The Deavys (26 page)

Several times they clicked off their lights and froze in place as more rats scampered past. Simwan thought sure the patrolling rodents would smell the intruders, until it occurred to him that in this underground world of enormous stinks, even a perceptive rat would have trouble separating one smell from another.

Having already passed a wide assortment of rubbish that had been washed down into the drains, they were not surprised to find the way ahead nearly blocked by a pile of garbage that reached almost to the ceiling.

“Wait here.” While his humans remained behind, Pithfwid darted through the gap between the conduit wall and the towering trash pile. He was back in less than a minute. “Come quickly: I've found it.”

“The way onward?” Simwan made no attempt to hide the concern in his voice. They had been traveling underground for nearly an hour. His feet were tired, his eyes were tired, his lungs burned every time he inhaled a mouthful of the torpid, malodorous air, and unlike the cat, he could not find energizing sustenance in the rodents who occasionally raced past them. He yearned for a cold drink, a hot late-night meal, and a warm bed. Though he did not ask, he knew that his sisters were just as drained.

Just as drained. Sometimes he wished he could just turn off the tap to his thoughts.

“No, not the way forward,” Pithfwid replied calmly. “Something else. Something better. The Truth. Or,” he added in a slightly more subdued tone, “at least maybe the place where it has been dumped.”

“Dumped?” Simwan eyed the cat, who had gone pink with green squiggly lines running all through his fur.

“That's what I think I'm seeing. That's why places like this are called dumps.”

It was then that a suddenly hopeful, excited Simwan found himself studying the trash heap that nearly blocked their way in an entirely new light.

XXII

When the last Deavy had squeezed through the opening between the towering garbage pile and the wall and all four of them had trained the beams of their compact flashlights onto it, the reality of what Pithfwid had spoken became immediately clear.

They had emerged into a huge square room whose aged, moss-coated, masonry walls rose nearly three stories high. Some sort of drainage collection point, or overflow chamber, Simwan decided. In addition to the pipe from which they had exited, three other conduits emptied into the large chamber. Like the one that they had just exited, two more were drain tunnels. Entering the dark depths at a sharper angle than the other three, the fourth doubtless led still deeper into the city's sewer system as it carried the collected flow of the first three onward to the complex that treated sewage before it reached the sea.

High up on the walls, parallel streaks left by ancient water lines indicated the heights to which especially heavy flows had risen. Superseded by newer, better-designed drains, it was clear that the sewage and water levels in this old collection area had not filled to such depths in a very, very long time. Any water and debris that still came in was funneled out very quickly. There were even a few dry places on the stone floor, further testament to how little wastewater actually reached it.

One such dry area, elevated slightly above the rest of the floor, was occupied by the ”dump” that had attracted Pithfwid's attention. That the pile reached almost to the chamber's ceiling was a tribute to the cooperative efforts of untold thousands of rats slaving down through the decades to accumulate one of every imaginable kind and shape of object they thought might be of interest to their master. There was no rhyme or reason, no direction or apparent purpose, to the contents of the collection. Empty tin cans lay stacked alongside pilfered handbags stamped with names like Gucci and Hermès. Watches seemed to be a particular favorite of the legions of rodential thieves, perhaps because they could be easily carried between thick incisors. There were wind-ups and digitals, cheap knock-offs and elaborate fakes, Japanese and Swiss and American makes. A genuine Patek Philippe glittered next to a Rulex, the latter a specialty of Chinese counterfeiters.

Confirming the intelligence and dedication, if not the taste, of those who had accumulated it, there was not a single duplicate item in the pile. No two watches were alike. No two plastic bags. No two tin cans. Each and every component of the enormous mass was unique and distinct from the piece of junk, or small treasure, lying next to it.

“It's clear this Crub has no taste,” Rose commented succinctly as she joined her sisters in beginning an intensive search of the dumbfounding pile.

Picking up and discarding a small bottle that turned out to be half full of the cheapest perfume imaginable, Amber could only shake her head in agreement. “How are we ever going to find the Truth in all this junk?”

“Well for one thing,” Pithfwid observed as he clambered over the lower slopes of the pile, occasionally sticking his nose in where he wanted it to belong, “the Truth is a fairly recent addition. So if it's here, it should be somewhere on the outside of the hoard, or at least pretty close to the surface. Pity there's only one of me. I can usually smell the Truth from a good distance away.”

“Oh, so you think you're the
only one
?” Leaning toward the conical mass, N/Ice proceeded to commence her own olfactory inspection of the accumulated refuse. Given some of the smells that were emanating from the festering mound, she would have preferred to hold her nose while doing so—but that, of course, would have effectively negated her efforts.

