Ratastrophe Catastrophe Read online

  “Accident,” said Jimmy, smiling. “Thank the gods for hay carts, that’s what I say.”

  “Hmm…You know where we can get lodgings at this hour?” asked Gordo.

  “Well, there’s always Finlayzzon’s,” said Jimmy. “Or, at a push, I s’pose I could sneak you into one of the Yowler hideouts.” He looked wretched at the thought of that.

  “No,” said Gordo. “That first place you mentioned should be okay. Where is it?”

  “On Stainer Street. ’S not far.” He sniffed and scratched his chin. “Only, I wondered—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well—”

  “What is it?” snapped Gordo impatiently.

  “I don’t suppose you could take Granddad with you?” He snatched one of Tambor’s prunes and popped it into his mouth. “Only, his landlady’s a right old dragon and she’s threatened to kick him out if he comes home in the small hours again.”

  “What?” Gordo exclaimed. “But he’s the council chairman, isn’t he? Are you seriously telling me he hasn’t even got his own house?”

  Jimmy gave the dwarf a nervous grin. “Politics doesn’t pay you much of a wage in Dullitch,” he whispered.

  ELEVEN

  IT WAS MORNING IN Dullitch, and a cool breeze bothered a dragon-shaped weathervane on the roof of the treasury. It spun around, whistled on the wind, and broke off, embedding itself point down in the sloping lower roof. A chimney sweep, who had narrowly averted being impaled by leaping out of its path, fell six floors and crashed through a striped canopy over Stovers’ pie shop.

  Duke Modeset smiled bitterly and turned away from the window. “I hate this city, Pegrand,” he said. “Well, maybe that’s an overstatement, but I’m sure there are better places to rule. Anthills, for example.”

  “Ha! I don’t care for it much myself, milord,” said Pegrand. “I saw three trolls out on Banana Bridge yesterday, dangling a young lad and his mum over the side. It oughtn’t to be allowed. It’s not just thieves these days, milord. Most of our citizens are petty crooks and vagabonds, too.”

  And worse, he thought. I’m not going to mention that dwarf with the butcher’s daughter. He’d never seen such despicable behavior.

  “Just concentrate on the job you’re doing, Pegrand.”

  “I am, milord,” said the manservant. “But you did say normal duties were on hold until—”

  “Exactly! So, you see, in some ways you can actually think of this rat crisis as an extended vacation, albeit one taken at home.”

  “How’s that, milord?” Pegrand raised an eyebrow. There had definitely been an emphasis on the word extended, and he wasn’t sure he liked the implication. “Surely you’re not actually thinking of staying here during the attempted, er, rat-out, milord?” he said, his voice edged with despair. “Do you remember that idea you had a few months ago of faking your own death? Maybe you should try that now!”

  “What?”

  “Well, maybe this infestation is a blessing in disguise; an opportunity to leave this fleapit of a city to someone else. It’s a terrible place, milord.”

  “As we both agree,” said Duke Modeset. “But I’m sure I don’t know why you continue to live here.”

  Modeset got down on his hands and knees and peered under the throne. Vicious was still curled up in a ball, growling softly in its sleep. He wondered what sex the dog was.

  “Um…excuse me, gentlemen?”

  Modeset and Pegrand started. The lord chancellor, a thin and insipid man named Quarry, stood beside the throne. He was attempting to shuffle through a collection of scrolls while standing up. Every few seconds a rogue parchment would slide off and drift away.

  “I was thinking about the money situation, Duke Modeset,” said Quarry.

  “Oh, yes?” answered the duke.

  “Indeed,” said Quarry.

  Pegrand sniffed haughtily and marched over to the window. He’d always despised chancellors, but Quarry was definitely a snake in the grass if ever he’d seen one.

  “Problems?” asked the duke.

  “Well,” Chancellor Quarry continued, “we’ve been experiencing some financial difficulties since the citizens stopped paying their taxes.”

  Duke Modeset’s eyes narrowed. “When was that?”

  “About a year ago, sir. The shopkeepers still pay theirs and all small businesses are assessed a fixed sum per annum, but we’ve built up a backlog of debt with Legrash, you see, and—”

  “Tell me, Quarry,” Duke Modeset asked, approaching the question with caution. “Exactly what do we have in the treasury, at this precise moment?”

