Later, Catherine asked one of the other petits rats what those words had meant.
The answer haunted her. Your home no longer exists. Your house is dancing. That is all there is for you.
What had Mr. Knightley and Madame Irina agreed about her future? Catherine never found out. All she knew was that dancing became her life and her hope for the future, that the pupils were now her family.
Mr. Knightley had been right about one thing. Catherine was a natural dancer. She loved music, and when it played, it seemed to enter her muscles and bones, her hands, her feet, and her head. When she was dancing, she could say all the things that she was feeling without speaking a word. She soon became a star pupil of the Blavitsky School of Dance.
One day, Madame told Catherine’s class that the school had been asked to provide a troupe of children to play the part of dancing dolls in an opera in Paris. Catherine was among the petits rats who were chosen.
Soon afterward, almost a year after Catherine had last seen her mother, Mr. Ralph Knightley reentered her life, appearing at a student production.
As she danced, Catherine sensed him watching her, but later, when she hurried from the dressing room eager for news of home, Mr. Knightley had gone.
She asked Madame whether the gentleman would be returning.
“Gentleman?” Madame Irina had actually laughed. “ ’E is more zan a gentleman. C’est ton oncle.”
Catherine felt a chill of fear at the way those words were spoken, as if a very special secret were being imparted. Ton oncle. Her uncle? An uncle to take care of a petit rat? Uncle Ralph.
Madame Irina seemed to think that Catherine was disappointed that her new uncle had left without a word. She laid a tiny hand on Catherine’s arm. “Don’t worry, chérie,” she said. “You will see him in Paris. Your uncle will be staying there.”
There was jealousy in class. For some of the other girls, it seemed unfair that Catherine was not only going to Paris but had already found an uncle to look after her. It was not just to dance that they had been sent to the school. With an uncle, the lowliest petit rat had the chance to become a famous, great ballerina.
Lying awake that night, Catherine thought of her mother — of how she believed that nothing good could happen to her unless it was with the help of a gentleman.
No. Anything was better than that. Catherine felt within her the strength that she had on the dance floor. She slipped out of her bed, dressed in her warmest clothes, put her ballet shoes into the pocket of her coat, then went downstairs, opened a window, and slipped into the dark autumn night, leaving the Blavitsky School of Dance forever.
Her plan was simple. She would go home, find her mother, and tell her what had happened. Maybe they would face poverty and need, but at least they would be together and free.
With the help of the driver of a brewer’s dray who took pity on her, Catherine found her way back to the street where she lived.
But when she knocked on the door of the flat, there was no reply. An old man who lived downstairs told her that some months back, Mrs. Lewis had moved away. She had come into some money, he said, had become quite the little lady. He had no idea where she lived now.
As alone as anyone could be, Catherine was a child of the street. She learned to steal. She scavenged for rags on the waste tips. She discovered where to find scraps of food in the rubbish barrels behind the houses of rich people. The elegant, beautiful dancer who had dreamed of being a ballerina became a darting shadow of the streets and alleys.
Then, one evening, after falling asleep near Mrs. Bailey’s pie shop, where she sometimes waited out of sight in the hope of gathering scraps and presents from the shop’s customers, something very unusual happened to her.
Luck.
She met me. I saw her, asleep in a doorway, pink shoes held tightly in her hand.
I sat down beside her. We talked. I told her I knew a place where we could shelter.
“And that was how I became Caz.”
“That was how you became Caz.”
. . . I was lost. I was a courtier, at the center of power in the kingdom, and yet all I longed for was to be a taster. It was in my bones. It was my destiny. Alone in the Court of Governance, the vision of my first lesson in tasting with Alpa was with me every day.
Our job as tasters was simple but perilous. We would roam the world above, searching for food left by the enemy in obvious places, by the water’s edge, near a path, covered by stone. We smell. We use our tongues, our instinct as tasters, above all our training.
The time a taster is most likely to die is when he is learning about poison. I had seen older ratlings at the moment when they knew that death was upon them. They felt a strange burning in the throat, the first stab of pain in the stomach. Their eyes grew misty.
When the moment came for my first lesson, Alpa sent me to taste a pile of grain within a pipe. Its smell was irresistible. I ached with hunger. As I had been taught, I ran my nostrils across the grains, allowing the tiniest of touches with my tongue. In that instant, I knew. I turned and sprayed the grain, leaving the scent that would tell citizens all they needed to know.
I had done it. I had passed my first test. I could have been a taster. I wanted to go home.
All that had changed. I was in the Court of Governance, yet none of the courtiers revealed to me. I was at the center of power in the kingdom but was powerless to escape. Even before I was fully grown, I was lost.
Soon after Floke and Fang were released, something happened that strengthened my desire to leave the Court of Governance.
I had been making my way to the chamber where food was left for courtiers, when three rats crossed my path. Two of them worked for Swylar. The third, a hesitant older figure, walked between them. I thought I recognized him. As they approached, I heard a familiar revelation from the past.
— My name is not important.
