by Josh Lieb
“Hee-hee-hee,” someone giggled.
Joey turned. The white rat, Sir Parsifur, had entered. Which would not have been very interesting, except he was still riding his cat, which had somehow shoved her head and shoulders into the throne room. She seemed determined to give Joey an all-over bath. “Be flattered, young one!” said the knight, leaping down. “Chequers likes you! “
The cat purred and licked Joey’s snout.
“Parsifur!” yelled Aramis. “How many times must I tell you: that beast doesn’t belong in the palace!”
“I couldn’t agree more, Sir Stick-in-the-Mud. But, until I find a place more worthy of her perfection, it will just have to do.”
The cat’s tongue was now hugging all of Joey, slipping and squeezing around his whole body. He felt like he was the meat inside a burrito that was wrapped in a wet wool blanket instead of a tortilla. “M-make her stop,” pleaded Joey.
Parsifur rapped the cat on the nose. “Cease, Chequers, cease! Our young savior has had enough.”
The tongue retreated but not completely; it still tickled at Joey’s belly.
“Checky! Behave!” bellowed Parsifur, twisting the disobedient cat’s ear.
Chequers made an unhappy sound and pulled her tongue back into her mouth. Sir Parsifur made an apologetic face at Joey. “I really don’t understand it. She’s never acted that way before. You must taste uncommonly good.” Parsifur gave Joey’s shoulder a quick lick but seemed unimpressed. “Eh. Personally, I don’t get it.”
The knight drew his sword and bowed grandly before Joey. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Parsifur. Known to my enemies as Parsifur the Vain. Known to my friends . . . as Parsifur the Vain.” He winked. “I’m really very vain.”
“Better known as the Giggling Knight,” put in Brutilda, who didn’t seem to like Parsifur any more than she liked Joey.
“Possibly, large one, possibly,” replied Parsifur, “Though I wouldn’t know why.” Then he giggled: hee-hee-hee.
The princess looked at him impatiently. “We’re in the middle of some very important business, Pars. . . .”
“Oh, I know,” said the knight. “Which is why I have come to offer this young stripling my services.” He knelt before Joey. “I am yours to command.”
Joey felt even more scared than he had when the cat had been licking him. “Wh-what do I need your services for?”
Parsifur gave a big, friendly smile. “Why, for your quest, of course.”
PARSIFUR TOOK A giant swallow of golden liquid out of a cup made from an acorn cap. “Stop this nonsense. Of course you’re going on a quest.”
They were sitting in a long drinking hall. It had a very low ceiling and very long tables, and the chimney for the fireplace didn’t seem to work, because the whole room was full of smoke.
It was also full of rats. Big rats, tiny rats, fat rats, skinny rats. Rats with no teeth, and rats with no hind legs. Rats with too much fur, which sprouted out of their ears and down the middle of their backs like hair fountains. These were tough rats, and they had all been drinking and fighting and yelling a few minutes ago. But everyone had gone instantly silent as soon as Joey and Parsifur walked in.
Parsifur hadn’t been silent at all. He’d grabbed his cap full of golden liquid from a passing barmaid and loudly demanded a bowl of stew for Joey.
Joey had never felt more out of place in his life. “Doesn’t it bother you that everyone is watching us?”
Parsifur shrugged. “I’m used to everyone watching me.” He burped and giggled—hee-hee-hee.
A very plump young barmaid approached and put a bowl of stew, freshly scooped from the pot over the fire, on the table in front of Joey. The bowl shook in her hand. She stared at Ratscalibur, which lay on the bench next to Joey, like it might jump up and bite her.
“Thank y—” said Joey, but before he finished she shrieked and ran away. Joey was too hungry to care. He stuck his snout into the bowl and didn’t make any noises but eating sounds for several minutes. The stew tasted . . . incredible. After a while, he turned his gravy-stained nose up to Parsifur and asked, “What am I eating, by the way?”
Parsifur had a funny smile on his face. “You plan to become human again, correct?”
“As soon as possible!” said Joey.
