“Juniper,” said Vincent worriedly, “what if there are rats who don’t want to go—rats who want to stay in the Catacombs?”
“Everyone has a choice,” said Juniper. “If there are rats too afraid, or if, Saints forbid, they actually support the High Ministry, then they can stay put. The Catacombs are crumbling—no longer safe. If any rat wishes to remain after we arrive, they do so at their own risk. Our intentions are benign. No one will be forced to come with us.”
One soldier at each checkpoint could be easily overpowered. Juniper suspected there would be few soldiers who would die in defense of the Ministry, but surely there would be some. He hoped that when it came down to it, these confused boys would realize that dying for the likes of Billycan and Killdeer was certainly not worthwhile.
The rats and worms worked late into the night, planning the particulars of the operation. Virden and Cole sat with Vincent, Victor, and Suttor, carefully going over their duties until all three had it right. They had only one chance for a crucial surprise attack. There was no room for error.
Following a long day of planning for his speech, Billycan sat alone in his bleak quarters, a paw under his chin, staring at the blank wall in front of him. He went over and over the speech in his head, fine-tuning his rhetoric. Someone in the Combs had to know where Nightshade City was. It would be pointless to send soldiers out to do a search of the Reserve—that was far too much territory for rats to cover. Billycan had to find the secret passageways to the city from within the walls of the Combs. Their subjects were in for a violent night, one Billycan thought they most certainly deserved.
The white rat had just consumed a tin of oily sardines and three slices of a tart yellow cheese. He needed sleep. Lieutenant Carn was scheduled to wake him at five o’clock sharp. He put his feet up on a small crate, folded his arms, and slouched down in a crooked horseshoe shape. With his nodular spine, the only way he could slumber comfortably was sitting up in a rigid wooden chair.
He stared at the wall, trying to clear his head. His mind drifted back to when he was young, alone in plastic cage 111 at the lab. He thought of Dorf, his first and only real friend. He called Killdeer a friend, but he knew that his portly associate would betray him without so much as a second thought. Sometimes he wished himself back in the lab, if only to see Dorf one last time.
Nightshade Passage was filled to capacity. Juniper and Cole were finalizing details. Everyone else had gathered into small groups. The rats that would not be going on the raid were sharpening weapons and adding to the ones already stockpiled. Their spears were not up to par with those of the Kill Army, but since the Kill Army soldiers had no idea of the impending ambush, they would probably be lightly armed, many not at all.
Mother Gallo was sitting with Virden, going over the standard protocol for Killdeer’s speeches: how long they usually ran, where Killdeer and his officials stood, and so forth. Lali and Clover were once again running about, making sure everyone was fed.
Clover had begged to go along tonight, but Juniper would not allow it. Once she resigned herself to the idea of being left behind, her anxiety shifted to those who would be going, especially Vincent. The son of Julius Nightshade would make a prime target for the majors, the most brutal of the Kill Army throng. She glanced at him, took a deep breath, and kept working.
The Nightshade brothers and Suttor had roped off their own area of Nightshade Passage. They had put together a provisional fighting ring to show the less experienced rats how to protect and defend themselves. The rats gathered around them, forming a circle, as Vincent refereed a mock fight between Victor and Suttor. The spectators watched in awe as Victor and Suttor masterfully demonstrated their superior fighting techniques. Suttor was trained by way of the army. The Nightshades had learned in the corridors of the Catacombs, where fights for food were a common occurrence. Other young rats tried to steal often, not just to fill their bellies, but for fear of not having Stipend for Billycan. Vincent and Victor had learned early on how to defend themselves.
Victor was playing the loser in this round, acting out his part a little too well. He dramatically dropped to the ground when Suttor pretended to slice him in the jugular with his sharp metal rod. Victor grabbed his throat and gagged, shaking violently with fake convulsions and making a chortling sound as if blood were gurgling in his throat. The older rats laughed, while the smaller ones stared in horror.
“Victor, that’s enough!” snapped Vincent. He shot a look at his brother, not wanting the inexperienced rats to be too terrified to fight.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Victor, picking himself up off the floor, “just trying to make it more real.”
