The Rat Prince (7 page)

I, Prince Char.

Rose's jewel-like eyes closed. “Ah,” she said. “A mystery is solved. The Lancastyr coat of arms features a sable rat, to the right side of a ship, under crossed swords. My father told me it was a device indicating persistence, endurance, cleverness. The rat may indeed have represented those qualities, but clearly the device tells the tale of our ancestor Captain Ulum and the rats.” Then she looked at me.

I nodded again. The coat of arms she mentioned was the same one etched upon the ring I had given her.

“Where did you get this gown?” she asked.

Millennia of history before her—a family tale dating from the time of the Phoenicians—yet her first question was about a dress?

Nonetheless I would have explained, had I had the power of human speech. I would have taken her to our storerooms and treasure troves to reveal that over the centuries, we rats had secretly saved a magnificent garment from the wardrobe of each Lady Lancastyr whose elegance we had particularly admired.

But I could communicate none of this to her. And it was more important that she read the entire book her ancestor wrote, so I slapped it with one paw.

“Yes, you gave me a magnificent present. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!” she gushed, not understanding. “I will read it when I have time, after the ball. And I cannot ever properly express my gratitude to you for the gown!”

Realizing I had done everything I could to draw her attention to the book, I looked over at Swiss and sighed. Then I stood up tall and swept Lady Rose a low, courtly bow. As I placed a paw upon my chest and brought my whiskers toward the floor, I hoped it would convey what I wished I could say aloud:
The dress is my royal gift to you, Lady Rose.

“Oh, God save!” she cried. I could tell my action was so unexpected to her as to be frightening.

However, she calmed herself in an instant. Then her green eyes held mine as she favored me with the magnificent curtsy she'd given her stepmother the day before. This time, the move was as solemn as it was graceful.

“Thank you, Blackie,” she murmured while she sank to the ground amid waves of golden skirts. “You and your people, and the mice, honor me greatly. I am proud to wear the gift of the rats, protectors of my family.”

My mother and Swiss, who'd remained at the margins of these events, now came forward to stand next to me.

“She may be human,” Lady Apricot said, breathing in the girl's scent curiously. “But there is something about her. She has the air of a queen, indeed. I now see why the humans have always thought her beautiful.”

“My apologies, but I don't think I will ever find her beautiful,” said Swiss. “She does smell extremely toothsome, though. Like sugarplums. She's lucky we're civilized enough not to bite her cheeks as she sleeps.”

“If she were a rat, she would be called Lady Sugarplum,” I declared.

Lady Apricot gave a most unladylike “Humpf!”

*   *   *

The day of the ball dawned fair and clear.

I awoke that morning with fierce exhilaration burning in my breast. My bid to put Lady Rose at the side of the next king would be a gamble with little risk to us rats and an enormous payoff if we succeeded. Indeed, in light of the latest developments, luck seemed to be on our side. The mice had worked long into the night to put the final touches on Rose's impressive garment, fashioned to thwart Wilhemina's mean-spirited plan. They had discarded the outmoded ruff and large farthingale and changed the shape of the billowing skirts and narrow bodice. The rat-candidate for queen would attend the party and be in line for the human throne before the evening was out.

Oh, the bliss and confidence of ignorance.

“Mother,” I said over the remnants of our breakfast—fresh eggs stolen from the henhouse, shreds of venison, and day-old bread scattered across a single gold plate on the floor of my chamber—“did you match Lady Rose's garments with adornments from our treasure boxes?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Thank you. When you deliver them, don't wake her up if she's still asleep. She needs her rest.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” she replied in a resentful tone, but with a regal inclination of her head. Then she added, “When you reach Castle Wendyn, thieve something pretty for me.”

“My lady,” I admonished, “great deeds are afoot. This is not about you and your jewel box.”

“I know very well who this is about,” she said, and turned her back.

My, but she seems moody today,
I thought. I judged it wisest to make no comment.

