The Twyning (10 page)

Quell stepped in front of me. — We need to close this business. Let us hear what this young rat claims to have seen.

My revelation was slow, and in spite of my tiredness, it reached all the courtiers who were listening. I told of the events that had happened to the three of us in the world above, from the first time we had sensed the pulse of the king to the meeting with Malaika.

As I finished my revelation, a figure pushed to the front of the crowd. It was Grizzlard, the rat who would be king. He seemed less in control, more disheveled and ordinary, than he had been until recently. As he addressed the courtiers, a whiff of disrespect was in the air.

— If what we have heard is indeed the truth and not some story invented by a ratling, it is a tragedy for the kingdom. What our subjects need now is their new king to bring back stability. As the courtier nominated by the great martyr Tzuriel, I —

— Your moment is past.

The revelation came out of the darkness of the chamber behind me, from where, after a few moments, Swylar stepped forward.

— This brave young rat from the Court of Tasting has shown us that courage does not have to involve the noise and fighting and aggression of the Court of Warriors. It is not the time for a warrior to lead us. Efren has borne witness to an act of open war by the enemy. The planned capture of our king and his execution before cheering crowds.

Quell looked up sharply. — That is not what the ratling said. There was no talk of war or execution.

Swylar moved forward to stand closer to Quell than was deemed respectable at court. Beside the creaking, ancient figure, he seemed lithe and young. I was crouching low, hoping not to be seen, but to my horror he turned to me.

— It was no accidental death, the end of our king, was it? More like a declaration of war, surely.

I gazed into the eyes of Swylar. They narrowed with the merest hint of a threat. I remembered the courtier’s words:
We are in this together.
I revealed quietly. — It was no accident.

— See? — Ignoring Quell, Swylar turned to the court. — We are in a state of war. Grizzlard belongs to yesterday. The kingdom calls out for a new leader.

Grizzlard attempted to interrupt.

— It is for this court, not for subjects —

Before he could finish, Swylar scurried forward and delivered a contemptuous nip on the side of Grizzlard’s neck.

In spite of his superior strength and his famed courage in battle, the courtier did nothing to retaliate.

— We have discussed enough. The court must unite for the future. It is time to choose a new ruler. The kingdom awaits.

As if some silent but powerful command had been given, the citizens who had been pressed together in the center of the court began to move back, allowing a passage through their midst. A small figure, gazing ahead as if into the eyes of destiny, moved through their ranks. It was Jeniel.

— I request the nomination of this court. Let us end this uncertainty. The kingdom demands it.

The heads of several courtiers turned to Grizzlard and then to the senior courtier Quell. One after the other, they lowered their heads in agreement. In response, relieved that the uncertainty was over, the courtiers acclaimed the doe would be queen.

Swylar had moved closer to me.

— Stay near to me. — The revelation was low and urgent. — You have just become part of the Court of Governance.

He nudged me in the direction of Jeniel.

The Court of Governance? What was he talking about? I was gripped by panic.

— Can I return to the Tasting Court? I want to see Alpa and all my friends.

Smiling coldly, Swylar replied. — Too late for that, little one. Step out of my protection now and you will quickly be dead.

— Dead? But why?

— You are with me and the queen now. If you are not, citizens may believe that you are with the enemy. And you know how citizens can be when they are angry.

Within me, I heard the revelation of Grizzlard when he had spared me from the Court of Correction. It was those words I revealed now.

— The kingdom is good.

Swylar looked more closely at me. There was threat in his eyes.

— Good? Be very careful, little one. The kingdom is changing. In times of war, the only good is to obey your leaders.

— What of Floke? What about Fang?

— Efren, your dear simple friends have, unfortunately for them, seen things that will require them to make the small sacrifice of their insignificant lives.

— You told me that they were being taken care of.

Swylar turned away from me.

— And so they are. In a sense.

. . . or so many people believe anyway.

I sit in the back of Bill Grubstaff’s cart, a cage full of rats at my feet. His old black horse, Jim, hairy heeled and with a tragic look in his eye, takes us through the town.

Some of the townspeople recognize Bill and his cart. Others catch sight of the sign painted on each side. It reads,
BILL GRUBSTAFF, RAT-CATCHER
, and has a rough drawing of a big rat beneath the letters. I have never thought that was a very good idea.

Children stare at us now and then. Their mothers or nannies hurry them along. Men joke to one another as we go by, but I can tell that they are uneasy.

Nobody wants bad luck, do they?

You would think people would welcome Bill. Stories are told about giant rats being found in cellars, under the floorboards, in postboxes. I have never understood why someone who catches them should be seen as a person to avoid.

Bill cares nothing for all this. He is slumped on the seat, his old cloth cap over his eyes. Now and then he shakes the reins against Jim’s neck. The horse ignores him.

It is a gray November morning when we reach the Cock Inn, an old tavern that has the look of a place hemmed in by the houses on each side.

