The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents d(-1

by Terry Pratchett

  “If you go down that street and take the first left”

  “Fetch him.”

  “Here, you can't—” the sergeant began, but Corporal Knopf grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

  “He's the piper!” he hissed. “You don't mess with the piper! Don't you know about him? If he blows the right note on his pipes, your legs will fall off!”

  “What, like the plague?”

  “They say that in Porkscratchenz the council didn't pay him and he played his special pipe and led all the kids up into the mountains and they were never seen again!”

  “Good, do you think he'll do that here? The place'd be a lot quieter.”

  “Hah! Did you ever hear about that place in Klatch? They hired him to get rid of a plague of mime artists, and when they didn't pay up he made all the town's watchmen dance into the river and drown!”

  “No! Did he? The devil!” said Sergeant Doppelpunkt.

  “Three hundred dollars he charges, did you know that?”

  “Three hundred dollars!”

  “That's why people hate paying,” said Corporal Knopf.

  “Hang on, hang on… how can you have a plague of mime artists?”

  “Oh, it was terrible, so I heard. People didn't dare go out onto the streets at all.”

  “You mean, all those white faces, all that creeping around…”

  “Exactly. Terrible. Still, when I woke up there was a rat dancing on my dressing-table. Tapitty, tapitty, tap.”

  “That's odd,” said Sergeant Doppelpunkt, giving his corporal a strange look.

  “And it was humming There's no Business like Show Business. I call that more than just ‘odd’!”

  “No, I meant it's odd you've got a dressing-table. I mean, you're not even married.”

  “Stop messing about, sarge.”

  “Has it got a mirror?”

  “Come on, sarge. You get the sausages, sarge, I'll get the mayor.”

  “No, Knopf. You get the sausages and I'll get the mayor, 'cos the mayor's free and Mrs Shover will want paying.”

  The mayor was already up when the sergeant arrived, and wandering around the house with a worried expression.

  He looked more worried when the sergeant arrived. “What's she done this time?” he said.

  “Sir?” said the watchman. “Sir” said like that meant “what are you talking about?”

  “Malicia hasn't been home all night,” said the mayor.

  “You think something might have happened to her, sir?”

  “No, I think she might have happened to someone, man! Remember last month? When she tracked down the Mysterious Headless Horseman?”

  “Well, you must admit he was a horseman, sir.”

  “That is true. But he was also a short man with a very high collar. And he was the chief tax-gatherer from Mintz. I'm still getting official letters about it! Tax-gatherers do not as a rule like young ladies dropping on them out of trees! And then in September there was that business about the, the—”

  “The Mystery of Smuggler's Windmill, sir,” said the sergeant, rolling his eyes.

  “Which turned out to be Mr Vogel the town clerk and Mrs Schuman the shoemaker's wife, who happened to be there merely because of their shared interest in studying the habits of barn owls…”

  “… and Mr Vogel had his trousers off because he'd torn them on a nail…” said the sergeant, not looking at the mayor.

  “… which Mrs Schuman was very kindly repairing for him,” said the mayor.

  “By moonlight,” said the sergeant.

  “She happens to have very good eyesight!” snapped the mayor. “And she didn't deserve to be bound and gagged along with Mr Vogel, who caught quite a chill as a result! I had complaints from him and from her, and from Mrs Vogel and from Mr Schuman and from Mr Vogel after Mr Schuman went around to his house and hit him with a last and from Mrs Schuman after Mrs Vogel called her a—”

  “A last what, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Hit him with a last what?”

  “A last, man! It's a kind of wooden foot shoemakers use when they're making shoes! Heaven knows what Malicia's doing this time!”

  “I expect you'll find out when we hear the bang, sir.”

  “And what was it you wanted me for, sergeant?”

  “The rat piper's here, sir.”

  The mayor went pale. “Already?” he said.

  “Yessir. He's having a shave in the fountain.”

  “Where's my official chain? My official robe? My official hat? Quick, man, help me!”

  “He looks like quite a slow shaver, sir,” said the sergeant, following the mayor out of the room at a run.

