Terry Pratchett - The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

“He's a bit of a fighter,” said Rat-catcher 2. “How'd he get out?”

“Not one of ours,” said Rat-catcher 1. “He's a red.”

“Red? What's red about him?”

“A red rat's a kind of grey rat, as you would very well know if you'd were an hexperienced Guild member like me,” said the rat-catcher. “They ain't local. You get 'em down on the plains. Funny to find one up here. Very funny. Greasy old devil, too. But game as anything.”

“Your nose is all runny.”

“Yeah. I know. I've had more rat bites than you've had hot dinners. Don't feel 'em any more,” said Rat-catcher 1, in a voice that suggested that the spinning, screeching Hamnpork was a lot more interesting than his colleague.

“I only have cold sausage for dinner.”

“There you are then. What a little fighter you are, to be sure. Real little devil, aren't you. Plucky as anything.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

“I was talking to the rat, mister.” He prodded Keith with his boot. “Go and tie up these two somewhere, OK? We'll put them in one of the other cellars for now. One with a proper door. And a proper lock. And no handy little trapdoors. And you give me the key.”

“She's the mayor's daughter,” said Rat-catcher 2. “Mayors can get really upset about daughters.”

“Then he'll do what he's told, right?”

“You gonna give that rat a good squeezing?”

“What, a fighter like this one? Are you joking? It's thinking like that that'll keep you a rat-catcher's assistant your whole life. I've got a much better idea. How many's in the special cage?”

Maurice watched Rat-catcher 2 go and examine one of the other cages on the far wall.

“Only two rats left. They've eaten the other four,” he reported. “Just skin left. Very neat.”

“Ah, so they'll be full o' vim and vinegar. Well, we'll see what they do to him, shall we?”

Maurice heard a little wire door open and shut.

Hamnpork was seeing red. It filled his vision. He'd been angry for months, down inside, angry at humans, angry at the poisons and the traps, angry at the way younger rats weren't showing respect, angry that the world was changing so fast, angry that he was growing old… And now the smells of terror and hunger and violence met the anger coming the other way and they mingled and flowed through Hamnpork in a great red river of rage. He was a cornered rat. But he was a cornered rat who could think. He'd always been a vicious fighter, long before there was all this thinking, and he was still very strong. A couple of dumb, swanking young keekees with no tactics and no experience of down-and-dirty cellar fighting and no fancy footwork and no thoughts were simply not a contest. A tumble, a twist and two bites were all it took…

The caged rats across the room leapt back from the netting. Even they could feel the fury.

“Now there's a clever boy,” said Rat-catcher 1 admiringly, when it was all over. “I've got a use for you, my lad.”

“Not the pit?” said Rat-catcher 2.

“Yes, the pit.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, 'cos Fancy Arthur is putting in his Jacko on a bet to kill a hundred rats in less than a quarter of an hour.”

“I bet he can, too. Jacko's a good terrier. He did ninety a few months ago and Fancy Arthur been training him up. Should be a good show.”

“You'd bet on Jacko doing it, would you?” said Ratcatcher 1.

“Sure. Everyone will be.”

“Even with our little friend here among the rats?” said Rat-catcher 1. “Full of lovely spite and bite and boilin' bile?”

“Well, er…”

“Yeah, right.” Rat-catcher 1 grinned.

“I don't like leaving those kids here, though.”

“It's ‘them kids’, not ‘those kids’. Get it right. How many times have I told you? Rule 27 of the Guild: sound stupid. People get suspicious of rat-catchers that talk too good.”

“Sorry.”

“Talk thick, be clever. That's the way to do it,” said Ratcatcher 1.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“You tend to do it the other way around.”

“Sorry. Them kids. It's cruel, tying people up. And they're only kids, after all.”

“So?”

“So it'd be a lot easier to take 'em down the tunnel to the river and hit 'em on the head and throw 'em in. They'll be miles down river before anyone fishes 'em out, and they prob'ly won't even be recognizable by the time the fish have finished with 'em.”

Maurice heard a pause in the conversation. Then Ratcatcher 1 said, “I didn't know that you were such a kind-hearted soul, Bill.”

“Right, and, sorry, an' I've got an idea about gettin' rid of this piper, too—”

The next voice came from everywhere. It sounded like a rushing wind and, in the heart of the wind, the groan of something in agony. It filled the air.

NO! We can use the piper!

“No, we can use the piper,” said Rat-catcher 1.

“That's right,” said Rat-catcher 2. “I was just thinking the same thing. Er… how can we use the piper?”

Once again, Maurice heard a sound in his head like wind blowing through a cave.

Isn't it OBVIOUS?

“Isn't it obvious?” said Rat-catcher 1.

“Yeah, obvious,” muttered Rat-catcher 2. “Obviously it's obvious. Er…”

Maurice watched the rat-catchers open several of the cages, grab rats and drop them into a sack. He saw Hamnpork tipped into one, too. And then the ratcatchers had gone, dragging the other humans with them, and Maurice wondered: where, in this maze of cellars, is a Maurice-sized hole?

Cats can't see in the dark. What they can do is see by very little light. A tiny scrap of moonlight was filtering into the space behind him. It was coming through a tiny hole in the ceiling, barely big enough for a mouse and certainly not big enough for a Maurice even if he could reach it.

It illuminated another cellar. By the looks of it, the ratcatchers used this one too; there were a few barrels stacked in one corner, and piles of broken rat cages. Maurice prowled around it, looking for another way out. There were doors, but they had handles, and even his mighty brain couldn't figure out the mystery of doorknobs. There was another drain grating in a wall, though. He squeezed through it.

Another cellar. And more boxes and sacks. At least it was dry, though.

A voice behind him said, What kind of thing are you?

He spun around. All he could make out were boxes sacks. The air still stank of rats, and there was a continuous rustling, and the occasional faint squeak, but the place was a little piece of heaven compared to the hell of the cage room.

The voice had come from behind him, hadn't it? He must have heard it, mustn't he? Because it seemed to him that he just had something like the memory of hearing a voice, something that had arrived in his head without bothering to go through his ragged ears. It had been the same with the rat-catchers. They'd talked as if they'd heard a voice and thought it was their own thoughts. The voice hadn't really been there, had it?

I can't see you, said the memory, I don't know what you are .

It was not a good voice for a memory to have. It was all hisses, and it slid into the mind like a knife.

Come closer .

Maurice's paws twitched. The muscles in his legs started to push him forward. He extended his claws, and got control of himself. Someone was hiding amongst the boxes, he thought. And it would probably not be a good idea to say anything. People could get funny about talking cats. You couldn't rely on everyone being as mad as the story-telling girl.

Come CLOSER .

The voice seemed to pull at him. He'd have to say something .