Ratastrophe Catastrophe (2 page)

The milk was curdled. Rather, it hadn’t been curdled when Diek had first picked up the bucket, but it was definitely curdled now.

Diek tipped the bucket, shaking his head as a series of fat, creamy blobs plopped onto the bench below. Odd. He took a step back, turned on his heels and stopped dead. All the cows were staring at him, their tails swishing in the shadows of the milking shed. There was definitely something wrong; they usually took no notice of him whatsoever.

Maybe it
was
time to see an apothecary….

Diek’s visit to the apothecary wasn’t entirely successful. The man, like most of the villagers, largely ignored everything Diek had to say, before supplying him with a strange potion that looked and tasted like seven-year-old jam. He was to take it three times a day, as instructed, or alternatively, whenever he “felt a bit odd.” The old man certainly hadn’t given him any useful advice, and quickly changed the subject when his flowers wilted as Diek got up to leave. On reflection, Diek had practically been thrown out of the shop, in the end.

Diek had always been a loner, but now he took to spending whole days in the fields by himself. He had decided to give the barrowbird to his father as a birthday present; its insults and depressing forecasts of hideous eye disorders had become unbearably tiresome. Also, it had started crowing about Diek’s increasingly resonant voice and made a pointed comment that, every time he played a note on the flute, the neighbor’s grimalkin came tearing across the Midden Field as though the hounds of hell were after it. He
had
seen that wretched cat a lot lately.

Weeks passed and, as the magic took root inside Diek’s mind, it began to surface in a peculiar fashion, giving the boy an almost magnetic personality. His foolish absentmindedness became thoughtful contemplation; his inane and idiotic comments were replaced by clever and insightful witticisms. In short, people of Little Irksome began to notice Diek Wustapha.

They would spend a few moments talking with him, then trail after him in large groups, like sheep after a shepherd. This was all much to Diek’s astonishment; he’d never had a lot of time for people before. Now they praised him and appreciated his music (unlike his father, who only tolerated the odd tune every evening after tea). These people wanted more. They would wait quite patiently all day, just on the off chance of a tune. It wasn’t that his music was particularly melodic, as Diek would have been the first to admit. On the whole, it tended to comprise a few strangled notes huddling together in mournful misery.

Then, one afternoon, everything changed.

Diek had been playing for Butcha, the baker’s niece, when suddenly the music came alive. He didn’t even notice it happening; it was simply there at his lips, awaiting release. To the girl’s mesmerized delight, he produced tune after tune, melody after melody, song after song. These delicate pieces floated into the air, twisting and turning in the breeze, and were carried for miles over the hills and dales. Slowly, one by one, the villagers of Little Irksome stopped what they were doing and craned their necks to listen. Then they put down their tools and washboards, snatched up their hats, and fastened their walking shoes. The cobbled lanes of the village were suddenly alive with curious people irrevocably drawn to the sound.

By midafternoon, the entire population of the village stood grouped around an oak tree in the Midden Field, listening to Diek Wustapha weave his tunes. And play he did. From that day forth, he knew that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

So did his parents.

In practically no time at all, Diek’s talents had become many, from snake charming to hypnotizing mice. Visitors arrived from a few of the neighboring villages to watch his skills and hear his music. Deep inside his subconscious the magic was throbbing, turning, gaining momentum. And he carried his flute wherever he went.

He’d taken to playing long, drawn-out melodies too, whimsical at first, and then, as the days drifted by, progressively stronger. Melodies could be more than mere tunes, he discovered. Melodies could be almost magical.

Diek found himself reflecting on things like the reception of spiritual messages, the existence of telepathic sheep and, more important, his part in the larger scheme of things.

“Everybody’s got a place in the big picture, lad,” his father would say. “It’s just a matter of finding out where you fit in.”

Diek wondered where he
would
fit in, and found himself gazing longingly toward Dullitch, capital city of Illmoor, with its gleaming spires and megalithic monuments.

I
T WAS SUMMER IN
Dullitch, the air was clean and sobering, and the streets were filled with the combined odors of freshly baked bread and exotic spices. In the marketplace, throngs of hungry patrons lined up for the early bargains, and a few rogue mongrels gathered for free pastry offcuts at the baker’s serving hatch.

