Authors: Hilary Wagner
“We’ve always held out hope that our family survived the flood, swept away by the water, far from home, but I think we both know better—our family is dead, all of them. I know you were too little to remember much of Father, but he would
never
want us to be in that army. Do you really want to be run day and night by rats like Major Lithgo? Forced to bully citizens, serving rats that murdered High Minister Trilok, the ones who made our city the wretched place it is now?”
“No,” replied Victor.
“All right, then,” said Vincent. “We’ve survived for eleven years in the Catacombs, taking better care of ourselves than old Missus Cromwell ever could, but now we need to do more than just survive. Our lives need to mean something. This is our chance! Major Lithgo coming for us was a sign. I know it. Father firmly believed in fate. He said Killdeer’s sins would return to haunt him, whether in this world or the next. He told me the only way to change our fate is to change our lives. Only
we
can do that, Victor, no one else—then we’ll find our true fate, just like Father said. Do you understand?”
Victor nodded silently. The two hadn’t eaten in days. Vincent watched his brother’s ribs tremble under his wet raven coat. “Victor,” he said with authority, “pay attention. I know you’re cold, but I need you to listen to me. You see that open door across the way?” He pointed to the brownstone. “You see it—the one with the Topsiders talking under the awning?” Victor nodded stiffly. “We are going to make our way inside it. Topsiders or not, the house will be warm and dry.”
“What if there’s a cat or dog inside?”
“We are soaked to the skin, and thus clean. Our dismal circumstances are of benefit, at least for tonight. It will be several hours before any creature can detect us. By that time we’ll be long gone.” Vincent grinned at his brother.
Victor trembled in response, too frozen to return the smile. “All
right, then, let’s go,” he muttered, teeth chattering. He let go of his tail and wiped his eyes.
The Nightshade brothers glided across the darkened street and up the concrete stairs of the brownstone, right past the Topsiders. The rats slipped into the house unseen, quickly disappearing behind a white pillar.
Vincent sniffed the air for beasts. He smelled nothing more than houseplants, not the smoky, peppered smell of dogs, nor the briny, pickled odor of cat.
Dumb luck,
he thought. “All clear,” he whispered to Victor. “Follow me.” The brothers skirted along the edge of the wall, their black nails clicking across the checkerboard tile.
They came to a closed door. Emaciated from days without food, they easily wriggled under it. The room was some sort of art studio, complete with easels, canvases, and a desk, barely visible under the extensive assortment of paint tubes, bottles, and brushes. The studio, covered with a fine layer of dust, had clearly gone unused for some time. It was an ideal hiding place for the night.
A streetlight shone through the window, reflecting in Vincent’s green eyes, turning them a gauzy white. Victor shook the water from his coat and headed under a leather wing chair in a dark corner. Without warning, Vincent grabbed him, jerking him back. Victor looked at his brother, bewildered. Vincent stared, perplexed by something in the corner.
“What is it?” asked Victor.
“It’s a rat hole.” Sniffing, Vincent caught a rat’s scent, one that seemed familiar to him. It quickly faded. He smelled nothing.
Billycan ambled down the corridor of Sector 337, leering broadly. His red eyes flashed against the flickering torchlight, making the towering snow-white rat appear more maniacal than usual. He swung
his beloved billy club as he raucously called for the High Ministry’s weekly Stipend. “Billycan thinks you should be more generous to your Ministry! Don’t try my patience. Billycan wants the Stipend paid now!”
Billycan served his Ministry well, holding the dual title of High Collector of Stipend and Commander of the Kill Army. He was dangerously clever and wicked to his core. His depravity and sadistic persecution of Catacomb rats were legendary. They claimed Billycan was possessed—supernatural even. The old ones told how he once drove a rat to stab himself, mesmerizing him with his eyes. The rat lived through the ordeal, claiming that Billycan’s eyes glowed like galvanized rubies, two glass bulbs filled with a red vapory substance, commanding him to take his useless life.
The few rats that had dared to challenge the High Collector were either dead or missing their tongues, his favorite form of torture. He had a raised, black scar running across his face—the result of one such challenge during the Bloody Coup. The thick gash trailed from the corner of his left eye, continued over his long snout, and finally tapered off at the opposite corner of his mouth. Billycan didn’t mind the scar; in fact, he giggled every time he thought about his opponent’s grisly fate. A Trilok Loyalist had briefly gotten the upper hand, but not for long. Left bleeding, the fearless rat lay dying, one eye splattered against the corridor’s dirt wall.
