Ratscalibur Read online

  “Do any cats talk?” asked Joey.

  “I’ve never met one who could,” Parsifur said. “But I think they probably would . . . if they ever found anything worth saying.” He twisted Chequers’s other ear. The lean cat grinned.

  Talking to Parsifur was exhausting. Joey was never sure if the little knight actually meant what he was saying. Still, talking beat listening to himself think. “How long do we have to ride?”

  “Not long,” said Parsifur. “Hopefully no more than a day.”

  “A whole day?” Joey gasped. This thing seemed like it was going to stretch out forever. Poor Mom. . . .

  “Possibly longer, depending on what we run into. Of course, we can’t go longer than tomorrow night, or we won’t have any kingdom to go home to.” Parsifur looked at Joey’s face and giggled again: hee-hee-hee. “You are positively the least heroic hero I’ve ever run across. It’s really very amusing. But Squirrelin will know what to do with you.”

  “The only thing I want Squirrelin to do is turn me back into a person.”

  Parsifur kept smiling. “From what I’ve seen of people, I’d rather stay a rat.”

  Sir Aramis’s cat, a sleek gray beast named Mave, pulled up alongside Joey and Squamish. Aramis leaned in to Joey. “You’re still not convinced you are a hero?”

  Joey put his hand on Ratscalibur, which was now tied securely to his side with a piece of dental floss. He wished it would make him feel brave or strong, but he didn’t feel anything. The handle wasn’t even warm anymore. “I know I’m not a hero,” said Joey. “I’m sorry, but I’m not. I get picked last for kickball.” Then he added, “You don’t think I’m a hero either, do you?”

  Sir Aramis sighed. “I would like to believe . . . but I am a practical rat. I have a hard time putting faith in a ‘prophecy’ that my sisters taught me while we were skipping rope.”

  They had come to the edge of another building, and Aramis called ahead to Yislene, “Princess! Halt! This is the western border.”

  The rats all jumped off their cats and looked around. Sir Aramis stood at the edge of the roof. “Here, Ravalon ends, and the wild west begins. No kings hold sway in the land beyond. Just wild animals . . . obeying no law but their own hunger.” He pointed to a wide green park about eight blocks away. Joey knew about that park. He and Mom were supposed to go visit it today. “There, in the middle of that bramble, you will find the lair of the Squagician.” Joey took a deep breath. Instantly, his nose told him exactly where he needed to go.

  The vizier turned to Yislene. “Princess, is there no way I can convince you to return with me and leave this quest to the others?”

  Yislene shook her head stubbornly. “This quest is our last chance to survive. If it fails, our defeat will be final. We will have to submit to Salaman. Uther will step down. Ravalon will be no more. As the last Ragician in Uther’s realm, it is my duty to aid and protect these adventurers as best I can.”

  Aramis looked like he wanted to say something more, but then he stopped, because he saw it would be hopeless. Joey could see that Aramis really was a practical rat.

  “Well, then,” said Sir Aramis, “I wish you luck on your journey. Now I must return to my place by the king—”

  “Ow!” shouted Joey. Something was burning him in the side. He looked down, expecting to see that his fur was on fire, but the only thing there was Ratscalibur, glowing faintly . . . and then he felt a cold wind beat down on his head. Whoosh—whoosh—WHOOSH—

  “Look out!” Joey yelled, just as the crow swooped down at them. The other rats dropped flat to the ground . . . except for Yislene, who stood frozen in place.

  Joey was frozen, too, as he watched the crow snatch her up in its black claws and fly away.

  THE CROW didn’t fly far. With a yell, Sir Aramis leaped from the roof, grabbed hold of one of the bird’s legs, and hacked at the other leg with his sword. The BlackClaw squawked and dropped Yislene onto the rooftop. It squawked again, bitterly—clearly annoyed at losing the princess—then grabbed hold of Sir Aramis before he could get away, too.

  The BlackClaw flew high into the air clutching the vizier, who continued hammering away at it with his sword. Aramis was shouting at the bird, but whatever he was saying, they couldn’t hear it on the roof.