  “Over in Klotz the mayor kept the piper waiting too long and he played his pipe and turned him into a badger!” said the mayor, flinging open a cupboard. “Ah, here they are… help me on with them, will you?”

  When they arrived in the town square, out of breath, the piper was sitting on a bench, surrounded at a safe distance by a very large crowd. He was examining half a sausage on the end of a fork. Corporal Knopf was standing next to him like a schoolboy who has just turned in a nasty piece of work and is waiting to be told exactly how bad it is.

  “And this is called a—?” the piper was saying.

  “A sausage, sir,” Corporal Knopf muttered.

  “This is what you think is a sausage here, is it?” There was a gasp from the crowd. Bad Blintz was very proud of its traditional vole-and-pork sausages.

  “Yessir,” said Corporal Knopf.

  “Amazing,” said the piper. He looked up at the mayor. “And you are—?”

  “I am the mayor of this town, and—”

  The piper held up a hand, and then nodded towards the old man who was sitting on his cart, grinning broadly. “My agent will deal with you,” he said. He threw away the sausage, put his feet up on the other end of the bench, pulled his hat down over his eyes and lay back.

  The mayor went red in the face. Sergeant Doppelpunkt leaned towards him.

  “Remember the badger, sir!” he whispered.

  “Ah… yes…” The mayor, with what little dignity he had left, walked over to the cart. “I believe the fee for ridding the town of rats will be three hundred dollars?” he said.

  “Then I expect you'll believe anything,” said the old man. He glanced at a notebook on his knee. “Let's see… call-out fee… plus special charge because it's St Prodnitz's Day… plus pipe tax… looks like a medium-sized town, so that's extra… wear and tear on cart… travelling costs at a dollar a mile… miscellaneous expenses, taxes, charges…” He looked up. “Tell you what, let's say one thousand dollars, OK?”

  “One thousand dollars! We haven't got one thousand dollars! That's outrag—”

  “Badger, sir!” hissed Sergeant Doppelpunkt.

  “You can't pay?” said the old man.

  “We don't have that kind of money! We've had to spend a lot of money bringing in food!”

  “You don't have any money?” said the old man.

  “Nothing like that amount, no!”

  The old man scratched his chin. “Hmm,” he said, “I can see where that's going to be a bit difficult, because… let's see…” He scribbled in his notebook for a moment and then looked up. “You already owe us four hundred and sixty-seven dollars and nineteen pence for call-out, travel and miscellaneous sundries.”

  “What? He hasn't blown a note!”

  “Ah, but he's ready to,” said the old man. “We've come all this way. You can't pay? Bit of what they call a imp arse, then. He's got to lead something out of the town, you see. Otherwise the news'll get around and no-one'll show him any respect, and if you haven't got respect, what have you got? If a piper doesn't have respect, he's—”

  “—rubbish,” said a voice. “I think he's rubbish.”

  The piper raised the brim of his hat.

  The crowd in front of Keith parted in a hurry.

  “Yeah?” said the piper.

  “I don't
think he can pipe up even one rat,” said Keith. “He's just a fraud and a bully. Huh, I bet I can pipe up more rats than him.”

  Some of the people in the crowd began to creep away. No-one wanted to be around when the rat piper lost his temper.

  The piper swung his boots down onto the ground and pushed his hat back on his head. “You a rat piper, kid?” he said softly.

  Keith stuck out his chin defiantly. “Yes. And don't call me kid… old man.”

  The piper grinned. “Ah,” he said. “I knew I was going to like this place. And you can make a rat dance, can you, kid?”

  “More than you can, piper.”

  “Sounds like a challenge to me,” said the piper.

  “The piper doesn't accept challenges from—” the old man on the cart began, but the rat piper waved him into silence.

  “Y'know, kid,” he said, “this isn't the first time some kid has tried this. I'm walking down the street and someone yells, ‘Go for your piccolo, mister!’ and I turn around, and it's always a kid like you with a stupid-looking face. Now, I don't want anyone to say I'm an unfair man, kid, so if you'd just care to apologize you might walk away from here with the same number of legs you started with.”

