Nightshade City (5 page)

Billycan
knew
something was not right. Clover’s intellect well exceeded that of the typical dithering female. She possessed some quality that set her apart from the other young ones. Billycan sensed something masked about her, something concealed from him other than fear, a controlled demeanor that went far deeper than simple fright. “You may be right, Minister, but given the Belancort history, it does make one wonder if, in this instance, my paranoia is warranted. I suppose it’s of no matter now.” The Collector’s mood darkened. “We have bigger issues to attend to, I’m afraid. Minister, there has been talk. The soldiers have informed me they hear murmurs of sedition. Just last night, a group of majors encountered a drunken rat in Catacomb Hall blathering on about liberation from the High Ministry. He claimed to know about a faction of rebels, insurrectionists. He kept spewing about the days of Trilok and how he would be avenged. The majors pegged him for an unruly tippler and thrashed him to pulp, but later went to High Major Schnauss and reported the
incident. Schnauss went back to take the rat in for questioning. He had disappeared.”

“So,” said Killdeer, “because a drunken lout with a loose tongue crawled away from the scene, I’m to believe we rule a city of traitors?”

Billycan scratched between his front teeth, still trying to release the stuck strand of pork. “Drunk or not, Billycan thinks this rat may have been telling the truth. High Major Lithgo informed me today that several clans from his sector have gone missing. He called upon our best trackers, but they have found nothing, no evidence of where they’ve fled. This is hardly paranoia. These are real defectors, and defectors lead to revolt, and then to full-scale revolution. Billycan does not need to tell you what that means. We must wrangle these rats back to the Combs and punish the fugitives accordingly.”

Killdeer sat up in his throne, miffed with Billycan and his grim hypothesis. “How many families do we have living in the Catacombs—over a thousand, I would presume? You expect me to believe that we have a confirmed rebellion because a few have gone astray?” Killdeer pulled his great tail out from under him, slapping it against the side of his throne. “These truant families, from Lithgo’s sector, eh? You are aware that our rats frequently go Topside in groups—security in numbers, I suppose. Couldn’t a cluster from his sector have been snuffed out by Topsiders’ toxins, traps, or perhaps been drowned in a burlap sack? It’s happened before, and it will happen again. Our dim subjects have grown too careless Topside, more worried about their bellies than their necks. The Topsiders will forever attempt to lure us to our deaths, poisoning our blood and snapping our bones like matchsticks. That is why our subjects stay here, rather than up there—it’s far more fatal.”

“I suspect all that’s possible, Minister, but there is one flaw with
your theory—these rats were not signed out by our guards, the only way for them to leave the Combs. In other words, they’ve simply vanished.”

Killdeer’s face reddened as his blood pressure rose. He dug impatiently into the bedding of his throne, found his bottle, and chugged half its contents. “Make the proclamation for the Grand Speech. We’ll have it early if you’re so worried, on Rest Day, tomorrow at midnight. Have all the troops present. Our majors have grown lax and slack-jawed. It’s about time we reminded our sulking subjects that living in the Catacombs is a privilege. It is by no means a right.” Killdeer took another swig while his chest swelled with a forthcoming outburst. Billycan muttered to himself, not wanting to deal with Killdeer’s brewing tantrum. Killdeer was proving more useless with each passing year, becoming more of a figurehead and less of a Minister. Killdeer continued to issue orders. “I want the Belancort girl in attendance at the Grand Speech and well turned out, as she will be standing by my side. She will be pleased to know she does not need to wait a fortnight to see me.”

“Oh, yes, Minister, I’m sure the dear lass will be delighted,” said Billycan. He smiled gleefully at the thought of breaking the news to her. His chalky skin prickled in anticipation.

“I haven’t made myself visible of late. My subjects’ memories have dulled.” Killdeer grinned slyly. “With the girl next to me, a member of the Belancort Clan, a family of Trilok Loyalists—before they all died, that is—my subjects will once again warm to me. Have all your majors announce the Grand Speech to their sectors.”

