The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,14
the midst of the biggest sewer in Malaisea.
‘What do you propose to do if we withhold our permission?’ demanded a voice overhead.
Echo urgently needed a new strategy. Grabbing a Leathermouse and roughing it up in front of the others - that had been his original plan. One brief but painful object lesson and the rest would soon knuckle under, he’d thought, but he was now forced to concede that it wouldn’t be that easy. Far from it. He was overwhelmingly outnumbered.
‘Well,’ asked a Leathermouse, ‘Crat got your tongue?’
Echo strove to remain calm. He couldn’t afford to lose his nerve. Was this a trap? A ritual? Was he a gift from Ghoolion, a sacrificial offering to the occupants of his loft? He didn’t stand a chance against them, that was abundantly clear. They would descend on him en masse and bury him beneath them like a corpse in a leather shroud. They would sink their sharp teeth in him and suck him dry within seconds. One more offensive remark, one false move, and there would be nothing left of him but a bloodless husk, a Cratskin riddled with holes. He had no idea where the exit to the roof was and his line of retreat was blocked. He had walked into the trap like a brainless rat unable to keep its paws off a piece of cheese. Breakfast on the roof? He himself was the breakfast in question.
‘We’re waiting for an answer!’ came a menacing hiss from the darkness.
Echo had to weigh his next words with the utmost care. What tone should one adopt towards a multitude of mortally offended vampire bats? Submissive? Sincere? Bumptious? Disingenuous? All he knew was that his next remark must incorporate a reference to the Alchemaster. If the Leathermice respected anyone at all, that person was their landlord. It suddenly occurred to Echo that Ghoolion had asked him to give them his regards.
‘Ghoolion sent me, as I told you,’ he called. ‘Alchemaster Ghoolion, your landlord. Ghoolion the Mighty, whose guest I am. I’m here on his behalf. He asked me to give you his best regards.’ Echo tried to sound as self-assured as before, but he failed.
‘So you already said,’ a Leathermouse retorted.
‘Very generous of him,’ said another.
‘Generous?’ Echo said cautiously. ‘For sending you his regards?’
‘No, not his regards.’
‘What, then?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ Echo was slow to catch on.
‘Yes, it’s generous of him to have sent you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s been ages since we had a pudding that could miaow.’
A derisive snarl filled the air - presumably the Leathermouse equivalent of approving laughter. Echo instinctively went into a crouch, but he suppressed the urge to arch his back or hiss. He was a Crat, not a cat. Now was the time for brains, not claws. Deliberation, not action. Diplomacy, not war.
‘A pudding?’ he said. ‘At this hour of the morning?’
‘With us it’s late at night. We turn night into day and day into night. We’ve just been gorging ourselves on the blood of the local inhabitants. Now we could do with a nice pudding.’
A Leathermouse belched unashamedly.
Echo crouched down even lower. So he really was a sacrificial offering - that was the only reason Ghoolion had fed him yesterday. All that talk about fattening him up for fat extraction had been just a hoax.
‘I understand,’ he said softly.
‘No, you don’t. Nobody understands us Leathermice.’
‘You’re right, friend!’ cried another vampire. ‘Nobody understands us Leathermice.’
‘Nobody!’
‘Nobody!’
‘Nobody!’
Echo had little choice now but to play for time. And to hope, either that he would have a flash of inspiration or that chance would come to his aid. Should he miaow at the top of his voice? Should he caterwaul for Ghoolion? No, they would be on him in a flash. So what else? In the animal world there were usually only two possible courses of action when you were confronted by a dangerous enemy: attack or make a run for it. He could do neither, but he did have a third option. He must surely be the first of Ghoolion’s sacrificial offerings capable of conversing with Leathermice. It was up to him to exploit that unique advantage.
‘Does Ghoolion owe you something?’ he asked. ‘Is that why I’m being sacrificed?’
‘What business is it of yours?’ snapped a Leathermouse.
‘Well, it’s not much consolation, but if I’ve got to die, I’d at least like to know why.’
‘You’re in no position to make demands!’
‘Oh, come, my friends!’ called another Leathermouse. ‘It’s only fair. If we’re going to bump him off, he ought to know why.’