The Twyning (32 page)

. . . changed everything. The scuttling shadows I saw as I made my way through the world below no longer reminded me of the great massacre that had just taken place.

There were citizens. They were alive. While they breathed, the kingdom was not dead. It was in the heart of each of us.

I was no longer just Efren of the Tasting Court. Every rat is a king. I had to act.

I went to the Great Hollow, and without a moment’s hesitation, I ascended to the Rock of State. The time when I would have been fearful of punishment was past. There was nothing now for me to lose.

In this war, fear itself was the enemy.

Soon after I took my place on the rock, a doe rat hurried by with three of her young.

She put her head down and headed for a nearby rest. I was aware that she was watching me from there.

I waited, exploring the corners of the Rock of State as if it were my natural home. Soon, the doe, followed by her ratlings, ventured out, as I knew she would. I revealed, quietly, in the manner of a citizen.

— Welcome, sister. To which court do you belong?

The doe humbled briefly and nervously.

— Translators.

She looked at me and revealed again, less fearful now.

— There are not many of us left after . . .

— After the battle, yes. I saw them. They fought well, the translators.

— You saw the battle?

I was aware of rustles of movement at the back of the hollow. Eyes, curious and afraid, glinted in the darkness.

I continued. — I was in the world above. I was not able to reach the fighting, but I saw what happened. It was a great victory.

— Victory?

— It was a trap. The enemy tricked us. We fought bravely. The kingdom will be stronger now.

The shapes below me moved closer. When I revealed again, it was stronger and with a particular certainty.

— Now we must prepare for the future.

There were more citizens in the darkness than I had first thought. They looked hungry and lost, but the smell of fear in the air was beginning to fade. I could sense a hint of hope.

We. Prepare. The future. This was the message for which they had been waiting.

It was a young warrior on the far side of the river who asked the question that was in the minds of all the citizens there.

— What shall we do?

I allowed a silence to settle upon the Great Hollow. When I revealed, it was with a new strength that would reach all the citizens in that place.

— We shall do what we always do. We shall unite and be strong.

At first it seemed as if my revelation would not be enough. The rats and does and ratlings who were gathering in the Great Hollow had been confused by their leaders in the past.

King Tzuriel had urged peace upon the kingdom but had died in the hands of the enemy. Queen Jeniel had taken it to war and into a massacre. I revealed once more.

— We have an enemy who wishes to destroy us. We need to decide if we should fight or flee. What is best for the kingdom.

There was a new restlessness below me. Citizens were not used to being asked. They were told.

A young rat beyond the river was first to reveal.

— What is your name?

— My name is Efren.

I awaited the challenge, but it never came.

— Are you a part of the Court of Governance?

— Yes.

— What do you tell us, Efren?

— The kingdom must unite. We must build again after this great battle. And, if we must, we should fight the enemy.

There was another long silence, broken only by the ripples of the river as it rolled through the kingdom.

I looked out, knowing that there was no escape now.

I was on the Rock of State. I was not part of the court. At that moment, I
was
the court. I revealed with a confidence that in my heart I did not entirely feel.

— It is time to work. The kingdom is alive again.

. . . is walking through the streets of the town. A large leather suitcase is in his hand. Beside him is a boy of thirteen. Neither speaks.

We are on our way. Bill and I, with a few friends, are about to pay a visit to Mr. Ralph Knightley, known to some people as Champagne Charlie.

It is a bright and cold winter’s morning, and the frosty ground crunches beneath our feet.

We turn into the street, ignoring the wary glances of a nanny taking two young children for their morning constitutional.

As we approach the house, I think of our plan. So much can go wrong, but, perhaps strangely, I have faith in Bill. He is angrier than I have ever known him to be.

As we draw nearer, he murmurs, “Just do what I tell you, boy, and your girl will soon be safe.”

“It’s there.” I point to Knightley’s house, looking up at the second-floor window in the hope of catching a glimpse of Caz. The curtains behind every window except those on the ground floor are drawn.

Without hesitation, Bill approaches the house. He opens the garden gate, walks past the giant sycamore I once climbed, and strides up the stone path as if he owns it. He lifts the knocker on the door and hammers loud, twice.

I feel braver, being with Bill.

The house is silent. Behind us, a carriage rattles along the main road at the end of the street.

After a few moments, Bill knocks again. This time I notice that he is glancing toward the basement windows. He has told me stories of his teenage days when he was part of a gang of child burglars. Since then, he once said, he has never broken the law. I have wondered to myself how true that is.

He knocks a third time, more insistently now. The sound echoes off the walls of the houses opposite.

There is a noise from within.

Latches on the front door are drawn back, and the door opens.

He is not at all how I expected, Knightley. He wears a well-tailored dark suit and has shiny black shoes. With a trimmed beard and a clear eye, he is utterly confident, every inch a gentleman.

“Yes?”

The voice is that of someone used to giving orders. I judge that he is older than he seems at first glance. There are flecks of gray in his beard and hair. He is a man on the dangerous turn of life, approaching fifty, perhaps.

“Beg your pardon, sir.” Bill gives a humble little bob. “We’re from the council. If we can just inspect your water closet.”

“No.” Knightley makes to close the door, but, to my surprise and his, Bill’s foot keeps it open.

Knightley puffs out his chest like a cockerel. “My good man —”

“Public health,” Bill says firmly. “Council says if we’re refused by householders, then the constabulary will become involved.”

“My housekeeper will be in later this morning. She shall show you the . . . facilities.”

“Constabulary says it’s urgent.”

“Oh, really, does it?”