  The chancellor hurried over to the desk, snatched up a quill and did some rudimentary calculations. “About—”

  “Yes?” said Modeset, his eyebrows raised.

  “Roughly—”

  “Mmm?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty-seven thousand, five hundred and twelve…”

  Pegrand breathed a sigh of relief, and even Modeset’s death-mask features expressed a second or two of surprised satisfaction.

  “…sacks of Coral’s cut-price coal,” the chancellor continued, smiling weakly. “A present from Baron Quaker of Legrash,” he added.

  “Coal. I see,” said the duke calmly, his death mask returning.

  “Coal?” echoed Pegrand. “I suggest we hang this man, milord.”

  “Silence, Pegrand! We’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  The chancellor exhaled.

  “We’ll let him explain it to the young man when he comes asking for his reward,” said Modeset. He smiled at Quarry. “I’m sure it’s the very least you can do.”

  “Certainly, Duke Modeset. It would be a pleasure.”

  After all, Quarry thought, he’s only a country-sider. What can he do?

  Diek stood on the crest of the tor and stared down at Dullitch, sprawled across the landscape. It projected onto the Nasbeck Ocean like a dirty brown smudge.

  This is all just scenery, the crusty flesh covering an underworld of creeping darkness. We are here, Diek. We are…waiting for you. But first you must rid these people of their plague…of their…burden. Do it, Diek. Now, now is your time. And so it shall be. Play, Diek. PLAY….

  He froze; The Voice was worrying him now. He raised a hand to his head, fearful that the tide of his own mind was about to turn on him again….

  Gordo had woken up in a few hellholes during his time, but he had to admit Finlayzzon’s took some beating. It was more a jail than a boardinghouse. Godrick Finlayzzon was a wealthy entrepreneur who had risen in status by thinking several steps ahead of his rivals and planning carefully for any anticipated complications. A grimy notice warned that guests would be locked in their rooms until they’d paid for the accommodation. In typical Dullitch style, the note was nailed to the back of the door.

  “Can’t you pay him?” Tambor snapped.

  “Listen, you ungrateful chump,” said Gordo. “Your bungling dunce of a grandson got us all into this mess in the first place, so you can get us out.”

  “But I haven’t got any money!”

  “Can’t you conjure it open?” snapped Gordo.

  “What, the door?” asked Tambor.

  “Yes, the door! Better still, order it open; you’re head of the bleedin’ council, aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” Tambor murmured. “I’m deserting.”

  “You’re what?” gasped Gordo.

  “You’ve inspired me! I’m deserting the council for a life of magic and high adventure!”

  “And yet you can’t open a single damn door?”

  “Nope; I, well, I left my spell book at the Ferret,” answered Tambor quietly.

  “And you can’t perform a simple lock-picking without it? Some sorcerer you are.”

  The dwarf stamped over to the window. Bars. You had to take your hat off to this Finlayzzon, he’d really thought of everything. Besides, it was quite a jump.

  “Can’t your barbarian wrench the door off?” asked Tambor.

 
Gordo treated Groan to a doubtful look. “Can you?”

  Groan marched purposefully over to the door and gave it a determined test kick. Some plaster cracked on the walls. “Should fink so,” he said. “Stan’ back.”

  Tambor had never seen a kick like it. Even Gordo gasped. The door flew out of the wall, taking the entire frame with it. Groan walked out into the hallway as if he were taking a morning stroll through the park. Gordo picked up his axe and beckoned to the old sorcerer, noticing how unstable the ceiling was beginning to look. Hairline cracks and patchwork crumbles sprouted along the east wall, and the window had dropped out, bars and all. The trio threaded their way along the corridor and down the stairs. Tambor made to leave a tip in the boardinghouse’s Voluntary Contribution Box, remembered he didn’t have any money, and stole a handful of loose change instead.

  “Where’re we off to now?” he called, hurrying across the cobbles to catch up with Gordo, who in turn was waddling quickly in order to keep pace with Groan.

  “We?” Gordo snapped. “What do you mean ‘we’? There is no we. There’s only us.”

