The Cup and the Crown (16 page)

Now hostilities had been officially declared; combat was about to begin. Quietly, the lantern shielded so as not to alarm the rats, Richard started near the rathole and worked his way back: setting each trap, arranging fresh piles of meal upon them, then moving on to the next one.

Tobias had been disappointed that Charley couldn’t come. But Richard had said no. Charley was old and had suffered a rat-bite two years before. It had gone bad, as rat-bites so often did, and Richard had all but given him up for dead. But he’d survived, brave Charley, and had earned his retirement as a house pet, eating scraps from his master’s table.

“You don’t want to get bitten by a rat, Tobias,” Richard added unnecessarily.

So they’d left Charley at home and brought Constance instead. She was the smallest of the dogs, young and eager to perform the task that she’d been bred and trained to do. Now they waited in the dim light, perched on a crate at the far end of the room, Constance in her master’s arms, quivering with excitement.

“Richard,” Tobias whispered, “what happens when you leave?”

“You’ll go to sleep. Then, come morning, you’ll wake and use the chamber pot, then open the little iron box of food we brought and break your fast—”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t. Waiting is waiting, lad. You pass the time and manage not to get arrested. What else is there?”

“Doing something. Coming up with a plan. Getting Molly out of the tower.”

“Perhaps the solitude and the darkness will help you think of something. I find ideas often come to me quite unexpectedly in the night, when I’m restless and can’t sleep.”

“I hope so. Waiting goes against my nature.”

“A man of action, are we?”

“You may laugh, but—”

“Shhhh. Listen.”

There was a scrabbling sound, then a nibbling, then a soft metallic
twang
followed by a thump and a snap: the first casualty of war.

Now more rats came, one or two at a time, some skirting the edges of collapsed piles where a fellow rat had just disappeared, continuing down the run to the next pile, or the next, until they stepped on a metal plate and were swallowed by a trap. Tobias found it all mildly disturbing.

Rats, as Richard had pointed out more than once, are intelligent creatures; and after a while they became more guarded. They refused to go near the meal anymore. It was time to wrap things up.

Richard had hung a board, hinged to the wall, directly over the entrance to the rathole. It was held in the raised position by a hook, to which a long string was attached. Now he gave it a tug, yanking out the hook and causing the door to drop. With the rathole blocked, and with no avenue of escape, the creatures began to scatter—out the far end of the run, up the sides of the crates, anywhere their little rat-brains told them might be safe.

Now came the mopping-up operation, Constance’s moment of glory. And if the trapping had been disturbing, this was truly disgusting.

When it was over, Richard unshielded the lantern and went about gathering the little corpses and tossing them into a sack. That done, he went from trap to trap, pulling out the live ones and putting them into a cage. In all there were thirty-seven rats.

“An excellent haul for one night,” he said. “It should more than satisfy my client. I’ll come back in the morning and set it all up again. But for now we both need to get some sleep.”

“What’ll you do with the rats?”

“Kill ’em, bury ’em. Folks here aren’t like the Austlinders, who were always wanting the live ones so they could try their dogs against ’em in the rat-pits. Sometimes I keep a few for training my young ratters—”

Suddenly he stopped speaking. He stood, a cage of cowering rats in one hand, a sack of dead ones in the others, and stared at his boots, mouth open. Tobias followed his gaze but saw nothing unusual. Then Richard set down his burdens, sat on the nearest crate, and smiled.

“Y’see?” he said. “What’d I say just a minute ago about ideas popping into your head? They’re like dry tinder; they just need a spark to set them alight. So when you asked, ‘What’ll you do with the rats?’—why it was just such a spark, don’t you know.”

“Does that mean you have an idea?”

“Yes, lad, it does. I have a great mountain of an idea.”

“Do you plan to tell me what it is?”

“Hold still. Let me enjoy myself.”

“It’s
that
good?”

“No, it’s better.”

“Richard!”