It was the annual Clairvoyants’ Awareness Weekend and a fete was being held in tribute to Ouija Mastook, the oldest (and most incontinent) medium on record. The guest of honor was due to arrive at midday and no one knew what to expect. The bandstand was currently being reinforced to withstand the weight of Mastook’s entourage of nursing staff.

Usually, the ceremony consisted of a rambling speech, three (extraordinarily loud) cheers, and several rounds of celebratory drinks. Invariably, it would conclude with a séance in which somebody’s aunt Margaret turned up to let them know that her valuables were hidden in the attic.

Atop the Church of Urgumflux the Wormridden, two members of the dreaded Yowler cult were taking turns peering through a spyglass at the proceedings below.

The Brotherhood of Yowler was indeed the stuff of nightmares. It was a ruthless organization rooted in the worship of dark gods who demanded the theft of priceless treasures and ritualistic executions to sustain their life force.

The Yowler cultists were cloaked assassins, thieves, and cutpurses, but their presence in Dullitch was endured because several of the city’s founding families were members. These midnight rogues were extremely well paid and enjoyed considerable support from the City Council, who turned a blind eye to corrupt Yowler-run associations.

Mifkindle Green, a junior Yowler member, was “wasping.” This meant dropping in at any large and important gathering, planting a sting (that is, assassinating the most prominent person there), and clearing out quickly to avoid capture. His colleague, Victor Franklin, a known night-runner and poison-dart specialist, was drumming his fingers distractedly on the stonework.

“W-w-will you stop that, Vic?” snapped Mifkindle.

“What? Oh, sorry, I just wondered why you hadn’t fired yet. You’re usually in and out in a cat’s sneeze.”

“Shhh. Can’t you k-k-keep quiet? You’ve been so judgmental since you k-k-killed old Banks in that g-graveyard run.”

Mifkindle’s gaze returned to the scene, but he wasn’t looking down toward the fete. He was staring intently at a small cottage garden on the opposite corner of the street.

“What is it?” Victor persisted, anxiously. “Have we been spotted? Is it the militia?
What are you looking at?
”

“R-r-rats.”

Victor boggled. “Come again?”

“R-r-ats,” Mifkindle confirmed. “There’s a l-l-line of them heading into the DeLongi place through a g-g-gap in the front wall.”

“Yeah, and?”

“They’re w-w-walking in s-single file, like an army. It’s odd,” he said, with conviction. “And I’ve seen a l-lot of them r-recently. Almost every d-d-day, in fact.”

Victor shrugged. “Dullitch is a big city. You gotta expect rats.”

“Not l-l-like th-these,” said Mifkindle, pursing his lips as he passed the spyglass across to his partner.

“B-b-big, aren’t they?” Victor said, after a pause.

Candleford School for Boys stood proudly on a slight rise in the northwest corner of the city. It was usually a place of high activity, breaking glass, and enthusiastic blasphemy. Now, however, during the summer holidays, the place was quiet.

In a room crammed with stoves and piled high with crockery, Bernard Grim, the ratcatcher, applied half an ear to the wall and listened intently. His apprentice, a boy named Malcolm, with rugged features and a black eye, watched with mounting trepidation.

“It could be a field mouse, Mr. Grim.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, lad,” Grim growled. “You don’t get field mice in a workhouse kitchen. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“My uncle had one come into his kitchen,” answered Malcolm.

“Your uncle’s no better than he should be.”

“Do you think it could be a rat?” piped up a short, plump maid with golden ringlets and a porkpie smile.

“Aye,” said Grim, wondering about the unconcealed eagerness in her voice.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my uncle,” said Malcolm sulkily.

Grim ignored him and leaned in closer, raising a finger and tapping tentatively on the woodwork. A scratching began on the other side of the wainscoting.

“He might be eccentric,” continued Malcolm. “And I know he talks to himself a bit, but he’s never done anyone no harm. Well, apart from that Mrs. Haveshank, and she said she wouldn’t be pressin’ charges.”

“Quiet, lad! It’s on the move; listen!” said Grim.

The apprentice knelt down beside his employer, face creased with the effort of concentration. Eventually, he gave a reluctant nod.

“Right,” Grim whispered. “Get me a forty-seven from the cart.”

