The Twyning (36 page)

She ruffles my hair in a way that makes me jump at first — the only time that adults touch me is to hit me.

She laughs, then touches my head more gently.

“You can keep the tails, if you like,” Bill says. “There’d be good money after a few bouts.”

“You know what, Bill?” She lays a hand on his arm. “I’m beginning to feel sorry for those beasts of yours. Maybe it’s time for us to leave them alone.”

Bill is staring at her hand, still resting on his arm, unable to think of anything else.

“Let me buy you both a drink.” Molly breaks the spell. “On the condition that you both promise not to talk to me about rats.”

She pours Bill a pint of stout and gives me a ginger beer.

After she has gone, we sit drinking in silence by the bar.

“Not out catching beasts, Bill?” A short, heavily whiskered man, with a head as bald and round as a billiard ball, stands at the bar. I recognize him as a regular from pit days.

“Not today.” Bill gazes into his beer. “There aren’t too many rats around right now.”

The man chuckles as if he has just heard a rather bad joke. “  ’Course there are. They’re movin’ in. Everybody knows that.”

Something — maybe the disappointing news from Molly, maybe the beer — stirs Bill to reply.

“I know rats, my friend,” he says, raising his voice slightly. “They’re not moving in, and they’re not attacking no one. It’s all a load of nonsense.”

A man and a woman sitting at a nearby table start taking an interest in the conversation.

“You tell that to the mother I’ve heard about,” the woman calls out. “Her youngest boy was taken in his crib, poor little thing.”

“Dogs and all,” the man mutters. “I’ve heard terrible stories of dogs being attacked in the street.”

“Great gangs of rats.” The woman sounds angry now. “Marauding, they are. You’re not going to tell me that’s normal, mister.”

Bill shrugs. It’s obvious he’s regretting that he mentioned the subject.

“If we don’t stop them now, they’ll be after us.” The woman looks around her, addressing the bar as a whole. “It’s the little children I’m worrying about. They don’t understand how dangerous a rat can be, poor mites.”

The whiskered baldie at the bar nods in our direction.

“Bill here knows more about rats than most of us,” he says. “He’s a rat-catcher.”

“Well, he should be out there, helping with that war against rats they’re all talking about.”

The atmosphere in the place has changed in the last few minutes. I notice now that people are looking at us in a way that is definitely unfriendly.

“Maybe we ought to go, Bill,” I murmur.

He gazes into his beer as if the answer to all his troubles can be found there.

“All right, Grandad.” A man in his twenties who had been drinking at the other end of the bar joins the discussion. “If you know so much about rats, tell me this. Last week, when my mates were packing up the market at the end of the day, a gang of beasts waited until the last fruit stall was being taken down, then they attacked.”

“Attacked?” Bill shakes his head. “The only thing they attacked was the food. They were just doing what comes naturally.”

“Yes, old man, attacked.” The man at the bar moves closer. “Are you calling me a liar? There was some down a side street, some around the gutters of the square. My mate and his friend were surrounded — surrounded by rats.”

“What did your mates do?” asks the woman who started the discussion.

“They scrammed, both of ’em — only thing they could do. I reckon my mates had a lucky escape there. A few more minutes and the rats could have had them.”

“It’s true what they’re saying.” The woman is staring hard at Bill. “It’s them or us.”

Bill takes a slow sip of his beer.

“I have, now and then, seen a beast attack a human,” he says quietly.

“There you are.” The young man at the bar looks around, quite pleased with himself now.

“But,” Bill wipes his mouth with his hand, “only when the human is attacking them.” He pauses, and the whole pub is quiet. “If you corner a group of rats, they’ll go for you, all right — they’re fierce little fighters — but they’d never do harm to a human for the sake of it. They’re afraid of humans.”

There are raised voices of disagreement all around us.

“So what happened to Knightley, then?”

“Yeah, they attacked a grown man, ate him alive.”

“Babies, they have, too. Everyone knows that.”

“Them or us, mate. Them or us.”

The young man is now next to us and squares up to Bill. His eyes, I can see, are bloodshot. He is more than halfway drunk.

“Are you saying my mates made it all up?”

Bill is uneasy now. “I’m telling you them rats in the marketplace weren’t hunting humans. They were just looking for food.”

“Are you on their side, or what?”

“I know rats, is all.” Bill glances in my direction. We need to be out of here and fast.

“I’ve heard of people like you.” The man taps Bill on the chest. “People who say that your rat is just an animal, that everything will be fine if we just understand them, and act nicey-nicey to them.”

“While they kill our children.” It was another woman’s voice from the back of the pub. Several other people shouted their agreement.

“You know what I call traitors like you?” The man is now standing so close to Bill that he has him trapped against the bar. “I call ’em rats.”

He looks around for approval.

“He’s a rat, all right,” the woman at the table calls out. “He’s got a mouse with him and all.”

They turn their attention to me, and laugh. I clench my knuckles in rage.

There is such a noise in the Cock Inn that it is only now that the drinkers notice that Molly has appeared behind the bar. Under her glowering gaze, the hubbub slowly dies down.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

The young man steps back from Bill and wipes the front of his jacket as if being close to us has left him with something unpleasant on his hands.

“I’m not drinking with no traitor,” he says. “If this man’s welcome at the Cock Inn, then I’m going somewhere else.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“And me.”

“Get him out, Molly.”

Molly lays her big hands on the bar.

“What’s our friend Bill done to you, then?”

“He’s a rat,” says the young man, and there is laughter around the room. “If we was all like him, the rats would have won their war already.”

