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...
The air is hot and thick, water soaked into the very molecules suspended in space. Slyv rolls over, grunting in pain as another needle-sharp sting crawls up his leg. He knows it will not be long until it fades away and the numbness comes back, but even so it is almost unbearable.
It does not take him long to determine that sleep is a slim chance and he eases himself into a sitting position, two withered fingers striking light into the room through the candle's flame. The edges of his weary bones cackle and pop with nostalgia and in his eyes the bloody fields are there again, corpses of thousands toppling over one another, tongues lolling and eyes wide open, staring at the skies. A weathered palm on his eye temporarily erases these dreams—memories—replacing them with a dull red.
He grabs the bottle on his bed stand, downing a dozen pills in one gulp.
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Boidae does not know what possessed him to indulge the young woman. As a human he had not been known for his generosity and now... well, it is not in his nature.
But it is logical, his inner voice tells him: the Rat King has an obvious affection for the girl. You must win her over.
This does not ease the strange tension in his chest, tension that makes Boidae uneasy. Pressure, or any other form of feeling, is not a normality for him. But there it is again: he can feel the weight pressing down on his breastbones, like a large rock pressing down on there. He finds himself short of breath.
"That went well, I believe." Pavel's voice floats over the sound of hot water rushing into the tub. "He is an odd one, is he not?"
"What? Yes. Yes, he is." Boidae fumbles with the front of his robe, glancing down so that he can untie the knot. "But then again, what would you expect of the Rat King? You have heard the stories."
There is a small snort from the far corner of the room. "Of course. Lilac or boysenberry soap?"
He tells Pavel whichever. It matters not, does it? A scent is a scent and not even so strong the scent as flowers can hide his smell; their smell. Why should it matter to him?
"What did you think of his house?" he asks now, disliking how the room is so silent and the steam hides what could lurk in dark corners.
"Handsome. His servants are well-trained, though I did detect hesitance in most of them. He seems to be temperamental."
"What of the Inquisitor? The Chancellor?"
"The Inquisitor is a stupid human." Boidae smiles. "The Chancellor, however, is not."
"Is not what?" He slides into the tub, watching the water sizzle against his marble skin. For a fleeting moment he wishes he could still feel its bite. "Human or stupid?"
"Both."
"And the young woman, the one with the story?"
"Strange. I do not know what to make of her."
Boidae laughs. "What? Pavel does not know what to make of a mere girl? I am astonished."
"Alas, I do not."
"Well, you should," he snaps. "Isn't that what you are for? What is so hard to understand?"
"I am... not sure. It is as if—it is almost as if she does not know what she is."
"She is human, isn't she?"
"Yes, but—" Boidae hears him sigh. "I do not know how to put this. It is like she is a flower—an annual. She ought to have died by the end of summer, but she did not."
"So you are saying she's a perennial... like us?" He tries to laugh but cannot. "She is human, Pavel."
"So is the Rat King, but he has lived many lives of men."
"God knows how."
"Perhaps he passed it to her."
Boidae freezes, a drop of water curling around his cheek. "You are not honest, are you? You really think he gave immortality to that girl?"
Boidae thinks on this for a moment, sliding down into the water until it wavers on the upper curl of his lip. In the murky depths of it he can see the blurry reflection of his face, half of a white oval with a crown of black and two dots of red. Sliding his palm across, the water ripples and the image disappears.
"Watch her," he orders quietly. "And the servants. Befriend some of the stupider, loose-tongued fools and gather all you can. I want to know about this creature."
Pavel's footsteps fade into the lapping noise of bathwater and Boidae leans his head back, staring up at the interlocking tiles on the ceiling.
It will be easy, he thinks. Seduce her with treats, whisper compliments, and dazzle her with words. And then she will whisper, with those little lips, into the Rat King's ear about what a loyal, kind man you are, and how he would benefit from your help. And maybe, with time, she'll whisper into your ear the secrets of the Roditore and of how the Rat King managed to surpass his span of life.
