Ratastrophe Catastrophe Page 4

  “I see. Well…” Jimmy continued. “Then we’ve got Porridge Riley.”

  “Ores, I’m afraid,” said Gordo, making a face. “An absolute barbarism; they only ever found an ear.”

  “Stabb the Brave?”

  “Over a cliff in Chudderford.”

  “Gordwyn Styke?”

  “Wife did him in.”

  Jimmy sighed deeply and gave a dismissive shrug. “Well, that just leaves you boys,” he muttered, looking up from the scroll. “Will you come?”

  Groan and Gordo glanced at one another.

  “We might be able to fit it in,” said the dwarf.

  Jimmy made to snatch up the reins, then hesitated.

  “There’s only one problem,” he said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” asked Groan, always ready for a confrontation. His few remaining hairs bristled.

  “Well, there’s only this one horse, and it can’t really take all three of us.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Gordo said, and shrugged. “You can walk back.”

  SIX

  MEANWHILE, THE NEWS OF Dullitch’s swelling rodent infestation began to spread. The rumors started innocently enough, as all rumors do. Bernard Grim, the ratcatcher, was quick to swear his hapless (nay, hopeless) apprentice to secrecy but, as fate would have it, Malcolm talked in his sleep. He also shared rooms with Thomas Dimchurch, above the baker’s shop in Furly Lane.

  Thomas, a member of the notorious Rooftop Runners, was the very soul of discretion. His strict code of ethics meant that he would keep a secret to the grave. However, he had recently tripped on Malcolm’s discarded sandal and broken his leg, incapacitating him and forcing him to withdraw from a date with Trissa Lefyette. So, in a moment of anger and frustration, he repeated the apprentice’s mutterings to Chas Firebrand, the owner of the Rotting Ferret tavern. In all probability, that was the turning point.

  Chas had a mouth; it wasn’t a big mouth but it was a mouth with ambitions. Anything you told Chas could be relied upon to stay between you, himself, and just about anyone else the man laid eyes on.

  Within a few days, word had spread from Dullitch and its swarming environs, to the far corners of Illmoor.

  Dullitch is under attack. Dullitch is under siege. Dullitch is infested with…

  “Rats?” Diek Wustapha raised one chiseled eyebrow in mock amusement. He’d left his home in Little Irksome for the neighboring town of Crust with his parents’ blessing, a week’s worth of bread and cheese, and enough gold to afford him shelter. “But rats are relatively harmless, aren’t they?”

  The villager he’d been talking to boggled at him, noticing for the first time that the boy’s eyes glowed like burning coals. Still, an idiot was an idiot….

  “Haven’t you ever ’eard of the Great Fire of Dullitch?”

  Diek nodded. “Of course.”

  “Well, it was rats what pulled that off. Well-known fact.”

  “Hmm…I thought a baker started it,” said Diek.

  “Yeah, but some folk reckon he was a rat by day,” whispered the villager.

  Diek thought about this and decided not to pursue the matter. The fact was that there appeared to be strong rumors of a hostile infestation in Dullitch, and the capital city of Illmoor was bound to have a sizeable treasury. You didn’t need to be a mathematician to count the odds. “And people are frightened, you say?”

  “Oh yes, terrified,” the villager continued. “Word is, they’re afraid to walk the streets and they’re too scared to stay inside, because the rats are coming through the floorboards. That’s mainly them who’s poor an’ lives by the downstream. O’ course, uptown all the rich ’e plannin’ a big ol’ protest on account o’ findin’ out what the duke an’ the council are gonna do ’bout it all.”

  “I see. How do you know all of this, exactly?” asked Diek, trying to sound casual.

  The villager offered another shrug and pointed east toward the town hall.

  “Heralds,” he said simply. “Two arrived from the city this morning. Of course, I’d already ’eard most of it through the grapevine by then.”

  Go now, urged The Voice. Enlist. You can make…a difference.

  Diek looked around him. He’d planned to stay a little longer in the village, but now, on reflection, there didn’t seem to be any point. Dullitch beckoned, and Diek felt compelled to entrust himself to fate…and to the voice that seemed to call him, ever so gently, to task.

