The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents (6 page)

He was shaking.

“Are you all right?” she said.

The shaking stopped.

“Fine, fine, nothing wrong with me!” snapped
Hamnpork. “Just a few twinges, nothing permanent!”

“Only I noticed you didn't go out with any of the squads,” said Peaches.

“There's nothing wrong with me!” shouted the old rat.

“We've still got some potatoes in the baggage—”

“I
don't
want any
food
! There is
nothing
wrong with me!”

…Which meant that there was. It was the reason he didn't want to share all the things he knew. What he knew was all he had left. Peaches knew what rats traditionally did to leaders who were too old. She'd watched Hamnpork's face when Darktan—younger, stronger Darktan—had been talking to his squads, and knew that Hamnpork was thinking about it, too. Oh, he was fine when people were watching him, but lately he'd been resting more, and skulking in corners.

Old rats were driven out, to lurk around by themselves and go rotten and funny in the head. Soon there would be another leader.

Peaches wished she could make him understand one of the Thoughts of Dangerous Beans, but the old rat didn't much like talking to females.
He'd grown up thinking females weren't for talking to.

The Thought was:

It meant: We Are the Changelings. We Are Not Like Other Rats.

T
he important thing about adventures, thought Mr. Bunnsy, was that they should not be so long as to make you miss mealtimes.

—From
Mr. Bunnsy Has an Adventure

The kid and the girl and Maurice were in a large kitchen. The kid could tell it was a kitchen because of the huge black iron range and the pans hanging on the walls and the long scarred table. What it didn't seem to have was what a kitchen traditionally had, which was food.

The girl went to a metal box in the corner and fumbled round her neck for a string, which, it turned out, held a big key.

“You can't trust anybody,” she said. “And the rats steal a hundred times what they eat, the devils.”

“I don't think they do,” said the kid. “Ten times, at most.”

“You know all about rats all of a sudden?” said the girl, unlocking the metal case.

“Not all of a sudden, I learned it when—Ow! That really
hurt
!”

“Sorry about that,” said Maurice. “I accidentally scratched you, did I?” He tried to make a face that said
Don't be a complete twerp, okay?—
which is quite hard to do with a cat head.

The girl gave him a suspicious look and then turned back to the metal box.

“There's some milk that's not gone hard yet and a couple of fish heads,” she said, peering inside.

“Sounds good to me,” said Maurice.

“What about your human?”

“Him? He'll eat any old scraps.”

“There's bread and sausage,” said the girl, taking a can from the metal cupboard. “We're all very suspicious about the sausages. There's a tiny bit of cheese, too, but it's rather ancestral.”

“I don't think we should eat your food if it's so short,” said the kid. “We have got money.”

“Oh, my father says it'd reflect very badly on the town if we weren't hospitable. He's the mayor, you know.”

“He's the government?” said the kid.

The girl stared at him. “I suppose so,” she said.
“Funny way of putting it. The town council makes the laws, really. He just runs the place and argues with everyone. And
he
says we shouldn't have any more rations than any other people, to show solidarity in these difficult times. It was bad enough that tourists stopped visiting our hot baths, but the rats have made it a lot worse.”

She took a couple of saucers from the big kitchen cupboard.

“My father says that if we're all sensible, there will be enough to go around,” she went on. “Which I think is very commendable. I entirely agree. But I think that once you've
shown
solidarity, you should be allowed just a little extra. In fact, I think we get a bit less than everyone else. Can you imagine? Anyway…So you really are a magical cat, then?” she finished, pouring the milk into a saucer. It oozed rather than gushed, but Maurice was a street cat and would drink milk so rotten that it would try to crawl away.

“Oh, yes, that's right, magical,” he said, with a yellow-white ring around his mouth. For two fish heads he'd be anything for anybody.

“Probably belonged to a witch, I expect, with a name like Griselda or one of those names,” said the girl, putting the fish heads on another saucer.

“Yeah, right, Griselda, right,” said Maurice, not raising his head.

“Who lived in a gingerbread cottage in the forest, probably.”

“Yeah, right,” said Maurice. And then, because he wouldn't have been Maurice if he couldn't be a bit inventive, he added: “Only it was a melba toast cottage, 'cos she was slimming. Very healthy witch, Griselda.”

