The rat hole was no fun without company. Stanley was a sociable rat who liked nothing more than a good gossip with other Message Rats. He found it rather depressing to be on his own in what had once been such a convivial place. He tried nibbling at half a moldy turnip that some rat had left behind, but the thought of Dawnie and the RatStranglers had taken his appetite away. And so with a small groan Stanley, tired and aching after his long trek, stretched out his little legs, yawned and fell fast asleep. Soon the sound of rat snores were drifting across the Moat, but no one—not even the members of the Gringe household, who lived in the gatehouse opposite—heard them.
As the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, the tremendous thud of the drawbridge slamming down onto its resting place shook Stanley out of his straw and sent him rolling down to the mouth of the rat hole. Bleary-eyed, he peered out into the dull twilight. It was not a welcoming kind of day. The wind skittered across the slate gray surface of the Moat and large spots of rain dotted the surface of the water with widening rings. But the empty rat hole was no fun to be in either. Stanley hopped out and sniffed the early morning air. The scent of dead leaves, rain and Moat water was mixed with an unpleasant whiff of stale stew that drifted across the water from the gatehouse opposite. The rat balanced briefly on the flat take-off stone used by rats for generations and then made a well-timed leap. He landed lightly on a narrow metal shelf on the underside of the drawbridge and, careful not to look down at the deep water below, he crossed the Moat by running along the rat-run hidden beneath the massive planks of the bridge.
Safely on the other side, Stanley scrambled up the muddy bank. Keeping his head down against the biting wind, which was sending swirls of dirt into his eyes, he scurried along the track that went through the North Gate. Suddenly Stanley—to his horror—found himself running over the feet of Mrs. Gringe, the wife of the gatekeeper. Stanley was used to avoiding Gringe, who had large, heavy feet any rat could hear a mile away and a voice to match. But Mrs.
Gringe, a small worried-looking woman, was sitting quiet and still in the shelter of the gatehouse, with her little feet stuck out of the door, just asking to trip up an unsuspecting rat. Which they did. The feel of rat feet running over her own delicate toes was not something that Mrs. Gringe took lightly. In one swift second she managed to scream, grab a broom and land it with a thump on Stanley’s disappearing tail.
Stanley shot off and headed down the nearest drain, which was not, after a night’s heavy rain, the most comfortable place to be. It also turned out to be blocked.
“Rat, rat!” he heard Mrs. Gringe yell.
“Where?” growled a voice from the gatehouse.
“In the drain—get it, Gringe!”
Trapped, Stanley listened to the heavy footsteps of Gringe thudding above his head. He took a deep breath and sank below the water just in time.
Gringe knelt down and peered into the drain. “I can’t see nothin’. You sure?”
“’Course I’m sure. Saw it with me own eyes.”
“Ah. Well, I dunno.” Gringe stared at the filthy water. “You know,” he said slowly, “when you scream, I still think…I still think it’s you an’ Lucy having a shout. Happy days…”
“We weren’t always shouting,” said Mrs. Gringe with a sigh. “Well, only about that Heap boy.”
Stanley felt like his lungs were about to burst. A small bubble of air escaped from his mouth. “Ah,” said Gringe. “I reckon the little blighter’s hiding under the water.”
“You want a shovel?”
“Yeah. Pass me that big one. I’ll dig ’im out and whack ’im on the ’ead. Good practice if that Heap boy ever shows his face in ’ere.”
Stanley could hold his breath no longer. A great shower of fetid water erupted from the drain—along with a sodden rat—and Gringe reeled back, spluttering. When he finally wiped the mess from his eyes, Stanley was gone—off into the warren of alleyways and sideslips that led from the North Gate deep into the Castle.
Just outside the Palace gates, Stanley took a quick and freezing cold bath in a horse trough. A bath was not the rat’s favorite way of spending time—he couldn’t remember when he last had one—but when a rat is off to the Palace, he has to make an effort.
Back at the Grateful Turbot Tavern, Merrin, however, was not making much of an effort at all. Olaf Snorrelssen had hung around for hours waiting for Merrin to wake up, spending the entire time being berated by the tinker-woman. The boy finally staggered downstairs just after ten, having been pulled out of bed by the landlady, who wanted her room back.
Mindful of his much-regretted promise, Olaf Appeared
from the shadows. “I shall take you into the Castle, yes?” the ghost asked, hoping the boy would refuse. Unfortunately he didn’t.
“Yeah. Let’s get out of this dump,” Merrin growled.
Olaf took Merrin over the One Way Bridge, the familiar feeling of gloom that the bridge gave him settling on him like a cloud. The cloud did not lift as, dutifully, Olaf showed the boy across the drawbridge. He mediated in the argument the boy picked with the gatekeeper—who was also in a foul temper and smelled pretty bad too. Then he headed for The Ramblings, a huge warren of a place that Olaf had a real affection for. As he guided Merrin through the narrow, sometimes crowded passageways, Olaf could not shake off a strange feeling that they were being followed. But every time he glanced back he could see nothing more than the occasional fleeting shadow, which was not unusual in the shadowy, twisting alleyways. Determined to keep his word, the ghost took Merrin deep into The Ramblings. He led him to a small guesthouse where he himself had happy memories of staying many years ago.
That, Olaf mused later, was a mistake. Merrin had not liked the place. It was, he had said, a disgusting dump. When told the price of the rooms, the boy had called the owner, who was a gentle woman, a grasping old bat. Olaf decided to Appear
to the woman and apologize but that had been a mistake too. He had been flustered and got it wrong. At the sight of his sudden but incomplete Appearance the woman had screamed and slammed the door, which had Passed Through his foot and made him feel quite ill. By the time he recovered, Merrin had left. Relieved, Olaf had wandered off, unaware that he was half-Appearing
to everyone and causing havoc. By the end of the day, safely back in the ghostly haven of the Hole in the Wall Tavern, Olaf had decided that he would never Appear to anyone again. It was madness.
Stanley scuttled up one of the many back stairs of the Palace. Although he had never actually been upstairs in the Palace before, as an ex–Message Rat, Stanley knew the layout backward—he had had to learn it as part of his higher exams.
Avoiding the old ghost of a knight who was on guard—and who aimed a one-armed swipe at him with his sword—Stanley scuttled up the tapestry at the side of some big double doors. He pushed his way through the cobwebby rat-gap at the top of the wainscoting and looked down. It was a long drop on the other side. Stanley waited for a moment, gathering his courage for the jump. Far below, sitting by the fire, was Jenna Heap, Princess and heir to the Castle. Beside her lay a much-thumbed note.
Stanley could not read it from that distance, but Jenna already knew it by heart. The note read: Delivered by hand from the Wizard Tower by B. Catchpole
Received at Palace: 7:30 A.M.
From: Septimus Heap, Apprentice to Marcia Overstrand,
ExtraOrdinary Wizard
Dear Jen,
Can you meet me at Marcellus’s place at midday today? Have just had a note from him! It is really good. I think he has remembered some things at last. He has some stuff of Nicko’s to show us and he says that there may be a way for him to come back!!!! See you there.
Love,
Septimus xxxx
Jenna was so excited that she could hardly keep still, let alone wait for midday. After yet another depressing breakfast with Sarah Heap, she had escaped to her room and was trying to do something useful to pass the hours. Unaware that she was being watched by a teetering rat, she was determinedly reading a large book.
Far above Jenna, Stanley took a deep breath and launched himself into space. He landed on Jenna’s bed, bounced high into the air, thumped down onto her hearthrug and turned his ankle. “Oof!” he grunted, rolling forward and banging his head on the coal-scuttle.
Jenna leaped to her feet. “Stanley?” she gasped.