Malcolm crept out of the kitchen and returned a few moments later, laden with an assortment of wooden planks. “I couldn’t remember which one was which, Mr. Grim.”

He passed a plank from the stack to the ratcatcher and waited patiently as Grim balanced it in the palm of his hand.

“That’s a sixteen.”

He handed back the plank and rolled his eyes as the apprentice chose another. “That’s a one-seven-four.”

“But they’re identical, Mr. Grim.”

The ratcatcher turned to the maid and offered her a wry smile, but found no sympathy in those eyes. The woman’s face was distinctly odd; it looked as though there was far too much space between her brain and her mouth. Grim returned his attention to the wainscoting, and found himself hoping the rat had managed to escape.

“Are there cellars below, miss?” he asked.

“There used to be,” the girl said, nodding. “The principal had them all blocked up when a few of the teachers were caught tutoring after hours.”

Grim focused on the flagging wallpaper. For the first time, he spotted a large yawn in the wainscoting. “Would you mind leaving us alone now, miss?” he managed. “This little experiment shouldn’t take long.”

The maid gave a slight nod, lifted her apron and hurried away. The curious smell that Grim had noticed on the way in seemed to depart with her.

“She didn’t look too clever, did she?” the ratcatcher whispered conspiratorially. “I reckon she’s been at the stock or something.”

The apprentice looked mystified. “Why d’you say that?”

“Well, there’s a funny smell from her. Didn’t you notice it?”

“I did, as it happens. I just didn’t like to say anything; I thought it might be those scones you had for breakfast.”

Grim studied the young man’s expression for a few moments, and then hit him with the one-seven-four. After offering the boy a vicious scowl, he returned his attention to the wainscoting, and froze.

A pair of glowing red eyes was staring back at him. They were attached to the largest rodent Bernard Grim had laid eyes on in more than twenty years in the trade.

“M-m-malcolm,” he managed. “Forget the wood. Get a dagger.”

Afternoon came and went.

“Apprentice to Bernard Grim the ratcatcher, milord.”

The palace guard bowed low and stepped to one side, admitting the scrawny frame of the ratcatcher’s assistant. At the opposite end of the long hall, a thin, angular-faced man sat scribbling furiously behind a desk laden with paperwork. He didn’t look up when the door closed behind his trembling visitor. “Sit.”

The command echoed around the hall. Eventually, the man behind the desk stopped scribbling and popped the pen into an inkwell. Then he looked up. “Not on the
floor
, boy! Get a chair, for heaven’s sake.”

The apprentice moved quicker than the eye could see, snatched up one of the chairs, and pulled it toward the desk. Then he tucked his cap into a back pocket and sat down, embarrassment playing across his face like sunlight on a pond.

“Now,” said the duke. “You wanted to see me about something?”

The boy nodded.

“Well?”

“We caught a rat, milord,” said Malcolm, nervously.

“Really?” said the duke, proffering the smile he generally reserved for lunatics and tax evaders. “And that’s unusual, is it?”

Malcolm frowned and reached up to scratch his chin. “In what way, milord?” he asked.

“Well, unless I’m very much mistaken, you are a ratcatcher. Surely snaring the odd rodent is all part and parcel of the job, no?”

“Not when they’re this size, sir.”

The creature the apprentice proceeded to pull from his trousers was quite unlike anything Duke Modeset had seen before. He leaped from his seat and yanked the chair in front of him. He had no desire to suffer the frenzied death leap of a half-expired monstrosity.

“Oh, don’t worry, milord,” said the boy, reassuringly. “It’s a goner. But there are more of them, we reckon. That’s why I’ve come to see you. They’ve built a base beneath Gandleford School. We heard ’em, this morning. They start goin’ at it, they could be all over Dullitch in minutes. I know the council’s supposed to deal with this sort of thing, and I did try knocking at City Hall, but I don’t think anyone’s available.”

“Oh?” said Modeset, eyebrows raised.

“There was this wooden board outside the door. It said, Gone Fishing.”

Modeset let out a long sigh. When reflecting on the council’s overall performance of late, “Gone Fishing” seemed to be an accurate description.

“These, er…these rats. There could be an awful lot of them, you say?”

The apprentice nodded. “Mr. Grim, that’s my gov’ner, he reckons that if you let it go more than a week you’re gonna have to paint whiskers on the royal crest.”