Nightshade City

by Hilary Wagner

  Playing to the mob, Billycan looked down at Clover with an air of concern. “Oh, Billycan sees what your fuss and muss is about, poor little dear.” He leered at Clover with a patronizing grin. “You would like permission from your poor ailing grandfather. What a respectful youngster you are. More of the Catacomb youth would benefit from your example. Look, everyone,” he said, motioning to Clover’s quarters, “our little Chosen One wants approval from her ill grandpapa.” The crowd moved closer to the door, trying to see the sickly old one, resting against the back wall. Billycan called into the room. “Well, good Grandfather Timeron, do you endorse this union? Is the High Minister an acceptable match for your humble granddaughter?”

  Clover’s eyes widened in panic. She spoke smartly. “You’ll have to excuse him, Collector. His speech has been destroyed by his malady. His throat is malformed, corroded by disease. He is mute.”

  “Of no matter,” said Billycan. He toyed with her cruelly. “He can give us a motion, a wave of his crippled paw, perhaps a nod of his stately chin. That will do.”

  The masked rat steadily leaned forward, revealing a long, blackened snout with grizzled whiskers peeking out from his grimy cloak. The ominous figure held up a cragged paw, the color of tar, with thick purplish claws. Bushy, unkempt fur poked out from the edges of his sleeve. With a shaky digit, he pointed to the decree, still dangling from Billycan’s bony fist. The old rat’s head swiveled towards Clover. With a feeble nod, he confirmed his approval.

  “He agrees!” shouted Billycan in an exaggerated ballyhoo tenor.

  Applause filled the Catacombs. Well-wishers gathered round Clover, hugging and kissing her. Lieutenant Carn stepped in front of her, pushing them back. Clover felt sick. Her eyes drifted down a desolate corridor, oblivious to the noise exploding around her. She finally looked up. Carn was staring at her. They exchanged glances, but he quickly turned back to the crowd.

  Bending down, Billycan got as close to her ear as physically possible, his paw still clutching her shoulder. The blood rushed to Clover’s head as the cold from his mouth hit her ear. His voice purred with satisfaction, a smug whisper. “Clover, my dear, Billycan is speaking to you now. Listen to me and listen well. You will be summoned in the customary fortnight. Billycan must insist you keep yourself safe at home. There is no need for you to be outside your quarters. The Catacombs can be such a very lethal place. Billycan would hate to have something gruesome happen to such a pretty, unblemished face. I suggest you stay here and tend to your grandfather like a good little girl, but don’t get too close—no, no. Billycan can’t risk you catching that nasty plague. Then what would be the point of even keeping you alive? In that case, it would be much more merciful to simply end your life. As you said yourself, the living must do just that—live.” Clover didn’t need to respond. His threats were clear.

  Billycan pulled up to a standing position, blanching his voice to suit the crowd. “Now, run along, dear—scamper back inside.” He patted her head, feigning affection, before finally releasing her. “The High Minister would not want his precious Chosen One running about the Catacombs catching cold, now, would he? All right, then, good rats of the Catacombs, all is said and done. Billycan wants everyone back to their business. Miss Clover needs her dinner.”

  He waved the remaining rats away with a spindly arm. The rats headed back down their corridors, gossiping about the news. Billycan brusquely thrust Clover inside her quarters and shut the door behind her. Famished, he reached into a wheelbarrow and swiped a large chunk of dried pork, his favorite, promptly shredding it with his teeth.

  Public spectacles made his normal hunger pangs intensify. He rarely took food from the weekly Stipend collection, but his emotions overwhelmed him, especially his annoyance with Killdeer. He thought the Belancort girl untrustworthy, a foolish choice for a mate. “The daughter of Barcus Belancort, filthy Trilok Loyalist,” he mumbled as he chewed. “He may be dead, but his treacherous blood still runs through her veins.” He growled angrily as he choked down the scrap of hog. “Lieutenant Carn, go with the others and finish the Stipend route.”

  Carn did not move; instead he looked intently at Clover’s door. “What are you staring at?” demanded Billycan. He jabbed Carn in the spine with his billy club. “Forever dawdling. On with your duties, boy!”

