by Angie Sage
I stay crouched on the rug trying to get my strength back while the two remaining Roaches stare at me, their creepily thin arms folded. They have no idea what to do next, which is good because I’m in no state to do anything right now. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. I’m sweating and I feel sick. I want . . . oh, this is crazy talk but . . . I want . . . I want Mom. I want her to walk into the room and scoop me up and tell me it was all a bad dream. But Mom’s never ever going to do that again, is she? I am here alone: a killer about to be killed. How did this happen?
I need to stop shaking. I really, really need to stop. Right now.
M
I look down to see the frightened yet calculating eyes of the Vermin watching us. It is shivering, but even so I fear that any second now it will spring to its feet and be away. And then we will be betrayed and very soon we shall be dead. And in this “we” I include my young ones back home.
Andronicus draws me out onto the landing. “What do we do?” he whispers. “It can’t stay here. Not with Minna downstairs.” Minna is the sister of Andronicus. She moved in with him a few months ago as his self-appointed “caregiver” and is a nosy, unpleasant Wingless woman. I think she bullies him, but he will not say a bad word about her.
“It will betray us if we let it go,” I tell him. I sigh. It is true what Mama once said: I am an ill-starred Roach. I have brought trouble to my dear friend’s house. I look down at Andronicus; I see his drooping antennae and a deep line creased into the smooth hard skin between his eyes and I know what I must do. “I’ll take it home,” I whisper. “With me.”
Andronicus stares at me, his trusting brown eyes wide with surprise. “A Vermin? In your house?” he asks. “But what about . . . you know who?”
He means Mama. “She has been gone over a year now,” I tell him. “I’ve seen her once about six months ago. She said then that she would never see me again.”
The frown has not left Andronicus. “But you said that she has come secretly in the night. To visit her pots.”
“Porcelain,” I correct him. “The finest in the city.” Or it was.
Andronicus looks at me with pity. His views on Mama echo mine on his sister, Minna. We have agreed not to speak of either. “Andronicus,” I say, “I must confess to you that the Vermin is in your house as a result of actions that earlier this evening I misguidedly took in my own house.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he asks.
“I will come to you tomorrow and tell all. But for now I will take the Vermin. Trust me. It will not betray us.”
Andronicus gives me a strange look. I believe he thinks I plan to kill it. “Take care, Maximillian,” he says. “I worry about you, you know.”
I sigh. I worry about me too.
T
They are discussing me with tinny whispers. And now I understand what they have decided: the big one is going to kill me.
It will have to catch me first.
I am up and running at them. I take them by surprise, throwing them aside and have the pleasure of hearing their carapaces clatter against the wall. I hear a sharp oof of surprise from the large one and then I am away, heading for the stairs. I am nearly there, when of all the stupid things, I trip over the rug and go sprawling facedown upon the floor. I lie winded and weak, and as I feel the weight of the two Roaches upon me, I know there is no more I can do.
Suddenly a woman’s voice, suspicious and querulous, calls from below. “Andronicus? Whatever is going on up there?”
The small Roach replies, “Nothing, Minna. We just tripped over the, er, rug. It’s fine.”
This Minna is my salvation. “Help!” I yell, but I am cut short by a vile Roach hand placed firmly over my mouth.
“It doesn’t sound fine,” Minna calls. “I’m coming up.”
“No! I mean, no thank you, Minna. It’s totally fine. Honestly,” the lying little toad called Andronicus shouts down in panic. “Maxie, er, he’s going home now. He sends his love.”
I hear a soft hiss of disgust from the large Roach.
There is now a hushed discussion between them. I cannot understand it all, but the upshot of it is the large one remains sitting on me, and the smaller one goes off to find something. It returns and they roll me over, pull my arms in front of me and secure my wrists with a fine cord. It is sharp and thin and it cuts into me. I close my eyes so I do not have to look into their ugly Roach faces. They put a gag around my mouth and I feel the busyness of pincers brushing against me, efficient and fast as they wind the cord around my body, pinning my elbows to my sides. There is a tug upon the cord and a tinny voice says, “Get up.”