The presence of Molly has done nothing for Bill’s confidence.

“The beasts are all right,” he says, but defeat is in his voice.

As jeers echo around the pub, Molly winks in our direction.

“I think you’d better go now, Bill,” she says quietly. “But you’re welcome back anytime.”

We make toward the door, watched in silence by everyone in that pub.

“Rats,” mutters a man, sitting alone at a table. He spits into the sawdust on the floor.

We leave. As the door swings shut behind us, we hear clapping and laughter from the pub.

. . . away from the warriors and into the undergrowth. We listened until the sound of his progress faded into the night. Then, casually and taking his time, Swylar turned his attention to me.

He considered me as I was held, helpless, by his warriors. When he did finally reveal, he showed no anger. It was almost as if we were friends.

— Why?

I waited for him to explain the question.

— Why does a ratling from the Court of Tasting want power so much?

When I remained silent, he moved toward me. The two warriors who had been holding me backed away. He circled me, and I faced him as he went, not wishing to be attacked from behind.

He revealed again, more sharply this time.

— Why? How many battles have you fought? Have you even killed in your short life?

— I have not. And I am not ashamed of it. I have just wanted to be a good citizen, to do what was right for the kingdom. — I glanced at the warriors, including them in my revelation. — Like all of us here.

A faint smell of uncertainty was in the air. Sensing that his warriors were listening to me rather than him, Swylar darted forward and nipped me.

I waited. I was not going to be drawn into an attack.

I turned to face him.

— And you, Swylar? Battles? Killing? Have you done those things?

The dark rat was still, but he could sense, I knew, that the loyalty of his followers was weakening. He revealed now with a quieter menace.

— You are right, ratling. I have had citizens killed. Quite a few traitors and weaklings, rats like you, have died because of me. But I have not had the pleasure of doing the job myself. Until now.

A sound from the depth of the woods could now be heard. Rats were approaching.

Swylar squealed a command.

— Prepare to fight.

In the gloom of the woods I saw the eyes. Something strange had happened. Gvork must have told the strategists and historians that I was facing death, but instead of spreading the news throughout the kingdom as Swylar had expected, they were here.

Swylar snickered.

— Historians and strategists facing warriors! I’ve seen everything now.

The five warrior rats, their bodies tensed for battle, faced the advancing group. Swylar stood behind them. He now revealed with a sharp urgency.

— My warriors, look at them. They are feeble strategists, dusty old historians. Rattle their bones for them!

— Do not fight.

The revelation came from me. If it was the last thing I could do as a citizen facing death, I would speak against citizens fighting one another within the kingdom.

— Remember the kingdom of King Tzuriel, where citizens stood together in justice and love. That kingdom has returned. We have no enemies among ourselves, only in the world above. Save your blood for battles against them. Now is the time for us to be strong together.

The strategists and historians continued to advance. Although they outnumbered the warriors, they were weak, and they were hopeless fighters. They were walking toward their deaths.

When they were a few lengths from the warriors, they slowed. Swylar hissed his orders out loud.

— Attack! Now!

The warriors remained motionless.

— Warriors! That is an order!

— No.

I was surprised by the strength of my own revelation.

— This is the true kingdom. No citizen will attack another citizen. Too much blood has been spilled.

Swylar looked at me, his teeth bared. I turned to face him.

— It is a matter between Swylar and me.

A strange, sweet scent was in the air, and it came from both the warriors and the raggedy band that stood beyond. It was relief. No citizen in those woods, not even warriors who would fight their own shadows given the chance, was eager for battle right now.

— So. Be. It.

There was a different tone in Swylar’s revelation now. It was silky, reasonable.

— We should resolve matters between us, you and me, Efren. You are right. Now is no time for fighting among ourselves.

He actually yawned, and settled back on his haunches.

— Maybe I have been too gentle.

He revealed so quietly that I had to move toward him to understand what he was saying.

— Because I’m not a warrior, I have been on the side of peace. That’s why I supported you at court, Efren. I thought that you and I could change things.

— Why did your warriors attack me?

Swylar half closed his eyes.

— Because I thought you were harming the kingdom. Now, from the way you’ve been tonight, I have seen you are a leader. Together, you and I, Efren, what could we not achieve?

He crouched low, humbling before me, his eyes gazing up at me. The citizens who watched us were restless, embarrassed. Those in the Court of Governance never made this gesture of submission in public.

For a moment, I looked at him there. By putting himself at my mercy, he had taken the fight out of me.

Perhaps the dark rat was right. It was, at last, a time for reconciliation. He had put his trust in me. He had shown the courage to lay himself low before me in the presence of citizens. I, too, would show that for the sake of the kingdom, we could work together.

— Citizen Swylar.

I revealed softly as I looked down at him.

— Arise. We shall work together.

Swylar closed his eyes. His whiskers twitched, a gesture of ease and friendship.

— Let us humble before each other, and then stand together.

Awkwardly, I stood over him. Humble? Together? What was this?

Swylar opened his eyes. I noticed a glint of threat in them and was about to move back.

Too late. With the speed of a striking snake, he lunged at me, his teeth closing around my throat.

I reared backward in pain, carrying him with me. Together we fell, writhing on the forest floor, only now it was he who pinned me down. I felt a burning agony in my neck. Swylar may not have been a warrior, but someone had taught him how to kill. His grip stopped my breath.

— Swylar.

In desperation, I revealed. I felt the strength of my revelation, so close to him, shake his body.

— This is wrong. We could work together. For the kingdom.