Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  Lord Everett hesitated, and rounded his gaze back at the Queen. He was getting that feeling, the one when your sober self taps your drunk self on the shoulder and says “psst, I’ve got to deal with this in the morning.” He finished his glass defiantly.

  ‘Come now,’ said Barton, appearing over his other shoulder, ‘I shall go out for a pipe, you should come too, air would be good for you.’

  ‘Air. I’ve got enough air. I’m breathing aren’t I.’

  ‘Come, Lord Everett, there’s no need to make a scene.’

  ‘Certainly not. What I meant was that I was just thinking I might go out for a good pipe myself. Care to join me ol’ chum?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Lord Barton smiled to the Queen, helped Lord Everett out of his chair and guided him out of the dining room.

  ‘I heard a rumour it’s something in the domain of custard,’ Lord Quincy continued.

  ‘Why do men drink so much?’ Cassandra said softly to her mother.

  ‘Because some of them are fools. And you can always trust a fool to make a fool of himself.’

  ‘Shame to see a man unable to hold his drink, and a Lord at that,’ said Lord Marston, ‘I shall have a word tomorrow, Your Majesty.’

  ‘No, no. No need for that,’ said the Queen. ‘He’ll have a word with himself I’m sure.’

  The remaining Lords laughed politely.

  ‘May I?’ asked a waiter, gesturing for Cassandra’s plate.

  She’d barely touched it. She’d stabbed the duck, prodded the polenta and eaten one of the cherries, which had left her with a tart pinch in each of her inner cheeks.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m finished.’

  ‘Have you thought to visit the Colonies, my dear?’ said Lord Quincy. ‘Extraordinary food and an interesting culture for your studies I’m sure.’

  ‘My tutor does go on a bit about the Colonies. But mother…’ She stopped, she didn’t want to look like a child, the Lords already thought little of her as it was. ‘…I mean, I’m not too sure I’d like it.’

  ‘You should go, Cassandra, you are a young woman now. It is important for a young woman to see the world. Especially a young woman who will one day command fleets and ambassadors,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Oh… But mother I thought–’

  ‘You are older now.’

  Cassandra lit up. She’d wanted to go to the Colonies for years, but had reasoned with herself that it wasn’t going to happen, not while her mother was Queen. She’d heard of the enclosed markets and the camels and the white sand beaches and tropical plants and the languages of the Five Isles, and the strange practices that went on on the fringes of the Realm of Logic.

  ‘We’ll have to arrange a trip, perhaps in the sun season? The waters are far choppier in the moon season, not the best way to travel, I’ve done it once or twice.’

  ‘You’ve been to the Colonies, Lord Quincy?’ asked the Princess.

  ‘Oh once or twice. They do an absolutely splendid nut cake. Made with honey, if I recall.’

  Cassandra had noticed out of the corner of her eye, over Lord Quincy’s shoulder, that Rufus had come into the dining room.

  She wouldn’t have thought anything of it. She was used to seeing him roaming around the Palace, speaking to Palace Guards and running his secretive errands. But this wasn’t the same. He looked unwell. Pale and distracted. His eyes seemed to be staring straight ahead, as if looking at nothing in particular, and he was walking with an urgent, yet staggered pace.

  Then she saw the gun. He was holding the pistol in his right hand.

  Of course, Rufus went about the Palace armed with sword and pistol, but she had never seen them out. The scene looked so out of place, that there, in the midst of dining, conversing, laughing, drinking and cheersing, he would enter the room gun in hand.

  He was walking right at her. Or was it her mother?

  Before anyone could stop him to ask if he was alright, his arm raised the gun and pointed it straight at the Queen.

  No one had even noticed yet.

  Except the Queen, who rose from her chair in dismay. And Lord Quincy, who had seen the fear on the faces of Cassandra and her mother. And two City Watchmen, who had been standing by the door, and were now running to the table, in what had become a sort of slow, steady motion.

  Cassandra couldn’t move. She was rooted to the chair, squeezing the table cloth in each of her hands. She stared into the bodyguard’s eyes. Those eyes she knew well, yet, these ones she had never seen before. They were stone cold. The face of a murderer.

