“I wouldn't have to,” said Maurice, out loud. “That's the point!”

“What?” said Peaches, looking up from the book.

“Oh, nothing…” Maurice paused. There was nothing for it. It went against everything a cat stood for. This is what thinking does for you, he thought. It gets you into trouble. Even when you know other people can think for themselves, you start thinking for them too. He groaned.

“We'd better see what's happened to the kid,” he said.

It was completely black in the cellar. All there was, apart from the occasional drip of water, were voices.

“So,” said the voice of Malicia, “let's go over it again, shall we? You don't have a knife of any kind?”

“That's right,” said Keith.

“Or some handy matches that could burn through the rope?”

“No.”

“And no sharp edge near you that you could rub the rope on?”

“No.”

“And you can't sort of pull your legs through your arms so that you can get your hands in front of you?”

“No.”

“And you don't have any secret powers?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? The moment I saw you, I thought: he's got some amazing power that will probably manifest itself when he's in dire trouble. I thought: no-one could really be as useless as that unless it was a disguise.”

“No. I'm sure. Look, I'm just a normal person. Yes, all right, I was abandoned as a baby. I don't know why. It was something that happened. They say it happens quite a lot. It doesn't make you special. And I don't have any secret markings as if I was some kind of sheep, and I don't think I'm a hero in disguise and I don't have some kind of amazing talent that I'm aware of. OK, I'm good at playing quite a few musical instruments. I practise a lot. But I'm the kind of person heroes aren't. I get by and I get along. I do my best. Understand?”

“Oh.”

“You should have found someone else.”

“In fact, you can't be any help at all?”

“No.”

There was silence for a while and then Malicia said, “You know, in many ways I don't think this adventure has been properly organized.”

“Oh, really?” said Keith.

“This is not how people should be tied up.”

“Malicia, do you understand? This isn't a story,” said Keith, as patiently as he could. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. Real life isn't a story. There isn't some kind of… of magic that keeps you safe and makes crooks look the other way and not hit you too hard and tie you up next to a handy knife and not kill you. Do you understand?”

There was some more dark silence.

“My granny and my great-aunt were very famous story-tellers, you know,” said Malicia eventually, in a strained little voice. “Agoniza and Eviscera Grim.”

“You said,” said Keith.

“My mother would have been a good story-teller, too, but my father doesn't like stories. That's why I've changed my name to Grim for professional purposes.”

“Really…”

“I used to get beaten when I was small for telling stories,” Malicia went on.

“Beaten?” said Keith.

“All right, then, smacked,” said Malicia. “On the leg. But it did hurt. My father says you can't run a city on stories. He says you have to be practical.”

“Oh.”

“Aren't you interested in anything except music? He broke your pipe!”

“I expect I'll buy another one.”

The calm voice infuriated Malicia. “Well, I'll tell you something,” she said. “If you don't turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else's story.”

“And what if your story doesn't work?”

“You keep changing it until you find one that does.”

“Sounds silly.”

“Huh, look at you. You're just a face in someone else's background. You let a cat make all the decisions.”

“That's because Maurice is—”

A voice said, “Would you like us to go away until you've stopped being human?”

“Maurice?” said Keith. “Where are you?”

“I'm in a drain and believe me, this has not been a good night. Do you know how many old cellars there are here?” said the voice of Maurice, in the blackness. “Peaches is bringing a candle in. It's too dark even for me to see you.”

“Who's Peaches?” whispered Malicia.

“She's another Changeling. A thinking rat,” said Keith.

“Like Pilchards?”

“Like Sardines, yes.”

“Aha,” hissed Malicia. “See? A story. I am smug, I gloat. The plucky rats rescue our heroes, probably by gnawing through the ropes.”

“Oh, we're back in your story, are we?” said Keith. “And what am I in your story?”

“I know it's not going to be romantic interest,” said Malicia. “And you're not funny enough for comic relief. I don't know. Probably just… someone. You know, like ‘man in street’, something like that.” There were faint sounds in the darkness. “What are they doing now?” she whispered.

“Trying to light their candle, I think.”

“Rats play with fire?” Malicia hissed.

“They don't play. Dangerous Beans thinks lights and shadows are very important. They always have a candle alight somewhere in their tunnels, wherever they—”

“Dangerous Beans? What sort of name is that?”

“Shssh! They just learned words off old food tins and signs and things! They didn't know what the words meant, they just chose them because they liked the sounds!”

“Yes, but… Dangerous Beans? It sounds as if he makes you”

“It's his name. Don't make fun of it!”

“Sorry, I'm sure,” said Malicia, haughtily.

The match flared. The candle flame grew.

Malicia looked down at two rats. One was… well, just a small rat, although sleeker than most of the ones she'd seen. In fact most of the ones she'd seen had been dead, but even the living ones had always been… twitchy, nervy, sniffing the air all the time. This one just… watched. It stared right at her.

The other rat was white, and even smaller. It was also watching her, although peering was a better word. It had pink eyes. Malicia had never been very interested in other people's feelings, since she'd always considered that her own were a lot more interesting, but there was something sad and worrying about that rat.

It was dragging a small book, or at least what would be a small book to a human; it was about half the size of a rat. The cover was quite colourful, but Malicia couldn't make out what it was.

“Peaches and Dangerous Beans,” said Keith. “This is Malicia. Her father is the mayor here.”

“Hello,” said Dangerous Beans.

“Mayor? Isn't that like government!” said Peaches. “Maurice says governments are very dangerous criminals and steal money from people.”

“How did you teach them to speak?” said Malicia.

“They taught themselves,” said Keith. “They're not trained animals, you know.”

“Well, my father does not steal from anyone. Who taught them that governments are very—?”

“'Scuse me, 'scuse me,” said Maurice's voice hurriedly, from the drain gate. “That's right, I'm down here. Can we get on with things?”

“We'd like you to gnaw at our ropes, please,” said Keith.

“I've got a bit of broken knife blade,” said Peaches. “It's for sharpening the pencil. Would that be better?”

“Knife?” said Malicia. “Pencil?”

“I did say they weren't ordinary rats,” said Keith.

Nourishing had to run to keep up with Darktan. And Darktan was running because he had to run to keep up with Sardines. When it came to moving fast across a town, Sardines was champion of the world.

They picked up more rats on the way. Nourishing couldn't help noticing that these were mostly the younger ones, who'd fled because of the terror but hadn't gone far. They fell in behind Darktan readily, almost grateful to be doing something with a purpose.

Sardines danced on ahead. He just couldn't help it. And he liked drainpipes, roofs and gutters. You got no dogs up there, he said, and not many cats.

No cat could have followed Sardines. The people of Bad Blintz had strung washing lines between the ancient houses and he leapt onto them, clinging upside down and moving as fast as he would on a flat surface. He went straight up walls, plunged through thatch, tap-danced around smoking chimneys, slid down tiles. Pigeons erupted from their roosts as he sped past, the other rats trailing behind him.