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The Rat, The Cat & The Architect
Episode Eighteen
A theft in the night.
The Captain of the Guard was correct that Alfred A. Brussel could not have escaped High House. Its donjon, full of cats, was enclosed by high walls on three sides perpetually patrolled, whilst the fourth backed on to the chasm dropping sheer to a river. The truth was that the Architect had been stolen.
One night, rats had scaled that cliff wall with ropes and other climbing gear, appearing at the window of Brussel’s bed-chamber, calling to him softly. When he awoke, he had a terrible fright at first, then was overjoyed. He shook Nayel. ‘Wake up my boy! We are being rescued!’
Nayel sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Are you sure, Master? Are we dreaming?’
‘No, my boy, don’t be stupid. They are waiting for us on the terrace. I told them I positively would not leave without you. So, make haste or they will leave without us!’
‘Who are they?’
‘Rats sent by Othon. Now, no more questions. Throw everything into the portmanteau fast as you can. Then, help me with the treasure chests.’
‘Oh, but Master, must we return to the King? Will he not punish us?’
‘Punish us? Whatever for?’
‘Why, for treason.’
‘Oh, bosh! Fiddlesticks, why would he go to all this effort merely for the sake of justice? No, no, he quite knows my value. Now, are you coming or not? You had better come, for I don’t know what the cats would do to you when they discover me gone.’
‘But we must tell the others, Master.’
‘That’s impossible. We’d wake then whole household if we did that, and besides there isn’t any room for them.’
‘But, Master—’
The Architect clapped a hand over the ratling’s mouth and with the other hand gave him a stern wag of the finger. ‘Do not call me Master again, my lad, unless you intend to do as I order without further argument. I tell you, I will leave you here to be served as the appetizer for next Sunday’s dinner.’
A shadow appeared in the doorway to the terrace. ‘Your Worship, time presses.’
‘Yes, yes, we are coming. Get the chests from the salon, will you? You could be doing that while you’re waiting, you know.’
‘Chests? We are not bringing any chests, Your Worship.’
Alfred A. Brussel, on verge of losing his patience, closed his eyes. ‘Yes, we are my good fellow, unless you want to give up any idea of my coming with you.’
‘Your Worship, our instructions are to take you and only—’
‘You will find that much easier if you do as I say. Indeed, you will find it impossible otherwise. Compel me, and I will utilize my lungs to waken every cat within and without this donjon. I should only earn their thanks and gain their trust in the future by doing so.’
The rat in the doorway considered. ‘We will take what we can, Your Worship.’
‘Excellent. The chests are in the salon.’
They strapped Brussel securely into an armchair and lowered him by rope to ledges in a three-stage descent. He had only to use a broomstick to periodically push himself off from protruding rock. Waiting for them on the narrow pebbled border of the rushing river were canoes. Thanks to the speed of the river and the skill of the paddlers in navigating its rapids, when a servant tapped on the door with breakfast the next morning at eleven, Alfred A. Brussel and Nayel were well clear of the mountains, gliding on a river grown broad and tranquil, glistering like honey in the sun and tinted emerald when trees overhung it. They pulled the canoes up on to the bank, and the rats efficiently prepared a meal of fried fish, berries and cider. Again they embarked, and soon the river delivered them to that pond where the Prince Hranu and the Lord Esan had one time swum. The canoes skimmed across the pond, driven by the brawny arms of the paddlers, and passed under the shadow of the dilapidated beaver house. The rusted iron gate creaked open for their passage. On the wharf inside, two beavers awaited them with lamps. The canoes were secured and unladen of their passengers and cargo. Then the canoes also were lifted on to the wharf.
‘Now what?’ asked Brussel.
‘Your Worship shall presently see,’ said the head rat.
The beavers were already busy lifting planking. They climbed down into a little hole and with their broad, horny hands shovelled dirt aside, exposing a trapdoor.
‘What’s down there?’ asked the Architect in trepidation, staring into the blackness that was revealed when the trapdoor was removed. He started as his words jumped back at him, and the lamplight also glinted back up, striking his eyes, having bounced off the surface of water. He felt on his face cold, dank air. ‘Extraordinary!’
The canoes were lowered to the subterranean river, as was all the gear. They were soon on their way again, the paddlers needing only to steer along the rushing stream. The tunnel was at times only a narrow tube and the water ran in a torrent. At other times the walls soared up as they passed through underground fissures, and sometimes they retreated on either side and they travelled on wide, low waterways whose ceilings hung mere inches above them. In the lamp light Brussel could see the imprint of tools in the rock faces, where rats had improved on nature. He saw the glitter of stones. ‘Magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘Limestone. Look, fossils!’ he exclaimed, grabbing Nayel’s arm and pointing. ‘And I’ve seen plenty of iron ore,’ he added. He gasped with wonder when they entered a vast cavern, its limits beyond the reach of their lamps, save at times a faint glitter overhead like stars. They travelled across a placid lake of black water. Brussel removed a glove and dipped his finger in the streaming water. It was chill as ice. Then he withdrew his hand with a shudder, thinking of what vile creatures might lurk in that lake.