  Tambor tripped over the scraggly ends of his robe and snatched at the dwarf’s shoulder in an effort to regain his balance. “Hey, I told you, I’m going back to a life of high adventure. I’m going to be a renegade sorcerer!”

  “Yeah. So?” said Gordo, still scurrying to keep up with Groan.

  “So, I’m exactly what you need to complete your band.”

  “We’re not startin’ a band,” Groan mumbled. “We’re mercen’ries.”

  “Yes, well, you know what I mean.”

  “Besides, I ’ate sorc’ry,” continued Groan.

  “Ha! That’s because you don’t understand it.”

  “All right, then,” Groan boomed. “We’re ’eadin’ up to Phlegm, see if there’s any o’ them merchant caravans we can raid. You can come wiv us, ’f you want.”

  Gordo stopped dead, and Tambor practically walked over him. Groan marched on a few yards, found he was talking to himself, and mooched back. “What’s up wiv you?” he said, looking down at the dwarf but avoiding eye contact.

  “He’s in?” Gordo exclaimed. “Just like that? What happened to the Groan Teethgrit who won’t have anything to do with sorcery?”

  “I just fort it might be good to have him wiv’ us, is all. In case we ever need a sorc’rer.”

  “Thanks,” said Tambor, weakly.

  “Are you serious? He can’t even open a damn door!” cried Gordo.

  “That’s not fair! I told you, I left my spell book in the Ferret,” whined Tambor.

  “Well, you’d better go and get it, then,” snapped Gordo. “You’re certainly no use to us without it.”

  “Fine,” said Tambor, glaring back at both of them. “I’ll pick up my magic carpet as well. Are you coming?”

  “Nah,” said Groan. “Meet us at the gates in an hour.”

  In the Ferret, Jimmy Quickstint concentrated, fanned out his hand, and flipped over the top card of the deck. “Slipper!” said Jimmy, grinning down at his card.

  “That’s never slipper!” shouted Chas Firebrand. “You need a five or a twelve for slipper. You’ve only got three sevens.”

  He snatched up the pack, shuffled and dealt again. “I’m not letting you have another one on I owe you,” he added. “That’s more ’n twenty crowns you owe me already.”

  “No, I can’t owe that much,” Jimmy protested.

  “You do. Remember that stunt at closing time, last week?”

  Jimmy tried to fake confusion. “Er, don’t recall exactly—”

  “I bet you don’t, my foot,” said Chas moodily, cracking his knuckles.

  “Okay, okay, don’t get miffed,” said Jimmy. He slipped off his stool, collected a handful of mugs from the nearest table, and placed them behind the bar. “There you go,” he added. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

  Chas shook his head in disbelief and downed the remnants of his own ale. “You know your problem?” he said.

  “No. What?”

  “You’ve got no sense of responsibility. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Could be, could be,” answered Jimmy.

  “Take your granddad, last night. There he was, passed out over the table, and who had to see that he got a decent night’s sleep? Two complete strangers. You didn’t know them from Morris. They could’ve taken him into an alley and beaten him senseless. I bet you haven’t even checked to see if he’s all right. Your own family. It’s unthinkable.”

  Jimmy closed one eye and cocked his head. “He’s an ex-sorcerer,” he said. “He can take care of himself.”

  “Yeah? So what’s he gonna do, pull a rabbit out of a hat and hope it gives one of ’em a nasty bite? Oh, and by the way, he left this here last night. If the rest of the council find out about it, he’ll be thrown outta the city.”

  Chas reached under the bar and produced a grubby, moth-eaten tome. The once-gold lettering was faded, but Jimmy could just make out the word Grimoire. “That can’t be good,” he admitted. “I don’t think Granddad knows that many spells as it is. Give it here.”

  Jimmy stowed the book inside his jerkin, and without another word, hurried out of the tavern.

  “Oi! What about my twenty crowns?” shouted Chas, shaking his head in disapproval and pulling himself a pint. He was on his third gulp when Tambor appeared, puffing and panting, in the doorway.

  “Chas, are you? All right? Is it? Spell book. Left it, need it. Can I? Have?” Tambor clutched at his chest, struggling to catch his breath.