  “You're frightened.” Malicia stepped out of the crowd.

  The piper grinned at her. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yes, because everyone knows what happens at a time like this. Let me ask this stupid-looking kid, who I've never seen before: are you an orphan?”

  “Yes,” said Keith.

  “Do you know nothing about your background at all?”

  “No.”

  “Aha!” said Malicia. “That proves it! We all know what happens when a mysterious orphan turns up and challenges someone big and powerful, don't we? It's like being the third and youngest son of a king. He can't help but win!”

  She looked triumphantly at the crowd. But the crowd looked doubtful. They hadn't read as many stories as Malicia, and were rather attached to the experience of real life, which is that when someone small and righteous takes on someone big and nasty he is grilled bread product, very quickly.

  However, someone at the back shouted, “Give the stupid-looking kid a chance! At least he'll be cheaper!” and someone else shouted, “Yes, that's right!” and someone else shouted, “I agree with the other two!” and no-one seemed to notice that all the voices came from near ground level or were associated with the progress around the crowd of a scruffy-looking cat with half its fur missing. Instead, there was a general murmuring, no real words, nothing that would get anyone into trouble if the piper turned nasty, but a muttering indicating, in a general sense, without wishing to cause umbrage, and seeing everyone's point of view, and taking one thing with another, and all things being equal, that people would like to see the boy given a chance, if it's all right with you, no offence meant.

  The piper shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “It'll be something to talk about. And when I win, what will I get?”

  The mayor coughed. “Is a daughter's hand in marriage usual in these circumstances?” he said. “She has very good teeth, and would make a goo—a wife for anyone with plenty of free wall space—”

  “Father!” said Malicia.

  “Later on, later on, obviously,” said the mayor. “He's unpleasant, but he is rich.”

  “No, I'll just take my payment,” said the piper. “One way or another.”

  “And I said we can't afford it!” said the mayor.

  “And I said one way or the other,” said the piper. “And you, kid?”

  “Your rat pipe,” said Keith.

  “No. It's magic, kid.”

  “Then why are you scared to bet it?”

  The piper narrowed his eyes. “OK, then,” he said.

  “And the town must let me solve its rat problem,” said Keith.

  “And how much will you charge?” said the mayor.

  “Thirty gold pieces! Thirty gold pieces. Go on, say it!” shouted a voice at the back of the crowd.

  “No, I won't cost you a thing,” said Keith.

  “Idiot!” shouted the voice in the crowd. People looked around, puzzled.

  “Nothing at all?” said the mayor.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Er… the hand-in-marriage thing is still on offer, if you—”

  “Father!”

  “No, that only happens in stories,” said Keith. “And I shall also bring back a lot of the food that the rats stole.”

  “They ate it!” said the mayor. “What're you going to do, stick your fingers down their throats?”

  “I said that I'll solve your rat problem,” said Keith. “Agreed, Mr Mayor?”

  “Well, if you're not charging—”

  “But first, I shall need to borrow a pipe,” Keith went on.

  “You haven't got one?” said the mayor.

  “It got broken.”

  Corporal Knopf nudged the mayor. “I've got a trombone from when I was in the army,” he said. “It won't take a mo to nip and get it.”

  The rat piper burst out laughing.

  “Doesn't that count?” said the mayor, as Corporal Knopf hurried off.

  “What? A trombone for charming rats? No, no, let him try. Can't blame a kid for trying. Good with a trombone, are you?”

  “I don't know,” said Keith.

  “What do you mean, you don't know?”

  “I mean, I've never played one. I'd be a lot happier with a flute, trumpet, piccolo or Lancre bagpipe, but I've seen people playing the trombone and it doesn't look too difficult. It's only an overgrown trumpet, really.”

  “Hah!” said the piper.

  The watchman came running back, rubbing a battered trombone with his sleeve and therefore making it just a bit more grimy. Keith took it, wiped the mouthpiece, put it to his mouth, pressed the keys a few times and then blew one long note.