As for Simwan, while his sisters sniffed and searched and Pithfwid probed deeper and deeper into the pile, he kept casting worried glances in the direction of the other three dark, gaping tunnels. Noticing that his human's attention was being repeatedly diverted, Pithfwid let out a soft yowl. “What are you looking for so anxiously, boy?” He indicated the trash mountain. “I know this doesn't look like much fun—and it isn't—but come and help us search anyway.”

“I'm looking for guards.” Despite Pithfwid's entreaty, Simwan's gaze remained focused on the other openings. “If this is the Crub's personal stash, I'd expect there to be some guards around. Or at least a lookout or two.”

“Why?” Pithfwid was honestly puzzled. “As at least one recently demised, and moderately tasty, rat told us, no humans come this way. And what rat or vole, mouse or troll, would dare risk incurring the wrath of its master, the Crub? His reputation is sentinel enough to deter any would-be thieves from thinking of thieving his thievery.”

That did make sense, Simwan decided. Maybe he was obsessing over nothing. Turning away from the looming mouth of the nearest conduit, he dove wholeheartedly (though not literally) into the knoll of plunder, using both hands to inspect and then cast aside item after grimy item.

Their task was made easier by the fact that they knew exactly what they were looking for, and that its appearance was sufficiently distinctive to distinguish it from the bulk of the accumulated rubbish. The small bottle of pale blue Roman glass would stand out in sharp contrast to bolder modern relatives designed to contain the spirits of such as Jack Daniels and Hiram Walker.

Still, the search was proving to be a difficult one indeed. For one thing, they had to be careful when moving an item not to dislodge the mass of packed junk lying immediately above it. Despite their caution, after imprudently pulling out one long-necked wine bottle, Rose found herself buried up to the thighs by a small avalanche of stuff. She could feel her face burning as her sisters enjoyed a laugh at her expense. Unfortunately, her embarrassment caused the rest of her to generate similar heat, to the point where Simwan had to remind her to calm down lest she set alight the flammable portions of the booty piled before them.

He checked his watch. Appropriately enough, they were coming up on midnight. The witching hour. Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, Simwan reflected that all he wanted at that magical time of day was to espy a certain small bottle. Flying horses and philosopher's stones and the lamps of imprisoned djinn he would look for another time. Besides, nothing, no matter how seemingly important or valuable, was worth much without the Truth to back it up.

It was when he was on the verge of compiling a modified drink spell with Amber's assistance in order to call up a six-pack of cold root beer instead of a flagon of mead that Rose let out a whoop of triumph and raised one sweaty, grime-stained arm. In her fingers was clutched the precious, long-sought-after bottle. Caught in the combined light of their tiny flashlights, it cast an unmistakable radiance of its own: the light of Truth.

“Got it!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

“About time.” Grumbling, Pithfwid began carefully picking his way down from the crest of the rubbish mountain.

Relieved and relaxed for the first time since they had plunged into the under-underwater entrance to the sewer system, Simwan grinned teasingly at the cat. “What's the matter? Irritated that you didn't find it first?”

Raising his head, Pithfwid peered up at him and licked his nose. “Personally, I could care less. Cats have their own truth, you know, and humans entirely too little of it. That, and the need to restore your mother's health, are all that allow for my interest in wishing to have it returned to you.”

“Oh,” mumbled Simwan, properly abashed. The knowledge that their quest was virtually over perked his spirits. “Well, anyway, we've got it back.” He turned toward the conduit from which they had emerged. They had a long, smelly hike ahead of them to get back to the surface. The sooner they got going, the sooner they would be able to pop into a corner market and buy whatever cold drinks they wished, without having to worry about spelling them into existence.

He was nearly at the tunnel entrance when he noticed that the girls were hanging back. “Come on, what are you waiting for? Let's move it.”

“In a minute, brother.” Rose was sorting through a plate-size pile of jewelry she had assembled. “There's so much nice stuff here that's just going to waste.”

“We won't be long.” N/Ice was modeling a shoulder bag that looked like it had just come off the rack at Bergdorf's.

“Waste not, want waste.” Amber leaned toward a small, intact nineteenth-century mirror as she tried to adjust a delicate and very bright diamond necklace around her throat.

One paw raised off the floor, Pithfwid was peering into the dark, dank conduit and sniffing intently. “Humans and their decorative baubles! Myself, I'm perfectly content with a dead mouse.” He looked back up at the increasingly anxious Simwan. “This is not a department store, and no place to linger.”

