Stanley jumped up, winced and saluted. “At your service, Your Majesty.”
“Not ‘Your Majesty’ yet,” said Jenna. “Not until I am crowned with that.” She made a face and pointed to a very beautiful but simple crown sitting on a red velvet cushion on the mantelpiece.
“Ooh,” said Stanley, a little overawed. “It looks very heavy. Wouldn’t like to wear that all day.”
“Neither would I,” said Jenna. “And I don’t intend to just yet either. You know, Stanley, you always turn up when I least expect it. How are you—and Dawnie?”
“I am fine,” the rat replied. “I am sure that Dawnie is fine too. She makes a point of it, after all.”
“Ah,” said Jenna. “Things between you not good then?”
“No, Your Maj. But it was an amicable separation. Well, when I left I thought she looked kind of amicable. Possibly.
Although she was eating a pie at the time, which always puts her in a good mood.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry, Stanley.”
“I’m not,” replied the rat tersely.
“So, er…what are you doing with your life now?” asked Jenna.
“Keeping busy. Can’t complain. Visiting old friends, catching up, networking, you know how it is. Just done a bit of freelance actually—a mission to the Badlands.”
Jenna shuddered. “Horrible place,” she said.
“I’m with you there, Your Maj. And I wouldn’t like to bump into those that live there on a dark night. Actually, I’d rather not bump into them at all. But I’m making my base here now; no place like home, as they say. And I have a little proposition of my own to put to you, if you wouldn’t mind hearing me out. If you’re not too busy, that is. But if you are I can come back later. No doubt the trials and tribulations of young Queenshipdom and royaltyness bear heavy on your youthful shoulders and I—”
“I’m only reading, Stanley. I’m meeting someone later—it’s really important and I want to find out as much as I can before I go.”
“Very wise. Always go prepared. Big book you’ve got there. Not a great one for reading myself.”
“It is rather big.” Jenna sighed. “And complicated, too. It’s about Time.”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. It’s about time I came back and—”
“No, that’s what I am reading about. Time.”
“Quite. Been away far too long. But like I said, I have a proposition to put to you that may indeed be to your advantage.
Shall I go on?”
Jenna smiled. “Well, you generally do,” she said, closing her book and putting it down on the rug. “Sit down. Perch on my book here.”
“Ah. Thank you, Your Maj, but I think better on my feet,” he said. “Now, my proposition is that if you would be so good as to let me reopen the East Gate Lookout Tower and reinstitute the much missed Official Castle Message Rat Service, I would be honored to offer you the first year’s subscription at premium discount rates—”
“The Palace always got it free before,” said Jenna.
“Really? Well free for the first year, then. I would also throw in your own personal bodyguard rat and priority service at all times.”
“Fine,” said Jenna. “Go ahead.”
Stanley sat down on the book. “You sure?” he asked.
“Yes. We could use the Message Rat Service; it’s really missed. But where you’ll find the rats I don’t know. They’ve all disappeared. You’re the first one I’ve seen in a long time.”
Stanley jumped to his feet and saluted again—a habit he had recently picked up from an old ship’s rat in the Port. “No problem,” he said. “It takes a rat to find a rat. I’ll keep you informed, Your Maj. Your bodyguard will be dispatched ASAP ohcrumbsyou’vegotacat.” From underneath Jenna’s bed a small, scraggy orange cat had emerged. Although the cat was not much bigger than Stanley, there was a steely glint in its blue eyes that the rat did not like the look of. Not one bit. Stanley, who never forgot a cat, was sure he had seen it somewhere before.
“Oh, well, yes. I’m taking care of him for someone. Calm, Ullr,” said Jenna, noticing the cat was getting reading to pounce.
“I’ll have to rescind the bodyguard offer,” said Stanley, backing away. “Not with a cat in residence. Can’t put my staff at risk.”
Jenna picked up Ullr and held him tight. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Ullr’s the best bodyguard I could wish for.”
Stanley eyed the cat. “Bit on the small side for a bodyguard, isn’t it?” he asked. Ullr unsheathed his claws and tried to wriggle out of Jenna’s grasp. Stanley backed away hurriedly. “I’ll be off, then, Your Maj. And thank you. Good-bye.”
Jenna jumped up and let Stanley out of the door. “It’s okay, Sir Hereward,” she told the ghost who was about to aim another swipe at the rat. “He’s a friend.”
Stanley scampered along the corridor, leaped nimbly down the sweeping Palace stairs and, head held high, walked out of the main Palace door with Jenna’s words ringing in his ears. He was a friend. A friend of Royalty.
If Dawnie could see him now.
7
IN CHARGE
B eetle, Front Office and Inspection Clerk at Number Thirteen Wizard Way, home of the Magykal Manuscriptorium and Spell Checkers Incorporated, was not having a good day. It was a blustery, rainy Monday morning and Jillie Djinn, the Chief Hermetic Scribe, had left him in charge. At first Beetle had been thrilled. It was a real honor, since Miss Jillie Djinn chose her deputies carefully, even if it was only for an hour, and she usually gave the job to the most senior scribe.
But that morning she had fixed Beetle with her disconcerting stare—which always made him wonder what he had done wrong—and said, “Beetle, you’re in charge. Anyone comes about the job, fill out the form and I’ll see them this afternoon. Back in an hour. No earlier. No later.” Then, with a rustle of her dark blue silk robes Miss Djinn had bustled out of the door and was gone.
Beetle had closed the door against the wind and whistled a long low note. Resisting the urge to run amok yelling, “It’s mine, all mine!” he had contented himself with peering into the Manuscriptorium itself and checking that all seemed well. It did. Twenty scribes—one short of the usual number—sat perched at their high desks under twenty dim pools of light, their pens scratching away, copying out various spells, formulas, charms, enchantments, indentures, diatribes, licences, permits, proxies and anything else that was needed by the Wizards—or indeed anyone in the Castle who had a few silver pennies to spare.
Beetle celebrated his temporary promotion by sitting on his swivel chair and spinning around and around in circles—which was not allowed—while practicing his I’m-in-charge look. For five heady minutes everything had been wonderful—and then it all went wrong.
Beetle was amazed at how much trouble could cram itself into such a short space of time. It began when a tall, thin boy dressed in a shabby black tunic and travel-stained cloak came into the front office, made Jillie Djinn’s new—and extremely irritating—Daily Customer Counter click over to number three and demanded to see the Chief Hermetic Scribe.
“She’s out,” said Beetle snappily, deciding he did not like the look of the boy at all. “I’m in charge.”
The boy looked Beetle up and down and sniggered. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I don’t think.”
“Obviously not,” replied Beetle, surprised to hear himself sounding remarkably like Marcia Overstrand for a moment.
Remembering, a little late, that a member of the Manuscriptorium must be civil at all times, Beetle hurriedly asked,
“Well, um, can I help you?”
“I doubt it.” The boy shrugged.
Beetle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he said, “I’m sure I can do something if you tell me what you want.”
“I want that scribe’s job,” the boy replied.
Beetle was shocked. “The scribe’s job?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the boy. He grinned, pleased at the effect he had had. “Like I said, the scribe’s job.”