  The cats were up on their hind legs, leaping and hissing and stretching their paws out at the crow, pumping their limbs like they were trying to swim up through the air to rescue Sir Aramis. But they couldn’t even get close, and they kept falling helplessly to the roof: thump-thump-thump. . . . Only Aramis’s own cat, Mave, remained still. She sat on her haunches and stared calmly up at the furious battle taking place above her head. She was probably the only cat smart enough to know that that was all she could do.

  It was all Joey could do, either. He didn’t know exactly what a vizier’s job was . . . but he’d never imagined this. “Aye,” said Parsifur, who was standing next to him. “Aramis was one of our bravest knights, till he decided his time was better spent holding the king’s hand.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?” said Joey.

  Parsifur laughed, but he didn’t sound happy. “It’s no great chore to read your face.” Then he continued as he stared up at the vizier. “Aramis taught me everything I know. I was his squire.”

  “You don’t seem to get along now,” said Joey.

  Parsifur spat on the ground. “I’m of the opinion that a knight should fight. Not play politics in the king’s court.” He giggled, but his eyes looked deadly serious as they stared up at Aramis. “But perhaps braver rats make better choices.”

  The battle raged on. Aramis kept jabbing the crow with his sword, but to no effect. Every few moments, the crow would try to fly higher into the air . . . but it kept bumping into something—something invisible, as far as Joey could see—and doing a weird little flip. “Why’s it flying like that?” asked Joey.

  Brutilda, solemnly gnawing on her broadsword, grunted, “The princess has it on a leash.”

  Joey looked at Yislene. She was waving her paws in front of her face and muttering something under her breath as she stared at the crow. Joey understood: this was Ragic. “Can’t she do anything more?”

  “She could stop the crow’s heart,” said Parsifur, “but a fall from this height, trapped in a BlackClaw’s death grip, would be difficult to survive. If the fall didn’t kill Aramis, the weight of the bird might.”

  “Or a talon might pierce his heart,” said Brutilda.

  “Aye,” nodded Parsifur. “This is the wisest course. Eventually, the BlackClaw will grow frustrated and drop Sir Aramis”—this was the first time Joey had heard Parsifur call the vizier Sir Aramis. “All the princess can do is make sure he doesn’t fall too far.”

  As if on cue, the crow gave up and opened its claws. Aramis fell soundlessly through the air, past the roof, to the street below. There was a little thud on the roof near Joey, but he was too worried about Aramis to wonder what it was. He ran to the edge of the roof and looked down.

  To his relief, he saw that the vizier had fallen on what looked like a nice soft pile of trash in a narrow alley. He lay flat on his back, not moving, but even from here Joey could see that he was breathing. “Probably just stunned,” said Parsifur, as he jumped onto Chequers. “I’ll go down and fetch him.”

  The crow took one last look at the fallen knight, then flew away with a disgusted squawk. Joey glanced over at Yislene. She had collapsed with exhaustion—that was the thud Joey had heard—and Brutilda was trying to get her to sip water from an acorn cap.

  Parsifur, riding Chequers, leaped onto the building’s fire escape and started trotting down the steps. Joey looked down. Aramis had raised himself up on an elbow and was looking around, a little dazed. But he seemed to be okay. Joey was relieved.

  Then Joey looked at the pile of garbage Aramis was lying on. It seemed familiar. He had definitel
y seen it before. Maybe not from this angle. He turned his head and squinted, just as a little tickle of hot spice ran its fingers up his nose. . . .

  Something clicked in Joey’s brain. “Wrundel,” he whispered. “That’s Wrundel’s den.” Then, suddenly he was shouting at the top of his lungs, “Sir Aramis is on top of Wrundel’s den!”

  He looked back down: Aramis was still dazed, absolutely helpless. The garbage bag he was lying on rippled, as if blown by a breeze no one could feel. Or as if something was moving beneath it . . .

  “YA!” shouted Parsifur without a moment’s hesitation, kicking Chequers’s sides with his heels. The cat leaped off the fire escape obediently—falling a full three stories onto the garbage pile, right next to Aramis, and somersaulting forward. Only at that moment did Wrundel’s savage orange arm stab out of the pile. But Parsifur, who’d been thrown by the fall, stabbed back with his trusty sharpened paper clip. Wrundel’s paw disappeared into the pile with a scream. Before it could reappear, Parsifur had leaped back onto Chequers, pulled Aramis up behind him, and ridden away.