Parsifur’s smile widened. “Then I won’t tell you what’s in the stew. It might be an unpleasant memory later.”
Joey thought about that for just a second, then dived back into the stew.
Parsifur let Joey eat in silence, but as soon as Joey started licking the bottom of the bowl, he said, “Now, to resume. Of course you’re going on a quest, just as soon as the stablehands finish getting our cats and saddlebags ready. It’s the only way to save Ravalon. And the only way you’ll ever get back home.”
“What’s Ravalon?”
“Where you are now. Uther’s kingdom. There’s Bragadoon to the north, Peacemeal and Belle Garden to the south, Gronkonkomo to the east—and a million more besides. But Ravalon, fair Ravalon . . . this was the brightest pearl of the Low Realm. But now there is Salaman. . . .” Parsifur took another swig of the golden stuff. “And all our friends to the north, south, and east have abandoned us.”
“Salaman is another kingdom?”
Parsifur shook his head. “Salaman is a Ragician. No one had ever heard of him until a year ago, when his BlackClaws first arrived. They brought a note from him, demanding a weekly tribute, or he would destroy Ravalon. Some of us wanted to fight back, but BlackClaws are strong, and the king is . . . not himself. The vizier thought it best to give tribute and hope that things would get better.” Parsifur giggled. “Things have not gotten better. They rarely do, do they?” He giggled even harder.
“Now, all the strongest knights and Ragicians have fled Ravalon. And all we are left with is those who are too damaged”— he gestured to the battle-scarred rats around him—“or too loyal”—and he tapped himself on the chest—“to leave.”
Joey saw Drattleby, the rat Parsifur had jousted with, glaring at them from across the room. Which kind is he? wondered Joey. Damaged or loyal?
Joey didn’t see what any of this had to do with him. “Why don’t you just go . . . fight Salami-man—”
“Salaman,” corrected Parsifur.
“Whatever. You’re a knight, right?”
“Am I? Sometimes I wonder,” said Parsifur. “Anyway, I don’t know where to find Salaman. Nobody’s ever even seen him. There are rumors, of course . . . that he’s a giant rat, midnight-black, fangs like spearheads. Real bogeyman stuff. All we know for sure is that he’s immensely powerful. Controlling BlackClaws is no easy thing. Their brains are so small, only the most cunning -agic can ensnare them.” He waved his empty cup at the barmaid. “Bring me another, love.
“That’s why Gondorff went to seek help from Squirrelin. Gondorff was strong, but Squirrelin is even stronger—he was Gondorff’s teacher. The old fellow’s saved Ravalon more than a few times in the past.”
Joey said, “So Squirrelin’s like this super-good guy?”
Parsifur’s smile stretched so wide it covered his entire white muzzle. “Squirrelin is awful. Tiny. Mean. Secretive. Greedy. But you can’t hold that against him. He’s a squirrel. And Squagic is a harsh tonic. It always brings out the worst in them.” A rat eavesdropping nearby nodded. “Squirrelin is the most powerful worker of -agic ever known, so it’s understandable that the Squagic has had some . . . less than positive effects on his personality. He keeps to himself, far from the wars, diseases, and emotions that plague us lesser creatures. But Aramis thought that if anyone could get Squirrelin to help us, it would be Gondorff. He was our last hope.” Parsifur paused for a second. “I think you know how that ended.”
Joey looked at his pink rat claws. He knew exactly how that ended.
“But then . . . a new hope. A stranger appears from
nowhere and plucks Ratscalibur from her petrified scone, where she’s rested these many years, ever since Uther’s great-grandfather Axel Stone-Heart stuck her there. And this stranger, perhaps, will fulfill the prophecy. . . .”
“What prophecy?”
“A poem we say around here. No one’s sure where it came from. Nurses sing it to babies in their cradles. Some think that’s all it is, just a nursery rhyme. It goes on for a while, but the part that’s pertinent to you goes . . .” And here Parsifur took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and recited in a high-pitched sing-song tone:
Ravalon thrives, Ravalon bustles
Mercy and beauty and wisdom and muscle.