  “Seems to work,” he said. “I expect I can learn as I go along.” He gave the rat piper a brief smile. “Do you want to go first?”

  “You won't charm one rat with that mess, kid,” said the piper, “but I'm glad I'm here to see you try.”

  Keith gave him a smile again, took a breath, and played.

  There was a tune there. The instrument squeaked and wheezed, because Corporal Knopf had occasionally used the thing as a hammer, but there was a tune, quite fast, almost jaunty. You could tap your feet to it.

  Someone tapped his feet to it.

  Sardines emerged from a crack in a nearby wall, going “hwunftwothreefour” under his breath. The crowd him dance ferociously across the cobbles until he disappeared into a drain. Then they broke into applause.

  The piper looked at Keith. “Did that one have a hat on?” he said.

  “I didn't notice,” said Keith. “Your go.”

  The piper pulled a short length of pipe from inside his jacket. He took another length from his pocket, and slotted it into place on the first piece. It went click, in a military kind of way.

  Still watching Keith, and still grinning, the piper took a mouthpiece from his top pocket, and screwed it into the rest of the pipe with another, very final, click.

  Then he put it to his mouth and played.

  From her lookout on a roof Big Savings shouted down a drainpipe, “Now!” Then she pushed two lumps of cotton-wool in her ears.

  At the bottom of the pipe, Inbrine shouted into a drain, “Now!” and then he too snatched up his earplugs.

  … ow, ow, ow echoed through the pipes…

  … “Now!” shouted Darktan in the room of cages. He rammed some straw into the drainpipe. “Everyone block their ears!”

  They'd done their best with the rat cages. Malicia had brought blankets, and the rats had spent a feverish hour blocking up holes with mud. They'd done their best to feed the prisoners properly, too, and even though they were only keekees it was heartbreaking to see them cower so desperately.

  Darktan turned to Nourishing. “Got your ears blocked?” he said.

  “Pardon?”


  “Good!” Darktan picked up two lumps of cotton-wool. “The silly-sounding girl better be right about this stuff,” he said. “I don't think many of us have got any strength left to run.”

  The piper blew again, and then stared at his pipe.

  “Just one rat,” said Keith. “Any rat you like.”

  The piper glared at him, and blew again. “I can't hear anything,” said the mayor.

  “Humans can't,” muttered the piper.

  “Perhaps it's broken,” said Keith helpfully.

  The piper tried again. There was murmuring from the crowd. “You've done something,” he hissed.

  “Oh yes?” said Malicia, loudly. “What could he have done? Told the rats to stay underground with their ears blocked up?”

  The murmuring turned into muffled laughter.

  The piper tried one more time. Keith felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  A rat emerged. It moved slowly across the cobbles, bouncing from side to side, until it reached the piper's feet, where it fell over and started making a whirring noise.

  People's mouths fell open. It was a Mr Clicky.

  The piper nudged it with his foot. The clockwork rat rolled over a few times and then its spring, as a result of months of being punished in traps, gave up. There was a poiyonngggg, and a brief shower of cogwheels.

  The crowd burst out laughing.

  “Hmm,” said the piper, and this time the look he gave Keith was shaded with grudging admiration. “OK, kid,” he said. “Shall you and I have a little talk? Piper to piper? Over by the fountain?”

  “Provided people can see us,” said Keith.

  “You don't trust me, kid?”

  “Of course not.”

  The piper grinned. “Good. You've got the makings of a piper, I can see that.”

  Over by the fountain, he sat down with his booted legs in front of him, and held out the pipe. It was bronze, with a raised pattern of brass rats on it, and it glinted in the sunlight.

  “Here,” said the piper. “Take it. It's a good one. I've got plenty of others. Go on, take it. I'd like to hear you play it.”

  Keith looked at it uncertainly.

  “It's all trickery, kid,” said the piper, as the pipe shone like a sunbeam. “See the little slider there? Move it down and the pipe plays a special note humans can't hear. Rats can. Sends 'em nuts. They come rushing out of the ground and you drive 'em into the river, just like a sheepdog.”