The black rat was fighting for his life.
He had barely escaped the stomping heel of the tailor, and the teeth of Master Mugstur's Holy Guard, by diving back into the storm-pipe through the ixchel's door. There was no escape at the top of the pipe with the boy seated at Drellarek's door. So Felthrup had run the other way, down and aft, toward the stern transoms and the roaring of the sea. Other rats were plunging in the same direction, blind with fear. At first they ignored him. But the wind grew louder, nearer-and suddenly there was the mouth of the storm-pipe, wide open to the heaving, green-black harbor.
It was then that the rats turned on him.
"Cursed Felthrup!" they cried. "Weird, sick, Angel-maimed! He shouted at the Master! He brought the crawlies to cut off our heads! Kill him, kill before he strikes again!"
"You're wrong!" Felthrup begged. "I never meant you harm! Mugstur's the wicked one! He enslaves you!"
But they would not listen: horror was stealing what little reason they had. Felthrup saw what would happen next. The rats ahead and behind would close in, jaws snapping, making him turn at bay. He would fight them off for a while-they were cowardly enough-but when he grew tired they would bite and hold fast. Then he would be torn to shreds.
In that split second he regretted his woken state no more. His mind was fast-lightning-fast, too fast for any normal life, but perfect for now. He saw his options at a glance. Beg for mercy and die. Feign death and die. Fight back uphill against numberless rats sworn to kill him, to say nothing of the humans, and die.
Or do what he feared most: risk drowning, face the sea. That way too death was overwhelmingly likely. It was simply not guaranteed.
Five rats between him and the pipe's mouth. Five cousins to slay. Horror of horrors, to fill one's mouth with murder. He began.
They were expecting more tears and hysteria, not resolute killing. He went through the first two like a spear and grappled with the third in a scratching, tearing blood-blind frenzy that made it dive under him and squeal away up the pipe. The last two had backed up to the very lip, so their tails waved in the open air. They were big creatures, squared off and ready for his charge. Felthrup looked at their broad shoulders, their bared teeth. Their paws.
He leaped backward, past the bodies of the dead rats. The two at the pipe's end hissed, snapped their jaws. What was he waiting for?
The ship pitched downward, and then they saw: too late. Felthrup shoved the corpses at them with all his might. Slick with blood, the pipe afforded no grip. One of the rats began to scrabble over the bodies, but Felthrup pressed on mercilessly. Living rat and dead fell together to the waves.
The second rat was slipping, too. But even as it did so it gave a last lurch and clamped its jaws on Felthrup's bad leg. There it swung, teeth biting bone, as Felthrup struggled to shake it loose without falling himself. Unimaginable pain! And from behind him came the sound of still more rats, closing in.
He was oozing toward the sea. He could not reach the biting rat. From the corner of his eye he saw that he'd been right, there was a way out, two other pipes that emptied alongside this one. Wise Felthrup, so good at everything-
He fell.
It was a sickening plunge. The waves yawned like a pit. Mindlessly the other rat kept gnawing him in midair. They glanced off the Chathrand's sternpost, barely missed being dashed to pieces on the rudder-head and vanished into the pale froth of the ship's wake. The other rat, shocked by the frigid water, released him-but when they surfaced, there it was paddling toward him, delirious with hate. With only three good legs Felthrup could barely swim. He tried in vain to put distance between them.
"Think, brother!" he squeaked. "Why fight now?"
"To hurt you more in death, Angel's foe!"
"No angel-ECH! PHHT!-would want such a thing!"
They were both half drowned, scrabbling up and down waves like collapsing hillsides, watching the Chathrand slip farther out of reach. The other rat was snapping at his toes. It's mad, utterly mad, Felthrup realized-but the thought gave him sudden hope.
Turning, he deliberately let the rat catch hold of the stump of his tail-a good, solid mouthful. Then he held his breath, and dived.
As he guessed, the other rat again kept its jaws locked. But it was not expecting to be pulled underwater. Nor could it fully close its mouth. It gurgled. Felthrup did not bother to strike at it-he merely writhed and shook. Instinctively the other rat bit harder. But air was bubbling through its lips, and the sea was leaking in. By the time the rat saw what was happening it had nothing to do but drown.
An eternity passed before it died. Felthrup struggled upward, still yards beneath the surface, kicking at the dead face. Then he saw his own mistake-and knew his life was over. The rat had died with locked jaws. Its lungs were flooded. It would sink like a stone, and he would go with it.
Why fight now} His own question mocked him. What was the point of it all? He could chew off the rest of his tail and bleed to death, watching the ship depart. What good was that sort of death, this sort of life, the torture of intelligence? Better to sleep, rest as he had not rested in years, let the thinking stop-
A dark shape rose beneath him. It was an animal, about the size of a hound, but blunt-faced and whiskered. A seal! A great black seal! In an instant the creature pushed him to the surface.
"Steady, Felthrup my lad! I won't let you drown."