And old Axel’s spork slumbers stuck in the scone,
Unneeded by rat kings on Ravalon’s throne.
But as seasons change, so must Ravalon, too.
All good times must end. The reckoning’s due.
Ratscalibur rests whilst Ravalon turns
Crops drop to dust, Ravalon burns . . .
Ratscalibur dreams, Ratscalibur sleeps . . .
Till babies hunger, mothers weep.
Then will a hero sword up-take . . .
Ratscalibur sings! Ratscalibur wakes!
The little white rat paused, as if he hoped he could live in the poem a little while longer, then shook his head and opened his eyes. The entire room had listened to him recite. The only other sound was the soft snap of wood in the fireplace. Now everyone was staring at Joey again, just as intently as when he’d first walked in. Hundreds of eyes, wide-open, were shining blankly at him. It was almost too much to bear.
“So that look in their eyes,” whispered Joey. “That’s hope?”
Parsifur gestured toward the door with an elegant paw. “Maybe out there in the courtyard,” he said. “But these eyes, in here . . . these are the eyes of soldiers who’ve fought and suffered and grown old on the battlefield. These eyes have seen blood and death and real heroism. No, that’s not hope you see in these eyes,” Parsifur giggled. Hee-hee-hee. “It’s disappointment.”
As if to punctuate the words, Drattleby suddenly stood up and yelled, “This . . . skinny boy is our savior?!” He sounded completely disgusted. He threw his cup to the floor with a clatter and stormed out.
Parsifur squeezed Joey’s paw. “But you’ll show them, won’t you, lad?”
Joey didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to show anything to anybody. He just wanted to go home. “Why are you telling me all this . . . terrible stuff?”
Parsifur stopped smiling for a second. “What kind of hero would you be if you didn’t know what you were facing?”
Then Brutilda entered and stood in the doorway, breathing heavily: “The cats are ready.”
JOEY AND PARSIFUR followed Brutilda out the door. A long line of cats stood in the courtyard, with water bottles and other provisions strapped to their sides. The cat in the middle was . . .
“Chequers!” squealed Parsifur. “Your tack is a mess.” He rushed to tend to his black-and-white mount.
Joey stared at the cats. Was he actually expected to ride one of these beasts?
But he didn’t get a chance to wonder long. A set of claws latched around his upper arm in an iron grip and yanked. Joey found himself being dragged across the courtyard by Brutilda, who wasn’t even looking at him. “Wh-what are you doing?” Joey spluttered, but the giant didn’t bother to answer. She dragged him through the dirt, past a guard (who didn’t do a thing to help Joey), in through a little door at the side of the palace, and down an incredibly steep, dark staircase before Joey could even yell out “Help!”
Is this how it ends? thought Joey. Murdered in a basement? By a guinea pig?
At the bottom of the stairs, Brutilda shoved him through a gap in some thick cloth, and he found himself back in the throne room. He looked behind him, but the old tapestry he’d been pushed through had swung shut, and Brutilda hadn’t followed.
Uther still sat on the throne, completely unmoved since the last time Joey had seen him. Hugging his legs and kneeling at his feet was his daughter, Princess Yislene. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was whispering something. It seemed like a very private moment. Joey was sure he shouldn’t be there, and he was just starting to wonder if Brutilda actually would murder him if he backed out through the tapestry, when Yislene opened her eyes and said, “Thank you for coming. Please step closer.”
Reluctantly, Joey walked toward the princess and the king. He found himself staring at the old rat’s vacant, unseeing face. This is the great King Uther? As if she could read his mind, Yislene said, “He wasn’t always like this.” Joey looked away from Uther, embarrassed. Yislene continued, “Until a few years ago, he was the strongest, wisest, bravest king in the Low Realm. The most respected, and the most feared, since Axel . . . or even Ajax. There are countless rats—and others—who owe him their lives. Just ask Brutilda.”
Joey thought it was highly unlikely he would ever do that.
