As he rode, Petronio thought about Fenestra. She was so alien, so different, especially against the dull fellows of college. And what was Maw like? The woman made it sound so exotic. As he had helped Fenestra to her feet after her dramatic near-death and they had walked back that afternoon, she told him about wonders he could only imagine. Cities of glass and metal that dazzled the eye, flying machines and cloud-piercing towers where a hundred thousand people lived! He didn’t know it, but his mind was thirsty. His life so far had been bark-bound. But now, what this foreigner offered …
Petronio nodded off. Or at least, he thought he had. Had hours or minutes gone by? All he knew was the difference in the rhythm. His eyes shot open and he was instantly aware. It was colder, for a start, as if he’d ridden into the next season. An early autumn mist had suddenly descended, softening the edges of his view, cutting distance down to only twenty yards. His riding cloak was already clammy with dew. The road looked no different, a bit rougher, maybe. Then he realized what had changed. The way ahead was lined with gas lamps, creating halos in the fog. But most of them had been smashed so that only about one in ten flickered feebly. Also, the sides of the branch were littered with trash — bits of old food, discarded clothing, twisted wicker shopping baskets. Why hadn’t a rubbishman swept them over the edge? The trees themselves were carved and gouged with strange markings that looked like doodles. As he peered closer, he realized that some of the inscriptions contained swear words that even he hadn’t come across. The place was a mess.
As he took in the new surroundings, Petronio began to realize that some of the gloomy hollows lurking at the sides of the branch line weren’t in fact shadows. He pulled on the reins, and the horse went from canter to trot to a standstill. He twisted around in the saddle. Behind him now, figures detached themselves from the thick darkness and began to move toward him. At the same time, in front of him, he could see someone else moving to lean against one of the unbroken lamps, picking at the nails of his left hand with a knife as if hoping he’d discover some treasure under the grime. The boy’s head was shaved, except for three straggly braids of hair at the back, woven in with silver bells. This marked him out from the other dozen or so total baldies who now surrounded Mercury.
The boy looked up lazily. “All right?” he drawled.
Petronio tried to stay calm. “Yeah. All right.” That is, as much as he could be, surrounded by a bunch of knife-wielding thugs. They were all dressed in loose-fitting clothes that matched their messy surroundings: cotes too big, with lots of pockets, ill-fitting cloaks, and floppy boots, all in black.
**The boy unglued himself from the lamppost and pointed the knife at Petronio. “Doesn’t look like your manor, does it? Not lost, are you?”
“No,” said Petronio, looking around, “I think I’m in the right place.” But as the gang closed in, he wondered, remembering his father’s warning words about mincemeat.
11• SEWERS ARE A BOY’S BEST FRIEND
“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?” the voice shouted again.
Ark hurriedly slid the iron manhole cover back into place. He could feel the boards vibrating. Any moment now, the cover would be ripped from his fingers and he’d be skewered by the guard’s sword.
The voice was closer now, spitting with anger. “You’re in serious trouble!”
Even Mucum, who would happily take on a killer hornet with nothing more than a crosshead screwdriver, was trembling in the darkness.
Suddenly, the pounding on the boards veered away from them. “Get out of those branches, you little twig! Those cherries belong to the King!”
A second, feminine voice piped up. “I say, Gerald, do as the gentleman asks.” There was a pause. “I do apologize for my wayward progeny, Officer.”
“Yeah. Well. Just keep an eye out, madam. Or I could get in trouble.”
“Of course! Gerald, come and make a gesture of contrition to the smart young man!”
“Do I have tooooo?” another voice whined.
Mucum could easily picture the snotty-nosed brat. At any other time, he’d give him a good slap. But as far as he was currently concerned, the boy was their best friend in the whole of Arborium.
The mother was doing her best to reason with the child. “Yes, or Mommykins will be most upset!”
There was a shuffling of feet and then an unconvincing “Sorreee …”
Not far below, Mucum snorted with disbelief. “Thank Diana for rich, spoiled brats!” he muttered as he descended into the darkness, followed by Ark, whose trembling fingers nearly slipped off the rungs.