Now I knew where I had seen this old rat. It had been he who had awoken me in the early hours and led me to where Floke and Fang were imprisoned. I looked at him, and asked:
— Where are you going?
One of his escorts replied. — He is returning to the Court of Warriors.
— Warriors?
I moved closer to them, mystified by what I had been told.
— Surely he is too old for fighting.
The old rat sniffed the air. — I am in need of reeducation, it seems.
The second escort nudged him onward.
I followed them, revealing as I went. — This is wrong. Wait! Why?
One of the guards faced me and, for a moment, seemed about to attack, before remembering that I was a courtier.
— Security.
His revelation was surly, yet uncertain, as if he were repeating a word that he had been told but did not quite understand. I held my ground.
— What security?
— He was unvigilant, a danger to the kingdom. He is in need of reeducation.
— Danger? What did he do?
The three rats were shuffling away from me. The second guard revealed casually as he went.
— If you have questions about security, maybe you should take them to Swylar.
— What is his name?
The old rat stopped walking. Ignoring a fierce nip from one of his escorts, he turned.
— My name is Steadfye.
Of course. It had to be Swylar who was behind this. He, who heard everything in the kingdom of Queen Jeniel, would know that Steadfye had helped me. The words the guard had used were to be heard every day in the court.
“Unvigilant,” “security,” “emergency,” “modern,” “safety from fear,” “reeducation,” “loyalty”: I knew what these terms meant — or rather, what they should mean. Now, though, I saw they had another meaning. They were a secret code among citizens who belonged.
Those who used them possessed loyalty.
Those who did not were being unvigilant.
The few who were foolish enough to ask questions were a
lmost certainly in urgent need of reeducation. Few of the old guard had survived at court. Quell was still there, using the new language but with a look of distaste on his old face. Grizzlard, now a scuttling bundle of resentment, preferred to remain silent. He was, he knew, too famous within the kingdom to be expelled. Even among subjects, newly fearful of the future, the idea that the great Grizzlard required reeducation would cause alarm, perhaps even anger.
I was no hero myself. I learned to use the new words when appropriate, but now I knew that unless I could return to the Court of Tasting, I, too, would be reeducated. It was time to see Swyler.
The chamber I visited that night, now occupied by Swylar and his followers, had never been home to rats before. It was beneath an old culvert, a dark and rank place through which there ran a thin and regular trickle of human waste leaking from a nearby pipe. It was typical of Swylar to have found a good spot and to have taken it for himself.
Every courtier now knew that while Queen Jeniel was a busy and powerful ruler, it was Swylar who enforced her wishes. At court he had no title, but then he had little need for one. His power transcended titles.
I was no stranger to fear, but for reasons I had never questioned, I was not afraid of Swylar in the way that other courtiers were. Perhaps it was that if you had been to the world above, had seen the savagery of humankind at close quarters, then the power of a sleek and soft-skinned rat, even one favored by a queen, was less impressive than it might have been.
I was surprised to find, early in the evening, that the courtiers in Swylar’s chambers were still slumbering, their bodies tangled comfortably together in the dry part of the room.
For a moment, I stood before them, aware for the first time that there was a scent in the room I was unable to identify.
— Is Swylar here?
My revelation, when it came, expressed more confidence than I felt.
The bodies stirred. Several pairs of eyes shone from the hill of pelts. Those who ran with Swylar, I had noticed, had begun also to look like him, with the same sleek dark-gray skin, the same way of looking at you through narrowed eyes as if they had sensed something untrustworthy that no other rat could see. Slowly the bodies were peeling away from a central rat who had been all but obscured by them.
Swylar.
— Efren, the brave little ratling. What a pleasure.
— Can we be alone? — I asked.
As if in reply, Swylar raised his snout. — These are senior colleagues of mine, Loyter, Clonin, Slathe. I hope you are not telling me that you have secrets from them. This is no time for secrets. — Swylar gave a silky smile. — An emergency in the kingdom is a moment for sharing.
— I saw Steadfye.
Swylar yawned.
— Steadfye, Steadfye. Remind me again.
— He was being reeducated.
— Ah, that Steadfye. The traitor. You don’t know him, do you?
I smelled danger.
— He once did me an act of kindness.
Swylar gazed at me for a moment before revealing.
— Little Efren, you have seen little of life, but please learn one thing. In times like these, even kindness can be a threat to the kingdom. There is nothing you can do about this Steadfye.
— I want to return to my court.
Swylar closed his eyes briefly but did not respond.
— I shall take Floke and Fang. Fang is no good as a warrior now, and Floke has seen too much to be trusted by you. Alpa, my captain at the Tasting Court, will find a use for both of them.
— The Tasting Court. What are you talking about, ratling?
— I need to be of use in the kingdom. At least as a taster I can do my duty. Here at court, I am useless.
Swylar’s eyes remained closed, and for a moment, he seemed to have drifted off to sleep once more. His revelation, when it came, was gentle, almost caressing in its tone.
