“Hey!” the guard shouted, rounding the corner and chasing us. “Dirty, disgusting creatures. I’ll chop off your tails!”
Greatness is often misunderstood in this world.
Truffle apologized while we squeezed safely inside a narrow crack in the stone wall. I turned to her with reassuring words on the tip of my tongue. However, before I could utter them, the voice of a strange rat came from behind us.
“What is your mission here, visitors to the Southern Rat Realm?”
Royal sigh. I had hoped to do this swiftly, in and out, with no inconvenient encounters with Princess Mozzarella or her people. I pushed forward to face the owner of the voice, a gnarled little gray rat with extremely large eyes.
“Hail, Southern Realmer,” I said. “I am Prince Char of the Northern Rat Realm.”
He appeared duly impressed and bowed and twittered a bit.
I calmed him down by saying, “We wish to pay a visit to Her Highness, Princess Mozzarella.” I gave Swiss a look that warned him not to comment upon this blatant falsehood. Then I smiled at the gray rat. “Will you lead us to her?”
He gave an excited bounce and replied, “With pleasure!”
We followed our guide through a convoluted series of burrowed passages into a dark throne room of such squalor, such disarray, you would not believe me if I tried to describe it in detail. The last time I’d visited Mozzarella was many years before, and the place had been a sty even then. Now it was almost impassable, with droppings, dry bones in piles, and dust everywhere.
The Southern Realmers lived in the royal castle of the humans, and this was the best they could achieve?
“Why, if it isn’t the handsome Prince Char!”
The luscious, languid voice came from a black rat so enormously plump, you would surely have taken her for a woodchuck had you encountered her in the dark. Yet I doubted whether anyone would ever encounter her anywhere but in the throne room itself these days, for I could not imagine how she was able to move with so much bulk around her middle.
She was surrounded by various courtiers in similar states of poundage.
“At least we need not fear a swift attack,” Swiss whispered.
“Please forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you,” Mozzarella apologized. “I have had a bit of trouble with that lately, Your Highness. What brings you here?”
“My brave companions and I are on a quest to discover whatever we may about the succession to the human throne. We wish to eavesdrop on Good King Tumtry and his son, Geoffrey.”
“Good heavens, why?” She widened her dark eyes at me. “What could they possibly say that would be of interest?”
Swiss and the five warriors murmured at this. But the princess meant no disrespect; she was just too self-absorbed to care for anything but her own indulgence. I silenced them with a wave of my tail. “Princess Mozzarella, I only wish to determine whether the son of Good King Tumtry is fit to rule. Have you heard any tattle about it?”
“Dear, dear Prince Char, I have no concern about the affairs of humans. None whatsoever. Yet I grant you safe conduct through my realm, to do whatever you wish, as long as you don’t take any loot.”
“That is just and kind,” I said with a bow.
Mozzarella heaved a sigh. “Ah, Prince Char, you are so very dashing. Are you sure you did not come hither to court me, and reunite the Northern and Southern Rat Realms under one banner?”
I avoided looking at Swiss. “Alas, dear Princess,” I said in the smoothest voice I could manage, “I am already pledged to another.”
What? How had those words come out of my mouth? And why did the image of Rose de Lancastyr come to mind when I said them?
“You are not!” Swiss said in a low, low voice.
“It’s the only way to get out of this without offending her,” I whispered.
He grumbled, “This is how gossip starts.”
After further exchanges of pleasantries and some stupendous snacks, Mozzarella at last sent us off to seek Prince Geoffrey in the largest ballroom, where tonight’s event was no doubt taking place. Once again, we had the little gray rat to guide us.
CINDERELLA
The day of the ball had arrived and, with it, a thousand chores.
“Cinderella!” Cook shouted from the scullery. “Where is that egg-white mask for the mistress? Pye tells me her maid is still waiting for it!”
“Almost ready! I have only to add the crushed strawberries.” My stomach gurgled with hunger as I vigorously whisked the eggs in a wooden basin. I knew my stepmother would be asking next for cucumber slices to lay upon her eyelids so as to reduce their puffiness, and goose-fat salve for her dry hands. I would gladly have eaten what Wilhemina was about to put on her skin, but fine foods like cucumbers and strawberries were not wasted on menials like myself.