  “You’re about five minutes too late,” Chas said, downing the rest of his pint. “Jimmy’s got it. He’s out there looking for you, now.”

  “Of all the flkfjjdjs!”

  “Cor blimey, is that Orcish?” asked Chas.

  “No, it’s modern obscenity.” Tambor aimed a kick at the door, and missed. Then he turned and headed out onto the street. “Tell Jimmy I’m leaving Dullitch,” he called back.

  “You what?” Chas yelled. “Since when?”

  “This morning! I’m joining a band of bloodthirsty mercenaries. To hell with you all! Hahahahahaha!”

  Elsewhere in the city trouble was brewing….

  It began as the merest hint of a tremor, a ripple in the water bowl of audibility. Some dust drifted between ceiling and floor in a cellar beneath the Ackerman Fishery. Vicious pricked up half an ear. The sound was distant, almost lost on the wind. It teetered on the brink of existence…and began to rise.

  Rumble.

  “Pegrand?”

  Rumble.

  “Milord?”

  Rumble.

  “Is that your stomach?”

  Rumble.

  “No, milord. I thought it might be yours.”

  Crash.

  Outside, atop the Crest Hill, Diek Wustapha played his terrible melody, while far above him lightning cast a net of electric veins across the sky. For the few folk abroad on the streets lucky or, depending on your view, unlucky enough to witness the music, its tune shifted in and out of audibility, high and low, thunderous and harmonious. For the briefest of moments, the townspeople were captivated. However, the real captives were the rising, swelling waves of rats that appeared from the basements and the gutters, knitting together and tumbling toward the lure.

  A door burst open somewhere in the southern half of the city. A woman screamed. Nothing happened for a whole minute. Then she was joined by others. Windows were flung open. People rushed out into the streets. A few of the braver citizens were attempting to get a good view of the episode by climbing out onto the rooftops and negotiating precarious slopes filled with damaged slates. Everyone wanted to see what was causing the uproar.

  Diek Wustapha was strolling calmly through the streets, a merry melody rising from the flute he raced back and forth between his lips. He had a miniature city-issue map in one hand and stopped at various junctions, regarding it critically.

  A rat emerged from the open cellar of a taver
n on Stainer Street as the Bakeman’s Brewery cart unloaded a barrel of ale. It was followed by others, a dozen, a score, and a hundred or more. Then a multitude, a million, a mischief.

  They swarmed between the houses, piling over one another to reach the magical music. Some were as tiny as mice, some were as large as kittens. Some were cute and cuddly, some were disfigured monstrosities. They needed the melody, yearned to reach it, scurrying faster and faster past streets whose inhabitants stood frozen in their wake. On and on they went, scrabbling with greater urgency at every turn.

  “Will you look at that!” Chas Firebrand spat, leaning against the door of the Ferret. “He’s taking the rats! Unbelievable! Criminals in this city, they’ll steal anything!”

  He saw a flurry erupting from his own cellar. “Oi!” he shouted, to no one in particular. “I want a crown each for those!”

  “Hey,” called a passing beggar. “Are you insane? He’s doing us all a favor.”

  “Hah! Not me; I likes rats, I do.”

  The beggar shook his head in amazement. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “There’s always one, isn’t there?”

  At the mouth of an alley just off the corner of Stainer Street and the Goodwalk, Malcolm Siddle stood on the back of the Grim Company cart and stared in amazement as the sea of vermin swept past.

  “Hey, Mr. Grim!” he shouted. “What d’ya think of all this?”

  His superior watched as the last of the seething horde rounded Stainer Street. “Well, that’s us out of a job,” he said.

  The gates of the city slammed shut and there came a resounding hum. Then there was nothing but ear-splitting silence.

  “I hope we have all learned a valuable lesson from this,” said Duke Modeset, from the battlements of Dullitch Palace. “If you want a job done properly, always go out into the countryside and find a simpleton to do it for you.”

  Pegrand and Chancellor Quarry nodded.

  “I think that’s the last we’re likely to see of our furry friends,” the duke continued. “But not, I expect, the last we’ve seen of the great Wustapha. He, of course, will be coming for his money.”

  Pegrand sneered and sidled away. Modeset turned to face the chancellor and smiled humorlessly.