  ‘Rufus!’ gasped the Queen.

  CLICK went the gun.

  The shot misfired.

  The City Watchman clasped Rufus by his arms and tore him back and to the ground.

  ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘What is the meaning of this!’ shouted Lord Marston.

  The conversation in the room had jumped off a cliff. No one dared breathe. The only noise came from the guards grappling to get Rufus under control.

  Cassandra rose to get a better look and her mother shielded her away.

  ‘Get off me! What in the name of Logic are you doing?’ said Rufus. ‘Unhand me!’

  ‘What is going on?’ said Lord Darby rushing in.

  ‘The Queen’s bodyguard… he… he’s just tried to have one off at Her Majesty…’ said a very solemn Lord Quincy.

  ‘Have one off?’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘A shot!’ said Lord Marston.

  ‘An assassin!’ said another Lord.

  ‘Treachery!’ cried another.

  ‘Treason!’ another.

  ‘Unhand me! What are you doing?’ Rufus fought free, struggled to his feet and pulled his sword. The two guards pulled theirs in return. The steel screeched coldly.

  ‘Your Majesty? Are you ok? Are you harmed?’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘I…’

  ‘It misfired. Most lucky, at that range you would be quite dead, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Marston.

  Rufus looked confused, he stared around at the eyes that were gazing back at him.

  ‘Take this man to the Guard’s Tower at once,’ said Lord Darby.

  The guards took a step forward and Rufus raised his sword, directing it at their throats.

  ‘You take a step further and I shall have you,’ said Rufus.

  Cassandra must have been the only one who found it odd that Rufus, the man who had moments ago been about to murder his Queen in cold blood, was now puzzled, and, by the looks of the glint in his eye, a little afraid.

  ‘Rufus… Why?’ said the Queen.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘Now is not the time for questions, Your Majesty, there will be plenty of time for that,’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘I will not hesitate to defend myself,’ said Rufus, to the advancing guards.

  More guards flooded in through the doors. At least eight of them, some with muskets, some with rapiers.

  ‘You will surrender your arms and go quietly with these men to the Guard’s Tower,’ said Lord Darby, firmly.

  ‘I do not take orders from you, sir, I am sworn only to the Queen,’ said Rufus, raising his blade again.

  ‘Rufus,’ said the Queen, ‘sheath your sword.’

  ‘But, Your Majesty…’

  ‘Sheath your sword.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation.

  Sweat dripped down the faces of the guards.

  Cassandra clenched her fists.

  Then Rufus dropped his blade and it clattered weightily on the blue carpet. The guards leapt at him, restraining his arms behind his back and pushing his head down.

  ‘Take him away,’ ordered Lord Darby.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ said Rufus. ‘This is a mistake!’ He carried on all down the hall, until the front door of the Palace slammed behind him.

  The room was shaken. Shellshocked. A hundred appetites spoiled in a flash.

  ‘What in the world has happened?’ asked Lord Barton, c
oming in with a dizzy Lord Everett at his back.

  ‘An attempt on the Queen’s life! All is well, but I think it’s best if we call upon the coaches to take everyone home,’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Lord Marston. ‘You there, call the coachmen.’

  ‘An attempt? Who?’ asked Barton.

  ‘The Royal Bodyguard.’

  ‘The Royal Bodyguard?’ Lord Everett hiccuped. ‘Some bodyguard. I do hope someone’s going to fire him.’

  ‘Goodness, this is most distressing, Your Majesty. Are you well?’ asked Lord Barton.

  ‘…’

  ‘Your Majesty?’ again.

  The Queen was startled, stunned like a deer in the road. It wasn’t everyday your most trusted protector tried to murder you in front of your dinner guests.

  ‘Everyone outside, come on, give the Queen her space,’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘We should call for extra guards,’ said Lord Barton.

  ‘I agree,’ said Lord Darby.

  The other Lords began leaving, talking amongst themselves and shaking their heads.

  ‘Most horrid… most horrid. I can’t believe it,’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ said Lord Barton, still trying to get through to the shaken Queen.