“You’ll have heard of the war on rats,” Bill says.

“What on earth is that?”

Bill glances at me as if shocked by this show of ignorance.

“Great problem to health, sir. Disease and all sorts. Our job is simply to check your system. If rats appear in your water closet, it can be very unpleasant.”

“This is a very bad time.”

“Perhaps you would like to tell that to the constabulary.”

A nervous look flickers across Knightley’s smooth features. I sense that he would prefer that the police are not invited to his house.

“How long will the inspection take?”

“No more than five minutes, sir.” Bill holds up his case and I am almost sure that I can hear a sound issuing from it — a muffled scrambling and squeaking — but Knightley is too keen to be rid of us as quickly as possible to hear it.

He steps back into the dark house and, with an impatient jerk of his head, leads us into the hall.

The house is very different from its owner. It has not been tended or tidied the way those whiskers have. There is a thick layer of dust on the hollow table. The air is heavy with the smell of old cigar smoke and drink. No housekeeper has been near this place for a long time.

As we follow Knightley down a narrow corridor, I notice that empty bottles are lined along the wall on the floor.

He opens the door to a small room.

“Be as quick as you can,” he mutters. “I’m expecting guests.”

“Yes, sir.” Bill does another of his ever-so-’umble bobs of the head.

“What is the war on rats anyway?” Knightley asks.

“Very serious war, sir.” Bill is almost enjoying himself now. “The beasts are coming up through the sewers. Biting kiddies. Are you a family man yourself, sir?”

“I’m a bachelor.”

“Ah, yes, they come up the pipes, rats — big ’uns, too. Into houses. Bathrooms. Water closets. Some folk have had nasty nips where they were least expecting it.”

Mr. Knightley shudders. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I glance at Bill. We both know that we are too far from Caz.

“Maybe we should start with the upstairs water closet.”

“That won’t be possible.” Knightley speaks sharply. “It’s out of order.”

“Rats like a water closet that’s out of order,” says Bill. “We have instructions to inspect all water closets. From the constabulary.”

Knightley licks his lips nervously. “This is outrageous,” he mutters. “Wait here. I shall investigate whether it is available.”

He leaves us. We hear him climbing the wooden stairs above our heads.

“Well done, boy.” Bill gives me a wide, toothless smile. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

“She’s on the top floor, Bill. I’m sure of it.”

“Patience, boy.” Bill gives the suitcase a little shake, and winks.

We wait. Minute follows minute. The house is silent once more. What is he doing up there?

“Maybe he’s hiding her,” I whisper.

“Time for us to do a little investigating.” Bill picks up the suitcase and moves quietly into the corridor.

The staircase Knightley took is at the back of the house. Narrow and steep, it is for servants to use.

Stealthily, we climb.

The second floor is, if anything, grimier and dustier than downstairs. We stand on a landing and look around. The door to every room is closed. On a table in the passageway is a tray with dirty dishes and mugs. There is a smell of stale food in the air.

From above us, we hear a faint scraping noise. It sounds like furniture being moved.

The stairs leading to the next floor are even narrower, and gloomy. Bill looks up into the darkness.

“Mr. Knightley?” he calls out. “Shall we come up?”

Something is wrong. We both sense it. Bill passes me the suitcase.

“I’ll be back in a minute, boy.”

He has his foot on the first step when we hear the sound of someone descending rapidly.

“Stay there! Don’t move an inch!” Knightley stands half hidden where the stairs turn. He is in shadow, but I can see he holds a heavy silver-tipped cane in his hand. He moves toward us, holding the stick in front of him like a club.

“How did you know my name?” His voice is low and threatening. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Bill steps back, his eyes fixed on Knightley. “It’s the war on rats, sir. The council has —”

“Liar!” With surprising speed, Knightley takes the last four steps in one bound and, flailing his walking stick, is upon us.

“Oh, no.” Bill sounds almost disappointed. He dodges to one side and grabs the arm holding the stick.

The two men fall heavily against the wall, Bill’s suitcase dropping to the floor with a clatter.

An elegant, pale-skinned gentleman against Bill Grubstaff — it is a fight that can only go one way.

“Take my money!” Knightley cries in a strangled voice. “There’s no need for violence. Please!”

Without a word, Bill lifts him so sharply that his polished shoes leave the ground for a moment.

With a sound that is half a grunt and half a swearword, he pushes him against a wall, grabbing the silver-tipped cane in the same movement.

His right arm moves so fast in an upward jab that it looks like a punch, but as Knightley cowers, Bill grabs the hair of his beard on his left cheek and leads him like a donkey to a small door nearby. Bill twists the ring latch and pushes the door open. It is a small, dark closet.

He holds Knightley in the entrance, then turns him, almost as if they are dancing together, toward the closet, and with the sole of his boot against his back, Bill pushes him in, sending him sprawling across the ground.

“There you go, then.” Bill closes the door briskly and reaches for the cane. Then he seems to have another thought.

“Give me the case, lad.”

I pass it to him. Holding it flat on his raised right knee, he lifts both latches. “Open the door,” he says.

At the very instant that I push against the door, Bill opens the suitcase and jerks it wildly in the direction of the figure lying on the floor. Scores of rats fly through the air like a flock of birds taking wing, landing on and around Knightley. I catch a glimpse of him, turning, his eyes wild with terror and disbelief, before Bill pulls the door shut. The squeals of the beasts are drowned by his shouts of panic.

Bill picks up Knightley’s walking cane and, with a quick, easy movement, thrusts it through the latch of the door, jamming it closed.