  Diek abruptly dismissed the villager, who thought better of taking offense, and made his way over to the town hall. As he disappeared into the distance, the villager noticed that the patch of grass on which the boy had been standing had burned clean away.

  Evidently, Dullitch’s infestation hadn’t drawn that many eager potential saviors. In fact, out of the five men present to sign up for mercenary duties in the Crust Town Hall, only Diek had all his limbs. Still, it seemed that a lifetime passed before the other hirelings staggered, hopped, and clawed their way through the line.

  Diek swallowed, tightened his grip on the flute, and stepped up to the seated herald.

  “Name?”

  “Diek Wustapha.”

  He tried hard not to watch the herald’s bushy eyebrows mating as he scribbled Diek’s name down with a quill.

  “Division?”

  “What are you babbling about?” answered Diek, sharply.

  The herald leaned back in his chair and folded both arms.

  “If you’re a mercenary, you have to fit into some sort of category.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” said the herald, impatiently. “Such as assassin, warrior, barbarian, mercenary, exterminator, vermin expert?”

  “I’m none of those things!” huffed Diek.

  The herald was beginning to look mildly annoyed. “Then how, young lad, do you propose to rid our city of rats?”

  “Using this,” said Diek, proffering his flute.

  “What is it?”

  “My flute,” answered Diek, proudly. “I play, people follow.”

  “Just people?”

  “Animals too. Donkeys, horses, rabbits. Even…”

  “Rats?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  The herald nodded. “Then you’re a charmer,” he said. “I don’t think we need—”

  The herald suddenly stopped speaking. It was as if an invisible hand had gripped him by the throat. His skin turned a milky white color, and his hands began to scribble almost automatically.

  “A charmer, excellent,” he said, gasping to catch his breath. “Sounds good to me; it’s certainly worth a try.”

  Then he put the quill down and shook his head. “Um, you’re the only charmer, so far,” he managed, in a more level tone. “You can come back to Dullitch with me. I’ll send a cart for the rest of the sign-ups, not that it’s worth it.” He rolled up the scrap of parchment he had been writing on and gestured toward the mercenary who had clawed away just before Diek had stepped up. He was still only halfway to the door.

  The heralds weren’t messing about. They had been given specific instructions and a nonnegotiable timeframe in which to achieve them. Within a few minutes of signing up for the cause, Diek found himself thundering toward the distant spires of Dullitch on a horse that seemed oblivious to any obstacle until they’d actually hit it. When the herald eventually indicated a resting point in the middle of Bunkly Wood, Diek had to spend three-quarters of an hour plucking thistles and snapped-off branch ends from his neck and chest. The horse seemed fine.

  Duke Modeset was staring down his nose, a frequent habit after any length of time spent with a member of the Dullitch Council. Having dropped in at the City Hall and found them all out “on civic duties,” he decided to dispatch a handful of road wardens with the task of retrieving at least one official and bringing him, her, or it to the palace. They had located Tambor Forestall in double-quick time, dragging him (kicking and screaming by all accounts) from the gambling room of a local inn.

  “So you se
nt word…” the duke began, “before you actually had my approval?”

  “Er…yes, milord. I thought it would look bad for you if we dallied about. You know how it is with politics.”

  “Hmm…interesting. You’ve seen to things personally, I trust?”

  “Oh yes. Absolutely!” said Tambor. “Heralds have been sent in all directions. Not merely in an attempt to recruit existing mercenaries, but also to scout for any other relevant…talentists?”

  “There’s no such word in the language,” Modeset sneered.

  “No, milord, but I’m sure you see what I mean.”

  Modeset nodded. He was of two minds whether to offer the man a drink (Forestall was edging dangerously close to the decanters), but decided against it on grounds of rumor. It was speculated that Tambor enjoyed his drink, often at the expense of a good suit.

  “So,” said Modeset. “I take it we’ll hear from these heralds tomorrow.”

