by Darren Shan
“The SubMerged will be scouring the city for us,” she says. “It’s going to be dangerous at any time, but we have a better chance of evading capture in the dark.”
We climb down the tree and set off through the streets again, moving stealthily, hugging the shadows. We don’t trace a random path. Inez is familiar with Cornan and knows the neighbourhoods where certain groups loiter, so we head for a specific destination on the city outskirts. It’s a long hike, but we pick up speed the further we get from the centre, since Inez says the SubMerged will be concentrating on the area around Canadu. They don’t care if she escapes, just as long as she doesn’t turn up for the vote.
We make our target shortly after daybreak. It’s a small hill. Nobody lives inside the hump, but dozens of thick vines run through it, and there are holes cut out of many of them. At first we can’t see anyone and we share a weary look.
“Don’t worry,” Inez says. “The day has just begun. Very few people are out and about yet. We’ll rest here and –”
A high-pitched giggle stops her. It comes again, then we hear someone muttering on the far side of a vine that curves over the hill. We tiptoe across to the vine and lean forward. There are two children on the other side, a boy and a girl. The girl is giggling as the boy tells her a story.
“– roared at me like a bull,” he says gleefully.
“What’s a bull?” the girl asks.
“An animal like a cow.”
“What’s a cow?”
“You don’t remember cows? How old were you when you were killed?”
“Two or three. When my guardians took me back to the Born to grow, we stayed in a city. I didn’t see many animals.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter,” the boy says. “All you need to know is that he roared, ‘Bring back my maracas!’”
“What are maracas?” the girl asks.
“I hadn’t a clue,” the boy laughs, “but I figured they must be the things that I’d pinched, so I shouted back at him –”
Inez clears her throat.
The children hurl themselves away from us and dash for the nearest vine opening.
“Wait,” Inez calls. “We mean you no harm.”
The boy and girl pause and squint at us.
“Who are you?” the boy grunts. “What are you doing here? This is our hill.”
“Really?” Inez says. “I didn’t think rats owned anything. No homes of our own, no stuff of our own.”
The children look surprised.
“How does she know that, Guido?” the girl asks.
“I don’t know,” the boy says. “Maybe she tortured one of us.”
“A rat never gives away the Mischief’s secrets, even under torment,” Inez says.
The boy steps away from the vine. “Who are you?”
“Inez Matryoshka. This is Archie Lox.”
“Guido,” the boy says.
“Lena,” the girl says.
Guido’s probably no more than nine years old, while Lena is a year or two less, although obviously age isn’t the factor in the Merge that it is in the Born. They could both have lived here for a hundred years or more.
“I scurved with the Mischief many years ago,” Inez says.
I don’t know what that means, but Guido seems impressed. “Were you a rat?”
“No,” Inez says.
“So you’re a flea,” he sneers.
“Anyone who’s not a rat is a flea,” Lena says with an air of total authority.
“I was and still am a flea in most respects,” Inez says lightly, “but the Mischief of the time declared me a mouse.”
Guido’s eyes light up. “A mouse!” He makes the greet. Lena tries to make it too, but gets confused and doesn’t do it the right way. Inez returns the gesture regardless, and the girl puffs up proudly.
“I need to ask a favour,” Inez says.
“Do we owe you one?” Guido asks craftily.
“Rats neither own nor owe,” Inez replies, and it’s clearly the right thing to say, because Guido asks what she wants. “We need to meet with the Mischief.”
“If you’re a mouse, you should know where to find them,” Guido says.
“It’s been centuries,” Inez sighs. “I’m sure the Mischief has moved quarters many times since.”
Guido pulls Lena aside and the pair have a whispered conversation. Lena glances at us sweetly, and he snaps at her and demands that she focus. In the end Guido pulls himself up straight, trying to act like a lawyer. “How do we know you don’t mean the Mischief harm?” he asks sternly.
Inez shrugs. “What harm could a mouse or flea do to a rat?”
