast!"

"Yeah, he only kilt a rat by accident! Not like you, who does it on purpose!"

"Burr hurr, an' ee doan't be putten H'Abbey unner seege, loik ee be doin'!"

"He's more of a Redwaller than either of you'll ever be!"

Mina winced at this last accusation. "Hmph! What youngbeasts are being taught these days! Come Captain, let's be on our way. We're only wasting our time here."

As the squirrel pair moved on, Smallert pawed away a tear of gratitude, touched by the show of support from Francy, Padgett and Cuffy. "Aw, thanks, liddle mateys! That sure were nice of you, speakin' up fer me like that. Makes me feel like I really am a Redwaller!"

"Course you're a Redwaller!" Cuffy told the weasel. "We'll always speak up for you, 'cos you're a goodbeast, an' we like you! An' Lattie too!"

Padgett went over to Latura and reached up to lay a comforting digging claw on her shoulder. "Thurr thurr, Mizz Lattee, doan't you'm be afeared o' naught. Uz'll take gudd care o' ee, boi okey uz will!"

Latura's expression remained forlorn as she stared after the retreating Gawtrybe. "Don't trust 'em ... don't trust 'em ... "

When they were sure they'd passed beyond the hearing of Latura's group or any of the Abbey sentries, Mina said softly, "That was a risk you took, confronting her like that. What if she really does possess powers like Lord Urthblood's, and could divine your true purpose in coming here? That could have ended your mission in a heartbeat."

"That's precisely why I had to face her. I need to make absolutely certain she's the one Lord Urthblood sent me here for. And she did accuse me of lying just now, so maybe she did see through me. Fortunately, she voiced her suspicions in a way that left matters ambiguous."

"Yes, she's hardly the most well-spoken of creatures - luckily for us. I'm frankly astounded she was able to persuade so many rats to join her in her quest for sanctuary at Redwall."

"Maybe their mere presence here proves her prophetic gifts ... if it truly was she who set the entire exodus in motion, and we aren't victims of some ingenious misdirection designed to throw us off. I'd still like to try to speak with her again, even if she's resistant to the idea. In the meantime, I'll see about talking to some of the other rats; perhaps they'll be looser with their tongues, and be able to verify my own suspicions."

Mina smirked as she glanced down at all the rats spread out on the Abbey grounds. "Lunch on the lawns, then?"

"Perhaps ... if I can gird my appetite to stand it. These aren't exactly the well-mannered, disciplined rats Lord Urthblood had under arms ... not that they were all that well-mannered either. I half-suspect I'd need an armed escort just to go amongst them."

"If so, I'll see that you get it. Just let me know."

"I will." Matowick's gaze travelled over the buildings and grounds enclosed within the wall they stood upon. "I still need to do a little more reconnoitering of the Abbey, to get all its ins and outs clear in my mind. When the time comes, my squad and I may have to move fast, and I'd rather not still be figuring out our escape route while we're in the midst of escaping!"

00000000000

Mona lay on the examination table in her surgery, utterly still and utterly alone.

She'd already tested this new paralyzing drug on a weasel "volunteer" earlier this season, and it had worked well, with the expected physical results and no harmful or lingering aftereffects that she could discern. But weasels were neither the most level-headed, cognizant nor eloquent of species, and so the post-test account he'd given her left something to be desired. She needed a more reliable and clinically detailed appraisal of exactly how this potion affected the patient, the sensations and depth of feelings and range of movement experienced while under paralysis, and what was felt as the drug took effect and then wore off - all things her weasel subject had proven unwilling or unable to articulate.

In other words, she needed herself.

She'd painstakingly calculated this present dosage, careful to give herself somewhat less than the weasel had taken, mindful of her smaller frame and more delicate stature. After quaffing the paralytic, she'd quickly stretched out face-up on her cleared exam table, taking the place usually reserved for her autopsy subjects. Willing herself to relax, she focused on her body as she waited for the drug to take effect.