  “Heard from them yesterday,” Tambor blurted, obviously regretting the statement as soon as it escaped from his lips.

  “Excellent!” said Modeset, visibly shocked. “Any encouraging responses thus far?”

  “Well, we’ve had three,” said the chairman, producing a scrap of parchment and leaning over the desk to pass it across, “and we’re still waiting on some of the slower carrier pigeons; a few of the newer heralds aren’t that sure how to use them. All from outsiders, naturally.”

  “Hmm…yes, so I see.” Modeset looked over at Tambor, squinted at the parchment, and continued. “I see we have the usual gaggle of knights from Bree, asking for half the kingdom and their expenses paid, a couple of mercenaries, and a young foreigner with a name I wouldn’t even try to pronounce….”

  “We think you say it ‘Dick,’ lordship,” said Tambor, helpfully.

  “I see. There doesn’t seem to be a title next to his name.”

  Tambor scratched his beard thoughtfully. “To tell you the truth,” he said, concealing the urge to grimace. “We don’t reckon much on that particular applicant.”

  “Why not?” asked the duke.

  “He’s just a young chap from the countryside,” answered Tambor. “The boy reckons he can charm folk by blowing on his flute.”

  “In public?” Modeset said, aghast. “Surely there’s some sort of law….”

  Tambor shook his head. “Strange folk, countrysiders,” he muttered, as a few shards of daylight infiltrated the arched windows of the palace. “If you ask me, milord, they’re all a bit haystacks.”

  “This report: it says here that these people actually follow him around. How extraordinarily eccentric.”

  Tambor gave a nod of agreement. “Quite a sight too, I imagine.”

  “Absolutely incredible,” said the duke.

  “It’s not just the villagers, either,” said Tambor. “Sheep, pigs, cattle, dogs, rabbits; they all trail after him, apparently.”

  “Could be he’s got a magnetic personality,” said Modeset.

  Tambor nodded. “Well, he’s certainly had an effect on the heralds,” he said. “The one who sent this message gave his two-weeks’ notice in with it.”

  “He resigned?”

  “Yes. Must be an unsettling lad, eh?”

  The two officials shared a moment of silence, as Tambor rummaged through the fathomless depths of his robe in search of a pipe.

  “I’m assuming you don’t want us to try a few more ordinary measures first?” said Tambor eventually.

  Modeset smiled humorlessly. “What’s the point?” he said. “We don’t want to send in ratcatchers or assassins only to have them return with bubonic plague. Also, rather unhelpfully, our twitchy friends over in Legrash have refused all trade with us until some sort of resolve is assured.”

  “That bad, is it?” asked Tambor.

  “It would seem so, yes. This proposed mercenary band is to be paid suicide rates for the disposal of the plague. Their coffer allocation is to be considered bottomless.”

  Tambor raised his eyebrows as a crash erupted from deep within the palace. A glass ornament toppled from the duke’s grand mantelpiece and shattered. Evidently dinner was being served, or else the rats had reached the palace. Either way, it was time for him to leave.

  It was late afternoon in Dullitch and the crowds were beginning to ebb away. This was due in no small part to the two mercenaries striding down Palace Street. An air of impending doom surrounded them, but that wasn’t unusual in Dullitch; anyone who didn’t have that air was quickly arrested and executed (occasionally the other way around).

  “Look at this: they’re everywhere!”

  Groan and Gordo were kicking rats out of the way with every second step. They had been told to head for the palace, where they would be “received with true Dullitch hospitality.” Gordo hoped that this wouldn’t be the case. He knew that “Dullitch hospitality” generally involved a three-hour wait in a dingy cell before some antique jailer arrived to spit a pardon all over them.

  “I was thinking about that fight we had in Phlegm,” he said to Groan, trying to take his mind off the palace. “I reckon we’d have won that and no mistake.”

  “Reckon you’re right,” said Groan. Groan had been in good spirits since he’d stolen a helmet from a quivering youth on guard at the Market Gate. He offered Gordo a gaping grin.

  “Half an apple?” said a voice behind them.

