King Rat

by China Miéville

  He asked the shaking Camden detective to contact him were there any developments at all, hinting at the connections he might be able to make.

  Now, days later, Crowley still visited Mornington Crescent when he slept, its walls chaotically re sprayed, abattoir chic, the red carpet laid down, ghastly organic decor.

  He was convinced that the three (four?) murders he investigated contained secrets. There was more to the story, there was much more than they knew. The facts were damning, but still he wanted to believe that Saul had not committed the crimes. He sought refuge in a firm if nebulous belief that something big was going on, something as yet unexplained, and that whatever Saul was doing, he was not somehow responsible. Whether being absolved by the sudden onset of madness, or another’s control, or whatever, Crowley did not know.

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  For a long time Pete had been asking Natasha to take him to a Jungle club. She found his pesterings irritating, and asked why he could not just go by himself, but he made noises about being a newcomer, being intimidated (which was, in all fairness, entirely reasonable given the atmosphere at many clubs). His hectoring stayed just on the right side of whining.

  He made one or two good excuses. He did not know where to go, and if he were to follow Time Out’s appalling recommendations, he would end up a lonely figure at a hardcore Techno evening or some such fate. Natasha, by contrast, knew the scene, and could walk into any of the choicest evenings in London without paying. Just cashing in favors, calling in accounts set up in the early days of the music, by knowing the names and the faces, talking the talk.

  Something was rumbling in the Elephant and Castle. The AWOL posse were getting together with Style FM in a warehouse near the railway line. Everyone was going to be there, she started to hear. A DJ she knew called Three Fingers phoned her and asked her to come along, bring a tune or two; he’d play them. She could spin a few if she wanted.

  She wasn’t going to take him up on that, but maybe just turning up wasn’t such a bad idea. It was a month since she’d last been out on a serious night, and Pete’s clamoring made for a decent excuse to move. Three Fingers put her “plus whoever” on his guest list.

  Fabian immediately said he would come. He seemed pathetically grateful for the idea. Kay remained incommunicado and, for the first time since he had disappeared a week or more previously, Natasha and Fabian felt the beginnings of trepidation. But for the moment that was forgotten as they made preparations for the foray into South London.

  Pete was ecstatic.

  “Yes yes yes! Fantastic! I’ve been waiting for this for ages!”

  Natasha’s spirit sank as she saw herself being shoehorned into the role of Junglist Nanny.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to disappoint you or anything, Pete, but so long as you know I’m not looking after you there or anything. Alright? We get there, I listen, you dance, you leave when you want, I’m leaving when I want. I’m not there to show you around, d’you know what I’m saying?”

  He looked at her strangely.

  “Of course.” His brow furrowed. “You’ve got some odd ideas about me, Natasha. I don’t want to cadge off you all evening, and I’m not going to…to leach any of your cool, OK?”

  Natasha shook her head, irritated and embarrassed. She was concerned that having a pencil-necked, white bread geek padding after her was going to do her credentials as an up-and-coming Drum and Bass figure no good at all. She had only been vaguely conscious of the thought, and having it pointed out with frank good humor made her defensive and snappy.

  Pete was grinning at her.

  “Natasha, I’m going because I’ve found a new kind of music I never knew existed, and it’s one which—for all I don’t look the part—I think I can use, and I think I can probably make. And I presume so do you, because you haven’t stopped recording me yet.”

  “So don’t worry about me making you look less than funky in front of your mates. I’m just going to hear the music and see the scene.”

  After the last bout of arguing, Anansi had disappeared. Loplop had remained in the area for another day or two, but had ultimately followed the spider into obscurity.

  King Rat had slumped into a foul mood.

  Saul hauled himself into the sewers, careful not to spill the bag of food he carried. He picked his way through the tunnels. It was raining in the streets above, a steady dribble of filthy, acid-saturated water which raced into the tunnels, swirled around Saul’s legs, tried to pull him down, a stream nearly two feet high, fast-moving and dilute, the usual warm compost smell mostly dissipated.