I keep my eyes shut and I don’t move. I hear a tick-tick sound, more whispering, and then the deep-voiced Roach voice says, somewhat impatiently, “Of course it’s not dead.” The cord is tugged hard and I feel Roach breath upon my face and words hissed in my ear. “But you will be if you do not get up.” I feel a cold point of metal upon my neck. “I shall count to three,” the voice says. “One, two, thr—”
I get up as fast as it is possible with my arms pinioned and then I see that what I thought was a blade is just a key. Idiot, I think. The Roaches look at me. The weird thing is, their eyes are oddly human and the expression within them is all too recognizable—it is disgust.
“Listen to me, Vermin,” says the small Roach with the surprisingly rich voice. “You will go with this person here.” It points to the large, ungainly Roach with the crooked antenna who holds the end of my cord. “You will be safe provided you do exactly as you are told. Do you understand?”
I understand that they are not going to kill me just yet, which is enough for now. I nod. I hope that maybe I will meet this Minna, who is clearly suspicious of these Roaches, and she will help me. I look up into the eyes of the tall Roach and it pulls a pair of night-sight goggles over them with a snap of elastic. A blind glint of green like that of a Night Roach stares back at me. A cold shiver goes through me.
I follow the Roach down a succession of stairs all the way to the basement, where the small Roach stands guard at the kitchen door, behind which this Minna is busy clattering pots and plates. There is a hatch set into the floorboards and the smaller Roach hooks a stick around its ring and pulls it open. The large Roach slips down into the darkness and a tug on my leash tells me I must go too. Minna has heard nothing and my chance is gone. With the small Roach close behind me, I stumble down steep wooden steps into the darkness of a cellar, where the large Roach stops and sends two green beams of light out from his goggles. I see we are at an archway with a high, barred gate across it. The small Roach swings open the gate and the tall Roach goes forward into a wide, brick-lined passageway, dragging me like a dog on a leash. The gate clangs shut behind us, like the doors of the Oblivion cells beneath the Bartizan. I never liked that sound and I like it even less now I’m on the wrong side of it.
And so we set off: I as the dog and the ungainly Roach as my owner. Where it is taking me I have no idea. All I can do is follow.
M
Tick-tick. My life has become a ridiculous thing. How, Maximillian, I ask myself, have you managed to be bringing back the very same Vermin that you got rid of no more than a few hours earlier? In my thoughts I hear Mama’s exasperation: You are such a fool, Maximillian, that it is an embarrassment to me. It is an embarrassment to me too, Mama, I think as I lead the Vermin into the Underground.
Just before I turn the first corner, the Vermin tugs back on the cord. I sigh inwardly. I cannot allow it to even think of misbehaving and so I turn and assume the threat position, but I find there is not quite enough room. The tips of my wings wedge themselves beneath the curved roof and I am unable to fully extend them sideways. I fear my wings are stuck but I play for time by hissing as loudly as I am able. The Vermin drops to its knees in pain. While it has its eyes screwed tight shut, I manage an undignified wiggle to unwedge my wings and fold them back in. Then I turn away, give a sharp tug on the cord and set off. I feel the Vermin stagger to its feet a
nd stumble after me. There is a sob in its breath and I am sorry for a moment, but then I think of the blue shard upon its foot and the feeling is gone.
Slowly, we traverse the Underground—the system of tunnels that lie, branching like a fallen tree, beneath the oldest part of the city. The Vermin follows meekly, for which I am grateful, and we walk in heavy silence. I suspect the Vermin knows nothing of this place, for Wingless ones like him, with short hair and a uniform, do not venture here. But others do. They call themselves Rats because, ratlike, they travel the Underground passages unseen. They’re usually young and lost, searching for something that they will never find in this place.
