The Corpse-Rat King

The dead had demanded a king. Nobody had said he had to be animate.

Marius slid over to the spar supporting the front of the structure. He made sure of his footing, dug his fingers under the flap of tin, and began to pull.

Marius ducked his head through the hole and peered into the black water. The water was stiller inside the stateroom than out, felt somehow thicker and more fetid against his skin. Slowly, he slipped inside, turning so he hung onto the edge of the framework with his fingers while his feet scrabbled for purchase. Something flapped at the limits of his vision and he stiffened, images of giant killer octopuses filling his imagination. Then he focused, and saw the tattered remnant of some type of tapestry, stirred by his kicking. Marius frowned. Surely, thirty years below water would destroy any fabric that had once hung on the walls. Which meant that the tapestry below must be made of some other material. Metal, perhaps. Marius had seen shirts woven from thin strands of gold and silver, soft as silk and worn by the richest, most stylish nobles in Scorby. He’d almost won one, once, in a game of Kingdom, but had been foiled by a messenger arriving with news of a royal coup, just as he was laying down a hand filled with a now-dead royal family. He blinked, remembering how much the shirt had been worth. The tapestry must be eight feet high, he decided, perhaps three or four feet wide. He could wrap it around himself like a toga, wear it rather than carry it. A tapestry that size, even if it were only made of silver threads… Marius was good at math. All con men are. But the equation had too many zeroes to keep track of. Suddenly, twelve feet below the surface seemed a lot warmer. Marius watched the bottom edge of the tapestry float into sight, then back again, counting the number of seconds in each ebb and flow. As soon as he was sure of the rhythm he held his breath, counted to the right number, aimed for the correct spot, and let go the beam.

And missed.

The trailing edge of the tapestry waved to him as he sank past, flailing in despair at the three inches of space between his fingertips and the fabric. The deck of the Nancy Tulip was thirty feet wide, and there was only a foot or so between each outer wall and the outer railing. Marius had launched himself at an angle, and his despairing movement caused him to tumble as he fell. He didn’t see the wall that jutted out from the rear of the building, only felt the solid edge as he crashed against it. Something snapped, and Marius had time to hope it was the wood and not his hip as he spun away and collided, back first, with the lower wall.

He slid down until he lay in the crook of wall and floor, staring up at the gloom through which he had fallen. Slowly, details began to emerge – from this angle he was able to make more sense of the interior architecture than he had when hanging from the other wall. To his right, a massive sliding door hung loosely upon its frame, its control wheel clearly visible. A bas relief was carved into its inner surface. Marius squinted, trying to make out details through the carpet of barnacles and plant life. A series of human figures. A procession of women, bearing whips and carrying saddles. Marius turned his attention to the rear wall. There were some aspects of kingly life that were better hidden, he decided. That was one side of Nandus he could live without understanding. He found the wall against which he had crashed, and smiled in relief as he saw where a chunk towards the end had been removed by his fall. The wall protruded several feet into the room, and now that he was looking, Marius could see another one maybe four feet above it, and another above that. Huge, triangular hinges hung downwards from the front edge, and the remains of what appeared to be a gate hung from lowest wall. Marius tilted his head to take in the view from the right angle. The gate reached about halfway up the wall. In fact, if he pictured it closed, and another one over the space above, he could easily see the spaces as some sort of cubicle, like the brothels of Hayst, or… Marius blinked in astonishment. Stables. They were stables. This entire stateroom, with tapestries of immeasurable wealth hanging from gold-plated walls, and floors, he realized as he attempted to stand, of the same slippery substance, turned over to horses. Well, one horse, he supposed. Littleboots, favoured friend of the King and the only four-legged member of the imaginary Scorban senate. In a way, Marius was relieved, particularly when he considered the whip-wielding women on the interior of the doors. But if this was the horse’s realm, one question remained. Unless he slept in the stables along with his horse, where were the King’s quarters?

Marius slid along his perch until he reached the point where walls and floor coincided. A pile of bones lay in an untidy bundle. He grabbed an elongated femur and used it to lever himself upright, where he could raise his hands on either side and balance against the three surfaces. He glanced down, and saw a heavy, equine skull staring up at him.

