Fortunata followed a trail that led to a dead end. Some creature had skilfully covered most traces, but the vixen knew that there had been woodlanders here. The camouflagers had not been entirely successful in covering everything; there was still scent and the odd broken twig. She scratched about in the undergrowth, trying to reveal further clues.

“Lost something?”

The vixen was startled by the voice. She whirled around, attempting to discover its owner. All she saw was the silent woodland. Quite suddenly there was another fox standing alongside her.

“I said, have you lost something?” he repeated.

Fortunata weighed up the newcomer carefully. He was an old fox, patched gray and dusty brown, slim built and slightly stooped. But it was the eyes that caused her to shudder—weird, flat, shifting eyes. This was the most evil-looking of her species that the vixen had ever encountered.

“No, it’s not something I’ve lost,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned. “Actually, I was merely passing through here.”

“Aye, me too. Maybe we can help each other,” the old fox suggested.

“Yes, maybe we can. My name is Besomtail, the wandering healer, what are you called?” Fortunata asked.

“I’m Patchcoat. I come from far away to the east,” he replied.

Fortunata nodded. He certainly looked like a patched coat. “Well, I come from the . . . er, southwest. Maybe that’s why we’ve never met. I’m really hungry, though, Patchcoat. I expect you’ve seen tracks around here. Maybe there’s a camp of woodlanders nearby. They usually give me food in return for my healing skills.”

Patchcoat rubbed his lean stomach. “Aye, I’m hungry too. There’s not much future in eating grass and drinking dew. Listen, Besomtail, maybe I can travel along as your assistant. I passed a place earlier today that might be just what we’re looking for.”

Fortunata’s ears stood up. “You did? Where?”

The strange fox waved a paw. “Oh, round and about, you know. I didn’t stop because those woodlanders always drive me off, for some reason. Huh, you’d think I was out to steal their young. It looked like a well-stocked hideaway. I expect I could find it again.”

“I can’t blame them driving you off, friend Patchcoat,” Fortunata sniggered. “You certainly don’t look anything like a baby fieldmouse on posy day.”

Patchcoat threw back his head and laughed wickedly. “Hahaha, look at yourself, you raggedy-bottomed tramp. Any honest woodlander would run a mile from you. Let’s join forces. Come on, how about it? You won’t find the place without me.”

Fortunata rubbed her whiskers as if she was giving the matter some earnest thought. Finally she thrust out a paw. “All right, Patchcoat,” she agreed. “We’d better stick together, I suppose. Shake paws, fox.”

“Aye. Shake paws, fox.”

Left paw met left paw as they intoned the ritual of villains,

Ben Stickle was observing the scene from the cover of a humped loam bank. He scurried off to report to the Corim that the Mask, alias Patchcoat, had made contact with Fortunata, alias Besomtail.

The Mask would lead Fortunata a merry dance through Mossflower before evening fell over the woodlands.

*  *  *

It was mid-afternoon when Chibb left the cell window at Kotir. Gingivere sat in the straw with his two little friends, patiently explaining the message sent by the Corim.

“Now, if a ferret looks like a ferret, or a stoat like a stoat, or a weasel looks like a weasel, don’t trust them. But if a fox that looks like a fox says that his name is Mask and he’s been sent by the Corim, we must do exactly as he says, quickly and without question.”

Ferdy scratched his spiky head. “Supposing it’s a stoat that looks like a weasel with a ferret’s nose and a fox’s tail, Mr. Gingivere?”

Gingivere pushed him playfully backward into the straw. “Then don’t trust him, even if it’s a Ferdy that looks like a Coggs with a Gingivere’s fur, you little rascal. Hush now, there’s somebody coming. I’d better get you back into your bags.”

Two weasel guards passed along the corridor, chatting animatedly.

“So what did the foraging party bring back?”

“Not a single acorn. The Queen’s not too happy, either.”

“Well, that’s only to be expected.”

“Aye, but it made things worse when Cludd reported that one of our soldiers had been taken by that big old eagle.”

“Who was it?”

“A stoat, they say.”

