The Twyning (17 page)

Slowly, and with painful dignity, the two of them advanced between the ranks of courtiers in a silence broken only by the sound of Quell’s wheezing breath. When they reached the end of the chamber, Quell looked beyond the three judges to where Queen Jeniel was sitting.

— I have come to speak for a great warrior and courtier who has been treated disrespectfully and who should not be in this place, Your Majesty.

The queen stared ahead in silence. As if the words had been directed to him, Swylar replied.

— You are here, Quell, to defend the traitor?

The old rat’s eyes remained on the queen.

— Your Majesty, Grizzlard is not a traitor and he needs no defense beyond the history of his life. He has brought honor and sacrifice to the kingdom. What is in question here is whether there is now a place for those who express any kind of disagreement with those who are in power.

For the first time, the queen looked down at Quell.

— We can discuss philosophical matters later, old friend.

She showed her teeth, her favorite gesture of friendship. — But first it is time for matters of the law.

She inclined her head in the direction of Swylar, but Quell was not finished.

— Where is the Twyning?

I sensed an unease in the Justice Room. Loyalists and traditionalists looked around, sniffing the air, as if somehow the presence of thirty rats, their tails grown together, had been overlooked.

Quell revealed more strongly.

— When great decisions are made in the kingdom, the Twyning must be present to give its verdict. It is a matter of freedom. Where is —

Swylar darted forward and, with a squeal, bit Quell on the shoulder. At any other time, the warrior would have fought back and soon Swylar would have retreated. Now he merely shifted away.

— There is only one freedom that matters in a time of war. — Swylar’s eyes were on Queen Jeniel. — And that is the freedom from fear. I have discussed the fate of the traitors with the Twyning. It is in agreement with the court and our queen, and has graciously allowed us to deliver its verdict.

Moving more closely to Quell, Swylar continued. Now his revelation was low and dangerous.

— You talk of rights, Quell. What of the right of the kingdom not to be conquered by the enemy? Those who are not prepared to go to war for the kingdom, the uncommitted, can play no part in it. There is no room for the questioning, the doubting, the morally feeble, no matter how distinguished they might have been before they grew — he hesitated, then delivered the final word like the crack of a whip —
old.

As Quell seemed to sag in defeat, Grizzlard stepped forward. When he revealed, his words had none of the fire or strength that they once had when he had been a great warrior and claimant to the throne.

— Leave Quell, Swylar. Your dispute is with me.

— There is no dispute, only a case of treason, you miserable old traitor!

Swylar turned to Slathe, who announced, — The court summons its first witness. Efren!

For a moment, I thought there must be another Efren present in the Justice Room. Then Loyter pushed me forward through the crowd and into the center of the room.

I looked around. Staring eyes. Curious. Suspicious. Surprised. Hostile. What was this ratling doing at the center of the Justice Room in a great trial? I made my way to stand beside Grizzlard, in front of the tribunal.

Swylar gazed coldly at me and began to reveal.

— Young Efren. You see the accused standing beside you? Is he the courtier Grizzlard?

— He is.

— When you returned from the world above, having witnessed the torture and assassination of our great king Tzuriel, did you go to see Grizzlard?

— I saw Queen Jeniel and then Grizzlard.

— Saw and revealed?

— Yes.

— You told of the cruelty, the humiliation, and the death of our great king.

— Yes.

— And did Grizzlard grow angry? Did he talk of war?

— He was sad. He said Tzuriel had been his closest friend in all the kingdom.

— No word of revenge, then?

— It was not the moment. He —

— Or surprise that humankind had done this terrible thing?

— Not at that time.

— Thank you, Efren. You are young but already you have served the kingdom well.

That was it. I wanted to say more, to explain how the great warrior was innocent. I looked at Grizzlard, hoping to convey my regret, but he was staring at the ground.

I returned to my place. Swylar summoned the next witness.

So the case continued. One courtier testified that Grizzlard had expressed fears as to where Jeniel would take the kingdom. Another said that Grizzlard opposed war. A third had been told that Grizzlard distrusted Swylar. Listening, even I began to believe that perhaps it was true. By expressing doubt at a time when war approached, Grizzlard and those like him, the uncommitted, had put the kingdom in danger of the enemy. Eventually, with obvious impatience, Swylar addressed the accused.

— Grizzlard, speak.

The old warrior gazed hard at Swylar, fire in his eyes, exposing his yellow teeth, still strong in spite of his age. For a moment it seemed as if what remained of his fighting spirit might launch him at the neck of his enemy. When he revealed, there was an icy contempt in his words.

— All my life, I have been loyal to the kingdom. I have risked my life for it many times. Anyone who knows me will know that I would never do anything to harm or to weaken it. I shall take the accusations made against me one by one.

But, as Grizzlard continued, Swylar turned to his fellow judges and casually began to click his teeth together, an impatient snickering sound.

For a moment, Grizzlard persisted, addressing the back of Swylar’s head, but then he faltered and fell silent.

Swylar continued making the noise for several moments. Then he seemed to become aware that the accused had stopped revealing.

— Was that it?

The question was sharp, as insulting as a tail lashed across Grizzlard’s face.

— You were not listening, Swylar.

— So that was it, then?

— If I may now continue —

— The accused has completed his defense. We shall now consider our verdict.

Before Grizzlard could say anything else, the three judges had turned in upon themselves and were in low discussion. The moment of consultation lasted no more than a few seconds. Then, with an air of boredom that suggested that the court had many more important matters to consider, Swylar delivered the verdict.