“All right, now listen to this. Some years ago I was called to a house in the oldest part of Harrowsgode. The city walls have been extended many times over the years to make room as the city grew. But this, as I said, was the original part. The buildings are old and in poor repair—small doors and windows, you know, in the old style. Now this particular house was a good deal larger and handsomer than the rest. The man who lived there claimed it had once been part of the palace of old King Magnus—which was just a lot of puffery, of course.

“At any rate, the owner called me in about the rats, and I looked around the property, getting the lay of the land. The creatures had set up house all over the place: the kitchen, the storeroom, you name it; but they seemed to be coming and going from a single location, a little shed out back. I cleared away all the tools and whatnot and found a heap of rubbish, so I cleared that away, too—at which point I found their hole. They’d burrowed through the dirt, which is uncommon for rats, so I figured there must be a pipe or a drain down there, or an old sewer line, sommat like that. Naturally, I got to work with a shovel—”

“And what did you find?”

“A tunnel. Well built, too, or it had been once upon a time. It was crumbling in places, and full of mud and rubbish such as rats carry in—and the rats themselves, of course, swarms of ’em.”

“What did you do?”

“I walled the whole thing off nice and tight. If they died down there, so be it. The stink wouldn’t travel, not through all that dirt and stone.”

“And now you’re thinking that tunnel might lead under the wall. That it was built in the old days as a means of escape in the event of an attack or a siege.”

“Clever lad!”

“Richard, how did my question about your caged rats and what you intended to do with them make you think of that house and that tunnel?”

“Well, you know how a person’s mind jumps from one thing to t’other? When you asked that, it reminded me of this ratcatcher I’d heard of once who’d keep such rats as weren’t wanted for the pits and hold on to ’em. Then whenever work was slow and he was running short on cash, he’d sneak over to a bakery, say, or an inn, and let the whole lot of ’em out. He’d be guaranteed another job, see? But he got caught at it, and serves him right. Gave all of us a bad name.”

“And?”

“Then I thought it might be well to hold on to these once I’ve shown ’em to the silk merchant. They could be useful in gaining entrance to some place we might need to go, like the Magnussons’ house, for example—though there’s no point now since your sweetheart isn’t there anymore. But it did start me wondering if there were any
other
places that it might be advantageous to get into. And that ancient palace—which now that I think on it may really
have
been part of the palace—just popped right into my head.”

“Amazing.”

“Isn’t it? So, as soon as the client has counted and admired my rats, I think I’ll just run on over there and give ’em their freedom.”

“And the owner will call you, and we’ll open up the tunnel—”

“Yes, Tobias, that’s the plan. Ain’t it ingenious? As soon as I get the job, I’ll move you over there by night, and you can be useful to your heart’s content, clearing out rubbish, and reinforcing walls, and seeing how far the thing goes.”

“That’s marvelous, Richard. I shall do it gladly.”

“But?”

“Molly’s still in the tower. Have you forgotten?”

“No, I have not. But you’re safe, and we may have found a way out of the city. Is that not enough for one night? Can’t you take your miracles one at a time?”

“Richard, I shall try.”

22
The New Magus Mästare

THEY SENT LORENS
to fetch Molly in the morning, apparently hoping she’d be more compliant with him than she’d been with the others. He seemed relieved to find her already dressed and seated at her desk, copying words out of a book.

“Lorens!” she said. “Where are your beautiful stars?”

“They only come out at night, cousin. This is my day robe, and here’s one for you.” Hers was made of fine wool, in a deep garnet color, not blue like his. “Let me help you put it on. Your robe of occasion should be ready by this evening. It had to be altered. They didn’t have any that were quite so small.”

“Will it have silver stars like yours?”

“No, better—you get golden sunbursts.” Then, after a pause, “Are you . . . recovered, Marguerite?”

She barked out a bitter laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t told till this morning that you were here—or, well, the circumstances under which . . .”

“Never mind. I’m here now. Just tell me what happens next. I’m ready to work as they want me to—though first I’d like something to eat.”

“As it happens, I’ve come to bring you down to the hall to eat with the others if you’re willing. If not—”

“I just
said
I was willing, Lorens—to learn
and
to eat. Can’t you see I’m ready?”

“I can indeed, cousin. After you?”