It crept up on her slowly, so gradually that she might not have realized it was happening at all were she not so closely monitoring herself. A few telltale tingles and tightnesses told her that all was not as usual, but otherwise she might simply have been drifting off to any ordinary sleep - except that this time it was her body going to sleep while her mind remained awake. She periodically tested the drug's progress with the flick of a claw, flex of a paw or twitch of her tail, but soon she found herself unable to perform any of these movements - at least as far as she could tell, for she was incapable of raising or turning her head to verify these suspicions. She tried to move her ears, but could not determine whether the motion she willed them to perform was actually being carried out. She could still blink, and shift her eyes from left to right with a concentrated effort, but when she tested her voice, less than a croak emerged, her lips and tongue refusing to form any coherent words, just as it had been with the weasel during that earlier trial.

She remembered the weasel's eyes as they'd been then, the wild and frantic gaze of helpless panic, even though she'd warned him exactly what to expect. Sometimes simple beasts made the best subjects, but other times they were too excitable for their own good - or for hers. While a wave of unsettling trepidation washed over Mona as she lapsed into the grip of total immobility, she stuck by her resolve to bear the experience with the stoic scientific detachment she demanded of herself. Let the lesser creatures panic at routine experimentation; she most certainly would not.

The roots to this present line of inquiry stretched back to her youth in the Northlands, shortly after Lord Urthblood took her under his care following the demise of Sathara. There were many drugs and potions, known to any healer worth its salt, which could knock a beast out cold, render it unconscious for purposes of healing and convalescence (or for more nefarious aims, if so desired), but sometimes patients' states were too precarious for them to be safely sedated so, and it became necessary to treat maladies during full wakefulness, lest slumber hasten succumbing to injuries and ailments, as often happened. But, if the patient needed to be kept conscious during treatment, so too did they need to remain immobilized, so as not to thrash or struggle during what could be extremely painful procedures. Thus had Mona long sought a means to induce this intermediate state, freezing the subject for safe ministrations without bringing about potentially perilous sleep which might prove one short step away from death.

After many seasons of trial and error, she'd finally hit upon a concoction capable of producing just the effect she desired. She'd yet to test it under battle conditions, or even on anybeast actually suffering from wounds which might require such measures, but Mona felt confident enough in her achievement to conduct these trials now that she was firmly established as Foxguard's resident healer.

As she lay there, she could do naught else but gaze up at the ceiling of her surgery, forcing the occasional blink to keep her eyes from drying out. The lamplight reflected off the stone overhead, but she could not see the lanterns themselves, nor any other feature of the chamber. Her entire world had reduced itself to that one bare patch of ceiling, her sole vista on existence until movement returned to her. She still could see, and hear too, the distant sounds of activity from down the curved corridor reaching her ears - not that the weasels' incessant pounding could be missed; indeed, she even fancied she could feel the concussive vibrations through the tabletop pressed against her back, although that might just have been her imagination. But she definitely could feel, and the intermittent vagrant draft played across her exposed fur and whiskers, and she could smell too, the ever- present odors of her work area apparent in her nostrils (although, fortunately, all of her recently-acquired body parts were now either sufficiently dried or securely contained so as not to overwhelm). As for taste, she supposed that sense remained to her as well, although without any morsel or sip to pass over her tongue, all she could detect was a faint metallic essence - no doubt a side-effect of the drug, since her previous weasel subject had described such an aftertaste in his own report. At least he'd been good for that much.

Her sense of utter and complete helplessness phased her not at all, for she knew she was as safe here as she would be anywhere in Mossflower, or anywhere in all the lands. This was her domain, deep within the fortified bastion of the Sword who held her dear, and this was her experiment, initiated at her own choosing and under conditions arranged by her. She was in control, even in this lack of control, all according to her design. As long as nobeast bothered her or sought to intrude upon the scene ...

"Why did you say such a terrible thing about me, sister?"

Mona's breath, already sluggish and forced due to the paralytic agent, caught in her throat. That familiar voice, so clear in her ears that it could not possibly be her imagination, opening a conversation, just as Sathara always did when they were alone.