“Evening, senator,” he thought, and almost overbalanced as a fit of giggles took him. The horse’s skull made no reply, so Marius put his foot against it and levered himself upwards. The lowest stable wall was out of reach. Marius leaped at it anyway, and floated gently down to lose his footing against the slick gold floor, landing in a heap amongst Littleboots’ bones. He lay there, tapping his hand against Littleboots’ forehead in frustration, ignoring the swirl of sediment.

You’re underwater, you fool. Swim up.

Marius could not swim. But he could thrash his arms and legs about like someone trying to catch arrows shot at him by a thousand angry archers. He carefully placed one foot on either angled surface beneath him, crouched down to gather as much strength as possible into his legs, and leaped. He sailed forward in a graceless arc, whipping the water to a froth. Miraculously, he began to rise. Marius kept his eyes fixed upon the prize – the wall, ten feet above him, but getting closer, closer. He beat the water with renewed urgency, until the muscles in his shoulders and thighs began to seize up from the exertion, and rose in a series of little gulps, his efforts growing more and more frog-like as he lost what little sense of rhythm he possessed. His fingers brushed the underside of the wall, then again. He gave one last, almighty effort, and with the sound of his shoulder popping echoing through his skull, wedged three fingers over the top of the wall. And there he hung, a half-inflated parade puppet, while his muscles twitched and spasmed, and he realized with incredulity that he was gasping in pain. Barely had he time to register the sensation before his fingers began to lose their precarious grip. Marius heaved his other arm up, and found purchase for his hand. Legs pumping and kicking, he drew himself up until his arms were fully over the edge and he could lever his upper body up. He plumped forward like a seal leaving the ocean, until, at last, he swung his legs over and lay on his back, gasping, no longer caring that he drew in only water and microscopic particles of filth. If it was instinct, then so be it. He needed the release, needed to calm the fandango in his chest cavity and let die the painful thumping behind his eyes.

When he was able to open his eyes without seeing dancing purple blobs, he turned his head and gazed along the floor of his new haven. What he saw made him stifle a sob. The stable was empty. Thoroughly empty, without even a pile of mouse bones left behind after all the hay had rotted away. Marius swung his stare towards the other wall, wavering in and out of vision above his head. It was only four feet or so, a fraction of the distance he had already travelled. It just seemed such a very large fraction, that was all. Marius raised himself to his hands and knees, and slid clumsily over to the lip. He leaned back, and raised his arms so his fingers curled against the upper wall. Such a little effort, to rear up and pull himself over the edge. Such a small thing, to have a heart attack and die, again, under the water where nobody would ever know what had become of him. Then Gerd could go about his dead man’s business as it suited him, and Keth could find herself a nice, rich, gentleman and settle down and have a hundred babies and as many cats running about as many gardens as she liked. Marius closed his eyes. No. He’d be damned if he was going to let Gerd get away with things that easily. And as for Keth, if she was going to settle down and have a hundred babies with anybody…

Marius sank back onto his haunches, then his backside, staring dumbly out into the room. Across the way, sideways women beckoned to him with whips and smiles that still seemed a little too knowing for just a horse. Something small and very important inside him fell over and broke with a sound that may have been his subconscious slapping itself on the forehead. Marius stared into the dark for a long time, the memory of everything he had ever done with Keth, and everything they had ever said, scrolling slowly past his internal eye. When he got to their last meeting, Marius winced. The broken thing inside him cramped, and stayed that way. Oh God, he thought. She already knew she loved me. He regained his knees, and reached for the wall above him. It was no longer a matter of visiting a mad practical joke upon those who had bestowed this death upon him. He had a real mission now, one that sank into his bones with an urgency he had never before experienced. Getting back to the dead was only the first part. After that, he had to get to Keth. After that, well, he would get what he deserved. His grasping fingers found the edge, and he pulled himself upwards with renewed strength.

The first thing he saw as he crested the wall were the bones. A small heap of them, tucked into the back of the stable, pushed into untidy confusion by the gentle movement of the water. Marius slid down towards them.