  King Rat had done nothing about finding food, and Saul, impatient with his self-pity, had left the throne room and gone scavenging. King Rat’s leash on him was loosening. The neurotic hold he had kept for so long was almost gone. As his mood grew worse, his determination to keep Saul in his sights weakened.

  Saul knew what this meant. His worth for King Rat was not measured by blood. He had not been rescued because he was a nephew, but because he was useful; because his peculiar birthright meant he was a threat to the power of the Piper. As the campaign against the Piper dissolved in petty fights and squabbles, cowardice and fear, Saul’s existence meant less and less to King Rat. Without a plan of attack, how could he deploy his chosen weapon?

  As Saul picked his way through the saturated tunnels he heard a sound. In a crevice in the concrete stood a waterlogged rat, her babies blind and squealing in the darkness behind her.

  She stood uncertainly on the gray lip, overlooking the rush of water. She was only six inches or so above the rising stream, and the comfortable hollow in which she lived was on the verge of becoming a water sealed tomb. She looked up across the tunnel. On the far side from where she stood was another hole, an accidental passageway slanting up away from the depths.

  The rat raised herself on her hind legs when she smelt Saul, and she let forth a peculiar cry.

  She bobbed up and down in the darkness, avoiding looking him in the face, yet clearly aware of his presence. Again the she-rat made a sound, a lengthy screech, purged of the sneer which usually colored rats’ voices.

  He stopped just before her and hoisted his plastic bag over his shoulder.

  The rat was pleading with him.

  She was begging him for help.

  The tone of the squeal was beseeching, and Saul was reminded of the profusion of rats who had followed him a fortnight previously, rats which had seemed animated by hunger and desperation, and which had been eager to show him respect.

  Not here, was the sentiment pouring out of the bedraggled rat as she cringed below him. Not here, not here!

  Saul reached out to her and she hopped onto his hand. A cacophony of infantile rat squeaks poured out of the holes in the concrete, and Saul plunged his hand further into the depths of the rotting stone. Little bodies were pushed onto his hand, where they lay squirming. He closed his fingers gently into a protective cage and drew out his hand, on which the little family lay shivering as the water level rose.

  He crossed the tunnel and placed them on the ledge where the mother could pull the babies out of danger. She backed away from him bobbing her head, the pitch of her sounds changed, her fear gone.

  Boss, she said to him, Boss, before turning and pulling her family out of sight into the darkness.

  Saul leaned against the soaking wall.

  He knew what was happening. He knew what the rats wanted. He did not think King Rat would like it.

  By the time he arrived at the entrance to the throne room, the water was moving faster and the level kept on rising. He fumbled under the surface for the brick plug hiding the chute, pulled it open with a sudden explosive burp of air, and slipped through the cascade of water into the dark room below, pulling the door closed behind him.

  He landed in the pool, splashed briefly onto his arse, before standing and walking onto the dry bricks. B
ehind him water dribbled into the room and down the wall from the imperfectly fitting brick entrance, but the chamber was so large and the hidden sluices so efficient that the moat around the room’s central island of raised brickwork became only a little fatter. It would take days of ceaseless rain truly to threaten the air in the throne-room.

  King Rat sat brooding on his grandiose brick seat.

  Saul glared at him. He delved into the plastic bags.

  “Here,” he said, and threw a paper package across the room. King Rat caught it in one hand, without looking up. “Bit of falafel,” said Saul, “bit of cake, bit of bread, bit of fruit. Fit for a king,” he added provocatively, but King Rat ignored him.

  Saul sat cross-legged at the base of the throne. His own package contained much the same as King Rat’s, with the emphasis skewed towards the sugary components of the meal. Saul’s sweet tooth had survived his passage to rat-hood. The extra richness which rot lent to fruit was a pleasure he was still indulging in as often as possible.

  He dug into the bag and pulled out a peach whose surface was one seamless bruise. He ate, gazing all the time at the morose King Rat.

  “I’m fucking sick of this,” he finally snapped. “What is up with you?”

  King Rat turned to stare at him.

  “Shut your trap. You don’t know buggery about it.”

