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...
Her fingers are a dull purple against the page and turn slightly red as they grip the book's sides. The candle provides some relief, but it cannot protect her vulnerable back from the chill.
The story is of no use. As amusing as it is, it provides no substantial evidence. The watermark is still there from last time, and the side of one illustration is slightly blurred. She reaches for a quill, smoothing the paper out with her bad hand. The tip of the pen lingers above the parchment, but she fears setting it down: her hand shakes too much. Instead, she creases the upper corner and slides the book back into its place. The scent of bread wafts down, which means that it must be about an hour before noon. Her hand slides down to grasp the bag and she wanders up the stairway.
The hallways have begun to fill; messengers running from one department to the other, servants rushing to and fro with laundry and serving utensils. She walks into the center of the traffic, toes pressed down along the straight crease that bisects the floor, and drops the bag. She slips through the crowd quickly, reaching the outer edges as the shouts of distress begin. Goods fly in the air, the sound of shoes crunches against beads and the flow of people halt while some tumble to the ground.
She is leaning against the stationary wall when a blue bead rolls out of the chaos and comes to rest by her feet.
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The Head Inquisitor sits at his desk, periodically pushing away from his eyes the tip of a terribly large quill that bobs upright in the air and then settles back on the ridge of his nose. He sneezes and repeats the process. He is through half of the mail when one halts in his hands. He stares for a moment before seizing the seal and breaking it off, scanning the letter furiously until he has reached the end. When it is done he stands like a ramrod and scurries out of the room.
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She slides into the familiar chamber, past the jars and pots back into the storage room. It has been some time since she has visited here; in fact, she has not been in here since... But she will not be disturbed now, not even by the ghosts of the past: the new apothecary (Naeem?) is busy with the chaos below.
Her fingers skim along the bookshelf, eyes flitting from one bind to another. She deftly pulls one and then another from different segments; seizing one from the upper left, another from the bottom middle, and then from the far right. Each slips quietly into her bag and, as blood pressure rises, she turns for the door. Her elbow makes contact with a jar and before her fingers can grip the base, it topples to the floor. The thick pink mass which had floated in the liquid lies amongst the shards of glass; it shifts, two arm-like attachments spreading back from the body, strings of goop hanging along its tentacles. The ligaments begin to shudder and a gap opens amongst the rolls of fat. Spit flies from the opening and after what sounds eerily like a cough, the form begins to whine. Her hands shake as she wrenches the bag up and sprints from the room.