The entire household belowstairs had been toiling for hours to help prepare for the upcoming extravaganza, in addition to our regular tasks. As there were so few of us, the load was heavy.
Yet my spirits were light. For while I labored, I wondered at the miraculous events of the night before. The rats, the mice, the gown … And to add marvel upon marvel, this morning the pretty, feminine white rat had awoken me by dropping a necklace of huge square emeralds on the floor by my cot. No doubt, the ornate (if rather dirty) piece of jewelry had been stolen long ago from another Lancastyr ancestor.
This evening I would escape my imprisonment, if only for one night. And who knew what I might accomplish?
I mixed the smashed strawberries into the beaten egg whites and poured the whole into a small silver creamer. I then rushed it over to the lady’s maid, who stood impatiently tapping her foot outside the kitchen’s arched doorway. She would never enter the realm where food was prepared; she considered it beneath her. She snatched the creamer from me without a word of thanks and flounced away to attend to her mistress.
“As snooty as a duchess, that one,” Pye remarked, passing by with a broom.
I smiled at him as we went back into the kitchen.
Unfortunately, at this moment Cook emerged from the scullery carrying a copper pot. She didn’t like it when I smiled. “What do you have to smirk at, lazy wench? Miss Jessamyn needs you in her bedchamber. Go quick. Here, you, boy!” she yelled to Pye. “Make the luncheon trays ready for the family. Remember, Miss Eustacia can’t abide watercress, Lord Lancastyr gets no soup, for he might spill, and Lady Wilhemina gets the dish of mustard with her sliced ham.”
Pye always had trouble remembering which dishes went on which tray—and his preparations inevitably ended in scoldings and tears. He threw me a beseeching glance.
I rushed to aid him. “Oh, Cook, please allow me to arrange the trays for you before I go upstairs,” I said. “It will take but a moment.”
“Don’t you argue with my orders, girl! If I say the boy does the trays, he does the trays. Now step lively and see to Miss Jessamyn.”
I nodded, while Pye put down his broom and moved to obey with an air of resignation.
I hastened to Jessamyn’s suite.
“Dear Sister!” She stuck her small head out her bedchamber door as I drew near. “Hurry!”
I followed her inside and gave her a hug.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, wiggling with nervousness as soon as I released her. “I worked through the whole night on a plan to bring you to the ball with us.”
My conscience pricked me. “You shouldn’t have! What is it, darling?”
“Look.” She led me to her pink-and-cream dressing room. There upon a small sofa lay one of her own gowns. She had unpicked the hem of the skirt so that it was a full two inches longer than it had been before. “What do you think?” Jessamyn asked. “I did it myself. Could you wear it? I am just a little girl, but I am quite chubby, and you have become so thin that perhaps it would do. Oh, try it on, do try it on!”
A lump rose in my throat, but I managed to say at last, “You are a gentle and generous child.”
I knew
just by looking that it would not fit, but she had labored upon the garment with such love that I agreed to try it. And, as I thought, I could not ease it down over my bosom, nor would it rise past my hips when I attempted to step in and pull it up.
“Oh, Rose!” Jessamyn began to cry.
I felt awash in guilt. I almost broke down and confessed everything that had taken place with the rats the night before, but I worried that in her excitement, she might slip and reveal the secret to her mother.
Thank goodness, at that moment Pye appeared at Jessamyn’s doorway with her luncheon tray. I accepted it on her behalf and tried to cheer her with tea and sandwiches. After a while I was able to convince her to eat a few bites; then I fairly flew back to the kitchen.
“So your fine ladyship at last decides to join us!” Cook snarled at me. “It’s past time for you to give Miss Eustacia her milk bath. The buckets are over there in the corner, fresh and warm from the cow. Hop along! And when you’re finished, Lady Wilhemina wants you to brush her hair.”
Oh, lovely. My favorite task.
