“That's right, young sir, and then your brains come down your nose,” said the other rat-catcher, coming up behind the kid. “You wouldn't dare use your hanky, young sir, if you got the plague.”
“My associate has as usual put his finger right on it, young sir,” said the first rat-catcher, breathing more beer into the kid's face.
“Which is more than you'd be able to do, young sir,” said Rat-catcher 2, “because when you get the plague, your fingers go all—”
“Your legs haven't exploded,” said the kid. Maurice groaned. It was never a good idea to be rude to a smell of beer. But the rat-catchers were at the stage where, against all the odds, they thought they were funny.
“Ah, well said, young sir, but that's because lesson one at the Guild of Rat-catchers' school is not letting your legs explode,” said Rat-catcher 1.
“Which is a good thing 'cos the second lesson is upstairs,” said Rat-catcher 2. “Oh, I am a one, aren't I, young sir?”
The other rat-catcher picked up the bundle of black strings, and his smile faded as he stared at the kid. “Ain't seen you before, kid,” he said, “And my advice to you is, keep your nose clean and don't say nothing to nobody about anything. Not a word. Understand?”
The kid opened his mouth, and then shut it hurriedly. The rat-catcher grinned his awful grin again.
“Ah. You catch on quick, young sir,” he said. “Perhaps we'll see you around, eh?”
“I bet you'd like to be a rat-catcher when you grow up, eh, young sir,” said Rat-catcher 2, patting the kid too heavily on the back.
The kid nodded. It seemed the best thing to do. Rat-catcher 1 leaned down until his red, pock-marked nose was an inch away from the kid's face.
“If you grow up, young sir,” he said.
The rat-catchers walked away, dragging their dogs with them. One of the terriers kept looking back at Maurice.
“Very unusual rat-catchers they have hereabouts,” said the cat.
“I haven't seen rat-catchers like them before,” said the kid. “They looked nasty. Like they enjoyed it.”
“I haven't seen rat-catchers who've been so busy but still have nice clean boots,” said Maurice.
“Yes, they did, didn't they…” said the kid.
“But even that's not as odd as the rats round here,” said Maurice, in the same quiet voice, as though he was adding up money.
“What's odd about the rats?” said the kid.
“Some of them have very strange tails,” said Maurice.
The kid looked around the square. The queue for bread was still quite long, and it made him nervous. But so did the steam. Little bursts of it puffed up from gratings and manhole-covers all over the place, as if the whole town had been built on a kettle. Also, he had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him.
“I think we ought to find the rats and move on,” he said.
“No, this smells like a town with opportunities,” said Maurice. “Something's going on, and when something's going on, that means someone's getting rich, and when someone's getting rich, I don't see why that shouldn't be m—us.”
“Yes, but we don't want those people killing Dangerous Beans and the rest of them!”
“They won't get caught,” said Maurice. “Those men wouldn't win any prizes for thinking. Even Hamnpork could run rings round 'em, I'd say. And Dangerous Beans has got brains coming out of his ears.”
“I hope not!”
“Nah, nah,” said Maurice, who generally told people what they wanted to hear, “I mean our rats can out-think most humans, OK? Remember back in Scrote when Sardines got in that kettle and blew a raspberry at the old woman when she lifted the lid? Hah, even ordinary rats can out-think humans. Humans think that just because they're bigger, they're better—Hold on, I'll shut up, someone's watching us…”
A man carrying a basket had stopped on his way out of the Rathaus and was staring at Maurice with a good deal of interest. Then he looked up at the kid and said, “Good ratter, is he? I'll bet he is, a big cat like that. Is he yours, boy?”
“Say yes,” Maurice whispered.
“Sort of, yes,” said the kid. He picked Maurice up.
“I'll give you five dollars for him,” said the man.
“Ask for ten,” Maurice hissed.
“He's not for sale,” said the kid.
“Idiot!” Maurice purred.
“Seven dollars, then,” said the man. “Look, I'll tell you what I'll do… four whole loaves of bread, how about that?”
“That's silly. A loaf of bread shouldn't cost more'n twenty pence,” said the kid.
The man gave him a strange look. “New here, are you? Got plenty of money, have you?”
“Enough,” said the kid.
“You think so? It won't do you much good, anyway. Look, four loaves of bread and a bun, I can't say fairer than that. I can get a terrier for ten loaves and they're mad for rats… no? Well, when you're hungry you'll give it away for half a slice of bread and scrape1 and think you've done well, believe me.”
He strode off. Maurice wriggled out of the kid's arms, and landed lightly on the cobbles. “Honestly, if only I was good at ventrilosqwism we could make a fortune,” he grumbled.
“Ventrilosqwism?” said the kid, watching the man's retreating back.
“It's where you open and shut your mouth and I do the talking,” said Maurice. “Why didn't you sell me? I could've been back in ten minutes! I heard of a man who made a fortune selling homing pigeons, and he only had the one!”
“Don't you think there's something wrong with a town where people'd pay more than a dollar for a loaf of bread?” said the kid. “And pay half a dollar just for a rat tail?”
“Just so long as they've got enough money left to pay the piper,” said Maurice. “Bit of luck there already being a plague of rats here, eh? Quick, pat me on the head, there's a girl watching us.”
The kid looked up. There was a girl watching them. People were passing up and down the street, and some of them walked between the kid and the girl, but she stood stock still and just stared at him. And at Maurice. She had the same nail-you-to-the-wall look that he associated with Peaches. She looked like the kind of person who asked questions. And her hair was too red and her nose was too long. And she wore a long black dress with black lace fringing. No good comes of that sort of thing.
She marched across the street and confronted the kid. “You're new, aren't you? Come here looking for work, have you? Probably sacked from your last job, I expect. Probably because you fell asleep, and things got spoiled. That was probably what it was. Or you ran away because your master beat you with a big stick, although,” she added, as another idea struck her, “you probably deserved it because of being lazy. And then you probably stole the cat, knowing how much people would pay for a cat here. And you must have gone mad with hunger because you were talking to the cat and everyone knows that cats can't talk.”
“Can't say a single word,” said Maurice.
“And probably you're a mysterious boy who—” The girl stopped and gave Maurice a puzzled look. He arched his back and said “prppt”, which is cat language for “biscuits!” “Did that cat just say something?” she demanded.
“I thought that everyone knew that cats can't talk,” said the kid.
“Ah, but maybe you were apprenticed to a wizard,” said the girl. “Yes, that sounds about right. That'll do for now. You were an apprentice to a wizard, but you fell asleep and let the cauldron of bubbling green stuff boil over and he threatened to turn you into a, a, a—”
“Gerbil,” said Maurice, helpfully.
“—a gerbil, and you stole his magical cat because you hated it so much and—what's a gerbil? Did that cat just say ‘gerbil’?”
1. You scrape the butter on. Then you scrape the butter off. Then you eat the bread.