Guido grins, then remembers he’s supposed to be serious, and wipes the smile away. “We’d have to blindfold you,” he growls.
“No,” Inez says. “If you can’t trust us completely, you shouldn’t trust us at all. Lead us there or don’t.”
“Was this guy a mouse too?” Guido asks, pointing at me.
“No,” Inez says.
“Then we’ll only take you.”
Inez wraps an arm around me. “Archie’s my tail. Where I go, my tail goes.”
Guido and Lena withdraw again for another discussion.
“Tail?” I hiss.
“It’s the highest compliment a rat can pay a flea,” she says.
“I thought you were a mouse.”
“Be quiet,” she huffs, “or I’ll tell them you’re a cat, and you wouldn’t like what they’d do to you then.”
Guido and Lena return.
“Alright,” Guido says.
“You can come with us,” Lena smiles.
“But only if you can keep up,” Guido adds.
Then the two of them race to the hole in the vine, throw themselves in and scurry forward, doubled over because it’s not that big.
“Run like the wind, Archie,” Inez whoops, hurrying after the rats.
Before I can respond, she’s launched herself in, and I have to tear after her with a worried yelp or risk being left behind.
23
GUIDO AND LENA LEAD us through a series of vines. The walls of most have been smeared at regular intervals with what must be long-lasting gleam, so they’re fairly well lit.
In certain places the vines join and we slip from one to another, but in other spots we have to exit a vine and leap across. My stomach lurches when we do that, as sometimes we’re high above the ground, with death the certain outcome if we fall. But as fearful as I am, I keep up until the rats pop out of a vine and set off across an open stretch, which is when I draw to a defeated halt.
Guido and Lena have slipped to the side of the vine and shot ahead, using the hooks attached to their hands and feet.
“Here,” Inez says, tossing four sets of hooks my way. “They left them for us. Rats always carry spares. They’re on the small size, but –” She stops when I don’t pick up the hooks. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t use those,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“I’ve never used anything like them before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
I look down — we’re higher than a few nearby trees. “What if I slip?”
“Don’t,” she says, then wriggles onto the body of the vine and sets off after the rats. She’s not as sure-footed as them, but makes good progress.
I pick up a set of hooks. There are four sharp barbs set in a band of copper, which is meant to fit over the hand or foot. I slide it onto my left hand. It’s tight, but that’s not a bad thing, as it means the hooks don’t slip from side to side.
When my fingers are extended, the barbs rest on the back of my hand – if I made a sudden movement, I could rip the flesh open – but if I close the fingers into a fist, the hooks stick out over the end. I jab them into the vine. They sink in cleanly, then slide out when I withdraw my hand. Frowning, I try again, and rotate my fist forward, so that the barbs curve into the pulp of the vine. This time, when I try to pull my hand back, t
he hooks don’t budge.
I slip a set onto my right foot. The band stops short of my shin and the barbs stick out all the time. To use them, I angle my foot back to drive the barbs into the vine, then scrunch my toes inwards to twist the hooks into a holding position.
“What are you waiting for?” Lena asks, popping up beside me.
“I’ve never used hooks like these,” I grumble.
“They’re easy,” she says. “Put on the others and I’ll help you, even though Guido said I shouldn’t. He said it would be your own useless fault if you fell.”
I scowl and wish Guido was here, so that I could dare him to say that to my face. But since Lena is staring at me impatiently, I slip on the other hooks and crawl onto the roof of the vine. I’ve walked along vines like this before, so I start to stand, but Lena shakes her head. “Use the hooks,” she says.
“I don’t need them here.”
“That’s why it’s a good place to test them.”
“Why do I have to use them at all?” I ask. “Can’t I just walk along?”
“You can,” Lena says, “but then Guido won’t take you any further. He says a flea who can’t scurve has no right to be introduced to the Mischief.”
“Scurve?” I ask.
“That’s what we call it when we use the hooks.”