— This court finds the accused guilty. The usual sentence will be applied. The Court of Correction will be summoned to the Great Hollow. Citizens of the new kingdom should see that justice is for all.

Quell attempted to move forward to address the courtiers, but three young warrior rats barred his way. Swylar was about to continue when another revelation rent the air.

— No! This is wrong.

There was a moment of astonished silence in the Justice Room. The voice was not of an old courtier, but of a ratling. He was not among the traditionalists but standing at the back of the loyalists.

Me.

I heard only the thumping of my own heartbeat.

I revealed again, more quietly now.

— This is wrong.

Before I could say any more, the warrior rats were upon me.

. . . are made for summer. I sit upon the dicky of the carriage, shivering, as we make our way across town to see the politician Mr. Valentine Petheridge MP.

We travel to a part of town that I have never seen, with large houses, each like a palace, overlooking a great park. Nervously I walk behind the doctor as he climbs the wide steps to the front door.

A maid in a uniform opens the door and shows us in. We are led through a hallway with pictures of great men from history looking down at us. The maid opens a heavy door at the end of a corridor.

We walk into a large room with leather-bound books on every wall. There is a smell of cigar smoke in the air.

“Sir.” The maid speaks nervously in the direction of the leather armchair with a newspaper covering it. “Your guest is here.”

There is a movement beneath the paper, a pair of hands, then a head of thinning hair. Finally, a pale face, with watery eyes blinking behind heavy spectacles, appears over the top of it.

As Mr. Petheridge looks at us, like a man who has just been awakened and is not sure whether he is dreaming or not, the doctor directs me to a nearby corner with a little shooing movement of his left hand.

“Val, it has been too long.”

He advances, his hand outstretched.

The politician looks confused.

“Remind me again.”

“Ross-Gibbon,” said the doctor, shaking the politician’s hand.

“Doesn’t mean a thing, I’m afraid.” The politician’s voice is thin and impatient, like someone who has had a toothache for several days.

“We were up at Trinity together.” The doctor’s smile is looking a little uncertain now. “You dined in my rooms. We went beagling.”

Mr. Petheridge seems to notice me for the first time. Blinking from behind his glasses, he asks, “What’s the child doing here?”

“Mr. Smith is my assistant,” says the doctor. “We shall need him later.”

“Later?” Mr. Petheridge makes no attempt to conceal his alarm. “There’s going to be a later?”

The doctor moves toward a leather armchair.

“May I take a seat?” he asks.

The politician gives a bored wave of his hand. When the doctor lowers himself into the armchair, it is so deep that he almost disappears from my sight.

“I believe,” he says, “that I have a plan that will help you with the next election.”

“A mouse!” Mr. Petheridge sits up suddenly in his chair, awake at last. He gives a little reedy laugh. “You were the mouse man.”

“Well, actually —”

“I distinctly remember you now. The Gibbon, we called you. We had a dinner one night and the girl sitting next to you asked you what subject you were reading. You pulled a mouse out of your pocket. There was quite a scene. Old Gibbon. Well, I never.”

“It was a pygmy shrew, actually.”

The MP continues to chuckle to himself. “The mouse man, goodness me. Rummest thing I ever saw while I was up at Cambridge.”

The doctor purses his lips.

“Mouse at dinner; never seen such a thing.” Mr. Petheridge shakes his head. After a few moments, he pulls himself together. “Still, we were young then. No time for mice these days, eh, Ross-Gibbon? What are you up to now?”

The doctor clears his throat. “Rats, actually.”

That sets the MP off again. “Oh, very good.” He laughs loudly, slapping the arm of his chair. “You’ve become quite a joker since we left Cambridge. But seriously . . .”

There is an awkward pause. When the doctor speaks, it is in a quiet, dignified voice.

“I wasn’t joking, actually. I am a scientist, and my current field of research is
Rattus norvegicus
, the brown rat.”

“Oh, dear. What a funny thing for a chap to be doing.”

“The rat, Val, is our most deadly enemy. It is all around us. The female is fertile within three weeks of producing a litter. They reproduce at an astonishing rate. When they first arrived in the city of Selkirk last century, there were so many runs and burrows that the townspeople feared that buildings would collapse.”

The MP’s interest seems to have shifted to something outside. He gazes out the window, looking bored.

“Rats kill children every year, Val. They can live off anything — rotten food, roots, eggs, young birds. They swim rivers and catch fish. D’you know, they can bite through metal? Their jaws are among the strongest in the animal kingdom. And their population —”

“Look, I’m sure this is all terribly interesting, but what exactly has it got to do with me, Gibbon?” The MP suddenly sounds rather annoyed. “I’m a busy man, you know.”

“So I see.” The doctor speaks coldly.

“I’m a member of Parliament,” says Mr. Petheridge sulkily. “It’s a jolly important job.”

“And are you likely to remain so?” The doctor’s voice is lower now, almost threatening.

“Of course. I . . . I . . . I think I’m quite a popular chap.” In his desperation, the MP darts a panicky grin toward me, as if to prove how nice he can be to ordinary people.

“My information is that you will lose next year’s election unless something dramatic happens,” says the doctor.

“My enemies might say that, but —”

“I can make something dramatic happen.”

“Oh, really, Gibbon? With your rats? Are they going to vote for me?” A nastiness has entered the MP’s voice.

The doctor sits forward in his chair.

“What you need is a campaign that will make you loved and famous among voters. Mr. Smith, bring me my maps and papers.”

I lift the case and walk across the book-lined room.

We have our politician.