Free Ratastrophe Catastrophe by David Lee Stone Page B

breeze bothered a dragon-shaped weathervane on the roof of the treasury. It spun around, whistled on the wind, and broke off, embedding itself point down in the sloping lower roof. A chimney sweep, who had narrowly averted being impaled by leaping out of its path, fell six floors and crashed through a striped canopy over Stovers’ pie shop.
    Duke Modeset smiled bitterly and turned away from the window. “I hate this city, Pegrand,” he said. “Well, maybe that’s an overstatement, but I’m sure there are better places to rule. Anthills, for example.”
    “Ha! I don’t care for it much myself, milord,” said Pegrand. “I saw three trolls out on Banana Bridge yesterday, dangling a young lad and his mum over the side. It oughtn’t to be allowed. It’s not just thieves these days, milord. Most of our citizens are petty crooks and vagabonds, too.”
    And worse, he thought. I’m not going to mention that dwarf with the butcher’s daughter. He’d never seen such despicable behavior.
    “Just concentrate on the job you’re doing, Pegrand.”
    “I am, milord,” said the manservant. “But you did say normal duties were on hold until—”
    “Exactly! So, you see, in some ways you can actually think of this rat crisis as an extended vacation, albeit one taken at home.”
    “How’s that, milord?” Pegrand raised an eyebrow. There had definitely been an emphasis on the word extended , and he wasn’t sure he liked the implication. “Surely you’re not actually thinking of staying here during the attempted, er, rat-out, milord?” he said, his voice edged with despair. “Do you remember that idea you had a few months ago of faking your own death? Maybe you should try that now!”
    “What?”
    “Well, maybe this infestation is a blessing in disguise; an opportunity to leave this fleapit of a city to someone else. It’s a terrible place, milord.”
    “As we both agree,” said Duke Modeset. “But I’m sure I don’t know why you continue to live here.”
    Modeset got down on his hands and knees and peered under the throne. Vicious was still curled up in a ball, growling softly in its sleep. He wondered what sex the dog was.
    “Um…excuse me, gentlemen?”
    Modeset and Pegrand started. The lord chancellor, a thin and insipid man named Quarry, stood beside the throne. He was attempting to shuffle through a collection of scrolls while standing up. Every few seconds a rogue parchment would slide off and drift away.
    “I was thinking about the money situation, Duke Modeset,” said Quarry.
    “Oh, yes?” answered the duke.
    “Indeed,” said Quarry.
    Pegrand sniffed haughtily and marched over to the window. He’d always despised chancellors, but Quarry was definitely a snake in the grass if ever he’d seen one.
    “Problems?” asked the duke.
    “Well,” Chancellor Quarry continued, “we’ve been experiencing some financial difficulties since the citizens stopped paying their taxes.”
    Duke Modeset’s eyes narrowed. “When was that?”
    “About a year ago, sir. The shopkeepers still pay theirs and all small businesses are assessed a fixed sum per annum, but we’ve built up a backlog of debt with Legrash, you see, and—”
    “Tell me, Quarry,” Duke Modeset asked, approaching the question with caution. “Exactly what do we have in the treasury, at this precise moment?”
    The chancellor hurried over to the desk, snatched up a quill and did some rudimentary calculations. “About—”
    “Yes?” said Modeset, his eyebrows raised.
    “Roughly—”
    “Mmm?”
    “Seven hundred and fifty-seven thousand, five hundred and twelve…”
    Pegrand breathed a sigh of relief, and even Modeset’s death-mask features expressed a second or two of surprised satisfaction.
    “…sacks of Coral’s cut-price coal,” the chancellor continued, smiling weakly. “A present from Baron Quaker of Legrash,” he added.
    “Coal. I see,” said the duke calmly, his death mask returning.
    “Coal?” echoed Pegrand.