‘There’s a lot you don’t know, boy, plenty more to get excited about. Ah, here we are.’
Balthazar stopped at a dead end. A brick wall. He scratched his nails on its red brick surface and waited.
Nothing happened.
Still nothing.
Nope.
Not a thing.
Balthazar was well accustomed to the patience needed when dealing with rats. He took the opportunity to bathe himself and did so at the expense of the Witchhunter’s nerves.
‘I swear it, cat, I will shoot you both if this is your idea of a joke.’
Balthazar continued to bathe, unthreatened.
‘Shoot me,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you can remember the way back?’
At this, the Witchhunter felt the tables turn. The power he held from the gun withered away from him.
‘Only a fool would shoot the guide,’ Balthazar teased.
‘You…’ The Witchhunter was about to embark on a train of thought that would test his rage against his reason, when the rats answered the door.
Two bricks receded from the wall. Head height for Balthazar. Shin height for the humans.
‘Hello, only me,’ said Balthazar.
Niclas leaned down and watched a rat stick its head out of the gap.
Its nose moved at a hundred twitches a minute and its beady eyes tried to see past the cat. It could smell something there but it couldn’t see.
Rats can not only smell smells, but the very chemicals that make up the smells. They can recognise a change in atmosphere, and, even a change in emotions, so they can tell if other creatures are harmlessly passing them by, or set on having them as a rather unsavoury snack.
This rat was picking up a range of different chemical reactions and trying hard to read the olfactory language.
‘I have come to seek council with the chieftain,’ said Balthazar.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
‘Don’t worry, they’re with me.’
Squeak, squeak. Squeak, squeak. Squeak?
‘It’s fine, really, I’ll explain everything to the chieftain.’
Squeak, squeak.
‘Look. Listen here,’ said Balthazar, taking a harsher tone, ‘it’s on my head, I’ll take full responsibility. But, if you turn us away, then that’s on your little head. And I don’t know if the chieftain will be pleased to hear that it was you, who turned me away.’
Niclas and the Witchhunter shared a look of mutual ignorance.
…Squeak…
‘Thank you. I knew you’d see sense,’ said Balthazar.
The rat disappeared back into the hole and the bricks ground back into place.
‘Sir… did you just talk to that rat?’ asked Niclas.
Balthazar stared into Niclas’ gormless face, opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it.
‘You know those things I keep telling you not to waste time thinking about?’ he said.
Niclas nodded.
‘That’s another one.’
That was enough to satisfy the boy.
It wasn’t for the Witchhunter.
There was a loud grinding of brick against brick, the floor rumbled, and dirt and soil poured unsettlingly from the roof.
‘Wot’s ’appenin’!’ said Niclas.
Just a little to the left, the floor had opened up and a stone stairway had been revealed. The opening exhaled a long, smelly breath.
‘Wot’s goin’ on, sir? We goin’ down there?’
‘Yes. Come on,’ said Balthazar, leading the way below.
If it weren’t for the Witchhunter’s flame, they would have been walking in complete darkness, yet, Niclas might have preferred it that way. What the darkness was there to hide were the open graves either side of them. In each lay a skeleton with its calcareous arms folded across its ribs. Niclas had never seen one before. Now he had seen many all at once.
‘Is them skellies? Crikey! They’re creepy as,’ he said.
‘What is this place?’ asked the Witchhunter.
‘The catacombs of Old Laburnum. Don’t worry, they’re very dead, they’ve been that way for hundreds of years.’
‘Why’re they all lyin’ the same way, wiv arms crossed like that?’ said Niclas.
‘Who knows? Maybe they sleep better that way.’
‘I don’t like it… it gives me the herpes-jerpes.’
The Witchhunter and the cat looked askant at Niclas.
‘Or is it… heebie-jeebies?’ said the boy.
‘Remarkable really,’ said Balthazar, ‘the crypts have been sealed since the city architects first discovered them. Must be lots of history buried down here, you’d think that would interest people. Apparently not.’
