The Bag of Bones (13 page)

“It would be difficult for her.” Brother Brokenbiscuit was determined to be heard. “You see, she lives in the orphanage—”

“Then she’s not here!” Brother Bolder snapped his fingers, and a couple of well-muscled young rats detatched themselves from the walls of the cellar. With practiced ease they slid a paper bag over Brother Brokenbiscuit’s head and whisked him away to a far corner of the cellar.

“And now, let’s have a show of hands!” Brother Bolder looked around expectantly. “Who here believes our time has come? Who stands with me, to right our wrongs?”

“
I
do!” Truda Hangnail stepped forward. “I’ll stand with you, if you’ll stand with me!” And she pulled her hand out of her pocket.

The mist of purple floated into the cellar above the heads of the shocked and wide-eyed rats. Slowly it sank down, and slowly the rats’ whiskers began to droop and their eyes to glaze over.

“Wail! Wail! Wail! Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a . . .” The wailing died away.

“Hey!” Bodalisk grabbed Evangeline’s arm and hauled her into the tunnel behind the water tank. “What’s she doing? What’s that purple stuff?”

“Shh!” Evangeline whispered. “It’s Deep Magic!”

“Deep Magic?” Bodalisk’s eyes popped. “You don’t want anything to do with that, doll.”

“I know!” Evangeline stamped her foot in frustration. “But if I don’t do what she wants, I’ll never get back to normal. I can’t stay like this!”

The rat blinked. “You look perfect to me, babe. But if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

Evangeline looked at Brother Bodalisk and saw that he was in earnest. It didn’t seem likely that one romantic rat could save her and the entire kingdom of Wadingburn, but she thanked him before the sound of Truda’s voice made her turn away from him to see what was going on.

“Rats of Wadingburn,” Truda was chanting, “rats of Wadingburn, do you hear me?”

Every rat in the cellar turned as one to face the water tank. Brother Brokenbiscuit froze under his paper bag.

“We hear you.”

“You will do as I say!”

“We will do as you say.”

Truda cackled gleefully. “Now, my little ratty friends, listen to me, and listen carefully. I want to be Queen of Wadingburn — and what Truda wants, Truda gets. There’s a party tomorrow, and by the time Bluebell stands to read her declaration, the people of Wadingburn will be begging me to take over, begging on bended knees, ‘Be queen, Truda Hangnail, be queen!’ Crying and weeping and wailing they’ll be, every last king and queen and princess and prince, and why? Because if Bluebell doesn’t declare me rightful queen, then the room, the palace, the kingdom, and the country — will be overrun with rats.” She rubbed her bony hands together. “There’ll be rats in the kitchens, rats in the halls, rats in the bathrooms, rats in the beds. Pick up a saucepan, and what’ll they see?”

“Rats!” The response was unanimous.

“Turn back the bedcovers, and what’ll they see?”

“Rats!”

“Step in the bathtub, and what’ll they find?”

“Rats!”

There was another loud cackle from Truda. “When those pretty princesses go twirling and whirling — what’ll they find hiding under their skirts?”

“RATS!”

“Good, my little scale-tails, good!” Truda’s eyes were gleaming.

Evangeline, overcome with a mixture of terror and horror, could feel the old witch quivering with evil energy. There was a darkness hovering around her that was slowly freezing Evangeline’s heart; when Bodalisk slipped his arm around her, she looked at him gratefully.

“And now, get busy!” Truda leaned forward, and the rats gazed up at her with their strangely blank eyes. “Call your friends and relations, and bring them here. Bring them all, from the highways and byways. Bite and scratch, but make them come. We want every rat in the kingdom sneaking and skulking and hiding in corners, creeping and crawling and lurking in cracks, ready to leap out when I give the signal. And when I’m Queen of Wadingburn, it’ll be parties for you all, each and every one of you — parties and fun every day.” Truda raised her arms in salute. “You will be welcome everywhere. You have the word of Truda Hangnail!”

There was a riot of squeaking and squealing as the rats leaped up and down, cheering and yelling their agreement. Almost before Truda had finished speaking, Brother Bolder and Brother Squint were organizing rats into teams and issuing orders in total harmony with each other. Brother Snirkles hurried to assist them, and even Sister Millifee was seen exhorting her neighbors without so much as a wail.

Truda Hangnail nodded and turned to her companions. “Time to eat and to rest,” she said. “We’ll be busy tomorrow.” And she chuckled unpleasantly before poking a sharp finger into Brother Bodalisk’s back. “I need something to fill my old body.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bodalisk said obediently. “There’s good pickings to be had in the dairy, ma’am, or you might prefer the kitchen?”

Truda considered the possibilities. “The dairy,” she said. “Kitchens have cooks, and cooks are nasty. Of course, after tomorrow it’ll all be mine, and
I’ll
be telling the cooks what’s what.” She licked her lips in anticipation. “I’ll be ordering cookies and cake and apple pie and cream until their hands drop off with cooking. And I’ll be sitting on my golden throne ordering silks and satins and a diamond crown, and everyone will bow and scrape before they so much as speak to me.” She cracked her knuckles and grinned so terribly that Bodalisk all but jumped off the water tank. “And if they don’t do just as they’re told, then I’ll grow their noses down to their toes. I’ll give them tails with scales and wither their bones. I’ll make them dance to my tune — every minute of every hour of every day!”

If Brother Bodalisk wondered how this fitted in with Truda’s promise that the rats would have the run of the palace, he said nothing. All he said was, “This way, ma’am,” and he led the way down the tunnel and into a side passage.

Brother Brokenbiscuit quietly extricated himself from his bag and tiptoed unseen toward the entrance to the cellar.