The girl looked puzzled for a moment. “That's not how it should go,” she said.

“Sorry, my mistake, it was gingerbread really,” said Maurice quickly. Someone giving you food was always correct.

“And she had big warts, I'm sure.”

“Miss,” said Maurice, trying to look sincere, “some of those warts had so much personality, they used to have friends of their own. Er…what's your name, miss?”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“All right.” After all, there might be more fish heads.

“It's…Malicia.”

“Oh.”

“Are you laughing?” she asked, in a threatening voice.

“No,” said Maurice, mystified. “Why should I?”

“You don't think it's a funny name?”

Maurice thought about the names he knew: Hamnpork, Dangerous Beans, Darktan, Sardines…

“Sounds like an ordinary kind of name to me,” he said.

Malicia gave him another suspicious look but turned her attention to the kid, who was sitting with the usual happy, faraway smile he wore when he didn't have anything else to do.

“And have
you
got a name?” she said. “You're not the third and youngest son of a king, are you? If your name starts ‘Prince,' that's a definite clue.”

The kid said, “I think it's Keith.”

“You never said you had a name!” said Maurice.

“No one ever asked before,” said the kid.

“Keith is not a promising name start,” said Malicia. “It doesn't hint of mystery. It just hints of Keith. Are you sure it's your real name?”

“It's just the one they gave me.”

“Ah, that's more like it. A
slight
hint of mystery,” said Malicia, suddenly looking interested. “Enough to build up suspense. You were stolen away at birth, I expect. You probably
are
the rightful king of some country, but they found someone who looked like you and did a swap. In
that case you'll have a magic sword, only it won't
look
magic, you see, until it's time for you to manifest your destiny. You were probably found on a doorstep.”

“I was, yes,” said Keith.

“See? I'm always right!”

Maurice was always on the lookout for what people wanted. And what Malicia wanted, he felt, was a gag. But he'd never heard the stupid-looking kid talk about himself before.

“What were you doing on a doorstep?” he asked.

“I don't know. Gurgling, I expect,” said Keith.

“You never said,” said Maurice accusingly.

“Is it important?” asked Keith.

“There was a magic sword or a crown in the basket with you, probably. And you've got a mysterious tattoo or a strange-shaped birthmark, too,” said Malicia.

“I don't think so. No one ever mentioned them,” said Keith. “There was just me and a blanket. And a note.”

“A note? But that's
important
!”

“It said ‘19 pints and a strawberry yogurt,'” said Keith.

“Ah. Not helpful, then,” said Malicia. “Why nineteen pints of milk?”

“It was the Guild of Musicians,” said Keith. “Quite a large place. I don't know about the strawberry yogurt.”

“Abandoned orphan is good,” said Malicia. “After all, a prince can only grow up to be a king, but a mysterious orphan could be
anybody
. Were you beaten and starved and locked in a cellar?”

“I don't think so,” said Keith, giving her a funny look. “Everyone at the Guild was very kind. They were mostly nice people. They taught me a lot.”

“We've got Guilds here,” said Malicia. “They teach boys to be carpenters and stonemasons and things like that.”

“The Guild taught me music,” said Keith. “I'm a musician. I'm good at it, too. I've been earning my own living since I was six.”

“Aha! Mysterious orphan, strange talent, distressed upbringing…it's all shaping up,” said Malicia. “The strawberry yogurt is probably not important. Would your life have been different if it had been banana flavored? Who can say? What kinds of music do you play?”

“Kinds? There aren't any kinds. There's just music,” said Keith. “There's always music, if you listen.”

Malicia looked at Maurice.

“Is he always like this?” she demanded.

“This is the most I've ever heard him say,” said the cat.

“I expect you're very keen to know all about me,” said Malicia. “I expect you're just too polite to ask.”

“Gosh, yes,” said Maurice.

“Well, you probably won't be surprised to know that I've got two dreadful stepsisters,” said Malicia. “And I have to do all the chores!”

“Gosh, really,” said Maurice, wondering if there were any more fish heads and, if there were any more fish heads, whether they were worth all this.

“Well, most of the chores,” said Malicia, as if revealing an unfortunate fact. “Some of them, definitely. I have to clean up my own room, you know! And it's
extremely
untidy!”

“Gosh, really.”

