The caged rats across the room leapt back from the netting. Even they could feel the fury.
“Now there's a clever boy,” said Rat-catcher 1 admiringly, when it was all over. “I've got a use for you, my lad.”
“Not the pit?” said Rat-catcher 2.
“Yes, the pit.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, 'cos Fancy Arthur is putting in his Jacko on a bet to kill a hundred rats in less than a quarter of an hour.”
“I bet he can, too. Jacko's a good terrier. He did ninety a few months ago and Fancy Arthur been training him up. Should be a good show.”
“You'd bet on Jacko doing it, would you?” said Ratcatcher 1.
“Sure. Everyone will be.”
“Even with our little friend here among the rats?” said Rat-catcher 1. “Full of lovely spite and bite and boilin' bile?”
“Well, er…”
“Yeah, right.” Rat-catcher 1 grinned.
“I don't like leaving those kids here, though.”
“It's ‘them kids’, not ‘those kids’. Get it right. How many times have I told you? Rule 27 of the Guild: sound stupid. People get suspicious of rat-catchers that talk too good.”
“Sorry.”
“Talk thick, be clever. That's the way to do it,” said Ratcatcher 1.
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“You tend to do it the other way around.”
“Sorry. Them kids. It's cruel, tying people up. And they're only kids, after all.”
“So?”
“So it'd be a lot easier to take 'em down the tunnel to the river and hit 'em on the head and throw 'em in. They'll be miles down river before anyone fishes 'em out, and they prob'ly won't even be recognizable by the time the fish have finished with 'em.”
Maurice heard a pause in the conversation. Then Ratcatcher 1 said, “I didn't know that you were such a kind-hearted soul, Bill.”
“Right, and, sorry, an' I've got an idea about gettin' rid of this piper, too—”
The next voice came from everywhere. It sounded like a rushing wind and, in the heart of the wind, the groan of something in agony. It filled the air.
NO! We can use the piper!
“No, we can use the piper,” said Rat-catcher 1.
“That's right,” said Rat-catcher 2. “I was just thinking the same thing. Er… how can we use the piper?”
Once again, Maurice heard a sound in his head like wind blowing through a cave.
Isn't it OBVIOUS?
“Isn't it obvious?” said Rat-catcher 1.
“Yeah, obvious,” muttered Rat-catcher 2. “Obviously it's obvious. Er…”
Maurice watched the rat-catchers open several of the cages, grab rats and drop them into a sack. He saw Hamnpork tipped into one, too. And then the ratcatchers had gone, dragging the other humans with them, and Maurice wondered: where, in this maze of cellars, is a Maurice-sized hole?
Cats can't see in the dark. What they can do is see by very little light. A tiny scrap of moonlight was filtering into the space behind him. It was coming through a tiny hole in the ceiling, barely big enough for a mouse and certainly not big enough for a Maurice even if he could reach it.
It illuminated another cellar. By the looks of it, the ratcatchers used this one too; there were a few barrels stacked in one corner, and piles of broken rat cages. Maurice prowled around it, looking for another way out. There were doors, but they had handles, and even his mighty brain couldn't figure out the mystery of doorknobs. There was another drain grating in a wall, though. He squeezed through it.
Another cellar. And more boxes and sacks. At least it was dry, though.
A voice behind him said, What kind of thing are you?
He spun around. All he could make out were boxes sacks. The air still stank of rats, and there was a continuous rustling, and the occasional faint squeak, but the place was a little piece of heaven compared to the hell of the cage room.
The voice had come from behind him, hadn't it? He must have heard it, mustn't he? Because it seemed to him that he just had something like the memory of hearing a voice, something that had arrived in his head without bothering to go through his ragged ears. It had been the same with the rat-catchers. They'd talked as if they'd heard a voice and thought it was their own thoughts. The voice hadn't really been there, had it?
I can't see you, said the memory, I don't know what you are.
It was not a good voice for a memory to have. It was all hisses, and it slid into the mind like a knife.
Come closer.
Maurice's paws twitched. The muscles in his legs started to push him forward. He extended his claws, and got control of himself. Someone was hiding amongst the boxes, he thought. And it would probably not be a good idea to say anything. People could get funny about talking cats. You couldn't rely on everyone being as mad as the story-telling girl.
Come CLOSER.
The voice seemed to pull at him. He'd have to say something.
“I'm happy where I am, thank you,” said Maurice.
Then will you share our PAIN?
The last word hurt. But it did not, and this was surprising, hurt a lot. The voice had sounded sharp and and dramatic, as if the owner was keen to see Maurice rolling in agony. Instead, it gave him a very brief headache.
When the voice arrived again, it sounded very suspicious.
What kind of creature are you? Your mind is WRONG.
“I prefer amazing,” said Maurice. “Anyway, who are you, asking me questions in the dark?”
All he could smell was rat. He heard a faint sound off to his left, and just made out the shape of a very large rat, creeping towards him.
Another sound made him turn. Another rat was coming from the other direction. He could only just make it out in the gloom.
A rustle ahead of him suggested that there was a rat right in front, slipping quietly through the dark.
Here come my eyes… WHAT? CAT! CAT! KILL!
CHAPTER 8
Mr. Bunnsy realized that he was a fat rabbit in the Dark Wood and wished he wasn't a rabbit or, at least, not a fat one. But Ratty Rupert was on the way. Little did he know what was waiting for him.
The three rats leapt they were already too late. There was just a Maurice-shaped hole in the air. Maurice was across the room and scrambling up some boxes.
There was squeaking below him. He jumped onto another box and saw a place in the wall where some of the rotten bricks had fallen out. He aimed for it, scrabbled on thin air as more bricks moved under him, and pushed himself into the unknown.
It was another cellar. And it was full of water. In fact, what it was full of was not exactly water. It was what water eventually becomes when rat cages drain into it, and gutters up above drain into it, and it has had a chance to sit and bubble gently to itself for a year or so. To call it “mud” would be an insult to perfectly respectable swamps all over the world.
Maurice landed in it. It went “gloop”.
He cat-paddled furiously through the thick stuff, trying not to breathe, and dragged himself out on a pile of rubble on the other side of the room. A fallen rafter, slimy with mould, led up to more tangled, fire-blackened wood in the ceiling.