As I am pondering the sadness of Hope, a Rat comes toward me out of the darkness. He’s carrying a flute and is followed by a straggle of children, grubby and wet from the dripping roof and with big staring eyes that grow even wider when they see me and the Vermin. These Rats make me smile. They take on children whose parents are lost to the Bartizan or are desperate for them to escape the SilverShip call-up, and they hide them beneath the city, although Parminter once said a very strange thing. She told me that these Rats take the children to the Outside. She said that the Outside is safe now and that the Contagion is long gone. Parminter also said there is no need to keep us trapped beneath the Orb a moment longer and that the city should be open to the sky. And—this is a crazy thing—she said that the sky is blue. Parminter says many wise things, but this is not one of them. The sky is gray. How can it possibly be blue? That is a ridiculous color for sky.
The Rat slows his pace and I see a flicker of concern cross his features at the sight of me. I quickly flip up my goggles and I give the sign of peace: the first tip of the index finger put to the tip of the thumb to form an O. Yes, oh Wingless watcher, I have hands that work just like yours. The difference is that they are not covered in squashy skin, but tiny, delicate plates of exoskeleton that flow like water over smooth rock.
The young Rat shepherds his flock toward me, keeping them close to the wall. There is room for us all to pass and as they do, I nod my head. He nods in return and one of his brood gives me a shy little wave, which I return. And then they are gone, soft-footed into the shadows. I silently wish them well and think how wonderful it would be if Parminter were right and they were on their way to freedom, sunshine and a blue sky on the Outside. But I do not believe she is. The sky is gray and Outside is death. And that is how it is.
T
I watch the smooth, winged back of the Roach with its wingtips almost brushing the roof of the tunnel as it follows the two green pools of light that run across the stone tunnel floor. I tell myself that when we stop I will throw myself at the Roach and send it crashing to the ground with that hollow crack a carapace always makes when it hits stone, and then I will rip off the limb that holds my tether and take it with me. I see myself running down the street clutching my leash with a Roach arm bobbing along behind me, clattering as it bounces off the pavement and I laugh out loud. The Roach tilts its head to one side and I suppose it is wondering if it has caught a madman. I begin to shiver again. Who am I kidding? Right now I don’t have the strength to pull a pencil from my pocket, let alone an arm off a Roach. And so I stumble along, a dog on a leash heading toward something it dares not think about.
M
Usually I walk upright on my two stronger lower limbs. However, when we who are Roach traverse the Underground, we need speed, carapace protection and maneuverability, and so we run low: that is on all six limbs—or on however many we are fortunate enough to possess. I get by well enough on five but I do sometimes wonder how much faster I would be with six. When I was little I asked Mama why I was missing my middle left limb and she laughed and told me it was because her knife had slipped. That is when I began carrying a knife of my own—a long, slim dagger in a secret holster beneath my underwings. It stopped me being so scared of Mama. Well, most of the time.
But I must stop thinking about Mama. Parminter says she is too often in my thoughts and Parminter is right. What I was going to tell you was that I am not running low because we who are Roach never ever allow a Wingless to see us travel in this way. In front of them we flaunt our own humanity. We do not, as Mama says, crawl like a beast upon its belly.
However, I do so wish I could run low now. I am too tall for this tunnel and my neck aches from bending forward. Indeed, I feel quite weak as I trudge up yet another long, slow incline. If the Vermin knew this, it would pull its leash away—no doubt bringing my limb with it—and it would be free. Behind me I hear the ragged breath of the Vermin and then a sudden burst of strangled laughter. I hope it is not becoming hysterical.
The Underground does not frighten me when I am alone and running low, for then I have all my senses at my command, but as the journey continues I feel increasingly fearful. I hear a sudden gush of water and I imagine a flood roaring toward me, I hear the eerie hoot of a Bludd Owl and fear its silent swoop and venomous bite and I see dark movements in cracks in the wall where the narrow-bodied, long-legged Fingal spiders lurk. But worst of all I hear Mama’s mocking voice inside my head: Maximillian, you are a poor, frightened thing, scared of your own shadow. You draw troubles to you like iron filings to a magnet. And once again I fear that Mama is right.
