He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
"It's really ludicrous," he says. Again. "Just completely absurd: how they think I can get them in—I haven't even approached the Rat King about this. How am I supposed to even schedule a conference of all things—?"
He is beside himself. Utterly beside himself. The nerve. The nerve. Don't they know that these things take time? Lodgings, menus, schedules. Don't they know that he will have to arrange it all?
And, for God's sake, don't they know that the Rat King is mad?
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In the murmur of a crowded hall the whisper makes her heart skip a beat, comprehension twisting through folds of fabric and hair into the cavity of her brain. Visitors. They sometimes receive letters, news, but visitors...
She flies down the vaulted hall, past the dual oak tables, up the marble steps to the vacant throne where, at the side, stands the Royal Inquisitor. Careful to focus on the burgundy sleeve, she dips into a bow. He mutters, one hand hastily pushing his spectacles up the ridge of his nose, and she sinks onto the fourth step from the bottom, her customary seat. The patter of feet against stone and the clang of plates and dishes ring in her ears but the hushed voices can be heard over the clatter.
...from the East, I heard...
...Cook says they brought gifts...
...said he didn't ask...
Oh. She lets the bracelet slip off her pale wrist, fingers playing with the blue beads—watching as the light reflects off their polished surfaces. They show a warped vision of the room in front of her, distorted images of bustling servants and restless soldiers.
So that is what the Inquisitor is so anxious about. He did not ask.
The Rat King will never let them in. And now the whispers mean nothing, the preparations are nothing but a waste. There will be no visitors, no tales, no gifts...
"Why so sad, my pet?"
Long fingers curl under her chin, lifting her face up to the light. He kneels before her, hair dark and swept forward—as it always is in the mornings—and face with an expression so kind she almost believes it. She tells him of the newcomers and the smile vanishes from his ivory face, replaced with a dangerous frown.
He leaves her, moving toward the thin gentleman. She can hear the stammering begin. More excuses. Head tucked down, his voice, growing angrier and angrier, assaults her senses, rising up to fill the speckled halls. He pauses and the beads fall from her hand, clinking against the smooth floor. The thread breaks and they scatter—specks of blue spinning in every direction, like sparrows freed from their cages. One, however, rolls back toward her, resting on the tip of her shoe.
Funny how one always comes back.
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Harren tries to breathe, shuffling the papers around until the sealed envelope resurfaces. The Rat King is staring at him. A bead of sweat slides down between the awkward curves of his shoulder blades and he keeps his gaze on the papers.
Stupid girl.
He had planned it all out: the perfect beginning, the compliments to ease the Rat King into a favorable mood—and the idiot ruined it. He is furious. His sweat glands produce another droplet which runs down Harren's neck. He ignores it. His heart thuds as he clears his throat but the Rat King is distracted again—glancing back behind him. At the girl.
An odd one, she is. Harren blinks furiously, trying to recall when exactly the Grande Hall became so small. Really, a strange thing. Meek—yes,that is the word for her: meek. Submissive. Never looks at anyone, except him. It is odd, how the only person she seems to see is the monster. If it was Harren, he would choose to look only at the servant girls, or perhaps Cook when black clouds of fury don't hang around her head. But definitely not the Rat King. Anyone but the Rat King.
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The cane raps against the floor and he feels his age in the slow lumbering of one foot after the other. Five hundred years is a long time, he supposes. Long enough when one has to deal with a madman for a good portion of it.
That fool of an Inquisitor is wreaking havoc again and they will all have to suffer the king's displeasure until he can clean things up. Again.
Slyv frowns as the doors of the Grande Hall open, a sense of foreboding prickling on his skin as he spies the idiot human, stuttering up by the throne.
He eyes the scrawny, stooped figure, a metallic taste collecting in his mouth. Fool. Which one is this? The forty-second? Fifty-third? And so similar to the rest, like drops of water: technically different spheres, but all too similar to distinguish. This one, this one just cannot let things go. And so instead of one, Slyv has two fools manage. The Rat King stands a few feet away, an unpleasant sort of look on his face.
Surprisingly, they do not seem to be arguing. In fact, they don't seem to speak at all. The king is turned away from him and a step forward reveals the reason why: the mute, settled on the slanted stairs, hair swept around the face. A bright mix of blues and golds, a phantom disguised in lively attire.
Three fools. His mood turns for the worse and he spies the broken bracelet at her feet. Stupid chit: always breaking things.
The king seems to sense the old man's presence and glances up, a pair of beady eyes focusing on him.
"Did you know of this?" he demands, jabbing a finger toward the Inquisitor.
"Sire, I only heard servant's gossip." He droops into a low bow, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting up his leg. "I heard nothing until this very morning."
"And still you did not tell me!" the Rat King snaps, turning his back to the trio of them. "Am I the last to be told of these visitors? In my home?"
"M-my liege—" the Inquisitor begins, but he is silenced by a pale hand.
"Bar the doors."
Slyv sighs, leaning further on the cane as the pup next to him loses what little coloring he had left. So the little fool had struck a deal, had he? 'Get me power, influence and I will present you to the Rat King...' Overly ambitious.
He growls, noticing how the shoulders of the girl on the steps slump slightly. She seems to shrink in his eyes; fading a little more into this suffocating pit they call a palace. His own withered hand looks gray as he readjusts his grip on the staff, the knotted contours glaring harshly against the wood. He knows it will not be long before they all fade.