Ages past, when the rats discovered that subterranean network of waterways, they connected it to their city by a tunnel cut through bedrock. The canoes turned up that channel. The only sound was the eerie echo of the paddles dipping into and out of the water still and black as oil. As the tunnel ascended the water grew shallow, until they had to disembark, unload their gear and drag the canoes on to the bank. The tunnel rose steeply as they walked, and there were intermittent runs of steps. Perpetual rain fell on them from the ceiling. Brussel removed a kid glove, grazed the wall with his hand, looked at his palm and wiped it clean with his handkerchief. ‘Coal,’ he murmured. ‘Why the minerals down here are the Industrial Age in vitro!’
Finally, they arrived at the bottom tread of a stone stair steep almost as a ladder glowing faintly with light falling from above. A short time thereafter, King Othon, in his presence hall, seated upon his cushion on the rumps of his kin, made a temple of his fingers and with something like a thunderstorm brewing in the shadow beneath his brows, said, ‘Well, what account canst thou make of thyself?’
Alfred A. Brussel bowed low. ‘Your Highness, I am an adherent of the principle of the free market. It is a point of honour for me always to maximize profit. Why, if I did not seek always the highest price for my services, I would betray the very system whereby my countrymen have become the most prosperous and freest people on Earth! Only if selfishness is unconstrained can our system work. Moreover, it is a system utterly moral, for it makes all men equal. I ask you, what is the alternative to it except an oligarchy holding on to power and wealth for themselves, condemning all other men to serfdom? What answer do other nations make to the American system save Czars and Caesars?’
The king had heard that word again. ‘Equal?’ he repeated, baffled. Then as his wroth and frustration grew, he exclaimed, ‘Equal, equal! Always braying this equal. Dare thinkest still thou’rt equal of the Rat King, pretentious coxcomb? Tell me, didst thou tell the Cat Queen that thou wast her equal? Didst thou, now?’
‘I didst not, Your Highness, however if—’
‘I know it well! Fie! I trow she’d have had thy liver minced into cat food to nibble on a cracker if thou hadst! As for me, I’d joyously hang thee by the toes and slowly undress thee of thy hide in narrow strips to fry in fat. Only thou art of use to me alive. Albeit, thou wouldst be the same use to me if I had thee shortened the length of thy legs. I might do it. Thou dost not require thy feet, methinks, in thy work as architect? I’d leave thee thine eyes and hands, and thou wouldst not scamper off so fast to serve that cunty queen! Thou wouldst be grateful, wouldst not thou, Architect? Wouldst lick my feet in gratitude, wouldst wash them with thy tears of thanks, if I chose only to cut off thy gams to feed to my carp?’
Brussel dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. ‘Oh, Your Highness, if I have displeased you—’
‘Thank me!’ growled the King, ‘For choosing to chop off only thy legs and slicing nothing else off ye might miss more.’
‘Pleeese, Your Highness. How can I restore myself to your good favour?’
‘Thank. Me.’ Othon’s voice was hard and cold, and his slit eyes had the smouldering glare of the merciless, loathing wolf braced to leap.
Brussel’s complexion turned ashen. He lowered his head nearly to the floor.
‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ he sobbed. ‘Thank you.’
‘What hast thou to thank me for, soon-to-be legless worm?’
‘For sparing my life.’
‘And for…?’
‘For only cutting off my legs.’
‘Now I grant thee leave to cravenly kiss my big toe.’
When the Architect had kissed the King’s naked big toe and said to it ‘Thank you!’, his chest heaving with his sobs, the King said, ‘Rise, Architect, on thy two legs, and know that I condescend in my magnanimity to let thee have use of them for some time longer.’
Brussel, however, had lost all strength in his legs and couldn’t rise. He tried, fell back and wept copiously whilst kneeling on the pavement, so intense was his feeling of relief. The King, rolling his eyes, gestured, and two guards lifted Brussel by the armpits. ‘Attend our Court Architect to his previous quarters and tell my Steward that all is to be prepared according to his comfort and liking.’
King Othon was not at heart cruel or sadistic. Once he had asserted his authority over Brussel by inducing him to grovel, he softened. He permitted the Architect all his former luxuries and gave him free rein in the city, for he had no worry of his getting out, tightly sealed as any prison was the city now. Not only did the Architect once more become a respectable member of court, he was welcomed again into the King’s confidences. Indeed, the designs the Architect now unrolled required the most careful collaboration between the two. The miracles the Architect promised were so outside the ken of the Rat that long and patient explanations were required. Every rat and every resource of the rat city would have to be expended to incarnate the Architect’s new vision.