  “You stink of self-pity, you know that?” Saul gave a sudden laugh. “You don’t see me acting up like this, and if anyone’s got reason to be…moody…it’s me. First off, you rip me out of my life and turn it into some kind of fucking…bad dream… So fuck it, alright, I’ll do that, and I did a decent enough job didn’t I? And now, just when I’ve got to grips with the rules of my life as Saul, Prince Rat, you get all morose and change the channel. What the fuck is going on? You…galvanize me, get me ready, for fuck knows what, and then you just slump. What am I supposed to do?”

  King Rat was staring at him contemptuously, ill at ease.

  “You’ve no clue what you’re spouting, you little gobshit…”

  “Don’t tell me that! Jesus! What the fuck do you want me to do? Is my role here to fucking get you spurred again? Am I supposed to shake you up? Get you going again? Well fuck off! If you want to sit there on your rat arse and mope, then fine. And spider-features and Loplop can join you, you’re as bad as each other. But I’m fucking off!”

  “Got any suggestions, you mouthy little cunt?” hissed King Rat.

  “Yeah, I have. You fuckers have got to be less chicken. That’s what this is about. You’re all scared, and you’re scared because you all want a plan which makes sure your own arse isn’t on the line. Well, it’s not going to happen! You all reckon the Piper is such a bad fucker that you’ve got to take him, that this is the Final Battle—so long as none of you does the actual fighting. And while we’re on that subject, I get the distinct fucking impression that it was me who was supposed to do the fighting for you, but you’re all still chickenshit because you can’t quite work out how to deploy me without any danger of recoil or whatever. Well count me the fuck out!” Saul had worked his way into a righteous anger.

  “The Piper wants you dead too!” hissed King Rat.

  “Yeah, so you say. Well, unlike you, maybe I’m going to do something about it!” There was a long silence. Saul waited a moment, then spoke again.

  “The rats want me to take over.”

  There was a long silence as King Rat slowly swung his head to look at him.

  “What?”

  “The rats. In the sewers. Sometimes in the streets, or wherever. Whenever you’re not around. They come to me, hover, kow-tow, and they squeak, and I’m beginning to make sense of what they’re on about. They want me to take over. They want me to be the boss.”

  King Rat was rising, standing on the throne.

  “You little ingrate. You little Tea-Leaf…you little shit, you bastard, I’ll tan your hide, it’s mine, mine, you understand, mine…”

  “So take a stand, you fucking has-been!” Saul was standing, glaring at him, his face just below King Rat’s, their spittle forming a crossfire. “They don’t want you back. And they’re not going to have you back until you…redeem yourself. That seems to be the morality of this fucking terrain.”

  Saul turned and stormed to the exit. “I’m going out. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I don’t expect you to care, because you don’t think you can use me at the moment. While I’m gone I recommend you think carefully about doing something. Use Loplop, use Anansi, get hold of them and track the motherfucker down. When you’re willing to get off your arse, maybe we can talk.” He turned to face King Rat. “Oh, and don’t worry about your Magic Kingdom. I don’t want to be Rat King, not now, not ever, so I wouldn’t stress it. I’m going to find my mates or something. I’m bored of you.”

  Saul turned and swung out of the room, was briefly coated in filthy water, and passed into the sewers.

  While Saul stalked through the subterranean realms above him, King Rat stood quivering with rage, his hands tugging fitfully at his overcoat. Eventually his motions ceased and he seated himself.

  He brooded.

  He jumped up again, purposeful for the first time in days.

  “OK, sonny, point taken. So let’s talk about bait,” he murmured to himself.

  He rushed out of the room, suddenly moving as he had when Saul first saw him, sinuous and mysterious, fast and chaotic.

  He passed quickly, silently through the layers of the earth, while Saul still struggled to find his bearings. King Rat emerged into a dark street. On the other side, figures passed in and out of the puddle of lacklustre lamplight, keeping their eyes fixed in front of them.