  A few minutes later, Chequers, carrying the two rats, climbed back onto the roof. Both knights looked exhausted by the recent ordeal, but Sir Aramis had recovered his senses enough to speak. “I owe you my life, good Parsifur,” said the vizier with dignity.

  Parsifur gave a significant look to Yislene, who was now able to stand without Brutilda’s help, and said, “We owe you far more than that.”

  Aramis waved the compliment away with a dismissive gesture, as if saving the life of a princess was something he did every day. “Your Majesty,” he said, turning to Yislene, “in light of this recent ordeal . . . please reconsider going on this quest. I worry. Losing you would be the end of your father.”

  But the princess, though shaken, was as stubborn as ever. “Losing his kingdom would be the end of my father,” she said. Aramis had to nod regretfully. She smiled and hugged him and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, old fellow. My companions will keep me safe.” Aramis didn’t look too sure about that, but he hugged her back, then nodded stiffly to the others and mounted his cat, to return to his king. He trotted away, giving several worried glances back as he left.

  The princess turned to the others. “Let us make haste. There is much riding to do today.” The others mounted their cats and followed her down the fire escape, onto the street, around the corner from Wrundel. Parsifur leaned toward Joey and whispered, “We’ll not ride far before we make camp. Ragic is exhausting—especially for one as young as Yislene. She’ll need to sleep soon.”

  Joey nodded, though it was taking all his concentration to hold on to Squamish as she padded down the fire escape. He felt like he was riding a Slinky downstairs.

  It was broad daylight, and there were plenty of people on the street, but no one paid any attention to the strange caravan winding down the sidewalk. “Why don’t they see us?” asked Joey.

  “It’s the basic -agic,” said Brutilda, as if he were an idiot. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Tut-tut, Your Roundness,” said Parsifur, “the boy was a High-Realmer only yesterday. He can’t be expected to know such things.” Brutilda sniffed and looked away.

  Parsifur said to Joey, “All those who work -agic, whether they be Ragicians, Squagicians, Dogicians, Raccoogicians—”

  “That’s . . . raccoon magicians?” said Joey.

  Parsifur nodded. “They all have an interest in keeping our world—the Low Realm—hidden from yours. So, whatever else they do with their powers, there is a basic -agic that they do at all times, every second that they breathe, that clouds our realm from human eyes. High-Realmers can see individual pieces of the puzzle—a cat here, a rat there. But a rat riding a cat? Never. That’s why Gondorff had to turn you into a rat to send his message. You never would have seen us, otherwise.

  “And when they do stumble upon one of us, say after we’ve died in battle, what do they find? Nothing. Take me, for example. The human who chances to find my corpse will merely see a rat, a peanut shell, and a paper clip. Nothing suspicious there. Aside, of course, from my outstanding physical beauty. Hee-hee-hee.”

  Joey realized it had been a long time since he’d heard Parsifur giggle. He was kind of glad to hear the noise. But something still didn’t make sense. “Okay, but why are we traveling on the sidewalk at all? Shouldn’t we be in the sewer? Wouldn’t that be faster and safer? Isn’t that where rats live?”

  Brutilda, riding ahead of them, snorted. “There’s nothing safe about the Under Realm. And the only thing it would make faster is our deaths.” She spat a loogie onto the sidewalk.

  “Allow me to translate what my ovoid friend has put so bluntly,” said Parsifur. “The Under Realm—or ‘sewer,’ as you refer to it—is inhabited by wild rats. Savages who have never mastered cats or Ragic or weapons—”

  “They have spears,” interrupted Brutilda.

  “—Except for the crude spears they throw, thank you, Brutilda,” he said in a way that didn’t sound like thank you at all. “They’re content to lurk in the dark and steal whatever they can find and kill whomever they can meet. They have no leaders, no kings, no civilization, no honor. What they have are numbers. There are lots and lots of them. Any civilized animal that finds itself in the Under Realm doesn’t last very long.”