Instead I proceeded with Swiss to the throne room, where my elite team of rat-warriors was waiting to start our expedition to Castle Wendyn. As you may recall, there were five of them: Corncob, a stout older rat with street experience; Truffle, a lean and dangerous black-furred female with extra-sharp teeth; and a trio of brave brown brothers, Beef One, Beef Two, and Beef Three, whom no one could tell apart. They each wore strips of jerked, dried meat around their necks, as is customary for soldiers departing on a long march. Their eager faces, their paws curled like claws, and their anticipatory chatter showed they were prepared for any sort of perilous deeds.

Yet, I'd stretched the truth a bit about needing a stalwart force in order to venture across the city.

In fact, I had almost lied.

Because there is no danger at all involved in the trip, unless you count snaking through drainpipes and swimming in sewers to be dangerous. If you're human, it might well be so. If you're a rat, it's a little pleasant exercise. As for the oh-so-fearsome Southern Rat Realm, their princess, Mozzarella, was once daring and dauntless but had become extremely lazy since ascending the throne. She probably would not care a whit whether we passed through her domain or not.

To be completely honest (and I always am, unless it is not to the purpose), during my earlier appearance in the throne room I'd played up the drama of the moment to give my people the pleasure of being witnesses and participants in a great endeavor.

That is how rats get the chance to feel like heroes. It's also how princes get featured in songs and stories.

“Brave citizens of my realm!” I now shouted to the group of five.

They pointed their snouts in my direction, inhaling my scent of excitement and determination.

“We shall reconnoiter the royal castle and find Prince Geoffrey; then we will remain to spy upon him. I am in the lead with Royal Councillor Swiss. You bring up the rear, my loyal subjects, and in case of attack, fight tooth, fight nail, fight to the death!”

Swiss's snort was drowned out by a shrill battle cry arising from five rat-throats, and off we charged.

*   *   *

It took over an hour to get to Castle Wendyn. I hesitate to describe our route in detail, for I do not wish to provide any interfering humans with the means to block rat access points. Suffice it to say, we began by sliding into a hole in the carved wooden pipe beneath a particular, unspecified sink at Lancastyr Manor. (Even the largest rat, my friends, can squeeze into an opening no wider than a walnut.) This led us to the public pipeline of hollowed tree trunks under the street, and from there to the large, rushing stone sewers.

We stood together on the cobbled bank of the fast-moving, rank-smelling underground river, eyeing it with distaste. “In we go!” I declared.

“Must we?” Swiss complained. “Surely we could run alongside it. The ledge is wide enough.”

The other rats looked at him, shocked, as if he'd just admitted to cowardice. Beefs One, Two, and Three made rather rude noises.

Then the ferocious Truffle stood tall on her haunches, gave Swiss a disparaging glance, and said, “If Prince Char so orders, I shall swim through the filthiest sewer water and run through fire to fulfill our mission.”

I smiled at Swiss's annoyed expression before cautioning the others, “My brave followers, do not forget that in the contest for rulership that made me prince, Royal Councillor Swiss came in second, and his courage is unquestioned. This moment is an example of how he wisely protects us. He would never tell us to undergo a hardship—such as swimming this foul current—unless it were absolutely necessary. But, Swiss,” I said to him, “we must go by water, for it is faster by far than we can run.”

“Thank you for reminding this company of my prowess, Your Highness,” Swiss said with dignity, while the others had the grace to look ashamed. “There may in fact be another alternative to swimming. Warriors, look about for something to use as a raft.”

After some nosing around, Corncob found an old wine crate that had gotten caught up in a clumped eddy of straw and refuse. Swiss held on to one of the wooden slats with his tail as the rest of us piled in; then he pushed it into the current and took a flying jump to land inside.

We were off, at a spanking pace.

“Nice, eh?” Swiss said, and grinned at me.

“Heroically uncomfortable,” I replied as I watched my warriors scramble about with every roll of the leaky wooden craft.

We knew we had reached Castle Wendyn when we caught sight of a stairway carved with the seal of the human royal family of Angland. We leapt off our crate and swam over to the steps, ran up them single file, and emerged in the palace dungeons.

“Don't bother to dry yourselves,” I announced in a low tone. “We must find a source of clean water and wash in it. All the stealth in the world will do us no good if our stench betrays our presence to the humans.”