  “Yes, Commander,” said Carn. He trotted down the corridor, caught up with the others, and vanished into the dark.

  Alone, Billycan stood outside Clover’s door. What an odd young person, he thought. It was obvious to him that Clover wanted nothing to do with her new title and station. He leaned on the wall across from her chambers and stared at the whitewashed number 73 splashed across the rotting wood. This one must be watched closely.

  Strolling back down the corridor to Killdeer’s den, he used a tarnished nail to scrape out a stray morsel of pig that had the audacity to get stuck between two of his yellowed teeth.

  “How could you give your blessing? How could you, Uncle?” muttered Clover. She looked at her uncle dismally.

  Juniper Belancort leaped off the ground and shook himself furiously, freeing his body from the sweaty black shroud. He walked towards the front door, stretching his muscles, which were sore from sitting so still. He listened intently. He heard nothing.

  Juniper’s looks were far from conventional. His coat matched that of Oshi wine, a rich mahogany. The broad-shouldered rat resembled a dog, with the strong, square muzzle of a Topside pinscher and the wiry fur of a terrier. Wide and open, his face resembled his niece’s but was overtly masculine. He wore a weathered leather patch over one eye, which had been wounded long ago. His face was marred with deep scars, partially hidden under his purplish fur. Despite his wounds, his features were kind, even pleasant to regard.

  Juniper had hoped this day would never come. He shook his head at the irony of the situation. Of all the females in the Catacombs, his little niece took favor with Killdeer. He should have known it would be only a matter of time; she possessed a beauty other rats could only dream of. It made him wish he could take her beauty away, if only for the time being.

  “Clover,” said Juniper, “I agreed so Billycan wouldn’t drag you by your tail to Catacomb Hall and remove your very tongue while the good rats of the Catacombs watched you bleed to death on the cobblestone floor. Did you think Billycan would take no for an answer? Did you? I agreed to this farce of a union lest we both be executed. Had I another choice, surely I would have taken it. All we have left in this world is each other.”

  Juniper had been sneaking into the Combs, pretending to be her grandfather, Timeron, staying covered in his shroud, allowing himself to be seen only on rare occasions, but seen all the same. If it was found out that Clover was without a proper guardian, she’d lose her home and be forced into servitude in the Kill Army kitchen and barracks. The orphan girls were treated cruelly and always in constant peril. The young female population of the Catacombs dwindled at a rapid rate. Food in the Combs was a problem, and the kitchen girls could barely survive on the meager scraps the High Cook spared them. Clover did not belong there; no child did.

  Juniper took Clover’s small face in his paws. Billycan had terrified her. “No one in the Ministry thinks me alive, and for now it needs to stay that way, or all our plans will be for nothing. I will get you out of here. I need a little more time. Our hidden city is growing at a massive rate. Killdeer has no idea how many rats have already defected. We are bringing back the days of Trilok. I will soon bring you to a new home where you will never have to be afraid of Billycan, Killdeer, or anyone ever again. I promise it on my brother’s—your brave father’s—soul. Barcus is cheering us on from beyond. The Saints are on our side, little one.” He smiled tenderly. “Clover, they aren’t coming to collect you for a fortnight. That buys us some valuable time. I will be back in a week, well before the Ministry comes to claim you. I must meet with Oard and the Council. The Ministry will be watching you carefully, so we need to devise an escape route. As hard as it may seem, yo
u must act as though nothing has changed, especially around anyone from the Ministry—Billycan in particular.”

  Juniper held his ear to the door as he shrouded himself once more so that only the tip of his snout was visible. He would make his way back through the west end of the Combs through Catacomb Hall. Behind a tavern, a forgotten corridor led Topside on the way to Juniper’s covert city. It was once a secret meeting place for key members of Trilok’s Ministry, who worked to make certain there were no conspirators in the Catacombs and Killdeer and other banished rats were kept out. The corridor was now run by the earthworms. With no place left to hide from the Kill Army majors, who tortured them for wagering and amusement, the earthworms had made the corridor their home. It was their last refuge.

  Oard, leader of the earthworms, allowed Juniper and his rats the use of their corridor and his tribe’s services in the clandestine battle against Killdeer. In exchange, the worms would be given their own habitat in the new city. The tribe neared extinction in the dry, failing dirt of the Catacombs, but Juniper’s secret city had fresh, healthy soil, and the earthworms would thrive and multiply there.