— Oh, you have your uses, Efren, and it is not for citizens to decide where their duty lies. But, as it happens, I would like you to return to the Tasting Court . . .
My stomach lurched in excitement.
— . . . but only as a messenger, — Swylar continued. — There is to be a great event in the kingdom, and it is important that all citizens are present. You shall instruct Alpa to attend. You may even order her as courtier. Would you like to give an order to your own captain, ratling?
Around me, Swylar’s followers snickered in appreciation.
— And, after that, may I stay there?
— Please attend to what I say. There is a great event. You must be there. After that, the queen may agree to let you make your decision. Or she may not.
— And what is it, this meeting?
Swylar seemed bored with the conversation. He yawned, then curled his body around that of his neighbor, Slathe. It was in that moment that I recognized the unfamiliar scent that was hanging in the air. It was power.
— Leave us now. — Swylar’s revelation came from the mass of bodies. — We have matters of state to discuss.
. . . and it is usually a nasty one. With Bill Grubstaff, the pennies may be few and the work hard, but I know they have been earned doing simple work, catching beasts or lugging them to a pit night.
With the doctor, it is different. When I arrive at his house, I never know what he wants from me. His hatred of beasts is strange.
War on rats. It just seems mad to me.
It is late one morning, a few days after the massacre at the Cock Inn, when Caz and I walk together toward the center of town.
These days she wears ragged flannel shorts and an old coat we found on some waste ground. With a pair of old scissors, I have cut her hair short. It is safer being a boy than a girl.
Most days we wait near the taverns where the townspeople eat — scraps are always to be had there.
Then she makes her way to the part of the town where there are restaurants and halls and theaters. If people are waiting for their entertainment, she dances for them until her legs ache and her feet are sore. Sometimes there is as much as eight pence in her pocket by the time she returns to the tip, where her pet rat, Malaika, awaits her in the cage I found for her.
Today my afternoon is to be spent with the doctor. He has been in a strange humor since the night of his disaster at the institute.
We have looked for rats once or twice but have found none.
He is more silent than he used to be, but now and then says something to me that makes me worry about what is going on in his head.
The enemy is on the attack. War has been declared.
The interruption to his lecture was no accident, he believes. It was the enemy’s work.
I have said nothing, as usual, but I begin to wonder where this madness is leading.
“Ah, Mr. Smith. You’re here.”
The doctor opens the front door and turns back into the darkness of his house.
When I follow, he leads me not to his laboratory, as he usually does, but to a small office next door to it. The desk by the window can hardly be seen for the papers and scientific books that are upon it. There is a simple wooden chair in front of the desk. A small pair of trousers and a gray coat are hanging over the back of it.
“Change of clothes for you, Mr. Smith.” The doctor speaks briskly. “The gentlemen at the institute — those important men of science — seemed to think you were some kind of street urchin. Didn’t, er, exactly help my case, did it?”
Not expecting an answer, he holds the clothes out, then shakes them impatiently.
“Come on, boy. You may be a simpleton, but at least you’ll look the part of an office boy from now on.”
I turn my back, take off my rough and dirty clothing. I’m about to put on the jacket and trousers when the doctor looks up from the desk where he now sits.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, go and wash yourself in the bathroom,” he says. “And use the soap.”
Some minutes later, and I am back in the doctor’s office, my skin scrubbed, my hair br
ushed, and wearing clothes that feel oddly cool and smooth against my skin.
He looks me up and down. “A haircut and you will almost look respectable,” he says coldly.
He stands up, placing some papers in a Gladstone bag.
“We are to make an official visit this afternoon to a Mr. Valentine Petheridge MP. You know what MP means, Mr. Smith?”
I shake my head.
“Member of Parliament. He is what we call a politician. Not a very bright or successful politician, it is true, but a very ambitious one.”
He walks to the door. I follow.
“Other politicians fight great campaigns about factories or slaves or war or even women, but Mr. Petheridge has never found one that suits him. That’s our job, Mr. Smith.”
He turns as he opens the front door to lead us out, and looks down at me. “You don’t understand any of this, do you?”
I look at him with as blank an expression as I can manage. He closes the door behind us.
“Still, you have your uses.”
. . . but it was to that place that I was summoned soon after my return from the Tasting Court.
It was in the ruins of some small human habitation that had been buried deep in the earth. The remains of three of its walls were still standing, giving it a prison-like look. When I arrived, most of the courtiers were already there, waiting in place around the edge of the gouge.
There was something different about this place. It had none of the bustling and business of everyday life at court. It seemed to me, as I entered, keeping as low and invisible as was possible, that there was a scent of cruelty in the air.
I stood near Loyter, the friend of Swylar.
— What is happening?
Loyter expressed casually, and then turned to me. — In the Justice Room, there tends to be justice.
— Will the queen be here?
Loyter looked at me for a moment, as if surprised that such a question could be asked.
— The queen likes to see justice being done. It is one of her special interests.
I moved away. I had learned that it was unwise for a courtier to ask too many questions. Queen Jeniel and Swylar discouraged curiosity.
The Twyning Page 10