The Twyning (35 page)

. . . as the kingdom became one again. There was a court once more. A great battle lay ahead. We would arise again.

The Great Hollow was a place of activity and hope. Citizens now looked to me for guidance. When I revealed, they fell silent. When I passed by, they made way.

I wanted to tell them that there was nothing unusual about me. I was simply Efren of the Tasting Court. There were other hearers in the kingdom. In the Courts of Spies, Translators, and Tasting, there were more cunning citizens. Every warrior rat was stronger than I was.

All I had was this. I had seen the great battle, but was not part of the defeat. I knew that the kingdom could rise again if only rats dared to hope once more. I believed.

— Every rat is a king.

That was the message, the simple words from the last dying member of the Twyning, which I revealed when citizens looked to me.

At the dawning of one night, I visited the hollow where the new Court of Spies had gathered, and I listened as they planned their campaign. It had been Driva who had found a young spy called Barcas, who, like me, had been in the world above when the massacre had taken place. Barcas was young but had an authority about him. He was innocent when it came to politics, and in normal times, that would have mattered among the guileful spies, but not now.

They are strange citizens, spies. From an early age they have known that they are slightly different from others. They forage and gather, yet their true interest is in rumor, gossip, secret information. They are only really happy when they know more than other citizens.

Barcas moved among his fellow spies, revealing as he went.

— What do we know about the enemy? Why had we not known about the battle they planned? It must never happen again. Go up. Spread out. Listen. Smell. Tell no one except me what you hear. Enemies are at every turn.

The rats seemed to be paying no attention to him as they snuffled the ground, questing the air occasionally, but that is the way with spies. They take in information while apparently doing something else. There is only one moment when you can be certain that a spy is not listening to you, and that is when he appears to be listening to you.

Barcas stopped his revelation when he saw me.

— Efren.

Like all spies, he was careful not to give anything away, even in his greeting.

I nudged him to put him at ease.

— What are you hearing, Barcas?

— We shall know more tomorrow. The spies are going into the world above tonight.

— They need to find out if the enemy is behaving unusually. Any sign of a new attack on the kingdom must be reported immediately.

Barcas looked at me in the cold, knowing way of the spy.

— Enemies are not only in the world above.

He moved closer to me.

— Be wary, Efren.

I waited for more. Getting information from spies was never easy.

— You have enemies. They are waiting for their moment. We have heard reliable reports.

— Thank you for your concern, Barcas. Can you tell me more?

— Enemies within the kingdom. You need guards with you. Even they may not be enough.

I moved on through the hollow. At every turn, the kingdom was repairing itself. The Court of Tasting had been studying where poison air had been left by humans. The last attack, they had discovered, was less deadly than the first.

The poison had killed many citizens, and it had driven others in a state of panic to the world above and into the jaws of the dogs.

They nibbled and shifted around the passages that led to the Great Hollow, discovering where the traces of poison still lingered. If those could be blocked, the tasters reported, then in the future, poison air would spread more slowly through the kingdom, allowing citizens to spread out and escape in an orderly way.

The Court of Diggers was already at work on this project.

I climbed to an area, almost in the world above, where the Court of Strategy was discussing the kingdom’s last disastrous battle, learning lessons for the coming conflict.

And here was something surprising and pleasing. Among the strategists were several historians, including their captain, Gvork. As I approached, the attention of the group turned to me.

— The battle we have experienced was unusual, Efren.

Gvork revealed in the manner of historians, as if his only audience was himself.

— Normally humans are deadly but disorganized. They see us; they try to kill us. The need to terrify is part of their natures.

I thought of the humans I had known: the boy who had rescued Malaika, the girl who had looked after her so gently.

— Not always. I have known humans to be kind.

The captain of the strategists, a rat called Joram, drew closer.

— That is how they seem, but if you truly know them . . .

— I have known them.

The twenty or so rats nearby looked at me with disbelief and suspicion. I revealed again.

— But it is true the battle showed that there are few who are kind. What is your advice, Joram?

The strategist hesitated.

— We are still working on the details, but we believe that the kingdom should move as soon as possible.

— Citizens are still gathering.

— True. And there is the danger that humans will attack again.

Gvork, the historian, moved forward.

— There is no record of the enemy behaving in this way toward us. Something has changed in the world above.

— We must defend ourselves, — Joram continued. — Courts must gather only occasionally. We were attacked last time while we were together.

— Are you sure that there will be another battle?

— Yes. And probably greater than the last one.

It was another strategist who now revealed. His fellow rats chattered their agreement. All of them now seemed eager to express their views.

— Once humans start behaving like this, they continue. They get a taste for it.

— And they are organized like never before.

— They will be planning for the next battle.

— They want us dead.

This last revelation was from Gvork. He went on. — That is my conclusion. For whatever reason, they have resolved to destroy us.

I waited for their advice. It was Joram who revealed what was in all their minds.

— We could always attack first.

All eyes were on me. Now was not the time for a decision, yet I sensed that I should not appear indecisive.

I revealed with my best imitation of certainty.

— Prepare a plan for that. I shall return tomorrow for your views.

It was time to return to the world below. I bade farewell to Joram and his court. Gvork asked if he could accompany me.

It was a surprising move. Historians like to stay with their own kind.

As we made our way through the woods, rustling the frosty dead leaves beneath our feet, a glow in the light in the east was bringing the city slowly to life. It had been a long night.