  Making sure not to disturb the position of his cloak, Juniper placed a shabby leather satchel across his chest, the strap barely holding on to the worn-out bag. He kissed his niece on the cheek and gently patted her head, tousling her soft fur. He looked into her eyes. Warm marigold, same as her late father’s, he thought. “Clover, you must do as I say. Act normal. Be the strong rat I know you to be. We will survive this. A week, then I’ll be back to collect you. I promise with my life.”

  “Well?” asked Killdeer indifferently, sliding further down in his throne.

  Billycan entered the den, tossing the rolled-up decree on a table. “She of course complied. I do find her a strange little thing. Billycan thinks she may be up to something—she and that wretched grandfather, Timeron, who is apparently riddled with the plague. There is something not quite right with him. Either the reaper is afoot as she claims, or he’s scheming with the child. In his repulsive state, Billycan did not dare verify his affliction.”

  Killdeer grunted. “You worry too much. There is no conspiracy within the Belancort Clan—that past is long since dead and buried. All that’s left is one girl and a sickly old one—Barcus, the wife, and sons, all in their graves.” He snickered. “The second wave of the flood took care of them—and you took care of that bedeviling brother. Your years in the lab have made you paranoid, a good quality in many ways, but maddening none the less.”

  Billycan knew something was not right. Clover’s intellect well exceeded that of the typical dithering female. She possessed some quality that set her apart from the other young ones. Billycan sensed something masked about her, something concealed from him other than fear, a controlled demeanor that went far deeper than simple fright. “You may be right, Minister, but given the Belancort history, it does make one wonder if, in this instance, my paranoia is warranted. I suppose it’s of no matter now.” The Collector’s mood darkened. “We have bigger issues to attend to, I’m afraid. Minister, there has been talk. The soldiers have informed me they hear murmurs of sedition. Just last night, a group of majors encountered a drunken rat in Catacomb Hall blathering on about liberation from the High Ministry. He claimed to know about a faction of rebels, insurrectionists. He kept spewing about the days of Trilok and how he would be avenged. The majors pegged him for an unruly tippler and thrashed him to pulp, but later went to High Major Schnauss and reported the incident. Schnauss went back to take the rat in for questioning. He had disappeared.”

  “So,” said Killdeer, “because a drunken lout with a loose tongue crawled away from the scene, I’m to believe we rule a city of traitors?”

  Billycan scratched between his front teeth, still trying to release the stuck strand of pork. “Drunk or not, Billycan thinks this rat may have been telling the truth. High Major Lithgo informed me today that several clans from his sector have gone missing. He called upon our best trackers, but they have found nothing, no evidence of where they’ve fled. This is hardly paranoia. These are real defectors, and defectors lead to revolt, and then to full-scale revolution. Billycan does not need to tell you what that means. We must wrangle these rats back to the Combs and punish the fugitives accordingly.”

  Killdeer sat up in his throne, miffed with Billycan and his grim hypothesis. “How many families do we have living in the Catacombs—over a thousand, I would presume? You expect me to believe that we have a confirmed rebellion because a few have gone astray?” Killdeer pulled his great tail out from under him, slapping it against the side of his throne. “These truant families, from Lithgo’s sector, eh? You are aware that our rats frequently go Topside in groups—security in numbers, I suppose. Couldn’t a cluster from his sector have been snuffed out by Topsiders’ toxins, traps, or perhaps been drowned in a burlap sack? It’s happened before, and it will happen again. Our dim subjects have grown too careless Topside, more worried about their bellies than their necks. The Topsiders will forever attempt to lure us to our deaths, poisoning our blood and snapping our bones like matchsticks. That is why our subjects stay here, rather than up there—it’s far more fatal.”

  “I suspect all that’s possible, Minister, but there is one flaw with your theory—these rats were not signed out by our guards, the only way for them to leave the Combs. In other words, they’ve simply vanished.”