Within a few yards the vertical shaft hit the main artery serving the castle. Luckily, the engineers who built this underworld had as little desire as the two boys did to splodge through the river of muck. On either side of the lead-lined tunnel, a raised platform provided access as the human waste poured by below. Low-level guide lamps were strung between pools of shadow, fed by natural methane.
“I say!” Mucum drawled, doing his best to imitate the mother’s voice. “Would you think, perhaps, that if we take another left, we might find ourselves under the inner walls of the castle, what, what?”
“Rather!” said Ark, joining in. “I do believe the old fellow might be jolly well right!” Then it would be a simple matter of locating the nearest access hatch. Ark grinned. Despite the fear, he was enjoying himself. They’d come to see the King. Nothing would get in their way!
“What’s that?” Mucum stopped dead and Ark walked straight into him.
Ark could hear the constant drip of stalactites from the ceiling and the occasional blurping noise that the sludge made as it released yet more noxious gases. And then, in the tunnel ahead of them, a scurrying sound. It wasn’t receding, but approaching, fast.
“Oh!” said Ark. “That —”
Three pairs of red eyes filled the darkness. The eyes approached slowly, fearless. The color of the creatures’ mangy fur was mottled brown. They resembled what they fed on.
One by itself would be no problem. And between Mucum and himself, they could, if they were lucky, face down a pair of them. But the stories at work hadn’t yet explained how to survive an attack by three peckish sewer rats, each the size of a fully grown wolfhound. Their teeth, used to dealing with dead pets that got flushed into the system, would have no problem snapping the odd leg bone.
“Jobby Jones got it right for once,” said Mucum.
“How?”
“All that health and safety malarkey about carrying a crossbow every time you go below. Wish I’d listened.”
“Thanks, Mucum. Really helpful.”
The rats sensed their fear, edging forward. Mucum responded by shuffling backward one step at a time, Ark cowering behind him. A slow-motion dance toward certain death.
“You know that fing you did with the ravens? Now would be a good time to pull it off again. What do yer think?” Mucum being polite was not a good sign.
Ark waited for the blinding flash. But whatever he had was gone. The raven mother veering off was dumb luck. He was only a sewer boy, back where he belonged, the slime soaking into his shoulders as he slid along the wall. He wondered briefly about the feather in his bag. There had to be a reason for it. Was there magic hidden within its blackness? At this moment, he doubted it. Maybe he could stab one of them with the quill. He looked again. Rat hide was thicker than bark. Stupid idea.
The rats brought with them a stench that made the boys almost gag, as if the whole sewer system was concentrated into these three scavenging machines. Their intent washed over Ark. It was time for a feast!
“Head for the ladder!” he cried, about to turn tail and run. Rats were renowned for their intelligence, but evolution hadn’t yet taught them to climb a set of vertical iron rungs. He hoped.
“No time!” said Mucum. Any second now, these scabby monsters would pounce. He thought about jumping in the river of squit that flowed past their feet, pulling his scared companion behind him. Maybe not. Rats were born to swim. A bath o
f Dendran doo-doos was their equivalent of paradise.
“You know, Ratty,” Mucum announced suddenly, stopping still, “I’ve ‘ad enough!” At the sound of his raised voice echoing around the circular walls, the rats paused in their advance.
Mucum aimed his words at the biggest and meanest of the creatures, fixing it with a stare. “I mean, fair’s fair. You spend all this time wandering around in darkness, dining on Diana knows what, when along comes lunch on legs, eh?” As he spoke, Mucum ignored his instincts and reversed his direction, walking slowly, ever so slowly, toward the apparent leader of the beasts.
The rats were fascinated. Prey normally ran away, fast.
“What are you doing?” Ark whispered, horrified as he hovered behind Mucum’s bulk.
“Shut up and hand me yer hammer!” Mucum hissed.
Ark had no idea what one tiny tool would do against a hundred pounds of muscle, claw, and tooth. Anything was better than becoming dinner, though. As Mucum continued speaking, Ark slid his hand to his side and eased out the hammer from the folds of the plumbing pouch before passing it over to a held-out hand.