The great hall was dark and gloomy, with a low arched ceiling, small windows, and a glowing brazier in the center. The walls were adorned with frescoes darkened by age and smoke, cracked and peeling in places, hard to see in the dim light.

The hall was furnished with four long tables, two on either side of the brazier, at which the Magi now sat, dressed identically in plain robes of garnet-colored wool. It felt more like a monk’s refectory than a nobleman’s dining hall—except for the fact that there were women among them.

Molly searched their faces, looking for any that might be familiar from the day before. She spotted only one, the tall man with the irritatingly pleasant voice who’d kept begging her to be calm.

“The room looks ancient,” Lorens whispered, “but it’s not. It’s an exact replica of King Magnus’s hall, copied many times over the years, always the same.”

“But there’s no dais. The king didn’t sit at a high table?”

“No. He always dined with his Council of Magi—just as you will, cousin. See the handsome white-haired gentleman at the far end of the table there? That’s Soren Visenson, the Great Seer. And notice the empty place on the bench? They’ve put you right beside him. It’s quite an honor.”

“Where will you sit?”

“Downstairs, with the other Magi Postuläre. I’m still in training to be a Magus Mästare—sort of like an apprentice. That’s why I wear blue and silver while you wear garnet and gold.”

She stopped and looked up at him, pointedly touching her robe. “Then why . . . ?”

“You get to wear garnet because you’re already a Magus Mästare.”

“But how can that be? I just got here yesterday—kicking and screaming, I might add. And I’m an ignorant bumpkin, whereas you can read and write, and went to the university—”

“Lower your voice,” he whispered. “You were made a Mästare because you have something they value far more than education: the Gift of King Magnus.”

“But—”

“Shhhh. Here we are. This is where we part ways.”

Molly remained where Lorens left her, watching him walk away, feeling abandoned and utterly overwhelmed. Only when the door had closed and he was gone did she turn around, slide onto the bench, and look up.

She’d expected grim, disapproving faces, at the very least curious stares. But instead she was greeted with smiles and words of welcome. The Great Seer, who said she must call him Soren, not Lord Seer, smiled even more broadly than the others. He introduced her in turn to each of the members of the Council, some of whose names she remembered. Then he made a graceful gesture with his hand, directing her attention to the platters of food, and urged her to take whatever she wanted.

“We follow the custom of King Magnus here,” he said. “We help ourselves. Magnus felt that servants at table were a distraction from thoughtful conversation. So, please, go ahead. You must be hungry.”

Molly gazed at the feast set out before her—sliced oranges, strawberries bathed in cream, fragrant loaves of white bread fresh from the oven, tubs of butter, three different cheeses, and slices of cold roast pork—and didn’t know where to begin. As the bread was closest to hand, she took two large slices and smeared them thickly with butter. Then she spooned an ample portion of berries onto her plate, where cream and crimson juices oozed onto her buttered bread.

“You really must try the oranges,” Soren said. “I believe they’re uncommon in your country.”

“I had them once, at a royal banquet. They came all the way from Cortova.”

“Yes, orange trees are tender plants, native to the south, where winters are mild. But we grow them here in great glass houses; they get plenty of sunshine, you see, yet they stay warm in the winter.” He reached for the platter of oranges, to pass it. “We have lemon trees too,” he added.

Just then his eyes flicked away for a second, and a flash of annoyance crossed his face. Molly followed his glance, curious to know what incoming cloud could have brought such a sudden change in the weather. As soon as she saw that it was Sigrid, she understood.

Sigrid had been the only one of the councilors who hadn’t greeted Molly warmly. She’d simply nodded; and there had been such a lack of expression on her great, pale slab of a face, it had put Molly in mind of something dead and frozen, drowned perhaps. Only Sigrid’s eyes had been alive; and they’d burned with such a fierce, knowing intelligence that Molly had quickly turned away, half fearing the woman might steal her soul.

But it was something else, something quite unexpected, that had drawn Soren’s attention and rattled his composure. Sigrid was smiling. And not the sort of smile one friend gives to another, or even the false kind you put on out of politeness. This was the smile of a poisoner watching her victim take his first bite.