“It will be real enough tonight,” said Suttor firmly, handing Victor back his weapon.
“That it will,” said Victor. He noticed some of the boys still staring at him, petrified by his realistic performance. “Don’t worry, boys. You’ll be fine tonight. Why don’t you come over here and I’ll practice with you? Trust me, if I can learn it, you can.” The boys smiled feebly and scuffled over to Victor, who started showing them some simple yet effective moves.
“All right, then,” said Vincent to the others, “remember, once we’ve entered the Catacombs, I want everyone to stay in packs of three. That way, if you’re surrounded, you can form a triangle of sorts and fight from all sides.”
Juniper had been listening in on their training session. It brought back memories of his youth—listening to Julius Nightshade and his big brother, Barcus, explain the ways of combat to him. Vincent was as natural a leader as Julius had been. It seemed as if they shared the same soul. Juniper desperately hoped they would not share the same fate.
Billycan jolted awake. He jumped from his chair and searched wildly round his darkened room. He grabbed his billy club, pointing it in front of him as if defending himself from an invisible foe. There was no one there.
The white rat’s heart banged in his hollow chest—it had been only a nightmare. Dizzy, he collapsed back into his seat. His throat ached. He started to cough uncontrollably, spitting up froth and drool. Wiping his mouth with his paw, he noticed a metallic taste on his tongue. The spit on his paw was mingled with blood. The thick, red gel clung to his spiny digits.
He had dreamed he was being attacked. A large, shadowy figure had ambushed him in a dark corridor. The assailant pushed Billycan to the ground, easily overpowering him, and proceeded to strangle him. Billycan clawed at the unknown attacker but could not break free; his hold was too great. He yelled for his majors, but no one could hear him. As the rat applied more pressure to Billycan’s throat, he began to gasp, his red eyes bursting from his skull. Seconds before the shadowy figure would have crushed his throat, he’d awakened, breathlessly hunting for his make-believe enemy.
He stared at his blood-stained paw. Was someone trying to kill him in his sleep? The albino rat did not believe in the supernatural. That was for the old ones, all their silly talk of the spirit world, their ancient incantations. It could not be Juniper. He was still alive. The living could not enter your dreams, but the dead, the ones whose lives were stolen by another, could enter at will, or so the old ones claimed. Billycan had scores of victims to choose from, including Julius Nightshade. Billycan sneered, thinking of Julius, the once blasted thorn in his side, always trying to defend his precious citizens. Julius was most assuredly dead; Billycan had seen to that, but it seemed his spirit was back to goad him one final time.
The Collector reached for his last oily sardine. He needed something to soothe his throat. As he came to his full senses, he started to chuckle. He realized how foolish he must have looked dancing about his quarters in his sleep, swinging his billy club wildly through the air. He must have nicked his throat on a fish bone. That must be it. He howled in laughter, realizing how comedic the whole scene must have appeared. He heard a knock at the door. It was Lieutenant Carn, there to wake him.
“Enter,” he said, trying to stop his giddy snorting.
“Good evening, High C
ollector,” said Lieutenant Carn. “It’s five o’clock, sir.”
Billycan couldn’t stop his sniggering. “Lieutenant Carn, you’re one lucky soldier. Had you shown up a few minutes earlier, you would most surely be dead!” He laughed heartily as he put the head of the remaining sardine in his mouth, then arose from his chair. “Don’t look so serious, boy. Even Billycan can jest from time to time. C’mon, then, let’s go. Billycan has much work to do, as do you. I’m starving. Off to the kitchens first.”
Billycan took one last look round his quarters before shutting the door. No one was there. He shook his head at his foolishness, letting out a piercing shriek of laughter, startling the bewildered Lieutenant Carn as they walked down the gloomy corridor.
Juniper stood atop the platform in the center of Nightshade Passage. “All right, everyone, gather round, gather round,” he called. “We are mere hours away. This is the climax of our story, resulting in a tragic conclusion or an illustrious first chapter in our great city’s history.