All the skeletons looked the same, but some had rusted daggers clasped against them and some had rusted cylinders with queer faded markings.
As they wandered through the tombs, more and more rats came into sight. They would scuttle out of hiding, and peer up at the humans. It wasn’t every day a rat smelt a human, though it was squeaked, you were never more than six feet away from one.
‘’Ello,’ said Niclas, waving, and sending a group of rats rushing back into cover. ‘Can they understand me?’
‘Doubt it,’ said Balthazar.
‘Where are you taking me, cat,’ demanded the Witchhunter.
‘Relax, witch-killer, it’s the door just ahead.’
Out of the darkness, emerged a tall double door engraved with ancient markings. Light seemed to be coming from within, it seeped through the stone’s cracks and edges.
‘I don’t like this. Not one bit,’ said Niclas.
‘After you,’ said Balthazar.
Niclas looked to the Witchhunter.
‘Errr… I fink ’e means you, gov.’
The Witchhunter braced himself for whatever lay beyond. He grit his teeth and pushed the doors open – the gun went first.
Light burned their eyes. It was more intense than the little flame, and washed it out completely.
Inside, was a sight so bewildering, Niclas vocalised his thoughts “what” and “how” at the very same time – thus discovering the word:
‘WOW!’
It was a great hall, a mile long, wide and high. Stone pillars rose up and disappeared into the darkness above. From the middle of each hung lanterns of brightly burning oil. Their light poured below, to unveil an astounding sight.
Rats. More rats than Niclas had ever seen in his entire life. And that’s saying something, Bog End was their holiday destination of choice. There were hundreds of them. Perhaps even thousands of them. They were crawling up the pillars, around the lanterns, across the floor, and in-between the open graves of skeletons that lay embedded wherever a flat wall could be seen.
It was a sea of fur and wormy tails and yellow toothy teeth.
The halls beneath the city had once many moons ago served a purpose for the people of Old Laburnum, but now they were abandoned, inhabited by a new kind of proletariat.
‘There must be a ’undred of ’em,’ said Niclas.
‘Much more,’ said Balthazar, ‘much, much more.’
The Witchhunter was more used to unsettling things than the average person, but even he was troubled by the squirming furry floor. The rats were unsettled by him too. They seemed to be focusing their beady eyes and noses in his direction.
‘It’s the gun,’ said Balthazar, ‘they don’t like it, I told you.’
The Witchhunter spun around, his gun hand reaching out ahead of him. The vermin ocean rippled away from it. But as he moved it left and right, the rats on either side closed in, scrabbling closer each time.
‘This way.’ Balthazar was unperturbed by the rats. He walked straight down the middle and the ocean parted before him.
The humans shuffled after.
Halfway through the great hall, steps rose up converging on a central point; a towering ziggurat of the underbelly. At its highest level lay a stone sarcophagus marked with the markings of an older world. All
around it were golden treasures and glittering jewels, some the size of peaches. The coins had spilt down the steps and littered the floor in shiny metal puddles beneath their feet. Niclas had never seen so much loot. It was probably enough for Mr K to retire, he thought.
Some of the coins were recognisable, the Queen’s head on one side and the seal of logic, an open book and a sitting owl, on the other. But some were older, much older. And some weren’t coins at all, just pieces of silver and gold.
‘This your bank, sir?’ said Niclas.
‘Yes,’ said Balthazar, impressed that the boy was capable of remembering something.
When they got to the start of the steps, the rats refused to part. These were bigger, nastier rats, with battle scars, broken teeth and some with missing tails.
They hissed at the humans like a chorus of lizards.
‘They’re not going to let you pass. It’s nothing personal, they’re just a bit speciesist.’
‘Oh. Wot do we do?’
‘You’re going to stay here. I’m going to speak with their king.’
‘Their king?’ said the Witchhunter, like a man who feels he’s not part of the joke.
‘Yes, their king – and you will need to put that weapon away. I can’t guarantee your safety when I go up there.’