“Very well, Minister. I will go to the Belancort quarters myself. I would like to find out more about this grandfather, Timeron. There is something about him—”

Killdeer grunted. “Investigate all you desire, but just get it done.”
The Minister jumped from his throne, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He stomped out of the room, bellowing down the hall for Texi to get his bath ready.

Billycan stood alone in the den, scratching his pearly chin. He studied his reflection in Killdeer’s silver throne, running a digit over his black scar. “Timeron, who are you? Why do you smell of deceit?” he asked, as if his mirror image might answer. Billycan seemed to be acquainted with the old rat’s scent, but he could not place it. Perhaps it was the looming stench of death.

Be it an omen, good or bad, the two Nightshade brothers ventured into the hole they had uncovered in the Topsiders’ brownstone. Their options were few, and this seemed a serendipitous course, perhaps a sign from the Saints, and if not a sign from above, at the very least somewhere to go. The trudge down seemed endless; the tunnel’s angle severe. After some time, the ground started to flatten and the corridor widened. They found themselves entering an open space with a cavernous dirt ceiling, a rotunda of sorts. They stood in one of three arched entryways, all equidistant from one another.

Vincent whispered to his brother. “I smell that rat again. The scent is so familiar. The same one I picked up in the Topsiders’ house. Why can’t I pinpoint it? Something about it reminds me of father.” Proud of his scent detection, Vincent ruffled at his inability to identify the rat. Julius had always told his son that he had a talent for the craft, and even now Vincent didn’t want to disappoint him. “I know this rat. Who is he?”

“Whoever he is, he’s in desperate need of a thorough cleaning,” Victor said. He crinkled his nose at the heady odor. “Smells like mugwort.”

They looked around them. The space could hold at least a
thousand rats, maybe more. It reminded Vincent of Catacomb Hall. During Trilok’s reign, all the clans would gather there for events and holidays. The children would play, and the adults would dance. Vincent remembered his mother and father dancing as he ran wild with his siblings, laughing till it hurt.

Ordinary rats lived for only a handful of years, four or five at most. Catacombs rats lived decades upon decades, just like Topsiders. The extended years were thought to be a gift from the Saints, but Vincent had sometimes wondered if they might be a curse. Why should one have to live so long surrounded by misery and constant disappointment? He used to think it unjust, but now with their newfound freedom, maybe they could find some form of happiness. Even if they died as a result, at least they’d die free.

Etched deep into the wall, a marking accompanied each of the three passageways. “What is that symbol?” said Victor, pointing to one. They walked across the center of the rotunda and examined the emblem. It consisted of three jagged prongs, connecting at a pointed base.

Victor’s insides twisted in dread. “Isn’t that Killdeer’s mark?” Shaking, he instinctively backed away.

“It is,” said Vincent. Acid rose in his belly as he realized where the Topside hole had led them. He kept his composure for Victor’s sake. “I don’t know this place. I’ve never been here before, but I’m afraid we’re back where we started. We’re back in the Catacombs.”

Vincent reached up and touched the mark, tracing Killdeer’s crude insignia with his claw. The Minister had sentenced many a youth to death for offenses substantially less serious than dodging the Kill Army. Vincent could only imagine what their penalty would be.

He heard a loud, whiplike crack. Everything went black.

V
INCENT AWOKE
to a soft orange light. He tried to focus on the small torch affixed to the wall. With his head still buzzing from the blow, tiny flecks of white and gold swirled about his blurred vision. As his sight returned, he remembered what had happened. He and Victor had unwittingly returned to the Catacombs.

Bound to an iron ring protruding from the wall, Vincent twisted his limbs awkwardly. The ring dug into his spine as he tried in vain to writhe free from his shackles, contorting his body in every conceivable position. Pressing his feet against the wall for leverage, he clenched his teeth, straining, as he tried to wrench the metal ring from the wall. His efforts proved useless.

He listened intently for his brother’s voice but heard nothing. He could smell other rats now, hundreds of scents overlapping, a jumble of males, but no one he could identify.
They must be Kill Army majors,
he thought.

Once again he picked up the pungent scent of the rat he’d smelled earlier. He must have been wrong about it. His father would never have associated with a Kill Army major.