  Joey shivered. He was suddenly very glad to be on the sidewalk, in bright sunlight. He just wished they could go faster. Mom must be so worried.

  Brutilda suddenly took hold of the reins of Yislene’s cat and brought it to a halt. She turned back to the others. “We must stop here for the night,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “The princess must rest.”

  “Nonsense, Brutilda, I’m fine. . . .” said Yislene. But even Joey, who barely knew her, could see that she wasn’t. She was leaning sideways in her saddle, like she could fall asleep any second.

  They found a ventilation shaft—an aluminum tunnel full of hot air—beneath a pizza parlor and crawled inside, while the cats stayed outside and guarded the entrance. It was cozy and warm, and the air was filled with the luxurious smell of fresh pizza. It suddenly occurred to Joey that he was starving. “I didn’t even realize how hungry I was,” he said to Parsifur.

  “Aye,” said the knight, tightening his belt, “There’s no diet like fear. But have no worries: we’ll raid the establishment above us once it closes for the night.”

  Yislene was already asleep on a bed of cloth and straw that Brutilda had laid out for her. The giant guinea pig guarding the princess sat upright on her mammoth haunches. Joey felt sorry for anyone who tried to get past her.

  Joey nudged Parsifur and pointed to Brutilda. “What’s her story?” he whispered.

  “I have ears,” said Brutilda. Joey had forgotten how well rodents could hear.

  “Take no offense, O bulbous one,” giggled Parsifur. “The boy’s curiosity is only natural. Fair Brutilda is an escapee from what you would call a . . .” he hesitated. “Now what is the term?”

  “Kindergarten class,” hissed Brutilda.

  JOEY WAS CONFUSED. He had never heard the word kindergarten spoken with such loathing.

  “Yes, ‘kidneygordon class,’” repeated Parsifur, saying it all wrong. “As I understand it, it is a place where immature humans are herded together until they can be of use to the adult colony.”

  “Well, it’s something like that,” said Joey.

  “It was the fingers that got to me,” said Brutilda. “All those filthy human children, pushing their rude fingers through the bars, poking at me, prodding me, day after day after day.” Brutilda kept talking, but she didn’t look at Joey or Parsifur. It was like she was lost in some unhappy memory inside her mind. “And the stuff that was on those fingers . . . the dirt and the paint and the paste and the boogers . . .” She stopped talking and licked her mouth for a long second. “Well, that part was wonderful, obvious
ly. But I realized I was meant for greater things than being trapped in a cage forever.”

  “You escaped?” said Joey.

  “I escaped,” said Brutilda. “One night, I pushed open my cage door, hid myself in the garbage can, and ran away when the janitor took it out in the morning.” She paused. “There was one little girl who used to push gummy bears into my cage. I do feel bad about abandoning her.” Brutilda looked down at Princess Yislene, sleeping next to her. “But I was destined for more important tasks.”

  “So you just decided to become a rat.”

  Brutilda turned a withering glare on Joey. “Life must seem so simple . . . when you’re so simple.”

  Parsifur interjected, “Fair ’Tilda didn’t ‘just decide’ anything. She wandered homeless for quite some time. Nearly starved to death. She only weighed about a million pounds as I recall. . . .” Brutilda scowled, but Parsifur continued. “And when I first saw her, she was about to be slaughtered by a pack of marauding Under-Realmers.”

  “You were there?” asked Joey.

  “Aye,” said Parsifur. “There was a rabid raccoon threatening our southern trade route with Peacemeal. I was part of a hunting party Uther led to end the threat. We were on our way home, exhausted from the quest, when we chanced upon the Lady Brutilda, cornered by Under-Realmers in an alley, and verging on death.”

  “Some of you wanted to let them kill me,” said Brutilda.

  “Correction, O furry sphere—all of us did,” said Parsifur. “Except Uther, of course. We were wounded ourselves, in no shape for combat. If the Under-Realmers wanted to slay some monster they’d found”—here Brutilda stiffened—“what business was it of ours? Hee-hee-hee.”

  “But noble Uther never saw a battle that wasn’t worth fighting. Or a maiden that wasn’t worth saving. And he was right, of course. He always was. Ravalon’s never had a doughtier defender than our Brutilda.”