Rats and Gargoyles by Mary Gentle Read Free Book Online

aside; and a taller black Rat stepped in from the sunny
yard to the white hall.
    "Was it necessary," Plessiez murmured silkily, "to
bring the cadets in such strength, Messire Desaguliers?"

     
    The watermills turned slowly, dripping water
catching the sun. Lucas gazed at the water running past the building’s stone
wall (some part of a concealed stream uncovered?), and then up at the
watermills’ tower.
    A twelve-foot gold-and-blue dial gleamed in the
sun. The clock’s hands twitched once, to a metallic click inside the tower, and
a bell chimed the quarter. Lucas stood watching as a silver knight, some two
feet tall, slid out on rails from one side of the tower, to meet an approaching
bronze knight on a similar curve. Their swords lifted jerkily; they struck a clang! that echoed the length of the cobbled street. A pause, and both began
to retreat.
    Lucas rubbed his sweating neck, took his hand away
filthy, and glanced speculatively at the running water. He still carried shirt
and stockings. His bare feet were chafing in his boots, and his filthy chest and
arms were beginning to sting from the sun.
    A first-floor window opened further down the
street, and a woman shook out a quilt and laid it on the sill.
    "Lady," Lucas called, "is this Clock-mill?"
    She leaned one bare forearm on the sill, her other
hand supporting her as she leaned out, so that her elbow jutted up and her thick
yellow hair fell about her shoulders. She wore a blue-and-yellow satin dress
slashed with white, with puffed sleeves and a low full bodice. Lucas moved a few
steps down the street towards her.
    "Clock-mill and Carver Street," she called.
    Lucas gazed up at the window. The quilt hung down,
half-covering a frieze carved in the black wood: hourglasses, scythes, spades
and skulls. Seen closer, the woman’s face was lined. Lucas judged her forty at
least. Some twinge of memory caught him.
    "Is there . . . are you Mistress Evelian?"
    "You’re not one of my lodgers?" The woman’s china-
blue eyes narrowed, studying the filthy ragged young man. "Good God. What does
Candia think he’s sending me these days? Come in: don’t stand there.
Third door down will take you through info the courtyard. I’ll let you in."
    Lucas had only taken a few steps before she stuck
her head out of the window again.
    "Have you met the other students yet? Have you seen
anything of that Katayan child, Zaribeth?"
     
    Zar-bettu-zekigal sat with her grubby hands in
front of her on the table. Her dappled tail flicked sawdust on the hall floor. A
smell of cut wood, pitch, and long-boiled tea filled the heavy afternoon air.
    Her eyes moved from the white-haired Falke, poised
at rest in his chair, to Tannakin Spatchet (stiffly upright), and the
well-dressed builders and ill-dressed councilors; to Plessiez and Charnay, and
to the black Rat Desaguliers, standing and glaring at each other across the
table.
    "I think the King might be interested in this
meeting," Desaguliers challenged. He was a lean black Rat, tall, with the plain
leather harness and silver cuirass of a soldier; the hairs on his thin snout
grizzled.
    "The Captain-General is aware, of course, that the
King has full knowledge of—"
    Desaguliers bluntly interrupted Plessiez:
"Horse-dung! I’m aware of nothing of the sort."
    "How very remiss of you."
    "Gentle lords. Please." Falke spoke with a sardonic
gravity. He sat with his hand shading his uncovered eyes against the hall’s
whitewashed brilliance. Tears ran down his cheeks; he rapidly blinked. "You know
how your honor suffers, to be seen quarreling by we underlings."
    "Master Falke!" Plessiez snapped.
    "I apologize. Most humbly. I hazard my guess, also,
that this terminates our discussion. And that we shall be the ones to suffer for
your plotting." He smoothed the cloth bandage between his fingers, and bent his
head to tie it back over his eyes.
    Zari’s gaze darted back to Plessiez and the black
Rat Desaguliers.
    "No."