Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [110]
Stanley scurried along the Outside Path. Soon he was having second, third and fourth thoughts about the wisdom of his journey.
“What are you doing, you stupid rat? You don’t have to go off and find yet another no-good Heap. You never actually said you would, did you? In fact, you didn’t actually have a chance to say anything, did you, Stanley? And why was that? Because if you just cast your mind back, mouse-brain, that no-good Heap’s own mother tried to kill you. Have you forgotten already? And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s freezing cold, this path is a death trap, goodness knows what is going on in the Castle and you really shouldn’t leave the ratlets outside on their own; aren’t they just as important as a bunch of troublesome Wizards ohmysaintedauntiedoriswhatisthat?”
A roar—wild and rough-edged—broke through the silence. This time it was close. Too close. In fact, it sounded as though it was right above him. Stanley shrank back against the wall and looked up. There was nothing to see but the deep, dark night sky, scattered with a few clouded stars. The Castle Walls reared up high behind him and above them, Stanley knew, were the tall, thin houses that backed onto the Moat. But without even a glimmer of light the rat could see nothing.
As Stanley waited, wondering if it was safe to move, he realized that he could see something. On the still surface of the Moat, just around the next bend, a faint reflection of light caught his keen rat eye. It was, he figured, coming from the very place he was heading: Jannit Maarten’s Boatyard. The glimmer of light raised Stanley’s spirits considerably. He decided to carry on with his mission—even if it did involve a no-good Heap.
A few minutes later Stanley leaped lightly down from the Outside Path and ran across the boatyard, dodging between the tangle of boat clutter that inhabited Jannit’s yard, heading for the wonderful sight of a lighted window. Granted it belonged to the Port barge and was, strictly speaking, a lighted porthole, but Stanley didn’t care. Light was light, and where there was light there was life.
The hatch to the cabin-with-the-porthole was locked and barred but that did not deter a Message Rat. Stanley bounded onto the cabin roof, found the air vent—an open tube shaped like an umbrella handle—and dived in.
Nicko had never heard Jannit Maarten scream before. It was actually more of a loud squeak—short, sharp and very high-pitched. It didn’t sound like it had come from Jannit at all.
“Rat, rat!” she yelled. She leaped to her feet, picked up a nearby wrench—there was always a wrench near Jannit—and smashed it down. Stanley’s split-second reactions were severely tested. He leaped aside just in time and, waving his arms in the air, he squeaked, “Message Rat!”
Wrench raised for another swipe, Jannit stared at the rat that had suddenly landed in the middle of the table, only just missing the lighted candle. Stanley watched the wrench with particular interest. Everyone else around the table watched Stanley.
Jannit Maarten—wiry, with a wind-browned face like a walnut and iron-gray hair in a sailor’s pigtail—was a woman who looked like she meant business. Very slowly she put the wrench down. Stanley, who had been holding his breath, exhaled with relief. He looked up at the expectant faces surrounding him and began to enjoy the moment. This was what Message Ratting was all about—the drama, the excitement, the attention, the power.
Stanley surveyed his audience with the commanding, confident eye of a rat that knows it will not, for the next few minutes at least, be swiped at with a wrench. He looked at the recipient of his message, Nicko Heap, just to check it was really him. It was. He’d recognize