“I know, I know.” Turning, Simwan pleaded with the coubet. “Okay, each of you take
one thing
, and let's get out of here.”

“Race you to the surface!” N/Ice yelled. She darted toward the tunnel—only to halt well short of the opening. And not because she had decided to wait for her kin.

The opening was already occupied.

“Race?” The voice that oozed out from inside the conduit was rich and oily, like that of a self-centered operatic tenor who had just polished off six courses of a particularly fatty meal. “Can I participate?”

N/Ice retreated slowly, backing up as a dark, hairy, muscular shape emerged from the opening. It regarded her and her siblings with eyes the color of the blood of its victims. Sharp claws click-clacked metallically on the stone underfoot and pointed teeth gleamed in its jaws. Both ears were inclined forward while a naked, fleshy tail trailed on the ground behind the rest of it like a stalking snake. Flanking the Crub were his personal ratainers, each of them lean and strong and smiling as they flashed teeth that had been whetted to daggerlike points. Their expressions were eager and hungry as they fanned out around both sides of the tunnel opening. As Simwan watched, the flow of murderous rodents kept coming and coming, until they had formed a perimeter around the interior of the entire garbage chamber. There were at least a hundred of them, with more spilling out of the conduit every minute.

First to spot the arriving ools, Rose nearly gagged at the sight. The steaming, sluglike black shapes had no eyes or ears and no limbs. One end terminated in a round opening of a mouth from whose center projected an equally black proboscis that wiggled and twisted like a worm. The other end terminated in depravity. Having arisen out of the muck and mire, they stank of interminable corruption. Even Pithfwid, who was rather fond of rooting through trash, felt the gorge rise in his throat as the hideous, stinking shapes humped and coiled their way forward. After the ools, it was almost a relief to see scattered platoons of ferrets and snakes among the Crub's entourage.

Concealed behind her sisters, Amber had slipped her cell phone out of her bag and had proceeded to dial 911. Discouragingly but unsurprisingly, it failed to pick up a signal so far below ground and in the midst of so much evil.

“Never mind,” declared the Crub when no reply was forthcoming in response to his request. “There isn't going to be any race. Because the race is over.” Eyes like rubies flicked from one wary Deavy to the next as the rat's voice thickened. “This race is over, and you lost. After the race, of course, comes the celebratory meal. You are all invited. In fact, I can say with assurance that you will be the center of attraction.”

The small bottle containing the Truth lay securely buttoned up in one of Simwan's jacket pockets. Whatever happened, he knew he had to be careful to keep it intact. If the bottle cracked, the Truth, as was all too often the case, had a way of leaking out and fading away.

“We're just tourists,” Rose essayed, “out for a night-time walk, and we lost our way.”

Amber mustered a smile. “Just let us go and we won't bother you anymore.”

“Yeah,” added N/Ice. “I mean, it's not like we knew anybody
lived
down here.”

The Crub shook himself. Droplets of muck and bits of decaying meat, fetid memories of his most recent meal, flew from his wirelike fur. “I agree that you have most certainly lost your way. Do you think me dumb vermin, like the rest of your fast-breeding, bipedal kind? I know you. You are those who tracked me through the woods. You are those who have battled and defeated every one of my minions' attempts to keep you from coming here. And on top of all that, in addition to all that—you are thieves.” Raising a paw, he indicated the necklace draped around Amber's neck, the bag hanging off N/Ice's shoulder, the ring that sparkled on Rose's finger.

“You're hardly the one to be speaking of thievery.” Trying to keep an eye on each of the hundreds of rats and ools and other creatures in addition to the Crub itself, Simwan gestured accusingly in the direction of the mountain of recovered rubbish. “Look what
you've
stolen.”

The Crub smirked—an unpleasant thing to see in a rat. “Some things found, some thrown away, some … borrowed. When one has lived as long as I, amusement becomes the essence of existence.” For a second time the raised paw pointed—this time straight at Simwan. “Since I have so few encounters with it, I thought the addition of a little Truth to my world and the removal of some of it from yours would be entertaining. And so it has proven to be.” The Crub took a step forward. “After all, it has brought you to me, and you promise to provide much amusement—for as long as you can be kept alive. I can promise you it will be for a long time. There are all manner of ways to make sure someone dies slowly.” Teeth flashed.

“Your Truth-loving mother, for example. I wouldn't want you to die before receiving the delicious knowledge that she has preceded you in death. I am told by my minions who keep track of developments in that region that she is very, very ill indeed.”