As we pass, I see faces peering out the window. There is movement behind the glass as we approach.

Bill looks in their direction, and smiles.

“Well, they’re pleased to see us anyway,” he murmurs.

We continue down the road until we reach a yard behind an ironmonger’s shop. It is here that Bill tethers Jim, by a stone water trough.

I once made the mistake of asking Bill why we had to hide the cart away from the Cock Inn.

He became unusually angry.

“Anybody would think we was animals,” he said. “Ducking and diving, hiding ourselves away from the coppers. All because we provide a few rats for sport.”

The pit was against the law now, he told me. He talked of the days when the Cock Inn was famous for its bouts — cockerels, bears, dogs, monkeys, and even humans had fought in the pit that was to be found in the big back room away from the street.

Now, Bill told me, they had to be careful. Coppers needed to be paid off. News of the next pit day was passed on, quietly, from sportsman to sportsman, pub to pub.

On days like this, though, the Cock Inn is full of life and noise and sport, just as it was in the times gone past.

We carry the rat cages, one after the other, down a narrow alleyway that leads to the backyard of the Cock Inn.

There’s something different about Bill now. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes alert. He knocks on the door, winking at me as if I know the reason for his cheeriness.

And I do. It is called Molly Wall.

The landlady of the Cock Inn is a round, smiling woman whose dark curly hair makes her easy to spot in the pub — that and her loud laughter, which can often be heard above the buzz of conversation at the bar.

“Molly was a beauty in her day,” one of the regulars once told Bill while I was standing nearby.

“Still is,” he murmured.

There’s certainly a kindness to Molly. When she smiles, it is as if she really means it. She asks me questions about my life, and although I am careful not to tell her too much, I am pleased that she is interested.

“And here are our rats,” she says, opening the door wide to us. “How many have you got, Bill?”

“Some four hundred, Molly.”

“We’ll need all of them.” Molly Wall ruffles my hair as I walk past her. “We’ve got six dogs in tonight.”

“Not so easy to get the beasts as it used to be, Molly.” I have noticed that there is something about the landlady’s name that brings a smile to Bill’s lips. He likes to say it as often as he can.

“It’s you that’s getting slower, Bill.” She winks at me. “Eh, Dogboy?”

I nod. Bill blushes.

I walk ahead of her down a narrow corridor. As Molly reaches forward to open the door at the end of the passage, the noise, smoke, and laughter from the public bar seem to burst over us.

We enter, and some of the gamblers — punters, as they’re known — call out Bill’s name. There are dogs in every corner of the room, barking and tugging at their harnesses as they sense the approach of rats.

. . . and the terror of a fragile surrounded by noise and rage and the bodies of other stronger rats.

She could hardly breathe for the writhing movement all around her.

But when the dogs began to bark, and the smell of the enemy was thick in the throat, she sensed there was greater danger than she had ever known.

— Fight!

— Fight!

— Fight!

The revelations were all around her. She felt a stirring within her.

— Fight!

— Fight!

. . . where Bill likes to stand on pit days. Joe, the barman at the Coach Inn, brings him a beer and is about to hurry off when Bill says, “And a ginger pop for the lad, please, Joe.”

I have noticed this about Bill. Pit days give him courage. They bring him alive. He is less shy, more talkative.

Standing by the bar, watching the setters and ratters with their dogs, Bill talks in a way he would never do at any other place or time.

For this place brings back the past to him. He tells me about the Bull and Bear, a pit on the other side of town.

“There was quality in them days.” He shakes his head and drinks deep of his beer. “Excitement. Sport. Money changing hands. Beasts in play. Fighting dogs . . .” He looks around the bar. “Better than this lot, anyway.”

The warmth, the ginger pop, the noise: they make me feel good. This afternoon, I begin to feel, will be a happy time.

“Tell you what, boy.” Bill drops his voice. “I’ve heard talk of the sports out in the country — coursing hares, hunting foxes, and the like. I’ll lay you money they wouldn’t compare to the sport you get in that pit.”

He nods in the direction of the center of the room where a low wooden barrier seals off a hole in the ground. When dogs and rats are in sport, the setters and trainers, punters and drinkers, will gather around and look down into the square pit where animals — rats, cockerels, monkeys, dogs, even badgers — have fought and died down the centuries. Their blood has colored the zinc walls of the pit, giving them a dull coppery look.

I let Bill talk. In my heart I know that he will never persuade me that dogs killing rats is sport, however loudly men roar, however much money is made.

Bill speaks, as if sensing my doubts. “You got courage here, boy. You got the power of nature, the skill of man. And tricky as a bagful of monkeys! People think that betting on which of two dogs can kill rats quicker would be easy, but it’s not. I’ve seen a Manchester terrier, in its prime and bred for the job, lose to a wispy little mutt that had never been in a pit before. In this job, no one — not the best setter in the world — knows exactly what’s going to happen when a dog gets dropped in that pit.”