As things turned out, the most hazardous part of our inbound mission was the washing up. When we located a pail of water by a set of stone stairs leading up and out of the dungeons, we plunged ourselves into it one by one to get the task done. Just as the last of us was finishing, we heard the approach of a palace guard. The situation would still have been fine had not Truffle, in her haste to quit the wooden bucket, knocked it to the stone floor with a loud clunk.

“Hey!” the guard shouted, rounding the corner and chasing us. “Dirty, disgusting creatures. I'll chop off your tails!”

Greatness is often misunderstood in this world.

Truffle apologized while we squeezed safely inside a narrow crack in the stone wall. I turned to her with reassuring words on the tip of my tongue. However, before I could utter them, the voice of a strange rat came from behind us.

“What is your mission here, visitors to the Southern Rat Realm?”

Royal sigh. I had hoped to do this swiftly, in and out, with no inconvenient encounters with Princess Mozzarella or her people. I pushed forward to face the owner of the voice, a gnarled little gray rat with extremely large eyes.

“Hail, Southern Realmer,” I said. “I am Prince Char of the Northern Rat Realm.”

He appeared duly impressed and bowed and twittered a bit.

I calmed him down by saying, “We wish to pay a visit to Her Highness, Princess Mozzarella.” I gave Swiss a look that warned him not to comment upon this blatant falsehood. Then I smiled at the gray rat. “Will you lead us to her?”

He gave an excited bounce and replied, “With pleasure!”

We followed our guide through a convoluted series of burrowed passages into a dark throne room of such squalor, such disarray, you would not believe me if I tried to describe it in detail. The last time I'd visited Mozzarella was many years before, and the place had been a sty even then. Now it was almost impassable, with droppings, dry bones in piles, and dust everywhere.

The Southern Realmers lived in the royal castle of the humans, and this was the best they could achieve?

“Why, if it isn't the handsome Prince Char!”

The luscious, languid voice came from a black rat so enormously plump, you would surely have taken her for a woodchuck had you encountered her in the dark. Yet I doubted whether anyone would ever encounter her anywhere but in the throne room itself these days, for I could not imagine how she was able to move with so much bulk around her middle.

She was surrounded by various courtiers in similar states of poundage.

“At least we need not fear a swift attack,” Swiss whispered.

“Please forgive me if I don't rise to greet you,” Mozzarella apologized. “I have had a bit of trouble with that lately, Your Highness. What brings you here?”

“My brave companions and I are on a quest to discover whatever we may about the succession to the human throne. We wish to eavesdrop on Good King Tumtry and his son, Geoffrey.”

“Good heavens, why?” She widened her dark eyes at me. “What could they possibly say that would be of interest?”

Swiss and the five warriors murmured at this. But the princess meant no disrespect; she was just too self-absorbed to care for anything but her own indulgence. I silenced them with a wave of my tail. “Princess Mozzarella, I only wish to determine whether the son of Good King Tumtry is fit to rule. Have you heard any tattle about it?”

“Dear, dear Prince Char, I have no concern about the affairs of humans. None whatsoever. Yet I grant you safe conduct through my realm, to do whatever you wish, as long as you don't take any loot.”

“That is just and kind,” I said with a bow.

Mozzarella heaved a sigh. “Ah, Prince Char, you are so very dashing. Are you sure you did not come hither to court me, and reunite the Northern and Southern Rat Realms under one banner?”

I avoided looking at Swiss. “Alas, dear Princess,” I said in the smoothest voice I could manage, “I am already pledged to another.”

What? How had those words come out of my mouth? And why did the image of Rose de Lancastyr come to mind when I said them?

“You are not!” Swiss said in a low, low voice.

“It's the only way to get out of this without offending her,” I whispered.

He grumbled, “This is how gossip starts.”

After further exchanges of pleasantries and some stupendous snacks, Mozzarella at last sent us off to seek Prince Geoffrey in the largest ballroom, where tonight's event was no doubt taking place. Once again, we had the little gray rat to guide us.