‘What are you up to cat?’ the Witchhunter snarled.
‘I am a cat of my word. I’m going to get the list I promised. But I insist you put away your weapon.’
The Witchhunter considered this. The rats around them were huge, just a bit smaller than Balthazar, and they looked angry and hungry too.
He holstered the gun.
‘Don’t do anything until I return. Not a muscle.’
The Witchhunter nodded.
‘Niclas?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Not a muscle.’
‘Don’t worry sir, I ain’t got much muscles to move,’ said the boy.
‘Watch him,’ said Balthazar, though not to Niclas, he was talking to the Witchhunter.
The man nodded.
The rats parted to let Balthazar pass, then closed behind him like two crashing tides.
‘Don’t worry, gov,’ said Niclas, ‘’e knows wot ’e’s doin’. ’E’s got the gab o’ the gift.’
At the top of the ziggurat, the rats were bigger still. They reluctantly stepped aside, allowing the cat to travel to the stone sarcophagus at the summit. Within it, lay a pile of bones with a crown of jewels at its feet.
‘Your Uncleanliness,’ said Balthazar, humbly.
Out of the skeleton rose a giant rodent, bigger than he, bigger than a small dog. Its teeth were splintered and one of its eyes was scarred. It was midway through a meal of the stinkiest blue cheese, and was being waited upon by tiny, fearful white mice. Slavery was still very much a thing down here.
‘Balthazar. Back a little soon aren’t you? Spent all your money have you?’ said the Rat King, still chewing.
‘Your Grossest, it always brightens my day to see you, perhaps I was just passing through.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I have come to ask a favour.’
‘Not after more shiny coins then?’
‘No, not this time.’
‘You’ve not come alone I see,’ said the Rat King, rearranging himself into a more comfortable position on his throne: the open rib cage of a corpse. ‘You bring the two footed furless ones here. Why?’
‘That’s part of the favour,’ said Balthazar. He was doing his best not to look too disgusted. Balthazar was not fond of disgusting things, he liked to be clean, and as far away from disgusting things as was possible. The Rat King was obese. A tub of lard that was probably more cheese and wart than fur and blood. Between its teeth were the remnants of food decades old. Rats weren’t known for their hygiene standards, but their chieftain was the king of squalor. Though, he did floss, and was currently doing so with a whisker between his two ratty incisors. It scraped in and out, a sound that was like nails on a blackboard to the cat.
‘We don’t owe you any more favours, Balthazar, you’ve still not lived up to your end of the bargain.’
‘Soon Your Unpleasantness, but I can hardly do as I promised while I am still… stuck like this.’
‘Hmmmm… What do you want?’ the King spat, scaring a small mouse that had ventured in to replenish his cheese.
‘I have a problem.’
‘A problem?’ asked the Rat King, tilting his head back and dropping a piece of the new brie down his gullet.
‘You see the man down there.’
‘Which one is the man?’
‘The big one, Your Wretchedness.’
The Rat King leaned out of the sarcophagus to see. He squinted, and sniffed heavily at the air.
‘The one with the musky odour. And, sniff sniff, is that gunpowder?’
‘Yes… that’ll be him.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s a witch hunter.’
‘A witch hunter?’ said the King. ‘Interesting. I’d heard a rumour a witch hunter had been seen in Laburnum. I hear lots of things, don’t always believe them. They’re a dying breed witch hunters. Rarer than witches these days, funny that… Ahahaha’
‘Yes… most funny Your Horridness.’
‘What are you doing larking about with a witch hunter for?’
‘It’s bad luck, I’m afraid,’ said Balthazar. ‘He’s under the impression that you know the whereabouts of all the witches in the capital.’
‘Ahaha…’ Again the Rat King laughed. It was a vile sound that echoed within the stone coffin and made Balthazar shudder. ‘I know the whereabout of one right this minute.’
‘Yes, very good, but he wants a list of them all.’