I hauled bucket after bucket upstairs to fill the deep, shell-shaped bathtub in Eustacia’s sunny bathroom, which had once been mine. With my mother, on a long-ago visit to the Anglish coast, I had collected the starfish and scallop shells that still lay scattered across the lip of the tub. In some ways, it was easier for me to live in the attic than it would have been to dwell in these family chambers, haunted by the ghosts of a happy childhood.
“Faster, Cinderella, you laggard!” Eustacia stood by in a ruffled white satin wrapper and poufy feathered slippers with an impatient frown on her red face. “I must be ready soon, and you are late, late, late! I shall tell Mamma.”
“As you wish,” I replied serenely.
Oh, how she despised it when I was serene. “You … you…” she sputtered.
“Yes?” I smiled at her.
She stared at me for a moment, then her gaze faltered and she looked down at the floor with a sullen pout. “Nothing.”
When the milk had been poured and sweet-smelling oils added, she settled into the bath. I did my best to scrub away the pink blemishes on her back with a sponge.
“Ow!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?” She pinched the soft underflesh of my arm.
“I’m handling you as gently as a newborn puppy, Eustacia.”
“Are you comparing me to a dog?” She slapped away my wet fingers, grabbed the sponge, and threw it at me. “Get out!”
For once, I was glad to do her bidding. But my next duty required me to enter Wilhemina’s chambers, which had once belonged to my mother. It was almost unbearable to pass through the gaily flower-painted doors, only to see my stepmother seated at my mother’s vanity table, awaiting me with her cold gaze.
Without a sound, she handed me her silver-backed hairbrush. I took it, careful not to touch her during the transfer, and proceeded to brush her hair one hundred strokes. To keep myself from remembering how my mother and I used to arrange each other’s hair in such a different spirit, one of lightness and love, I once again revisited in my thoughts the scene that had taken place in my attic room the night before.
I recalled the brilliant eyes of Blackie. The knightly bow he’d executed with such bizarre grace.
“Dreaming of the ball, girl? Keep your mind on your work,” Wilhemina said. “Woe betide you if my tresses are not perfect when you finish.”
I forced my attention to the task.
PRINCE CHAR
Twisting and turning, the little gray rat led our venturesome band through a labyrinth of ancient, dusty tunnels in the walls of Castle Wendyn.
We passed many scattered trinkets and interesting bits of loot. Beef Two (at least I think it was Beef Two, though it might have been Beef Three or even Beef One) picked up a silver bracelet that hung from a splinter and was about to slip it over his head.
“Drop it,” Swiss ordered. “Didn’t you listen to Princess Mozzarella? We are not to take anything from the Southern Rat Realm.”
Shamefaced, the Beef brother hung it back upon the splinter. His siblings yelled at him about the family honor as we continued on.
The Southern Realmers we passed seemed an undisciplined lot. They nibbled food as they moved along, and gave us no civil greetings. One of them even winked rudely at Truffle, who responded by looming over him with such a powerful frown that the fellow slunk away in embarrassment.
“I wouldn’t stand for this in my own realm, not for one moment,” I said to Swiss in a disgusted aside.
When at last we arrived at a crawl space in the ceiling just above the ballroom, I peered through a crack to assess the situation. Then I whispered to my valiant companions, “My warriors, there is a man with a huge crown upon his head sitting upon a throne directly below us.”
“King Tumtry!” our guide exclaimed. “May I have a look?”
I gave him room and he observed for a moment. “Yes, it is indeed the king. However, Your Highness, I regret that I see no sign of Prince Geoffrey. He has long golden hair and usually wears a small crown.”
“Then we will have to watch and wait for him,” I declared. “Now listen, everyone, there’s an enormous chandelier beneath us—in fact, it is right below where Corncob is standing.” I pointed with my tail. “Thank heavens the candles are not yet lit for the ball. If Swiss and I could only get down there and hide among the crystals, we could hear and see everything.”
“Good plan, Your Highness!” one of the Beef brothers cried, then ducked as his siblings pushed him and told him to be quiet and speak only when spoken to.
