“Abandoned orphan is good,” said Malicia. “After all, a prince can only grow up to be a king but a mysterious orphan could be anybody. Were you beaten and starved and locked in a cellar?”

“I don't think so,” said Keith, giving her a funny look. “Everyone at the Guild was very kind. They were mostly nice people. They taught me a lot.”

“We've got Guilds here,” said Malicia. “They teach boys to be carpenters and stonemasons and things like that.”

“The Guild taught me music,” said Keith. “I'm a musician. I'm good at it, too. I've been earning my own living since I was six.”

“Aha! Mysterious orphan, strange talent, distressed upbringing… it's all shaping up,” said Malicia. “The strawberry yoghurt is probably not important. Would your life have been different if it had been banana-flavoured? Who can say? What kinds of music do you play?”

“Kinds? There aren't any kinds. There's just music,” said Keith. “There's always music, if you listen.”

Malicia looked at Maurice. “Is he always like this?” she demanded.

“This is the most I've ever heard him say,” said the cat.

“I expect you're very keen to know all about me,” said Malicia. “I expect you're just too polite to ask.”

“Gosh, yes,” said Maurice.

“Well, you probably won't be surprised to know that I've got two dreadful step-sisters,” said Malicia. “And I have to do all the chores!”

“Gosh, really,” said Maurice, wondering if there were any more fish-heads and, if there were any more fish-heads, whether they were worth all this.

“Well, most of the chores,” said Malicia, as if revealing an unfortunate fact. “Some of them, definitely. I have to clean up my own room, you know! And it's extremely untidy!”

“Gosh, really.”

“And it's very nearly the smallest bedroom. There're practically no cupboards and I'm running out of bookshelf space!”

“Gosh, really.”

“And people are incredibly cruel to me. You will note that we're here in a kitchen. And I'm the mayor's daughter. Should the daughter of a mayor be expected to wash up at least once a week? I think not!”

“Gosh, really.”

“And will you just look at these torn and bedraggled clothes I have to wear?”

Maurice looked. He wasn't good on clothes. Fur was enough for him. As far as he could tell, Malicia's dress was pretty much like any other dress. It seemed to be all there. There weren't any holes, except where the arms and head poked through.

“Here, just here,” said Malicia, pointing to a place on the hem which, to Maurice, looked no different from the rest of the dress. “I had to sew that back myself, you know?”

“Gosh, re—” Maurice stopped. From here he could see the bare shelves. More importantly, he could see Sardines abseiling down from a crack in the ancient ceiling. He had a knapsack on his back.

“And on top of this I'm the one who has to queue for the bread and sausages every day—” Malicia continued, but Maurice was listening even less than he had been before.

It had to be Sardines, he thought. Idiot! He always goes ahead of the trap squad! Of all the kitchens in all the town he could turn up in, he's turned up in this one. Any minute she's going to turn round and scream.

Sardines would probably treat it as applause, too. He lived life as if it was a performance. Other rats just ran around squeaking and messing up things, and that was quite good enough to convince humans there was a plague. But, oh, no, Sardines always had to go further. Sardines and his yowoorll song and dance act!

“—and the rats take everything,” Malicia was saying. “What they don't take, they spoil. It's been terrible! The council have been buying in food from other towns, but no-one has very much to spare. We have to buy corn and stuff from the traders that sail up the river. That's why bread is so expensive.”

“Expensive, eh?” said Maurice.

“We've tried traps and dogs and cats and poison and still the rats keep coming,” said the girl. “They've learned to be really sneaky, too. They hardly ever end up in our traps any more. Huh! I only ever got 50p for one tail. What's the good of the rat-catchers offering us 50p a tail if the rats are so cunning? The rat-catchers have to use all kinds of tricks to get them, they say.” Behind her, Sardines looked carefully around the room and then signalled to the rats in the ceiling to pull the rope up.

“Don't you think this would be a good time to go away!” said Maurice.

“Why are you making faces like that?” said Malicia, staring at him.

“Oh… well, you know that kind of cat that grins all time? Heard of that? Well, I'm the kind that makes, you know, weird faces,” said Maurice desperately. “And sometimes I just burst out and say things get away get away, see, I did it again. It is an affliction. I probably need counselling oh no don't do that this is not the time to do that whoops, there I go again…”

Sardines had pulled his straw hat out of his knapsack. He was holding a small walking-stick.

It was a good routine, even Maurice had to admit. Some towns had advertised for a rat piper the very first time he'd done it. People could tolerate rats in the cream, and rats in the roof, and rats in the teapot, but they drew the line at tap-dancing. If you saw tap-dancing rats, you were in big trouble. Maurice had reckoned that if only the rats could play an accordion as well they could do two towns a day.

He'd stared for too long. Malicia turned and her mouth opened in shock and horror as Sardines went into his routine. The cat saw her hand reach out for a pan that was on the table. She threw it, very accurately.

But Sardines was a good pot-dodger. The rats were used to having things thrown at them. He was already running when the pan was halfway across the room, and then he leapt onto the chair and then he jumped onto the floor and then he dodged behind the dresser and then there was a sharp, final, metallic… snap.

“Hah!” said Malicia, and Maurice and Keith stared at the dresser. “That's one rat less, at any rate. I really hate them…”

“It was Sardines,” said Keith.

“No, it was definitely a rat,” said Malicia. “Sardines hardly ever invade a kitchen. I expect you're thinking about the plague of lobsters over in—”

“He just called himself Sardines because he saw the name on a rusty old tin and thought it sounded stylish,” said Maurice. He wondered if he dared look behind the dresser.

“He was a good rat,” said Keith. “He used to steal books for me when they were teaching me to read.”

“Excuse me, are you mad?” said Malicia. “It was a rat. The only good rat is a dead rat!”

“Hello?” said a little voice. It came from behind the dresser.

“It can't be alive! It's a huge trap!” said Malicia. “It's got teeth!”

“Anyone there? Only the stick is bending…” said the voice.

The dresser was massive, the wood so old that time had turned it black and it had become as solid and heavy as stone.

“That's not a rat talking, is it?” said Malicia. “Please tell me rats can't talk!”

“In fact it's bending quite a bit now,” said the voice, which was slightly muffled.

Maurice squinted into the space behind the dresser. “I can see him,” he said. “He wedged the stick in the jaws as they closed! Wotcha, Sardines, how're you doing?”

“Fine, boss,” said Sardines, in the gloom. “If it wasn't for this trap I'd say everything was perfect. Did I mention the stick is bending?”

“Yes, you said.”

“It's bent some more since then, boss.”

Keith grabbed one end of the dresser and grunted as he tried to move it. “It's like a rock!” he said.

“It's full of crockery,” said Malicia, now quite bewildered. “But rats don't really talk, do they?”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Keith. He grabbed the back edge of the dresser with both hands, and braced one foot against the wall, and heaved.