“Our kind has never had it easy. We have toiled through the centuries to find a home of our own, away from predators, away from Topsiders. We were driven into the earth, into the shadows of the Catacombs. But guided by wise and courageous leaders, we didn’t just survive those early days underground, we flourished. Each passing generation grew stronger and smarter than the last. We prospered. But our success inspired jealousy and greed, violence and evil. Our leaders were overthrown; our freedoms usurped. That is what brings us to this day. We fight to stay true of heart, to never become like those who capitalize on our misery, using our sons as shields and our daughters as slaves.
“Now, rats of Nightshade, we have a chance to let our founders, our ancestors, know that their good works will not stay buried with them.” Juniper looked determinedly at the mass of anxious faces. His voiced boomed off the vaulted ceiling of the hall. “It is time for our deliverance! Our weapons are sharp, our strategies sound, our hearts—sure. We are ready!”
The rats barked and howled, pounding their weapons on the dirt floor. The old ones called out the ancient war chants as the young ones cheered at the top of their lungs, climbing on one another’s shoulders, screaming to be heard. Nightshade was ready.
Killdeer and Billycan sat at the head table in the mess hall, facing the Kill Army soldiers. The troops spoke in a jittery hush, quietly eating their surprise feast. They had never eaten in the presence of the Minister. It was Killdeer’s idea to dine with the troops tonight. He would casually address them, making them comfortable, pliable, and easy to rally. He needed the soldiers to understand that they were the strength of the Combs, no one else. Their interrogations were not a punishment to the Catacomb rats but a means to protect them, and getting to the truth by force was not just acceptable, it was necessary to defend the Combs, to defend their home.
High Cook Longtooth and her servant girls had prepared the massive feast. She was instructed by Lithgo to use only her finest meats, cheeses, and fish.
Longtooth stepped out of the kitchen and peeked at Killdeer’s table, making sure his plate was full. It looked unnatural for him to be drinking bitonberry juice instead of guzzling from a bottle of Oshi. The high majors had told her no ale or Oshi was permitted, so as much as she knew Killdeer enjoyed a nip, she dared not offer him any.
Killdeer spotted Longtooth and waved her to the table. She shuffled over, her aged hips creaking and popping with every step. She tried to make her craggy voice sweet, but only succeeded in making it grovel. “Yes, High Minister, what can I get for you?” she asked.
“Get for me?” said Killdeer warmly. “Why, nothing, Cook Long-tooth, we are all feeling full and splendid. I simply wanted to thank you for putting out such a plentiful spread. As you can see by the mountain of empty plates, the soldiers surely appreciate your extra effort.”
Longtooth melted, clasping her paws together in glee. “Oh, thank you, sir,” she cooed. “Thank you very much indeed. It was worth the work to please the High Minister so.” She smirked coyly at Killdeer with her jagged, brown-toothed grin, batting her sparse lashes. Killdeer smiled back, trying not to cringe as he locked eyes with her cloudy cataracts.
He moved from the table, ready to speak to the troops. He hesitantly put his arm around Longtooth, recoiling at the touch of her ashy shoulder, which seemed to have lost most of its fur. Killdeer grew a bit nauseated, feeling her gooseflesh under his paw, but continued with his address. “Good soldiers of the Kill Army, it is with great pleasure that the High Ministry brings you this sumptuous banquet before my midnight speech. Now, boys, let’s all give a round of applause to tonight’s chef, our own High Cook Longtooth.” The soldiers started clapping; random whistles came from the back. Longtooth was embarrassed by the rare attention. She tried to cover her gawky grin with a paw.
“Now, Cook Longtooth,” said Killdeer, gently trying to send her on her way, “why don’t your kitchen girls finish the cleaning and you take the rest of the night off? You surely deserve it!” Killdeer motioned to the troops, leading their applause once more. Longtooth held the edges of her grimy apron and curtsied, scuttling back to the kitchen. She thought of her friend, Mother Gallo. She couldn’t wait to tell her of Killdeer’s compliments. How impressed she would be.