  He stood quite still, his hidden eyes twitching imperceptibly. He looked around him. His eyes crawled up the wall before him. He stalked forward, one foot rising in a slow arch, curving back down to earth in an exaggerated parabola, his upper body bobbing slightly. He looked up, spread his arms wide, gripped the brick wall like a lover. Silently, he scaled the side of the building, his boots finding impossible purchase, his hands gripping invisible imperfections. He drew his hands back, contracting the muscles of his arms, fixing his attention on the dark below the eaves.

  His arms uncoiled, shot out. Something fluttered desperately and a family of dirty pigeons burst from the shadow, disturbed from their sleep. They disappeared into the air behind him. He withdrew his hand and brought with it one of the birds, caught and held tight, its wings trying to stretch open, unable to escape him.

  King Rat lowered his face towards his captive. It stopped struggling as he brought his face closer. He held it very tight to him, stared deep into its eye.

  “You don’t have Jack to fear from me, little cove,” he hissed. The bird was still, waiting. “I want you to do me a favor. Go find your boss-man, spread the word. King Rat wants Loplop. Have him track me down.”

  King Rat released his scout. It lurched into the air, wheeled and swept off over London. King Rat watched it go. When he couldn’t see it any more, he turned his back and disappeared into the dark city.

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  It was the first time since his solo stroll along the Westway that Saul had been alone for so long. His are was dwindling, threatening to snuff out, and he fed it carefully, maintained it. It gave him a righteous rush.

  He wanted out of the claustrophobic sewers, wanted a taste of cold air. Judging by the ebb of water around his legs, the rain outside had let up. He wanted to emerge before it had fully dissipated.

  Saul trusted to instinct in his rambles through the brick underworld. The rules of the sewers were different, the distinctions and boundaries between areas blurred. Above ground he knew where he was, and decided where he was going. Under the pavement he felt only a vague tugging to move from one part of the tunnel network to another, a buzzing of the troglodytic radar apparently lodged in his skull, and he wo
uld follow his nose. He did not know if he had visited any particular patch of sewer before; it was irrelevant. He knew it all. It was only the environs of the throne-room which were particular, and all roads in the underworld seemed to lead there eventually.

  He ducked under low bricks, pushed his way through tight tunnels.

  Saul heard the patter of feet around him, isolated squeals of excited rats. He saw a hundred little brown heads peeking from chinks in the bricks.

  “Hi, rats,” he hissed as he moved.

  Ahead of him he saw the ruined metal of a ladder, old and corroded, dribbling its constituent parts into the stream of rainwater. He grasped it, felt it crumble beneath him, scrambled up it before it disintegrated entirely. He pushed at the cover, to poke his head into Edgware Road.

  It was the end of twilight. The street was busy with Lebanese patisseries, mini-cab firms and cut-price electrical repair shops, dirty video stores and clothing warehouses with hand-drawn signs advertising their wares. Saul looked over the top of a building site across the road. Away in the west the fringe of the sky was still a beautiful bright blue, shading to black. At the base of the skyline the edges of the buildings looked unnaturally sharp.

  Saul slid gently through the hole in the pavement, nonchalant in the knowledge that he could move without being seen or heard, so long as he kept in the shadows, obeyed the rules. Subtly he oozed through the opening, waiting for a gap in the flow of pedestrians, arching his eyebrows, rolling out of the hole in the ground with the smell.

  He reached back to replace the manhole cover, and heard a mass of hisses. Peering over the edge, Saul looked into the eyes of dozens of rats, perched precariously on the rotting ladder.

  He regarded them. They gazed at him.

  He grunted and pulled the cover over the opening, but not fully, leaving a slit of darkness, to which he put his mouth and whispered, “Meet me over by the bins.”

  In a quick, odd motion Saul bobbed to his feet. He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntered along the street past the clumps of people. They noticed him suddenly, moved aside and apart for him, frowning at his smell. Behind him a brown bolt shot out of the sewers, followed by another, then a sudden mass. One of the proprietors noticed and shrieked, and all attention focused on the manhole. By then the flow had almost finished and the rats had melted into the interstices of the city, made themselves invisible.