His ears perked. Heavy footsteps neared the room, perhaps one of the majors, or possibly the High Collector. The tales of Billycan flooded his mind. Could they be true—could they? The stories had always been so hard for Vincent to swallow: the excessive malice, the unwarranted torture, incomprehensible even for the most savage of rats. Vincent’s coat grew soaked with brackish sweat.

The door opened with a hollow groan. Vincent tried to gather himself, inhaling a deep breath and slowly releasing it. He would be steadfast, at least in the eyes of his executioner, as were all the Nightshades who had met an untimely demise.

A figure stood in the darkened doorway. “Vincent Nightshade,” said a deep voice. “Vincent, don’t be frightened, son. First off, your brother—he is all right. I didn’t know who you were back there, and I simply can’t take any chances with our city’s safety. I am a friend. I knew you when you were a child. I knew your father—Julius.” The rat entered the room, ducking under the small doorway.

Raising his sore head, Vincent sized up the substantial rat before him. His fur was dense, like steel wool the tint of blackberries—
An unusual color,
thought Vincent. He was not old but not young either; Vincent guessed him to be somewhere around his father’s age. His head nearly touched the ceiling of the tiny cell. The rat dragged in a small crate and sat on it. As his face became clearer, Vincent noticed a ragged leather patch over his left eye, under which lay a profoundly scarred muzzle. The rat’s visible amber eye looked distinctively friendly, almost merry.

The rat took a seat on the wooden crate and smiled gently at Vincent, who, though terrified, desperately tried to hide it. “I followed
you boys the whole way down that tunnel from the Topsiders’ brownstone,” said the rat. “I could only guess you were Kill Army soldiers sent to find our location. I figured you were trackers from the High Ministry. I couldn’t risk you reporting back. I’m sorry for striking you.”

Vincent sat in stoic silence, not sure if this rat could be believed. The rat pulled the crate closer so he could get a better look. “Victor is fine, by the way, just fine. In fact, we can’t get him to shut up!” The rat chuckled.

Vincent stared at his captor without expression or response. “Vincent, you don’t remember me, do you? You were far too young, I suspect. Now I’m going to free you and bring you to your brother.” The rat scratched around the edge of his eye patch. “I’m Juniper Belancort. Does that name ring any bells with you? Do you remember my clan—
Belancort?
My older brother, Barcus, was close with Julius, your father, as was I. You used to play with Clover, my little niece. Do you remember her? I don’t see how you could—you were just a child.” Vincent’s face remained blank.

Bending forward, Juniper released a heavy sigh. “Vincent, we are deep in the ground, far deeper than the Catacombs. We are under the Reserve—miles under the hole you and Victor found. The High Ministry has no idea we exist, and for now, that’s how it will stay. We are building up our city as fast as we can. Through our small group of Loyalists, rats are escaping the Combs every day.” Juniper’s voice grew in enthusiasm and his broad face brightened. “As soon as our numbers are strong, we are going to crush the High Ministry and the Kill Army majors. No further blood will be shed by Killdeer or Billycan. We are bringing back the days of Trilok. Killdeer’s reign
will
come to an end. The unfortunate boys recruited into the Kill Army and the blameless girls they compel into servitude need to be freed,
as do all the Ministry’s subjects, harassed and petrified by Billycan and his loathsome majors for his blasted Stipend. Your father and Barcus would never have allowed any of this to happen if they were still alive.”

Vincent looked at Juniper. Cocking his head, he studied the rat’s unusual face, trying to remember. He thought of his father, trying to recall the secret corridor and his father’s friends. He remembered the little things, the things that made him laugh and the things that made him feel safe. He thought of everyone he’d ever seen his parents welcome into their home with a warm smile and a fresh pot of tea. He remembered his seventh birthday, recalling a family party for him and his brothers and sisters. A tall, woolly rat came to mind: a high-spirited fellow who’d throw them all into the air till they almost lost their cake. His hackles suddenly tingled. He recalled riding atop the rat’s shoulders and holding on to the rat’s bushy fur … a funny purplish color. That rat had arrived with …“Wait,” he blurted. “Your brother is—Uncle Barcus?”