“
And
it's very nearly the smallest bedroom. There's practically no closets and I'm running out of bookshelf space!”

“Gosh, really.”

“And people are incredibly cruel to me. You will note that we're here in a
kitchen
. And I'm the mayor's daughter. Should the daughter of a mayor
be expected to wash up at least once a week? I think
not
!”

“Gosh, really.”

“And will you just look at these torn and bedraggled clothes I have to wear!”

Maurice looked. He wasn't good on clothes. Fur was enough for him. As far as he could tell, Malicia's dress was pretty much like any other dress. It seemed to be all there. There weren't any holes, except where the arms and head poked through.

“Here, just here,” said Malicia, pointing to a place on the hem which, to Maurice, looked no different from the rest of the dress. “I had to sew that back myself, you know?”

“Gosh, re—” Maurice stopped. Sardines was rapelling down from a crack in the ancient ceiling. He had a knapsack on his back.

“And on top of this
I'm
the one who has to line up for the bread and sausages every day—” Malicia continued, but Maurice was listening even less than he had been before.

It
would
have to be Sardines, he thought. Idiot! He always goes ahead of the Trap Squad! Of all the kitchens in all the town he could turn up in, he's turned up in this one. Any minute she's going to turn around and scream.

Sardines would probably treat it as applause, too. He lived life as if it was a performance. Other rats just ran around squeaking and messing up things, and that was quite good enough to convince humans there was a plague. But, oh, no, Sardines always had to go further. Sardines and his
yowoorll
song and dance act!

“—and the rats take everything,” Malicia was saying. “What they don't take, they spoil. It's been terrible! We have to buy corn and stuff from the traders who sail up the river. That's why bread is so expensive.”

“Expensive, eh?” said Maurice.

“We've tried traps and dogs and cats and poison, and still the rats keep coming,” said the girl. “They've learned to be really sneaky, too. They hardly ever end up in our traps anymore. What's the good of the rat catchers offering us fifty cents a tail if the rats are so cunning? The rat catchers have to use all kinds of tricks to get them, they say.” Behind her, Sardines looked carefully around the room and then signaled to the rats in the ceiling to pull the rope up.

“Don't you think this would be a good time to
go away
!” said Maurice.

“Why are you making faces like that?” asked Malicia, staring at him.

“Oh…well, you know that kind of cat that grins all the time? Heard of that? Well, I'm the kind that makes, you know, weird faces,” said Maurice desperately. “And sometimes I just burst out and say things
get away get away
see, I did it again. It is an affliction. I probably need counseling
oh no don't do that this is not the time to do that
whoops, there I go again…”

Sardines had pulled his straw hat out of his knapsack and was holding a small walking stick.

It was a
good
routine, even Maurice had to admit. Some towns had advertised for a rat piper the very first time he'd done it. People could tolerate rats in the cream, and rats in the roof, and rats in the teapot, but they drew the line at tap dancing. If you saw tap-dancing rats, you were in big trouble. Maurice had reckoned that if only the rats could play an accordion as well, they could do two towns a day.

He'd stared for too long. Malicia turned and her mouth opened in shock and horror as Sardines went into his routine. The cat saw her hand reach out for a pan that was on the table. She threw it, very accurately.

But Sardines was a good pot dodger. The rats were used to having things thrown at them. He was already running when the pan was halfway
across the room, and then he leaped onto the chair and then he jumped onto the floor and then he dodged behind the cupboard and then there was a sharp, final, metallic…
snap
.

“Hah!” said Malicia, and Maurice and Keith stared at the cupboard. “That's one rat less, at any rate. I really
hate
them—”

“It was Sardines,” said Keith.

“No, it was definitely a rat,” said Malicia. “Sardines hardly ever invade a kitchen. I expect you're thinking about the plague of lobsters over in—”

“He just called himself Sardines because he saw the name on a rusty old tin and thought it sounded stylish,” said Maurice. He wondered if he dared look behind the cupboard.

“He was a good rat,” said Keith. “He used to steal books for me when they were teaching me to read.”

“Excuse me, are you mad?” said Malicia. “It was a
rat
. The only good rat is a
dead
rat!”

“Hello?” said a little voice.

It came from behind the cupboard.

“It can't be alive! It's a
huge
trap!” said Malicia. “It's got teeth!”