The King's Key by Cameron Stelzer

the top when the four corners of the net closed in above her, blocking the forest light. In frustration, she kicked the net with her foot.
    â€˜Try your scissor swords,’ Mr Tribble croaked from the gloom below.
    Whisker reached for his sword. It wasn’t there.
    Ruby snarled, Horace gasped and the Captain groaned. Their scissor swords were gone. Despondently, Whisker and Ruby lowered themselves down.
    â€˜Take a look outside, Smudge,’ the Captain whispered, ‘and see what they’re up to.’
    Smudge squeezed through a small gap in the net. There was a BUZZ of wings, a dull CLINK and then silence.
    â€˜What was that?’ Horace asked, confused.
    â€˜Judging by the echo, the lid of a pottery jar,’ Mr Tribble guessed. ‘At least it’s not air tight.’
    â€˜There go our weapons and our spy,’ Ruby muttered in annoyance.
    â€˜They haven’t taken our matches,’ Horace said, rifling through his backpack.
    Ruby let out a long gasp of air. ‘Don’t even think about it, Horace. We need an escape plan, not a recipe for barbequed rat …’ She stopped. The net was lowering to the ground.
    â€˜Hold tight,’ the Captain said. ‘We may have a chance to negotiate our release. Monkeys are far friendlier enemies than cats.’
    There was no other choice. The Pie Rats grasped the sides of the net as it collapsed on the forest floor. With a jerk, the net slid forward, scraping through the dirt and gathering momentum. It was soon bumping over logs, rustling through dry leaves and snaking around rocks. After what seemed like an eternity of battering and bruising, it finally came to a stop.
    The dazed prisoners were dragged from their moving cell and tied against trees surrounding a small, grassy clearing. A tribe of marmosets stood in front of them, pointing and murmuring. Several metres from the prisoners, a small clay pot was placed on the ground and the Pie Rat’s calico backpacks were piled nearby.
    The monkey in the rusty helmet clapped his paws three times and the tribe of watching monkeys parted. Whisker heard the familiar jingle of bells as the monkey in the jester’s hat skipped through the crowd, chanting, ‘Manama badabba. Manama badabba.’
    â€˜What’s he saying?’ Horace whispered.
    â€˜Gibberish,’ Mr Tribble muttered, ‘It’s not a language I’m familiar with.’
    The jester continued, ‘Koo-char koo-ching. Koo-char koo-ching.’
    There was an excited roar from the crowd. The jester leapt to one side and four monkeys pranced towards the prisoners. The leader of the line wore a ridiculously large crown, sagging to one side. His shoulders were draped in a flowing purple cloak. The three monkeys following him wore royal headwear of lesser proportions.
    â€˜Manama yeee yuppa!’ the jester cried.
    The crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause and the King in the oversized crown waved to the crowd before turning to face the prisoners.
    â€˜Great gallons of grape juice!’ he exclaimed. ‘Isn’t this a splendid catch: Four rascally rats, two miniscule mice and a blowfly in a brown jar. We haven’t had a haul like this since the echidna expedition of ’88.’
    â€˜Wasn’t that a wondrous time,’ giggled a monkey in a gold tiara. ‘All those spiny little critters scampering around while we stuffed them into the net.’ She giggled again.
    â€˜I hated it, mother,’ mumbled a monkey in a small crown. ‘My paw got pricked and I couldn’t peel a banana for three days …’
    â€˜Poor prince party pooper,’ teased a monkey in a silver tiara. ‘You’re the only heir in the world who needs a nurse to feed you fruit salad.’
    â€˜Shut it, sister!’ he snapped. ‘At least I’m not a pathetic little puppet. It’s always yes daddy dearest, no daddy dearest with you.’
    The monkey in the gold tiara