‘Well… Where should we start? There’s one in the industrial district, one in the slums, one that frequents the City Library, and one very generous woman that lives just off Hamford Common: always giving us rats a bit of the old cheese when we visit.’ The King was startled by his own words, for they reminded him of cheese and his current lack of it. ‘CHEESE!’ he squeaked in a squeak of terror that was more the squawk of a vulture than the squeak of a rat.
Balthazar closed his eyes to keep the lashings of spit from entering them.
‘I don’t want a list,’ he said.
The Rat King paused mid chew.
‘Huh? But you just said–’
‘No. He wants a list. I want something else.’
‘Yeeesss?’
‘I want you to kill him.’
‘Kill him?’
‘Yes. I want you to kill him for me.’
‘Aha– kill him?’ The Rat King was intrigued by this, so intrigued that he put his cheese down and edged closer. ‘Why?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Yes. But why can’t you be rid of him yourself?’
‘I don’t like to get my mitts dirty, and frankly, it would cause more of a problem if I were the one to do it.’
The Rat King pondered this over the delayed mouthful of cheese.
Balthazar watched.
It wasn’t easy doing business with rodents, they were thoughtless creatures, ruled by their stomachs and wired with a propensity to spread disease. They only cared for gold or cheese. Though they had no use for gold as humans had use for it. And as for cheese, it was a mystery to Balthazar why all rats had that same insatiable appetite for the stuff, even the lactose intolerant ones, which was a high percentage of the rat population. He could only guess that it had something to do with its likeness to gold, in both colour and rarity.
Or perhaps it was just the smell.
‘Ok,’ said the Rat King, ‘we’ll get rid of these furless ones for you, but you owe us, remember?’
‘Furless one.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just the man I want dead. The boy is… important.’
The Rat King looked very closely into the cat’s eyes. Then he looked to his nearby brutes, the warrior rats near
est him.
‘No,’ he said, firmly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They both die.’
‘You’ve misunderstood–’
‘I have not, Balthazar. I am the Chieftain, my squeak is law. I have to be seen to be all powerful. What does it say about me if I take orders from you – a cat in the eyes of my brethren. They will be asking why I let the other go and what will I say? Because you told me to?’
‘No, now listen here–’
‘No. You listen here, Balthazar. It is the code of our city, that none of the furless ones shall step foot within. You know that, Balthazar. You knew when you brought them down here that they would be mine. You brought them both as gifts for me, yet now you take one away.’
‘If I don’t leave here with that boy,’ said Balthazar, his claws itching to come out, ‘then our bargain is off, understand.’
‘This is different. This is above our bargain. This is the code. And the code must be obeyed.’
‘Ah, yes, codes, precepts and rules – you have that in common with humans you know?’
‘Silence!’ the Rat King squawked. It was never a good idea to compare rats to humans. ‘You forget your place.’
‘My apologies, Your Purtidness,’ said Balthazar, with an air of the sarcasm afforded to all cats.
‘The code is there for a reason. If one of them leaves this place, what’s to stop them from telling the other furless ones? We’d have the furless, two legged vermin infesting our homes with traps and poisons. Arsenic! Ever seen what arsenic does to the insides of a rodent?’
‘With all due respect, Your Ugliness, you’re very wrong. He won’t say anything, and besides, the Academy has such a hold on this city now, that he’d be incarcerated for logicide if he so little as dreamed of you. The world above has changed.’
The Rat King abandoned his temper and became happily distracted by the cheese and grapes that had just arrived. The mice left the platter, and fled avidly.
He picked up a grape, sniffed it, and tossed it over his shoulder for the other rats to fight over. Balthazar watched them have off at each other like animals over the fruit, which in his view, really wasn’t worth it.
Rats were a barbaric species of hordes. They were clan animals, always led by the strongest. There were few laws, but what laws there were, were sacred. Almost everything else was settled with violence, and the bigger, stronger rats were always the victors. It was the way of the wild. Not in the slightest bit kind.
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