I sigh and get down on all fours. I dig the hooks on my right hand into the vine, then my right foot, left foot, and finally left hand.
“Give your fingers and toes a twist,” Lena says, then snaps, “Too much. You only need to apply a little pressure. Trust the hooks. They’d hold you even if you were a fully grown flea with a big, round belly.”
I try again, only barely rotating my fists and toes.
“Much better,” Lena beams. “Now relax your limbs and move them forward one at a time.”
I let my right hand slacken and the hooks slip out of the vine. I move it forward, dig in, then start to move my right foot.
“No,” Lena stops me. “Left foot now, then left hand, then right foot. Then you do it all again in that same order.”
“This is going to take ages,” I complain.
“You’ll get the hang of it quickly enough,” she disagrees. “Or you’ll fall and kill yourself. Either way, it won’t take long.”
I shoot the young girl a dirty look, then move my left foot as directed, followed by my left hand, then my right foot.
“There,” Lena beams. “Your first scurve.”
“Amazing,” I say drily, then repeat the cycle again and again. I start to pick up speed as Lena predicted. I nick myself a few times, and my ankles and wrists sting, but otherwise I’m pleased with my progress.
“That’s good,” Lena says. “Now follow me.” She angles to her left and scurves beneath the vine, so she’s hanging upside down.
“Isn’t that too ambitious for a first-timer?” I bleat.
“No,” Lena says. “It’s easier hanging from a vine than perched on top. Your ankles and wrists are sore, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“The discomfort will ease when you’re down here,” she promises.
“What if I make a mistake?” I whimper.
“One mistake won’t kill you. If a hand slips, you’ll be hanging on with three other sets of hooks. You could even free both hands and a foot, or both feet and a hand, and still cling on.”
I gulp, free my right hand, stretch it out and work my way around the vine. I feel whatever passes for gravity in this place drag at me, but don’t succumb to panic, and soon I’m dangling beneath the vine. I have to admit it’s better here than on the side. I can’t see the ground now, and the pressure has lifted from my ankles and wrists.
“Happy?” Lena asks, freeing a hand to tweak my nose.
“I wouldn’t say happy, exactly,” I groan.
“But you’re good to carry on?”
I twist my right fist and slide my hand forward, before digging in again. Then I look at her firmly. “Yes.”
“We’ll make a mouse of you yet,” she laughs, then tears off, leaving me to slowly but surely crawl – no, scurve – along after her.
I continue to improve as I go. The hooks provide such a solid grip that you could be glued to the vine. Even if a hand or foot slips – and that happens to me a lot – you’re not in real trouble.
The trickiest thing is transferring to another vine while hanging upside down. Lena is able to retract all four sets of hooks and leap across, but I’m nowhere near ready to attempt such a manoeuvre. When I transfer, I go slowly and shakily, one set of hooks at a time.
Eventually we slip back inside a vine, where Guido and Inez are waiting.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Inez beams.
I shoot her a withering look.
“He handled himself neatly,” Lena says to Guido.
“I’ve seen worse,” Guido says grudgingly. “He’d never make a rat, but he’s shown he’s game.”
“So you’ll take me to the Mischief?” I ask.
“That’s why I waited,” Guido says. “If you’d failed, I wouldn’t have stuck around.”
It’s a long crawl, and though we cross into several adjoining vines, we remain within the system until we pop out in the Mischief’s base, which is a large cave, lit by gleam-lined torches. There are rats everywhere, sleeping, playing, eating, sharpening hooks, picking through goods that they’ve stolen. A few cast curious glances at us as we pass, but nobody challenges us.
We stop when we get to a group of nine rats, relaxing on a circular mound of mushrooms at the centre of the cave. These five boys and four girls are the Mischief, the leaders of the rats. Inez told me a little about them earlier. They’re elected by popular vote, and you stay in the Mischief as long as you want — Inez said most members resign after a few years, since ruling is boring. They set the laws, adjudicate in arguments, admit new rats to the fold, exile those who’ve fallen out of favour.