Prince Marcus of Gorebreath was humming as he rode through the marketplace. He had taken the precaution of borrowing a tattered old jacket and a well-worn woolen cap from Ger, the stable boy, and very few of his subjects gave him a second glance. They were much too busy arguing over the relative merits of carrots and cabbages and cauliflowers, or telling one another what they should have done (but hadn’t) when Buckleup Brandersby’s dogs ran wild amid the stalls that morning.

“Don’t know what the place is coming to,” said an old apple-woman indignantly. “Just like ravenous beasts, they were. Took one of my best hams, they did, and a string of sausages as well! And there’ll be nothing paid for it. He’s as mean as string beans, that man.”

“Heard he was after a runaway,” said her neighbor. “Caught her, too, by all accounts. Our Jem saw him marching along with the poor little thing slung over his shoulder with her braids a-swinging in the road dust. Dead to the world, he said she was.”

“Not all he saw, either.” A large red-faced butcher pushed in front of Marcus’s pony in his excitement. “Told me there was a green-faced troll heading this way, large as life and crying its eyes out, and —”

“Excuse me!” Marcus interrupted. “Did you say a troll?”

The butcher put his hands on his hips and glared. “Mind your manners, lad! None of your business!” He turned back to the old women. “Jem took care of it. Said the troll asked him the way to the palace, if you please. So Jem asked it what business it had with the Royals, and when he didn’t get any sense, he gave it a good hearty shake, and — would you believe it? Its head fell off! So he left it lying by the side of the road, and for all I know it’s lying there still, and good riddance —”

“Excuse
me
!” Marcus pulled off his cap and did his best to look royal. “Where exactly is this troll?”

“I told you, laddie —” the butcher began, but one of the old women caught his arm, and whispered in his ear. Frowning, he looked Marcus’s pony up and down. Noticing that the saddle and bridle were of the very best quality and that Marcus bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture on the Gorebreath two cent stamp, he began to cough and splutter. “Didn’t mean any harm, Your Highness, only it was difficult to see it was you under that there hat —”

“The troll!” Marcus snapped. “This could be urgent! Where is he?”

“Back along the road between here and the forest,” the butcher stammered. “That’s what Jem said, Your Highness —” But Marcus was gone.

He took Glee through the marketplace at a swift trot, and the moment the road was clear of stalls and barrows, he persuaded the pony into a steady canter. “Why was Gubble asking for the palace?” he wondered. “Something must be wrong! He hasn’t left the House of the Ancient Crones since he got there. Maybe he’s bringing a message from Gracie? But surely she’d send a bat; that’d be miles quicker.”

A terrible thought made Marcus pull on the reins so hard that his pony skidded to a sudden halt.

What had that woman been saying about a runaway before the butcher got in his way?

Marcus went hot, then freezing cold. “Gracie!” he said out loud. “Could it have been Gracie?”

“Sure was, kiddo,” said a voice in his ear. “Knocked out and carried off.”

“Marlon!” Marcus jumped as the bat circled in front of him. “Where did
you
come from?”

“Been looking for you. Get that pony turned around. If we’ve guessed right, Gracie’s behind bars.”

Marcus snatched up his reins. “Bars? What bars? Where is she?”

“Orphanage. Ugly big building between Dreghorn and Wadingburn.” Marlon took in Marcus’s hat and coat and the saddlebag slung behind him. “Were you off somewhere?”

“The Less Enchanted Forest,” Marcus told him. “Arry needs a white peacock feather, or Nina-Rose won’t dance with him, and I was going to see Gracie and ask if she wanted to help me find one. But why was she in Gorebreath?”

Marlon shrugged. “No idea, kid. But get her home.”

Marcus straightened his back. “I’ll get her out of the orphanage, even if I have to bring in the army. And then we can go to Flailing — that’s where the peacock is.”

“Good plan,” Marlon said approvingly.

As Marcus turned Glee, he asked, “Have you seen Gubble? There was a guy in the marketplace talking about a troll. . . .”

Marlon grinned. “He’ll be waiting for you, kiddo. Him and Alf together. Keep your fingers crossed they don’t try to bust in before you get there and get slapped in irons. Now, how fast can that pony go?”

“Fast,” Marcus said with grim determination, and Glee whinnied in agreement.

“That’s the boy. Me, I’m off to the crones. Catch you later!” And Marlon was away before Marcus could ask him any more questions.

It was ten minutes later that Glee cast a shoe. Marcus, boiling with frustration, had no choice but to walk the pony to the one-and-only blacksmith in Gorebreath.

The one-and-only blacksmith was a slow and solid man, and no entreaties, offers of bribes, or royal promises could make him move any faster than he was used to moving. “You’ll have yer pony when he’s ready,” he announced. “There’s coals to fetch, and the fire to make, and the bellows to blow, and the iron to heat —”

“I’ll fetch the coals,” Marcus said, but the smith shook his head.

“There’s ways and ways of doing things,” he said. “And my ways is the ways I like.” He paused to rest on his shovel. “And I expect your ways is the ways that you like too. There’s many a passerby who tells me that.”

Marcus agreed and hastily said he was going for a walk before the smith could expound any more of his rustic homespun philosophy. By the time he got back, at least the fire was blazing, but he was forced to sit by the smithy door until the sun sank and the evening drew in.

It was almost dark by the time the blacksmith finally finished, and Marcus was aware that the first stars were already twinkling. “There you be,” the blacksmith said at last, and Marcus threw himself into the saddle.

It’ll be really, really late by the time I get to the orphanage,
he thought.
Will Alf still be waiting? What if Marlon’s right, and he and Gubble have done something stupid?
And with hideous visions of Gubble hung in chains while Alf squeaked helplessly nearby, Marcus set off through the streets of Gorebreath at a reckless gallop.