The princess continued. “But my mother died in an accident. . . . She fell down the great staircase in the southern tower. . . . And something changed in him after that. He didn’t grow weak right away. He just lost some of his will. One day, two years ago, he was wounded while helping Gronkonkomo repel invaders from the Savage River. Perhaps his grief had made him careless. Sir Aramis was by his side in battle and carried him home. We thought, with a little rest, his leg would heal. But instead it’s become more twisted and poisoned than ever. And his mind has been poisoned along with it. But—” she said, and then repeated, emphatically, “but his spirit is not all gone. There are a few good days, mixed in with the many bad. King Uther is still in there.”
She looked up at Joey, imploringly. “That’s why we have to reach Squirrelin. That’s why we have to defeat Salaman. I can’t let anyone steal his kingdom while the true king, my father, lives!”
Joey nodded. He understood. It had been just him and Mom, as long as he could remember. Mostly Mom working—and working—to make sure Joey had enough to eat, and a bed to sleep in, and clothes to wear. Even taking this job in the city . . . Joey knew that she had done that for him. If anyone ever tried to hurt Mom . . . there wasn’t anything Joey wouldn’t do to protect her.
But he didn’t understand why they needed him. “You’re a Ragician,” he said. “Why don’t you just send, like, a psychic message to Squirrelin so he’ll come and save the day?”
Yislene shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. You can’t send complicated messages through Ragic. At most, you can say ‘Come now’ or ‘Stay away.’” And then, as if she could read Joey’s mind again, she said quickly, “And if you think Squirrelin would come just because I said, ‘Come now,’ well, you don’t know Squirrelin. He is a stalwart friend of Ravalon . . . but he takes some convincing to do anything.”
There was a rustling behind Joey. Brutilda had entered through the tapestry. She nodded at the princess, who said, “We must leave. But there’s one more thing you deserve to know.” She hesitated, then said, “Considering all the cloaking spells Gondorff was traveling under, there’s only one way the BlackClaws could have found him.”
She hesitated again, so Brutilda finished the thought for her: “Salaman must have a spy in the king’s court.”
Joey’s mind spun. “Wait,” he said, “the bad guy knows we’re coming? Why are we even trying then?”
The princess stood, kissed her father on the cheek, and turned to Joey. “Because we have no choice,” she said, and then she walked through the tapestry with Brutilda.
Joey stood there, alone for a moment in the silent throne room. Because we have no choice. She was right. If he wanted to get back to Mom, if he wanted to become Joey again . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by a dry tickle on his wrist. He looked up to see that Uther had reached out to him with a feeble paw. A spark of . . . something was in the o
ld man’s wet eyes. Then he whispered, so softly that Joey wasn’t sure he’d heard it, maybe he just felt it: “Thank you.”
Then the spark was out, and the king’s eyes went cloudy again. Still, Joey mustered a “You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” before he turned to climb the stairs. His mind was fixated on one thought:
He had no choice.
JOEY HAD NEVER ridden a camel, but he bet it must be a lot like riding a cat. For every step the cat took forward, it felt like it was taking two steps up and two steps down. He’d ridden a horse one time at summer camp, but this was different. This made his little rat stomach do flip-flops.
“Oh, the look on your face!” giggled Parsifur, who was a little ahead, riding Chequers. “Don’t tell me you’re mount-sick! Yislene loaned you the smoothest cat in her stable.”
Joey felt like throwing up, but he didn’t want to give Parsifur the satisfaction. “I’ll get used to it,” he said. He scratched the back of his cat’s head, so that the cat wouldn’t think Joey blamed him. He was really a very nice cat: a big black tom named Squamish. But riding Squamish was like being strapped to a trampoline in an earthquake. And that’s when he wasn’t jumping from building to building.
They were traveling across rooftops now. Yislene led the way, riding her snow-white cat, Questel. Then Parsifur and Joey, with Aramis riding right behind Joey, and sour Brutilda—riding an enormous ginger cat named Bicker—bringing up the rear.
“I thought cats ate rats,” said Joey.
“Normal cats do,” said Parsifur. “But if you find a kitten and raise it . . .” He twisted Chequers’s right ear. “Well, you’ll find no more loyal comrade in the world.”