  “Anyway,” Groan continued, ignoring the interruption. “I don’t reckon that baron was up to much. We’d ’ave ’ad to kill ’im.”

  “Granted,” said Gordo. “There’s plenty of those border lords that owe us a few bob. Take the fat earl from down Shade Way; we was more than fair with him, considering.”

  Gordo looked up at his companion. “You still got his head?” he asked.

  Groan massaged his jaw and shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “Half an apple?” someone interjected.

  The two companions parted, allowing a rogue wearing a rapidly expiring tunic and grinning like a stowaway cat on a fishing trawler. He gave them a two-fingered salute.

  “Half an apple?” he repeated persistently.

  “No thanks,” said Groan.

  “I’m not offering.” The stranger frowned. “I’m asking. Have you got half an apple I could borrow?”

  “Why half?” said Gordo, intrigued.

  “Well, I didn’t want to ask for too much.”

  “Why borra?” said Groan, indefinitely.

  “Well, when I said borrow,” the beggar continued. “I was speaking figuratively, like.”

  “So you want half an apple to keep?” asked Gordo, suspiciously.

  “Yep, if it’s not too much trouble. Now that you mention it, I could let you have it back in a few days, but I don’t suppose you’d want it.”

  “What would you do with the uvver arf?” said Groan, still loitering at the beginning of the conversation.

  “He wouldn’t have two halves, would he?” Gordo reasoned. “He’d only have the one half we gave him.”

  The beggar looked wretched. “Well?” he said eventually.

  “Well what?”

  “Can I have half an apple or not?”

  “We haven’t got one!” Gordo snapped.

  The beggar was silent for a moment. Then he offered them an alternative salute and disappeared down a side alley.

  Groan and Gordo arrived at a corner where a few of the outlying market stalls were packing away for the evening. The dwarf looked back over his shoulder and scowled as three cloaked figures shrank back into the shadows. He’d always had a distinct loathing for Dullitch, and this visit was proving no exception.

  SEVEN

  DULLITCH WAS SEETHING WITH rats.

  There were rats on the street, rats running along the window ledges, rats in the gutters. Diek couldn’t believe his eyes: the legendary capital city had fallen to a new kind of enemy. No one could have predicted it.

  You can remove them. Diek hadn’t heard The Voice since he’d left Little Irksome. Now i
t spoke in a reduced, raspy tone; it was almost snakelike.

  The herald reined in his horse and reached out for the reins of Diek’s own beast of burden. “You can get off here ’n’ make your own way to the palace. I’ll need to check the horses back in.”

  Diek found himself practically shoved off his mount; he had to jump two rats and dodge a frying pan aimed at a third before he managed to catch up with the herald. “Aren’t you going to take me to the palace?” he asked the herald. “No,” said the man, suddenly more eager than ever to get away from his companion. “Duke’s granted an audience to all mercenaries at five o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

  “But I don’t know my way around!” whined Diek.

  “Your way around what?” asked the herald.

  “The city, idiot!”

  The herald boggled at him. “There is no way around the city, lad. Dullitch is an absolute maze. Just find a tavern and wait till five, then head for the palace. It’s the big spiky thing in the distance.”

  Diek watched with bewildered rage as the herald urged the horses down the street, away from him. He gave a silent curse and wasn’t entirely surprised when the man fell off his steed and tumbled into a pile of garbage bins gathered to one side of the street.

  Hmm…amusing. Very amusing.

  Diek looked around for a tavern. There didn’t seem to be a great shortage of those. In fact, he could see only one building on the street that didn’t look like a tavern, and that turned out to be a brothel. He wandered up and down the street outside the less rowdy bars (the ones that didn’t keep ejecting drunks onto the cobbles) and eventually headed for a single, solitary door that sported a small wooden board proclaiming:

  THE ROTTING FERRET

  est. 824 / prop: Mr. C. Firebrand

  Bring your own stool.

  Please make every effort to mop up any

  of your own blood.

  Be careful as you go down; steps are very steep

  (giants are advised to watch their heads, dwarfs their arses).

  This bar does not encourage fighting,