The talking went on, the river of words confusing the rats. “We’ve got more important fings to do than bein’ eaten, yeah? Like savin’ the country, for starters.” Still Mucum came on, until he was within a yard of the leader and leaning down, almost face-to-face. “That’s the be all and end all of it. I don’t ’ave no choice. Old Mucum ain’t known for running away. Anyways, I’m doin’ you lot a favor. If Maw gets ahold of these trees, trust me, there won’t be no nice sewers to play in no more. So …” Mucum launched himself forward, bringing his arm up and heaving it down in one smooth motion.
Before the lead rat could even move, the end of the hammer made a perfect landing right on the crown of its matted head. As the rat finally reacted, trying to reach up its claws to rip out the throat of this interloper, the hammer smashed through its thin skull and straight into its brain. There was a dreadful squelching noise and the rat toppled over dead, the contents of its skull oozing out on the platform.
The other two rats stood stock-still, glittering revenge in their beady eyes. A moment later, there was a sudden screech as the furry fiends took flight, accelerating straight toward them in a frenzied blur.
Mucum stood his ground as Ark prayed the end would be quick.
However, instead of sinking their claws into soft Dendran skin, the rats made a split-second decision. The spirit of the pack was already broken. Instead of pouncing, they brushed right past and vanished into the tunnel’s depths, hoping to find a dinner that didn’t fight back quite so ferociously.
“All in a day’s work!” said Mucum with a ridiculously cheerful look on his face. He wiped the bloodied hammer on his leg and passed it back. “Wish me mates could’ve seen that. It would’ve been free drinks all around, I reckon. Gimme a hand with this.” Mucum put his palm against the still-warm body of the rat and pushed.
“Do I have to?”
“Yer not getting squeamish on me, are yer?”
Ark sighed. Clogged toilets were one thing, but greasy, bloodstained fur and the airborne army of fleas leaping off the corpse to sample his own skin were not his idea of fun. They finally heaved the dead rat to the edge of the platform. One last shove and the body fell off the lip with a plop and was carried away by the current.
Mucum gave a bow. “I took a leaf out of your book, little Ark. If a tiny apprentice can take on a guard with a wrench, then what’s stopping old Mucum sorting out a coupla vermin? Never thought I’d be grateful for some squitty old plumbin’ tools!”
“You saved my life.” Ark looked at Mucum in a new way. Up to yesterday, this overgrown hulk would barely have grunted at him as they passed each other in the sewage station. It felt strange, and comforting. No one normally looked out for him.
Mucum floundered for a second. Confronting rabid creatures was one thing, but a compliment? “If you get all mushy on me, I’ll have to kill you. Before I do, though, could you ‘and over some of that nosh. Murder makes me ’ungry.”
Ark undid the buckles on his bag, his legs still trembling as he sat down. “There’s dried goat sausage or —”
“Dried goat sausage,” interrupted Mucum. “Hard choice, that.”
As Mucum munched away, Ark took a swig from the bottle his mother had given him. Blackberry cordial, its sweetness cutting through the foul smell that filled the tunnel. He passed the drink over. “It’s time for me to go see the King.”
“Wot you mean?” Mucum spluttered. “We’re in this together!”
“Listen. No one knows about your involvement yet. You and your family are safe. It’s up to me now.” Ark’s lips were set straighter than a sawn plank.
“Arktorious Malikum, the great warrior?”
“I don’t need to be. I’ve worked out where we are and it’s only a couple of hundred yards from the King’s quarters.”
“Have you gone psychic on me?” Mucum squinted at his friend.
“No, silly. Look!” A small drain opening by their feet had a rather grubby royal crest emblazoned on the edge of the pipe.
Mucum wiped his lips as he gave the bottle back. He stood up and walked on a few yards. Sure enough, the next drain had no crest. “Oh. Very clever, that is.”
Ark was proud of his detective work. “This outflow is composed of nothing but the finest royal produce!”
Mucum sniffed. “Yeah. Well, it smells the same.”
“I’ll follow the pipework and take myself straight into his private residence, explain what’s going on. The King will have Grasp arrested and —”
“You make it sound dead easy,” Mucum grumbled. “But I don’t see why I can’t do the bodyguard thing.”