  ‘It’s not right,’ said Cassandra. ‘Something isn’t right. I saw him come in. He looked… strange.’

  ‘Strange, M’lady?’ asked Lord Quincy.

  ‘His eyes, they were glazed. He looked drunk.’

  ‘Drunk?’ said Lord Marston.

  ‘That would help explain it,’ said Lord Quincy.

  ‘But Rufus doesn’t drink… he frowns upon it…’

  ‘Sounds like a madman to me,’ snickered Lord Everett.

  ‘Oh, Lord Everett, do go home,’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘It’s not right, mother. You didn’t see his face… he wasn’t himself. He didn’t know what was happening.’

  ‘Silence, Cassandra,’ said the Queen.

  ‘But, mother, it’s Rufus… he couldn’t have–’

  ‘I said silence,’ said the Queen. ‘Martha. Take the Princess to her room and see the rest of the Lords out.’

  ‘Yes M’lady, right away. Come now Princess, you come with me.’

  ‘It’s not right. I won’t believe it, I won’t,’ said Cassandra. She didn’t intend to, but had started crying. Her eyes began to feel heavy and pained, tears formed in the creases and had started to stream down her blushed cheeks. She fought to control her breathing, to keep her composure, lest her mother thought she was weak.

  ‘Now, now, child, run along to your room. This isn’t the place for tantrums,’ said Lord Barton.

  Cassandra clenched her fists tighter. She wanted to run right up to Lord Barton and punch him in the groin. And she would have, if it didn’t defy her well-bred nature.

  ‘Come, Princess,’ said Martha, coaxing the Princess away.

  ‘Your Majesty, we’ll lend you as many guards as we can spare. They’ll watch over the Palace until we know exactly what has occurred here. Is there anything else we can do for you?’ said Lord Darby.

  ‘Leave,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Your Majesty, perhaps we should stay too, just so it’s–’

  The Queen had given her order and said enough. She walked out of the room.

  ‘Righto, you heard the Royal Highness, out, everybody out,’ said Lord Quincy.

  The remaining Lords made a hesitant exit. Their coaches came one after the other and took each of them back to their houses on Lords’ Row. The restaurant too was sent home with the extra staff that had accompanied them.

  The golden gates shut and a troop of City Watchmen took up posts at every corner, doorway and stairwell on the grounds.

  Soon the Palace was as quiet and empty as it had always been. And the tick tock of the grandfather clock was audible once again.

  Rats are known to live in darkness. Yet here, under the city streets, beneath even the sewers, their halls were lit with oil lanterns. Niclas had been watching them leap along the ropes above like acrobats. When a lantern would go out, a rat would soon be there to refill it with an oil jug no bigger than a gravy boat. As he looked closely, he was sure the lantern rats were wearing little brown belts with matches tucked in like swords.

  Perhaps, thought Niclas, everyone was wrong about rats. Perhaps the darkness scared them as much as it did people.

  The Witchhunter wasn’t concerned with the fears or smarts of rats. He stared up the steps to where Balthazar had gone. The cat was taking his time, and the man didn’t like it one bit.

  There was a scuffling at the top of the stone steps, and the sea of rats parted for Balthazar’s return.

  ‘What’s goin’ on, sir?’ said Niclas.

  Balthazar sighed, dramatically.

  ‘What is it, cat?’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘I’m afraid they haven’t taken too well to your being here.’

  ‘My list?’

  ‘Yes… we’ll come to that.’

  ‘This is trickery,’ cried the Witchhunter, reaching for his pistol.

  As he did the circle of rats pulsed, closing on them by half a metre; a ring of gnashing rodent teeth.

  The Witchhunter lifted his hand away from his belt and the rats eased back.

  ‘We have,’ continued Balthazar, ‘somewhat of a dilemma.’

  ‘Die wot?’ asked Niclas.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Really. It’s just, only one of you will be allowed to leave this place.’

  Niclas knitted his brows and scratched his head. That sure sounded like something to worry about.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘I’m afraid not. They’ve been talking and they’ve come to the conclusion that you must duel one another.’

