The warrior mouse gave an angry snarl and leapt at the grating, but the stoat backed off, grinning at his futile attempt. “Listen, mouse, if I were you I’d keep pretty quiet down here, otherwise you might attract Lady Tsarmina’s attention—and I don’t think you’d like that. You just sit tight and behave yourself, then maybe in time somebody like Gingivere will remember you’re here and have you released.”

As the guards trooped off, Martin saw they had left a load of clean straw in one corner, also some bread and water. Instinctively he moved towards it, and felt something clunk against his chest. It was the sword handle dangling from a piece of rope around his neck. Martin held it in front of his eyes, staring at it hard and long. He would wear it, not because he had been sentenced to as a mark of shame, but to remind himself that one day he would slay the evil cat who had broken his father’s blade.

Settling down in the dry straw, he drank water and gnawed upon the stale bread hungrily. He was about to fall asleep again when shouts and commotion broke out upstairs. Pulling himself level with the door grille, Martin listened to the sounds that echoed in the silence of the cells.

“My Lord Greeneyes is dead!”

“Lady Tsarmina, come quick, it’s your father.”

There was loud stamping of spearbutts and the sounds of mailed paws dashing hither and thither, coupled with the slamming of doors.

Tsarmina’s voice could be heard in an anguished wail. “Murder, murder. My father is slain!”

Ashleg and Fortunata took up the cry. “Murder, Gingivere has poisoned Verdauga!”

A tremendous hubbub had broken out. Martin could not hear clearly what was going on. A moment later there was a sound of heavy pawsteps on the stairs; it sounded like a great number of creatures. Martin pulled to one side of the grille and saw it all. Led by Tsarmina, a mob of soldiers carrying torches marched down the corridor, Ashleg and Fortunata visible among them. As they passed the cell door, Martin glimpsed the stunned face of the gentle wildcat Gingivere. He was bound in chains. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. Their eyes met for a second, then he was swept by in the surge of angry soldiers, their faces distorted by the flickering torchlight as they chanted, “Murderer, murderer! Kill the murderer!”

Martin could no longer see them, owing to the limited range of his vision through the grille, but he could still hear all that went on. Some distance down the corridor a cell door slammed and a key turned. Tsarmina’s voice rose above the noise. “Silence! I will say what is to be done here. Even though my brother is a murderer, I cannot harm him. He will stay locked up here until he lives out his days. He is now dead to me; I never want to hear his name spoken again within the walls of Kotir.”