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 grey 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 coloured 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. Behind 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.’