Rumors circulated through the Combs regarding Billycan’s damaged brain. Everyone knew he had served as a lab rat at the Topsider pharmaceutical company, the infamous Prince Laboratories. He alone survived the torturous experiments. No other white rats existed in the Catacombs, or in all of Trillium for that matter. Since his liberation from the lab, he’d never seen another of his kind. Other than Billycan, the albinos were gone forever.
The Catacomb subjects assumed that the drugs given to him in the Topsider lab had eaten away part of his brain, leaving only the corrupt portions intact. Years of inbreeding, forced on the rats by the lab personnel, combined with the mind-altering injections, were most likely the culprits, but gossip concerning the roots of Billycan’s wickedness propagated throughout the Combs.
The Topsiders’ testing had caused Billycan’s spine to grow coiled and elongated, making his neck and angled jaw jut out far in front of his body. His milky coat ended at the base of his extended tail, which trailed behind him like a hairless garden snake, revealing flaky skin that was a powdery, encrusted white, more reptilian than vermin.
Cursed with a nagging and insatiable hunger, no matter how much he gorged and gobbled, Billycan could not keep weight on his bones, giving him a lean, cadaverous look, like that of a half-stuffed scarecrow.
Stipends were collected weekly—one from each Catacomb rat. Stipends consisted of items useful to the Ministry—food, weapons, tools. Food had to be edible. Attempting to disguise compost as Stipend incurred a fatal consequence. Once, a desperate young rat tried to palm off a rotting pear as Stipend. Billycan chained him to a post in the center of Catacomb Hall, leaving him to die of hunger for all subjects to see. The boy’s parents wailed as their son took his final breath.
“Stipends for Killdeer!” shouted Billycan. “Stipends for Killdeer! Everyone to their doors! Quickly, quickly—do not test Billycan’s patience.” With a piercing pitch, his voice blasted through the corridors. “Billycan’s time will not be wasted. Have them ready. Billycan does not like to wait!” The Collector sauntered down the corridor, followed by three hulking lieutenants and his Kill Army aide Senior Lieutenant Carn, all four pushing rusty wheelbarrows in single file.
Billycan, with his hollow chest pushed out, looked like an underfed rooster. He wore a crimson and navy blue sash, Kill Army colors, made specifically for his lanky frame by the High Mistress of the Robes. It looked fitting across his broad yet exceedingly lean chest. As he strolled, he swung his billy club from side to side, banging it on Catacomb doors and scratching it against the flimsy planking with an eerie resonance. The Ministry subjects knew the Stipend routine. Don’t speak unless spoken to, have all items ready, and above all, don’t look the High Collector in the eyes.
“Billycan waits for no one!” he snapped, hammering his club on another door. A sheepish gray rat opened the door, her eyes fixed to the floor as she timidly put her family’s Stipend in a wheelbarrow. “Quickly, quickly, my dear! Billycan need not use his club today if you hasten your step. Good, good—mark her off the list, Lieutenant Carn.”
Carn marked her clan’s number off the register. He nodded his head at the girl. “Thank you, miss,” he said quietly.
Billycan cocked his head and glared at Carn. “Thank her for what, lieutenant? She owes Stipend, and Stipend she shall pay. We do not thank our subjects for giving what they rightfully owe. Is Billycan understood?”
The coffee-colored Lieutenant looked vacantly at Billycan. “Yes, Commander,” was all he said.
Billycan shook his head. “I swear, Lieutenant Carn, all these years serving Billycan and you still need correcting—useless, entirely useless. Off you go,” said Billycan, shoving the girl out of the way.
Billycan and his soldiers made their way to the next set of doors, marked with sloppy whitewashed numbers, indicating the clan that dwelled inside. He stopped at door number 73. Billycan regarded the number coolly. He cracked his stiff jaw, scowling. Time now for some personal business for High Minister Killdeer. He disagreed with
his assignment, but if nothing else, the pale rawboned rat’s loyalty remained steadfast, at least when it came to Killdeer.
Clover was preparing the fire pit for an early dinner when she heard a slow, methodical scratching against her door. She hadn’t heard Billycan calling down the corridor. Immediately recognizing the sound of his billy club against the wood slats, she sprang up towards the door.