“We’ve brought a couple of visitors,” Guido says casually, as if bringing a pair of strangers to the cave is no big thing.
“Who are they?” one of the girls asks.
“Inez Matryoshka and Archie Lox,” Lena says.
“What are they doing here?” a boy asks.
“Looking for help,” Guido says.
“We’re not in the habit of helping fleas,” another boy sniffs.
“I’m not a flea,” Inez counters. “I’m a mouse.”
That grabs their interest.
“Who says you’re a mouse?” a girl snarls.
“The Mischief,” Inez answers calmly.
“Not me,” says the girl, and the others mutter similar denials. I get a worried lump in my throat but Inez doesn’t tic.
“Rats come and go,” Inez says, “but the Mischief is constant. Look again. You’ve seen me with different eyes and called me a mouse with different mouths.”
“How do we know you’re not lying?” a boy asks.
“You’d smell a lie on me,” Inez says.
That satisfies the Mischief, and the hostile looks fade. One of the girls points to me and asks, “Is he a mouse too?”
“No,” Inez says. “Archie’s my tail.”
“He’s a sorry-looking tail,” a boy laughs. “I’d cut him off if he was mine.”
“He did alright on the vines,” Guido mutters.
“You reckon he’s earned a set of hooks?” a girl asks.
“No,” Guido says, “but I’d let him borrow mine again.”
“Fair enough,” another girl says. “Tell us what you want.”
Inez raises an eyebrow at me, letting me know it’s time to speak up.
“I’m looking for Pol,” I mumble.
“What’s that?” one of the boys says, holding a hand to his ear.
“I couldn’t hear him,” another one growls.
“Maybe his tail is caught in his mouth,” a girl chuckles.
“I’m looking for Pol!” I shout, flushing angrily.
“Doe
s he know you?” a boy asks.
“How would I know his name if he didn’t?” I retort. Inez told me I needed to be aggressive when dealing with the Mischief – there’s no room for politeness here – but I’d have snapped at the boy even if I knew nothing of their ways.
“What do you want Pol for?” a girl asks.
“That’s between me and him,” I answer curtly.
“Are you friends?” a boy asks.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I sniff.
“Enemies?” another boy asks.
“No.”
“What if we don’t fetch him?” a girl jeers.
I treat her to an icy glare. “Nobody fetches a rat,” I say, trying to recall Inez’s instructions as we were making our way to the hill, about what to do when faced with this question. “No rat is a slave of the Mischief. Pol will come or he won’t. All I’m asking is that you let him know I’m here and that I’d like to talk with him.”
“And if we won’t?” a boy asks softly.
I turn and wriggle my bum at him. “Then you can bite me.”
The rats laugh, share a look, then a nod. One of the boys hollers to the others in the cave, “Anyone know where Pol is?”
“I can probably find him,” someone answers.
“Go tell him a flea called Archie Lox wants to see him.”
“Okay,” the rat says, then is gone, leaving Inez and me to wait in front of the Mischief and keep our fingers crossed that Pol is curious enough to come. If he isn’t, we’re sunk, and Inez’s mission will die a quiet death here in this cave of flickering shadows, deep beneath the earth.
24
IT’S A LONG WAIT AND I’m conscious of the hours ticking away. By this time tomorrow the Family members will have voted to decide the alignment of the realm. If Pol can’t be found, or if we’re too late to influence the vote...
Inez doesn’t seem worried, though she’s probably just better at hiding it. She chats with the Mischief, telling them tales of when she ran with rats in the past. They like hearing about how their ancestors caused chaos.
The rats are a noisy, rowdy, good-natured bunch. There are no beds in the cave, just lots of mushrooms on which the rats sit or snooze. Not much furniture either, apart from pieces they’ve presumably stolen for trade. Some of the younger rats play games with the items, climb into drawers, hide in wardrobes, jump over tables and chairs.