I ignored them and moved over to Corncob, who bowed and shuffled aside as I approached. “Aha,” I said, nosing about the hole where the chandelier’s hook was attached to the boards. “There is a small point of entry here. Swiss and I will make our way through it while you remain behind to keep our escape route clear.”
“We shall fight off all comers!” Truffle cried. “No one will interfere with Prince Char’s great mission!”
“Hooray!” shouted the others. The gray guide rat joined in with enthusiasm.
“Ssshhh.” Swiss rounded on them and frowned. “You’ll betray our position to the humans.”
They quieted on the instant.
It’s not easy to descend the metal hoops and volutes of a chandelier, but Swiss and I did so. We stepped and sidled and clung and crept until we were within earshot of the humans. It was a good thing there was so much bustle in the ballroom, or someone would almost certainly have noticed us.
King Tumtry, from his big silver throne, held audience after audience with tradespeople, musicians, floral designers, the majordomo, the chatelaine, and many others. He was flanked by two richly garbed noblemen, one at his right hand and one on his left. They participated in the discussions. But I saw neither hide nor hair of the prince.
“Those nobles by the king’s side must be the royal councillors,” Swiss observed, “just as I am yours.”
We kept watch while the shiny floors—made of pink marble, set with slivers of black onyx to form a geometrical pattern—rang with the click-clack of many heels. Irksome discussions of the number of guests and the appropriateness of the music and the potential for rainy weather went round and round in our heads. My interest was briefly caught when the chief cook bowed to the king and gave an account of the various dainties that would be served at the feast (including pear tarts stuffed with gorgonzola and pecans), but when he left, I felt disappointment and rising impatience. The hands of the big clock in the gallery ticked by the hours, until it was three o’clock.
“Don’t you think we should seek Cinderella’s prince somewhere else?” Swiss hissed at me.
“No, we stay,” I decided. “This is the center of the action. He must turn up here sooner or later.”
As more minutes passed, I felt the chandelier begin to tip. Alarmed, I looked over to see that my royal councillor had fallen asleep and was leaning precariously sideways.
“Swiss!” I
snapped.
“Huh?”
“Pay attention!”
Yet another hour dragged by. When the room was finally empty of everyone except King Tumtry and his two councillors (and by this time, I was actually beginning to question my own orders), our persistence at last yielded a result. I caught a few words, spoken by the king in an undertone. “Geoffrey … not sure … I think…”
Aha!
I inched closer, concerned that if I did not use infinite care, all the blasted pretty, moving, twinkling bits and bobs of the chandelier would call attention to me.
The life of a rat is fraught with such moments.
“Your Majesty,” said one of the councillors, a big man with a large brown beard and a pointy-tipped mustache, “please do not fall victim to your fears. This ball is the very best idea we have yet hit upon. We must allow it to take place.”
“Lord Hamp, it is not fear, but my conscience that troubles me,” the king replied.
The other courtier, tall and thin with lank gray hair and a worried expression, looked suddenly even more worried. “Your Majesty, I would like to agree with Lord Hamp, but are you sure your son can maintain his, er, peace for the length of the night—dancing, mingling with guests until dawn, making polite conversation?”
The king looked old and drawn. His chin, veiled by a white wisp of beard, was sunken into the purple velvet of his royal robe, and while I watched, he took off his ermine-trimmed crown and set it upon his lap. I sniffed hard in his direction and caught a scent of inutterable weariness, with a strong note of despair. The same despair came through in his voice. “Lord Brimfield, Geoffrey must do this,” he said. “The fate of my kingdom depends on it. May heaven and the spirit of my dear departed wife, Monette, send us salvation tonight. May there be a decent, intelligent lady here whom my son will wed.”
Lord Brimfield said, “The prince laughed at me this morning and told me he will marry only if we bring him the fairest woman ever born.”
“That is not the nobility of spirit with which my queen and I tried to raise our son,” the king said. “Yet if what he told you is indeed so, there is hope, Brimfield!”
The Rat Prince Page 6