— There is something else you must know.

Gvork revealed as he followed my tracks. So this was why he had wanted to travel with me.

— A decision is needed from you.

— About the battle? Whether we should attack or move?

— Before that, Efren.

Gvork was not an old rat, but like all historians, he was unused to taking exercise. I waited for him to catch up with me.

— History teaches us one thing above all. In times of trouble, of war, the kingdom needs a strong leader. — I knew where he was heading now.

— Many citizens will die. Terrible decisions will have to be made.

— I know.

— Only you can take that role. You have shown it already. Although you are not a warrior, citizens look up to you. It seems you have the instinct of authority.

I let him continue.

— It is not enough merely to lead.

Gvork stopped walking and turned to face me.

— You must be king, — he continued. — King Efren. It is what citizens expect.

The trees around us seemed to stir while he revealed. Beyond them, I thought I heard a distant woodnote, but I ignored it.

— Citizens may expect many things. I must follow my own destiny. The truth is that I have no wish . . . — I stopped, my nose suddenly sensing an alien smell. Leaves were rustling, but there was no wind. The noise was of an enemy. I let out a warning squeal, but as I did so, I was knocked off my feet. I felt sharp teeth upon my neck. Somewhere nearby, Gvork screamed.

Rats. Several of them, and they were strong. They could only be warriors. Helpless, I waited for the end. The teeth around my neck slackened, and the two warriors who were upon me slowly and warily released their grip.

I found my feet, but I was surrounded. There were five powerful warriors there, all from the kingdom. One squatted upon Gvork, who seemed to have swooned in terror.

— Not much of a fighter, are you, ratling?

I knew that revelation.

Two of the rats moved aside to allow a smaller, darker, smoother citizen to sidle through until his nose touched mine. It was Swylar.

— The coward Efren.

Swylar nipped me contemptuously on the shoulder.

— Efren, the citizen who avoided the battle. And now he is back, telling the kingdom what to do.

— Swylar. I thought you were . . .

— Dead? Yes, a lot of citizens assumed that. I was unfortunately too late to fight in the battle. I have remained in the world above.

— Where is Queen Jeniel?

— Queen no more. She stayed in the world below and died in the poisoned air. Hiding in a gouge, alone. It was not a glorious death.

Swylar ambled over to Gvork and bit him sharply on the ear. The historian screamed.

— Historian, you will die.

Gvork trembled, his eyes held tight shut.

— But not yet. We shall release you. Your task is simple. Tell the kingdom that Efren is no more. Swylar has returned.

The dark rat sank his teeth into Gvork again. I smelled the historian’s blood as it flowed from the wound.

— Is that understood, citizen?

The warrior rat that had been holding Gvork released him slowly. The historian opened his eyes and looked around in terror. As Swylar moved closer, he cowered.

— You have questions?

Gvork seemed too terrified to reveal.

— Go, then. Spread the good news through the kingdom. Swylar is back. The coward Efren is dead.

. . . his part in the war against rats. I hear him, near and far in the town, his voice echoing off the walls of houses.

“Oyez. Oyez. Be it known that in this here town, Mr. Ralph Knightley, gentleman, was murdered ever so tragic by rats in his very own house and home. Be it known also that he be found, nothing but the bones and the skull of him, all massacred and grievously eaten alive by rodents. So all people, men and women, who bring news of attacks by these here werry deadly rats upon the people of this town shall be rewarded at the town hall. Oyez. Oyez . . .”

No one is making jokes about rats now. The word has spread about the thousands of rats’ tails at the town hall. Mr. Petheridge’s speech is on wall posters on every street. The doctor has been asked by the
Times
to write an article about his work. He plans to call it “The Menace of Rats.”

But it is the death of Champagne Charlie, the news of it spreading around the town, becoming more horrible with every telling, that has really changed everything. We are all in danger, or so people have begun to believe. The beasts are on the attack. There is a new saying that you hear on every street corner, in every tavern. It’s them or us.

The day after the meeting at the town hall, I go with Bill to the Cock Inn. He has had the idea that the “rat madness,” as he calls it, will interest people in watching bouts at the pit. Or maybe he just wants to see Molly Wall again.

“We might have to go outside the borough to find beasts, but that’d be worth it,” he tells me on the way to the tavern.

“Maybe.” It is good to see Bill with a little hope in his heart, but within me I know the truth. The times have gone when rats were sport. He is longing for a past that will never return.

For the first time in my memory, Bill and I enter the Cock Inn without a crate of rats between us. At first, without our beasts, no one recognizes us.

“Crowded, considering there’s no sport to watch.” He sounds a bit disappointed.

“Not the same without the pit, though,” I say, more to please him than anything.

We both gaze across to the center of the bar. The pit has been covered with polished flooring boards, and Molly has put a few cushions on it. What was once a place of death and betting is now just a big, circular seat.

“Well, if it isn’t Bill and the lad.” Molly bustles out, wiping her hands with a cloth. “What brings you here without your rats?”

Bill blushes, as he always does when Molly speaks to him.

“Thought you might be needing another pit day.”

Molly laughs. “Every day is a pit day these days. They’re all out there with their dogs, cutting off tails to get the reward. I’ve never known anything like it.”

“It’s wrong.” I speak the words without thinking. Molly looks down at me, smiling, and I realize that she may not have heard my voice before. “They’re only animals, aren’t they?”