Ark was desperate not to get his friend into any more trouble. “Mucum, if it goes wrong, if I get caught, who’s going to get the word out? We need a Plan B.”
“You’ve got a point, I suppose. What is Plan B, by the way?”
“No idea. I’ll see you later. Go home.”
Mucum folded his arms. “No way. I’m not havin’ that. Find Quercus. Sort it out. But I promise I ain’t going nowhere ’til I know you’re all right. I’ll give you an hour and then I’m comin’ in after you!” He stood there as if he was putting down roots. “And leave the rest of those sausages behind. A man’s gotta eat.”
Ark mostly kept to himself at work. He wasn’t the sort to have a best bud. He felt tears bubbling at the edge of his eyes and turned away, not wanting Mucum to see his face. “Thanks … for everything.”
Five minutes later, Ark was sure he was right under the royal chamber. He quickly located a maintenance hatch off a side tunnel. He climbed the ladder and pressed his ear up against the floor hatch, listening for footsteps. All clear. He undid the double-sided latch and swung it open.
The corridor he tiptoed into easily outdid Grasp’s house in opulence and finery. All the walls were painted with murals cunningly hiding the door frames in archways of golden leaves. The gas lamps were polished silver, their flames giving off perfumed scents, and the floorboards were covered in silk rugs.
Hope flared like a gas lamp in his heart for the first time since it all began. Was it really only the day before? One day ago, he was Arktorious Malikum, tired, broke, and hungry. And now, he was still tired, poor, and hungry, but somehow at the center of unfolding events. He would find the King and warn him.
It’s going to be all right! he thought as he walked right into the armed guards outside the King’s rooms.
The soldiers’ eyes went wide. Who the holly was this blood-spattered runt of a boy with crazed eyes? Even worse, how had he managed to break through all security and get within feet of the King?
Ark was dumbfounded. If only he’d chosen the next hatch. Being out by a few yards could be a fatal mistake. He was so close! What could he do? If they weren’t Grasp’s men, they might listen to reason. Maybe … “Thank Diana I’ve found someone!” he announced. “The King is in grave danger
. He’s going to be betrayed at the Harvest Festival! Councillor —”
Before he could say another word, a punch snapped Ark’s head backward. He crumpled to the ground before being heaved over the second soldier’s shoulder like a carpet and carted off.
12• CONFRONTATION
Petronio took stock of the situation. He was alone, apart from his father’s horse, in unfamiliar territory in the middle of the night, surrounded by a gang of yobs with knives. The purse he carried was the perfect motive for murder. It wasn’t a good starting point.
“Which one of you would like to be the first to be trampled to death under my horse’s hooves?” Petronio held his gaze steady as he looked around the assembled thugs.
The leader spoke. “You’re havin’ a bit of a laugh there, mate. That’s proper good, that is!” He smiled and this gave permission for the rest of the gang to join in the snickering. “In fact I’ve never been so scared in my life!” Catcalls followed the sarcasm.
Petronio responded by suddenly jerking hard on the reins and leaning back with all his considerable weight. He’d seen his father do it once and had no idea if Mercury would comply. Quick as a flash, the mighty stallion reared up onto two legs, his front hooves pawing the air and missing the leader by inches.
Unless he wanted his head mashed to a pulp, the boy had no choice. He fell back, out of the glow of the flickering gas lamp, the bells on his hair braids jingling in the darkness, a scowl on his face trying to hide the fear.
The horse crashed his hooves back onto the branch, making the whole road vibrate and the leaves rustle in agitation. The obvious next move would have been to gallop away, smashing the gang members to left and right. The horse snorted, his hooves pawing the ground in anticipation.
Petronio licked his lips. The fog had thickened around them, like a damp blanket. If he dug in his spurs and Mercury took off down the woodway, they might not see the route clearly in the sputtering arc of the lamps, nor the swinging of the low safety rope, before it was too late. The boy, Malikum, was welcome to his suicide. But for Petronio, a leap over the edge into eternity was not an option.
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