Except that this time, Mona could not reply.

"Do you really believe that about the vitriol?" Sathara asked in a sorrowful tone. "That it destroys a beast both body and soul? Do you honestly, truly believe that?"

Mona opened her mouth to protest, to plead that she was mistaken, at least as far as Sathara went. For Sathara was here now, talking to her, chastising her for this macabre misapprehension, so surely that disproved Mona's theories?

But her mouth would not open, nor her lips obey. And her apology to her long-dead sister died in her throat, victim of a leaden tongue that lay heavily against the inside of her muzzle like a day-old fish.

"Yes, I trust you do believe it," the sister-ghost lamented. "Your beliefs always did run toward the ... unorthodox. But you must always be right about such things, so I suppose you are right about this as well."

NO! Mona wanted to scream out in contradiction, to recant her earlier statements and admit that this time, this time she was just plain wrong, and foolishly so. She strove to direct her gaze to the darker corners of the chamber, as if this time alone out of all the others Sathara might against all logic choose to show herself, but Mona's sight remained limited to the bare ceiling where no older sibling vixen was to be revealed.

"And if you are right," that means I can't be here with you now."

Mona felt icy, panicked terror grip her, enveloping her in cold fear. Or at least it seemed to her she ought to be in a panic, but it was a panic of the mind only, unable to translate itself into any physical manifestation through the barrier of paralysis. Her heart slowly thumped on beneath her ribs, oblivious to her mental frenzy, and her fur lay flat, refusing to bristle in alarm. Her throat was dry, but no drier than it had been at the start of this experiment, before Sathara had announced herself. Her whole body lay in its enforced sedation, calmly and quietly going about its job of routinely living even as the awareness contained within it, the consciousness which normally ruled and dictated and directed flesh and bone, railed and raged for some vestige of power over its unresponsive, unobeying corporeal vessel.

"If you are right, I can never be here again."

Mona blinked in desperation, the totality of movement allowed to her, and she felt tears roll out of her eyes and down her cheeks to stain the fur there. She could at least still cry, and feel the moisture of her sorrow.

"If you are right, I was never here at all. Not since that day in Trelayne's cottage in the Northlands. It was always just you. Only you."

And then Sathara went silent.

Some time later, after Mona had missed lunch and was about to miss dinner as well, enough of her movement returned to her that she was able to roll herself off the examination table onto the floor - but she still lacked sufficient coordination to brace herself or cushion her fall, resulting in a variety of deep bruises and contusions under her fur. Sobbing freely and and croaking in her futile attempts to cry out in anguish, she dragged herself across the bare stone in a flailing crawl, legs still too errant to support her and her arms barely coordinated enough to pull her forward, making for one corner of her surgery, Reaching her agonized goal, Mona righted herself into a sitting position, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them, just as she'd sat many seasons before hidden in a work cupboard in Trelayne's cottage cellar, concealing herself from murder-minded searats while Sathara had fizzed and roiled away to nothingness in a vat of fluid so evil it could have come from Hellgates itself. Now, as then, she bit her lip, but this time it was out of frustration at not being able to speak out, rather than fear of betraying her presence to those who would do her harm. Here, she had nothing to fear from anybeast.

So why did it feel so much the same now as then?

She could not have said when the power of speech returned to her, so consumed was she by wracking, ragged gasps and hysterical mutters and groans. Coherent speech had abandoned her nearly as utterly as coherent thought, her mind an unreasoning tumult of tumbling agony. She felt she was falling, falling, with nothing or nobeast to catch her. It was as if a central pillar of her existence had crumbled to dust, leaving the earth to swallow her in eternal darkness. Reduced to this primal animal state, she disintegrated and dissolved into a mess less than any civilized creature, waiting for the beast who might rescue her from this madness, grab her by the paw and pull her from this morass, guide her out of that long-ago Northlands cabinet and embrace her with a hug to assure her that everything might be all right again after all, and bring her back to herself.

It was Kyslith who found her.