And so we make our strange procession through the Underground, following the old signs that point to the ancient outlets above the ground—most of which are now blocked. At long last I reach a crossing of tunnels with a signpost of four hands pointing their forefingers: North, South, East and West. I take the West and give a tug on the Vermin’s cord. It stumbles forward and we walk along a wide brick-lined tunnel until we reach a wooden door set back into the wall. I push the door open and I am greeted by the welcome sight of my own dear tunnel. The ground slopes upward, and as we climb, the light from my goggles shows the clean smooth walls that I whitewashed only last month. We turn the final corner and I see my gate, the polished iron bars reaching neatly from floor to roof. I feel weak with relief. I am home.
T
I have reached my journey’s end: the Roach’s pantry. I hear the Roach make a tick-tick sound as it opens the lock with its clattering claws. The noise sets my teeth on edge: Roach shell on metal is not a good sound. I hear the squeak of the gate as it swings in on itself, there is a tug on my leash and I am pulled into my prison. The Roach locks the gate and clips the end of my leash to a ring in the wall. It shuffles past me and I see a narrow door ahead swing open. The Roach, who fills the doorway from head to toe, steps out and in the brief moment before the door slams shut I see a passageway with shards of china scattered across the stone floor.
I cannot believe it. I am back in the house of the filthy Roach that murdered my crewman. In fact, my captor is the filthy Roach that murdered my crewman. It will pay for this.
M
I walk along the track of blood I made when I dragged the dead Vermin out of my house. I must confront what I have done: I have killed. As I raise my feet from the stickiness, telling myself that feeling the blood upon my soles is my penance for this dreadful deed, I decide to confront something even worse—the destruction in Mama’s precious room of porcelain.
I walk in, light the lantern and force myself to look at the carnage upon the shelves. The flare of the flame sets the shards of yellow, white, silver, gold and brilliant blue glistening like a myriad beetle backs. If I didn’t know what they were, I would think them quite lovely, but every second of looking at them is a dagger in my heart. I confront the destruction that I have brought to the love of Mama’s life for as long as I can bear and then I turn to go. But as I do I catch sight of a golden roundness in the far corner of the top shelf. I stretch out a trembling limb and discover an unbroken dewdrop of perfection—a little teapot of opalescent white, the spout a gilded eagle with little red eyes and its beautiful wings spread around the belly of the pot. The delicate domed golden lid is held safe with a fine gold chain. It is Mama’s favorite piece, and it is untouched.
Tremblin
g with joy I carry the precious survivor upstairs as though it were the Holy Grail. I place it reverentially upon a small velvet cushion beside my nest where it sits, a queen among beggars, surveying my little room with its imperial eagle eye.
I lie back in the softness of my nest and I feel . . . not happy, for who can feel happy when they have taken a life? But I sense a quiet contentment within. I think of my young fugitives sleeping peacefully across the landing and the Rat and his gaggle in the Underground comes to mind. I smile, for I have found the answer to the problem of what to do with my young ones: I must find a Rat to get them to safety, wherever that may be. Indeed, the older one would make a good Rat herself. And then—and only then—will I deal with the Vermin.
I cannot sleep and so I pick up my best book, which is called The Sleeping Princess in the Forest of Briars and I open it to my favorite page. This is the very first page of all and on it is written: For my darling boy, Maximillian. From his ever-loving papa. I gaze at the faded looping writing until a confusion of dreams creeps over me.
But as I drift into sleep I hear Mama’s voice loud in my head: Kill them all in the morning and be done with it.
T
As I sit in the dark listening to the distant drip of water somewhere in the Underground and to the thick silence of the house beyond, a glimmer of hope is creeping into my thoughts: I am not dead yet. The Roach has not yet returned and from the inside of my boot I have at last managed to extract Zip, my combi-tool. Zip was a gift from my father; it is small with various tools, one of which is a tiny flashlight, another is a metal saw. I maneuver it up to my teeth and eventually I flip out the flashlight and I can see once more. I do the same for the saw and then get to work on the fine metal cord that keeps me tied to the wall.