  Killdeer’s face reddened as his blood pressure rose. He dug impatiently into the bedding of his throne, found his bottle, and chugged half its contents. “Make the proclamation for the Grand Speech. We’ll have it early if you’re so worried, on Rest Day, tomorrow at midnight. Have all the troops present. Our majors have grown lax and slack-jawed. It’s about time we reminded our sulking subjects that living in the Catacombs is a privilege. It is by no means a right.” Killdeer took another swig while his chest swelled with a forthcoming outburst. Billycan muttered to himself, not wanting to deal with Killdeer’s brewing tantrum. Killdeer was proving more useless with each passing year, becoming more of a figurehead and less of a Minister. Killdeer continued to issue orders. “I want the Belancort girl in attendance at the Grand Speech and well turned out, as she will be standing by my side. She will be pleased to know she does not need to wait a fortnight to see me.”

  “Oh, yes, Minister, I’m sure the dear lass will be delighted,” said Billycan. He smiled gleefully at the thought of breaking the news to her. His chalky skin prickled in anticipation.

  “I haven’t made myself visible of late. My subjects’ memories have dulled.” Killdeer grinned slyly. “With the girl next to me, a member of the Belancort Clan, a family of Trilok Loyalists—before they all died, that is—my subjects will once again warm to me. Have all your majors announce the Grand Speech to their sectors.”

  “Very well, Minister. I will go to the Belancort quarters myself. I would like to find out more about this grandfather, Timeron. There is something about him—”

  Killdeer grunted. “Investigate all you desire, but just get it done.” The Minister jumped from his throne, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He stomped out of the room, bellowing down the hall for Texi to get his bath ready.

  Billycan stood alone in the den, scratching his pearly chin. He studied his reflection in Killdeer’s silver throne, running a digit over his black scar. “Timeron, who are you? Why do you smell of deceit?” he asked, as if his mirror image might answer. Billycan seemed to be acquainted with the old rat’s scent, but he could not place it. Perhaps it was the looming stench of death.

  Be it an omen, good or bad, the two Nightshade brothers ventured into the hole they had uncovered in the Topsiders’ brownstone. Their options were few, and this seemed a serendipitous course, perhaps a sign from the Saints, and if not a sign from above, at the very least somewhere to go. The trudge down seemed endless; the tunnel’s angle severe. After some time, the ground started to flatten and the corridor widened. They found themselves entering an open space with a
cavernous dirt ceiling, a rotunda of sorts. They stood in one of three arched entryways, all equidistant from one another.

  Vincent whispered to his brother. “I smell that rat again. The scent is so familiar. The same one I picked up in the Topsiders’ house. Why can’t I pinpoint it? Something about it reminds me of father.” Proud of his scent detection, Vincent ruffled at his inability to identify the rat. Julius had always told his son that he had a talent for the craft, and even now Vincent didn’t want to disappoint him. “I know this rat. Who is he?”

  “Whoever he is, he’s in desperate need of a thorough cleaning,” Victor said. He crinkled his nose at the heady odor. “Smells like mugwort.”

  They looked around them. The space could hold at least a thousand rats, maybe more. It reminded Vincent of Catacomb Hall. During Trilok’s reign, all the clans would gather there for events and holidays. The children would play, and the adults would dance. Vincent remembered his mother and father dancing as he ran wild with his siblings, laughing till it hurt.

  Ordinary rats lived for only a handful of years, four or five at most. Catacombs rats lived decades upon decades, just like Topsiders. The extended years were thought to be a gift from the Saints, but Vincent had sometimes wondered if they might be a curse. Why should one have to live so long surrounded by misery and constant disappointment? He used to think it unjust, but now with their newfound freedom, maybe they could find some form of happiness. Even if they died as a result, at least they’d die free.

  Etched deep into the wall, a marking accompanied each of the three passageways. “What is that symbol?” said Victor, pointing to one. They walked across the center of the rotunda and examined the emblem. It consisted of three jagged prongs, connecting at a pointed base.

  Victor’s insides twisted in dread. “Isn’t that Killdeer’s mark?” Shaking, he instinctively backed away.

  “It is,” said Vincent. Acid rose in his belly as he realized where the Topside hole had led them. He kept his composure for Victor’s sake. “I don’t know this place. I’ve never been here before, but I’m afraid we’re back where we started. We’re back in the Catacombs.”