So, when Darktan saw Sardines and his struggling passenger had disappeared safely into the gloom of the roof—

–he let go of the big old candle lamp he'd been holding for the extra weight and bit through the rope.

The lamp landed heavily on Jacko and Darktan landed on the lamp, rolling down onto the floor.

The crowd was silent. They'd been silent since Hamnpork had been propelled out of the pit. Around the top of the wall which, yes, was far too high for a rat to jump, Darktan saw faces. They were mostly red. The mouths were mostly open. The silence was the silence of red faces drawing breath ready to start shouting at any moment.

Around Darktan the surviving rats were scrambling aimlessly for a foothold on the wall. Fools, he thought. Four or five of you together could make any dog wish you'd never been born. But you scrabble and panic and you get picked off one at a time…

The slightly-stunned Jacko blinked and stared down at Darktan, a growl rising in his throat.

“Right, you kkrrkk,” said Darktan, loud enough for the watchers to hear. “Now I'm going to show you how a rat can live.”

He attacked.

Jacko was not a bad dog, according to the way of dogs. He was a terrier and liked killing rats in any case, and killing lots of rats in the pit meant that he got well fed and called a good boy and wasn't kicked very often. Some rats did fight back and that wasn't much of a problem, because they were smaller than Jacko and he had a lot more teeth. Jacko wasn't that smart, but he was a lot smarter than a rat and, in any case, his nose and mouth did most of the thinking.

And he was surprised, therefore, when his jaws snapped shut on this new rat and it wasn't there.

Darktan didn't run like a rat should. He ducked like a fighter. He nipped Jacko under the chin and vanished. Jacko spun around. The rat still wasn't there. Jacko had spent his show business career biting rats that tried to run away. Rats that stayed really close were unfair!

There was a roar from the watchers. Someone shouted, “Ten dollars on the rat!” and someone else punched him in the ear. Another man started to climb into the pit. Someone smashed a beer bottle on that man's head.

Dancing back and forth under the spinning, yapping Jacko, Darktan waited for his moment…

… and saw it, and lunged, and bit hard.

Jacko's eyes crossed. A piece of Jacko that was very private and of interest only to Jacko and any lady dogs he might happen to meet was suddenly a little ball of pain.

He yelped. He snapped at the air. And then, in the uproar, he tried to climb out of the pit. His claws scraped desperately as he reared up against the greasy, smooth planking.

Darktan jumped onto his tail, ran up his back, scampered to the tip of Jacko's nose, and leapt over the wall.

He landed among legs. Men tried to stamp on him, but that meant other men would have to give them room. By the time they'd elbowed one another out of the way and stamped heavily on one another's boots, Darktan was gone.

But there were other dogs. They were half-mad with excitement in any case, and now they pulled away from ropes and chains and set off after a running rat. They knew about chasing rats.

Darktan knew about running. He sped across the floor like a comet, with a tail of snarling, barking dogs, headed for the shadows, spied a hole in the planking and dived through into the nice, safe, darkness—

Click went the trap.

“At last!” said Malicia, shaking the ropes off. “Somehow I thought rats would gnaw quicker.”

“They used a knife,” said Keith. “And you could say thank you, couldn't you?”

“Yes, yes, tell them I'm very grateful,” said Malicia, pushing herself upright.

“Tell them yourself!”

“I'm sorry, I find it so embarrassing to… talk to rats.”

“I suppose that's understandable,” said Keith. “If you've been brought up to hate them because they—”

“Oh, it's not that,” said Malicia, walking over to the door and looking at the keyhole. “It's just that it's so… childish. So… tinkly-winkly. So… Mr. Bunnsy.”

“Mr. Bunnsy?” squeaked Peaches, and it really was a squeak, a word that came out as a sort of little shriek.

“What about Mr. Bunnsy?” said Keith.

Malicia reached into her pocket and pulled out her packet of bent hair pins. “Oh, some books some silly woman wrote,” she said, poking at the lock. “Stupid stuff for ickle kids. There's a rat and a rabbit and a snake and a hen and an owl and they all go around wearing clothes and talking to humans and everyone's so nice and cosy it makes you absolutely sick. D'you know my father kept them all from when he was a kid? ‘Mr. Bunnsy Has an Adventure’, ‘Mr. Bunnsy's Busy Day’, ‘Ratty Rupert Sees It Through’… he read them all to me when I was small and there's not an interesting murder in any of them.”

“I think you'd better stop,” said Keith. He didn't dare look down at the rats.

“There's no sub-texts, no social commentary…” Malicia went on, still fiddling. “The most interesting thing that happens at all is when Doris the Duck loses a shoe—a duck losing a shoe, right?—and it turns up under the bed after they've spent the entire story looking for it. Do you call that narrative tension? Because I don't. If people are going to make up stupid stories about animals pretending to be human, at least there could be a bit of interesting violence…”

“Oh, boy,” said Maurice, from behind the grating.

This time Keith did look down. Peaches and Dangerous Beans had gone. “You know, I never had the heart to tell them,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “They thought it was all true.”

“In the land of Furry Bottom, possibly,” said Malicia, and stood up as the lock gave a final click. “But not here. Can you imagine someone actually invented that name and didn't laugh? Let's go.”

“You upset them,” said Keith.

“Look, shall we get out of here before the rat-catchers come back?” said Malicia.

The thing about this girl, Maurice thought, was that she was no good at all at listening to the way people spoke. She wasn't much good at listening, if it came to that.

“No,” said Keith.

“No what?”

“No, I'm not coming with you,” said Keith. “There's something bad going on here, much worse than stupid men stealing food.”

Maurice watched them argue again. Humans, eh? Think they're lords of creation. Not like us cats. We know we are. Ever see a cat feed a human? Case proven.

How the humans shout, hissed a tiny voice in his head.

Is that my conscience? Maurice thought. His own thoughts said: what, me? No. But I feel a lot better now you told them about Additives. He shifted uneasily from paw to paw. “Well then,” he whispered, looking at his stomach, “is that you, Additives?”

He'd been worried about that ever since he'd realized he'd eaten a Changeling. They had voices, right? Supposing you ate one? Suppose their voice stayed inside you? Suppose the… the dream of Additives around inside him? That sort of thing could seriously interfere with a cat's napping time, it really could.

No, said the voice, like the sound of wind in distant trees, it is I. I am… SPIDER.

“Oh, you're a spider?” whispered thought-Maurice. “I could take on a spider with three paws tied behind my back.”

Not a spider. SPIDER.

The word actually hurt. It hadn't before.

Now I'm in your HEAD, cat. Cats, cats, bad as dogs, worse than rats. I'm in your HEAD, and I will never go AWAY.