“Ah well, as long as it wasn’t a weasel.”

“Aye. Can’t stand stoats myself. Nasty sly creatures.”

“Right. Not like us, mate. Anyhow, I’ll bet if the eagle attacked one of our lads he’d weasel his way out of it somehow.”

“Hahaha. That’s a good one. Weasel his way out of it!”

*  *  *

The waters of the fast-flowing stream glittered in the afternoon sun. All day the three travelers had wandered along the bank, looking for a shallow fording place. Martin gazed up at the mountains. They were much closer now. He could see the green of vegetation at the base changing to basalt and slate-colored rock which soared upward to snow-covered peaks that seemed to support the sky like mythical columns.

Gonff was singing as he trailed his fishing line along.

As they trekked, Young Dinny dug up edible plants and roots to add to their supplies.

Martin sighted a bend ahead with steep sloping banks. “Come on, mates. The stream looks narrower there. Perhaps there’s a way to cross.”

He was right; just around the bend was a sight that gladdened their hearts.

A rope stretched across the water, attached at either end by a deep stake driven into the earth. On the opposite bank a white willow trunk lay in the shallows. Gonff twanged the tautened fibers of the rope.

“It’s a ferry, mateys,” he told them. “See on the other bank? Pity it isn’t on this side of the water. Never mind, even if it means getting wet we’ll cross on this rope.”

Two pairs of unwinking eyes watched them from behind the log on the opposite shore.

Martin waded into the river, holding the rope as a guideline.

“Come on, it’s not too bad,” he called. “Stay on this side of the rope, then the current won’t sweep you downstream.”

Dinny and Gonff followed his example. The going was not too difficult. Paw by paw, they began pulling themselves through the stream. Halfway across, it deepened. They were floating now, but still going forward, aided by the rope.

A shout rang out from the far bank, “Stop right there, strangers!”

A snake and a lizard emerged from behind the willow trunk.

“Looks like trouble, eh, Din,” Gonff whispered.

Martin ignored the warning, continuing to pull himself forward.

Dinny called out a friendly hail. “Goo’ day to ’ee. Us’n’s on’y a crossen, no need t’be afeared.”

The snake reared up, flickering a slim tongue. “Hssss. Nobody crosses without paying us. I’m Deathcoil and this is Whipscale. We are the ford guardians. Pay us, or pay with your lives.”

Gonff caught up with Martin. “I don’t like the look of those two. Has that snake got adder markings?”

Martin’s warrior nature rose. Tightening his grip on the rope with one paw, he unslung the broken sword from around his neck.

“Looks a bit skinny and undersized to be a true adder, Gonff,” he reassured his friend. “I’m pretty certain that the other one is only some kind of newt. Leave it to me. We’ll soon find out.”

It was now apparent to the ford guardians that the travelers were coming across.

“What’ve you got for us?” the lizard asked, his voice harsh and aggressive. “Come on, move yourselves. Up on the bank here, and empty those packs out. Quick, now!”

Martin’s face was grim. “Listen, you two. You don’t frighten us. We’re travelers and we aren’t carrying anything of value, but we’ll fight if we have to, so you’d better stand clear.”

The snake lowered his head onto the rope, glaring wickedly at them. “Hsss, fools, one bite from my fangs means death. If you have no valuables, then go back and get something to pay our toll with.”

Martin yanked down on the taut rope, letting it go with a twang. The line sprang upward, vibrating. The snake was hammered on the lower jaw several times before he was tossed flat on the bank. “How’s that for starters, worm,” Gonff laughed. “Stand up straight, and I’ll give you a taste of my dagger when I get ashore. Come on, Din.”

The mole waved a hefty digging paw. “Oi’ll make knots in ’ee, then oi’ll teach yon glizzard sum manners.”

The three friends bounded up on the bank, dripping but determined. Martin advanced, wielding his broken sword; Gonff drew his dagger as he and Dinny spread in a pincer movement; the mole whirled a pack loaded with plants and roots.

As they closed for combat, the snake flicked his coils at Martin. “Hsss, you’ll leave your bones on this bank, mouse!”