  ‘Ah-aha!’ Niclas wasn’t sure why he found it funny, but he soon didn’t find it funny. ‘You’re joking, sir? Right? Sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Two large rats appeared at either side of Balthazar.

  ‘They want your guns. Both of them.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘No. But, you can either play this out how they want it, or…’

  ‘Or?’ said Niclas.

  ‘Or, they’ll kill us all. It’s not nice getting killed by rats. It’s ghastly. They’ll eat the flesh from your bones, the eyeballs from your face, the tongue from your mouth, everything, and you’ll be alive for most of it.’

  The Witchhunter looked over the shifting horizon of hungry rats. Niclas stared, mouth open at Balthazar.

  ‘Can’t you do anyfing, sir?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve tried. If it was up to them, they’d eat both of you.’

  ‘This is your doing, cat. You brought us down here,’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘Funny that. I didn’t think you’d let me come alone. And you were the one who insisted that both you, and the boy came.’

  The Withchunter daggered his eyes.

  ‘If this is a game you will lose. Do not think I’m afraid to kill this boy.’

  ‘Wot?’ said Niclas. The ground didn’t quite break away beneath his feet and swallow him, but his bowels moved up and down ever so slightly, and he did, nearly, soil himself. ‘B…but, I don’t knows ’ow to duel.’

  ‘Quite simple really,’ said Balthazar, ‘you point and shoot.’

  The Witchhunter placed his guns on the floor, watching the rats cautiously.

  The two largest ones screeched at the smaller ones, and they swarmed around the firearms, lifting them the way rainforest ants carry leaves. The guns floated atop the swarm, up the steps to the Rat King.

  ‘Where are they taking them?’

  ‘Their chieftain wants to inspect them I imagine.’

  ‘Wot if we don’t do it?’ said Niclas.

  ‘Then they’ll eat you.’

  ‘Wot if we both miss?’ said Niclas

  ‘They’ll eat you.’

  ‘Wot i
f one of us misses, and the other only injures ’im. Shoots ’im in the knee or summin?’

  ‘…In that case, they’d probably give the win to the one of you who wasn’t injured. And eat the other one.’

  ‘GULP.’

  ‘You look very relaxed about this, cat?’ said the Witchhunter.

  ‘Oh trust me, I am greatly distressed. But I find panicking only exasperates things like this.’

  The Rat King screeched from above. It was a terrifying noise and didn’t sound like a rat at all.

  The rats around them parted to form two paths, and the two big rats ushered the humans towards them.

  ‘I think that means they want you to follow them,’ said Balthazar.

  The Witchhunter went down his path.

  Niclas hesitated.

  ‘Can’t do it, sir… I ain’t ever ’eld a gun before, let alone fired one. I don’t knows wot I’m doin’. I’m gonna die, sir. You gots to do summin…’

  ‘…Niclas…’

  ‘…I don’t wanna die, sir. I ain’t ready for it. Not like this, sir, please, please…’

  ‘…Niclas…’

  ‘…Please, sir, do summin. Like you done before. You know that mumbo jumbo malarky…’

  ‘Niclas.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get your head in it. Do not miss.’

  With that, Balthazar headed up the ziggurat and Niclas was shepherded to his spot, some ten paces from the Witchhunter’s spot.

  Back up top…

  ‘Everything alright?’ said the Rat King.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Balthazar, arriving back at the foot of the sarcophagus.

  ‘Odd guns these.’

  ‘May I have a look?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Balthazar stalked over to the guns.

  They were extravagant pistols, made of iron that had been shaped with great detail. A banshee howled down the length of each barrel. The centre of each gun was different from other pistols Balthazar was used to. It could be opened and inside were three chambers of wadding. Most guns were loaded down the muzzle, these were loaded above the trigger. The load was the same as normal though. A ball of lead, paper wadding and a sprinkling of gunpowder.

  ‘This is exciting isn’t it,’ said the Rat King, watching the spectacle unfold below.

  In rat tongue, rats were shouting out betting odds and passing between them thimbles, earrings, pegs and other types of human junk that had worth in their culture.