King Othon summoned to his chamber his servant, Alfred A. Brussel. Thanks to his visit with the Cats in the colder climes of the mountains, the Architect was well supplied with furs, gloves and stockings. He avoided, however, showing himself in public wrapped in his furs, as that would have only breeded ill feeling, nor did he appear now before the King in anything more than his customary caftan, so his teeth chattered and he was shivering just as much as the King. He was anxious to return to the cosy bed where he had left Nayel asleep. He could not do much about his hunger, but the morphine that he used sparingly took the edge off his appetite, helping also to ease his anxiety. Prospects did not look too bright. He hoped he could convince Queen Katerina that he had been kidnapped. In his favour, too, she would have to admit that with his help her Goddess had in the end been the victor. He thought he could persuade her to see reason. If only he could avoid, in this blasted, never-ending night, being run through in the mêlée of battle. He made a low bow. ‘Your Highness, how may I render service?’
  ‘Admirably hast thou rendered service already, Court Architect. Think not that I blame thee for this ill turn in the fortunes of Ratona. Thy great work didst offer us our onely occasion for victory. Victory we’d have grabbed, too, had we proved our mettle by bold action. The Cat Queen might have lost heart had we sallied opportunely. Instead, we hid closeted up inside these walls which needs must now be our tomb. Well, ‘tis said occasion be a wanton wrench, waiting not on the hesitant, but bestowing her sweets on that jack that taketh her first. The King blameth himself.  He is grown feeble and timorous. He failed his people.’ King Othon sadly bowed his head.
  Alfred A. Brussel wondered what to say, for he did not want to further depress Othon by agreeing, though he did think the King had come up with a plausible explanation for how badly things had gone. He had a bright idea. ‘Your Highness, why not surrender?’
  There was silence as the King remained still, his face buried in his hands. Without raising his head from them, he said, ‘Offerest me thy rede, Architect, howbeit I ask not for it?’
  ‘Where there is life there is hope, Your Highness. Ratona can rise again. You must think what is best for your folk, Sire. The Queen may not spare you, but she may do your subjects. I could even offer to intervene on your behalf. I think I may have some power of persuasion over her.’
  Again the King delayed before responding. ‘So, this be what thou advisest for Ratona?’ He raised his heads and gazed at the Architect with infinite sadness. ‘That Rats grovel for a dollop of mercy of the Cat Queen? Are we to have life only to be her slaves and chattel? So every Rat henceforth be born in chains? That our young be raised as livestock to be butchered on foreign altars? That the world regard with contempt a race that sold its soul for mere beastly, brute existence?’
  ‘One must accept what’s on offer, Sire. One can’t expect to find oranges on a crab-apple tree, or pearls in a clam.’
  ‘Thou art certainly no rat, Architect, and for that thou hast my pity.’ King Othon was growing weaker and his voice fainter. The Architect had to crane his ear to listen further. ‘… advice when I have not asked for it. Thou hast ever been impertinent to us. Thou wouldst need entrails enough to encircle this entire city to be disembowelled as many times as hast merited. Even now when we must part forever thou has not learnt that deference proper to a servant towards his Lord the Grand Rat.’
  ‘I beg pardon, Your Highness. You must excuse my foreign breeding. There are no kings in my country, no lords nor earls. We have progressed beyond that. Allegiance to my country’s constitution, which I hold sacred, forbids me from venerating or worshipping any one, be he Man or Rat. As an American, and as a devout Democrat, I believe only Nature herself grades us according to race. Be that as it may, please know that you have my deepest esteem. Wherever my travels may take me in the future, I will always hold a sentimental memory of Your Highness in my heart.’
  ‘I fear thy travels have taken thee hard on to their destination. There is no escape from this city,’ rasped the King. ‘For that reason I have ye summoned to release from my service.’ ‘Oh, but Sire,’ began the Architect, but the King raised a finger to silence him, and resumed: ‘I keep my word also to reward thee what I promised. That is, to double the treasure thou already hast from me. And to sign over to thee as many slaves necessary … to bear thy treasure wheresoever willest. Though that may well be in circles inside the walls of this our doomed city.’
  Alfred A. Brussel bowed deeply. ‘Your Highness, if all monarchs were as honest and generous to their subjects as you are, there would be fewer revolutions.’
   ‘Speak not of generosity. What I give is worthless to me. In this city of starvation all his riches would not purchase the Rat King a turnip. Chests of snow would …’ Here, the speech of the King had grown so low and indistinct that the Architect could not follow. When he thought the King must have finished, Brussel said: ‘The buoyant and irrepressible optimism that has always encouraged me and which might be said to be one of the nutrients imbuing that native soil where I was raised, gives me hope, Your Highness, that I may yet arrive in a land where silver has a higher exchange value.’ He waited for Othon to answer, but no response came from the King, whose head now depended on his chest. Finally, a lone finger wavered, which the Architect took as a sign of dismissal, and he departed. Snuggling into the warm, curled body of Nayel under the fur cape, Brussel thought of waking up to the smell of bacon, of freshly baked bread spread with a slab of butter, and fell asleep. Nayel’s restlessness a few hours later woke the Architect. Drowsily he shoved a hand into the boy’s hairy nest, but, alas, malnutrition had robbed the youth of his usual vitality. Brussel peeped out from under the fur. He blinked in the unaccustomed sunshine streaming through the window. He blinked a few times before realizing something had changed.
  Nayel turned over on to his back and stuck out his arms and legs. Then he sat up promptly and far more alertly than had his whistle. ‘Master!’