As the room quieted, Killdeer turned slowly in a circle, making eye contact with each section of the room. “All these faces,” he said, as though in awe of the sight, “all this hope, all this possibility, sitting in this very room. For those of you who are older, you know all the trials and tribulations this Ministry has been through. You know what it takes to keep our Catacombs safe, our home out of harm’s way. Most of you have lost your families entirely, orphaned by tragedy of one sort or another, but luckily our majors took you in, assuring me personally that each and every one of you were superior—well qualified to join my great army. Not everyone can be a member of my Kill Army. We’ve rejected many an orphan rat, sadly sending them Topside to look after themselves.” This was wholly untrue, but the sheltered troops had no reason to doubt their Minister.
“Oh, yes,” said Killdeer, in a woebegone voice, staring at the puzzled soldiers, “it’s true. We have cast off many. The poor lost souls are wandering above as we speak, fleeing from predators and Topsiders—if not already dead. Simply put, they were not good enough. They weren’t strong enough to be in this army. They were weak and undeserving lads of poor character, I’m afraid.”
He walked up to a table of little ones barely able to manage their food, their military sashes falling off their sloped shoulders. He leaned down to their level, his voice softening. “Do you understand, young ones? You were chosen. You are the future leaders of the Catacombs. What’s your name, son?” he asked a small, butter-colored rat, who trembled at the sight of the enormous High Minister. Killdeer knelt on one knee in front of the boy. “Don’t be frightened, my boy. Now, what’s your name?”
The boy answered meekly. “My name is Desmond, High Minister.” He looked down at his plate, still shaking.
“Young Desmond,” Killdeer said, looking him in the eye, “you and your counterparts are the future of this army. You are the life-blood that holds us together.” The child looked mystified. “I know it sounds silly to you now, but you have the power to be as great a leader as I am. One day, all this could be yours.” Desmond’s eyes widened. “Dear boy, I would not lie to you.” He stood up and walked the room. “What I’ve stated is true for all of you.” He pointed at various faces. “You hold the future of this Ministry. Boys, you are the power.” His voice quickly grew to a boisterous shout. “Boys, let me hear you say it! ‘I am the power!’ ” Sparked by their great leader’s message, the boys yelled loudly in concert. “Now let me hear you scream it! ‘I am the power! I am the power!’ ” Killdeer chanted the words enthusiastically until every last soldier did the same, jumping up from their tables, clanging their mugs and plates together, stomping their feet. Killdeer grabbed Desmond out of his seat and threw him on his shoulder. “C’mon,
boy, let me hear you roar!”
Desmond shouted in his small voice, “I am the power! I am the power!” His fear turned to admiration. The noise from the mess hall was deafening. Every rat in the Combs could hear the chant booming all the way to Catacomb Hall.
Billycan stayed seated at the head table, still eating. He didn’t feel the need to inspire the troops. Killdeer seemed to have that covered, a veritable master of manipulation. Billycan lazily chewed on a curried rib as he visualized his next meeting with Juniper Belancort. He thought about what it would feel like to carve out the other eye from the scruffy rat’s head.
The Nightshade rats were lined up in the passage, just outside the hole leading into the Topsiders’ brownstone. “Now, everyone, stay quiet, not a word,” said Juniper sternly. As he looked behind him, the eyes of two hundred jittery rats stared back at him. Everyone had to get through the house safely and undetected. “Follow single file along the wall, and remember, not a word!”
Juniper looked at Mother Gallo. She had come along to see the Nightshade rats off. Juniper asked her help in directing and reassuring the rats, as most of them were apprehensive about entering the Topsiders’ home.
The rats skirted along the wall of the art studio, one in front of the other. As they reached the door leading to the foyer, Juniper held up his paw, motioning for all to stop. Everyone halted in his tracks. The rats stood in a line, patiently awaiting their next directive.
Cole and Virden were at the front of the line with Mother Gallo and Juniper. Once all the rats had safely entered the brownstone from the passage, Vincent, Victor, and Suttor joined them up front. Without hesitation, Juniper took his leave, squeezing under the door of the studio and disappearing. After what seemed like a long time to the waiting rats, he came back with news. “It’s all clear, black as pitch. But the outer door and windows are locked tight; I’m afraid we’ll have to break a window to escape. It’s our only chance of getting to the Combs by midnight.”
Nightshade City Page 21