“Get out of sight,” she whispered. A tall, cloaked figure rose from the table and concealed itself in the shadows. “Stay back and stay covered. He only wants Stipend. I’ll be back promptly.”
She gathered herself, swallowed hard, and opened the door.
“My, my, running late today, aren’t we, Miss Clover?” said Billycan, his voice acidic.
Clover kept her eyes to the ground and put her items into a wheelbarrow. “I’m sorry, High Collector. I’m making dinner. Lost in my recipe, I did not hear your call. It won’t happen again,” she said.
“Very well, very well. Billycan is sure it
won’t
happen again. Mark her off the list, Lieutenant Carn,” barked Billycan. Carn silently marked her off the list and stepped back in line with the other soldiers. “I have more pressing matters today, my dear—more pressing indeed.” Billycan reached into a wheelbarrow and retrieved a stiff scroll. He unrolled the discolored paper, signed at the bottom with Killdeer’s three-pronged mark.
Clover eyed the parchment and backed into her quarters. She prayed to the Saints for the Collector to move on.
Please,
she thought,
let the scroll be for another.
“Not so hasty, little one,” said Billycan. He beckoned her back, curling a gnarled claw. “Billycan has something to share with you.” He gave a broad grin of yellowed teeth. “Something I think you’ll be rather delighted with.” He poked his mangled snout into her room.
Clover tried to block him, but he lurched over her like an oversized ivory sickle, examining her small quarters.
“Where is your guardian?”
“He’s hunting Topside, High Collector.”
He carelessly pushed her out of his way and stepped into her quarters with his scaly, hairless feet. “Pity, pity,” said Billycan. He had spotted the hidden rat, whose feet were simply too large to conceal. “Billycan wants to know who that is, in the back.” He pointed a spiny digit at the shrouded rat. “Who is that hiding shamelessly in the corner? Billycan would like to know, and he would like to know now.” Clover stood speechless.
Billycan’s blood began to pump as he imagined a potential conspiracy in his midst. Her clan could not be trusted. Abruptly swooping down to her level, he displayed his barbed, yellow teeth in a crooked scowl. “Now, for the last time, girl, who and why is this brazen rat hiding in your quarters?” His eyes bulged and his torso heaved. “Out with it!” he hollered.
Her heart thumped in her elfin-sized chest. Through her young life, Clover had told many tales to the Ministry, just not with Billycan towering over her, his teeth dripping with icy drool. A thought finally came. “I give you my word, High Collector, he is
not
hiding. This is my grandfather, my guardian, Timeron. He is stricken with plague, unsightly to behold, and highly contagious. The disease has left him ravaged—disfigured. Like you, grandfather is a proud rat, not wishing anyone to see him in such a dreadful state. I told you he was Topside so that you wouldn’t look at him—to save what pride he has left—to keep
you
from catching it. I fear he will soon be at rest with the Saints, but as my late father always said, the living must do just that—live.”
As much as Billycan wished otherwise, her explanation sounded
reasonable. He composed himself. “Yes, they must indeed live, as must Billycan,” he said. He took a step backward, wondering what ghastly deformities awaited under the mucky shroud. He resisted his urge to check.
Billycan held up the scroll for Clover to see. “Well, young Clover, it seems my purpose is quite a fortunate one for you. As your guardian will soon be meeting his maker, by right it’s off to the Kill Army kitchens with you.” He tapped on the scroll. “This saves you from that abysmal fate—at least for a time.” He quickly changed his voice to a more official one. “Billycan has a sacred decree in his possession that he and only he can make official. It must be read to the Chosen One and read now, as mandated by the High Ministry.”
On occasion, Clover had contemplated this day, but with the thousands of females the High Minister had to choose from, she had never really considered herself a likely candidate. She had grossly underestimated herself.
She was quite lovely, with smooth cocoa skin, and light fur, buff in color and downy soft, more suited for a snow hare than a rat. She had a short, rounded nose and a sculpted, refined muzzle. Eyes the color of citrine offered up varied hues of yellowy brilliance, round and open. Despite her beauty, she had an approachable sweetness, modest and shy.
Clover had been educated in secret, since school was strictly reserved for males by the Ministry. Well aware of the evils of the Catacombs, Clover did not dream of the High Minister like the other females. She thought Killdeer a swine, a fleshy pig masquerading in the pelt of a rat.