Chapter 13: Where Rat Learns The Law

"I have no doubt that I know who you are," the old man said. "You are the son of Harlock Cooper."

Those words echoing in my dream sent a shiver through my body that jerked me awake. Still in that room, but now it was daytime. How long had I slept? The curtains were drawn shut and the sunlight created a soft glow through the fabric. I lay for a while, gradually coming to realise that this time I was ready to wake. I began examining the room. In this gentle light I could make it out in better detail than during the night. But the luxury was difficult for me to grasp, the beauty too graceful for my threadbare mind.

Soft carpeting, beautifully carved heavy wooden furniture, sweet-smelling wall panes – I cared for nothing of this. The soft bed and pillows, the blanket, spoke nothing to me. I was too cynical for this, too suspicious of everything and everyone. I did not believe in such fantastical stories of finding a long-lost identity, of discovering that I, in all actuality, was the son of someone so great and famous.

It felt false and wrong. All this was another cage, decorated with frills and rose-pattern carvings, an illusion designed to confuse me.

I had to run, I had to get away, this wasn't my place, it wasn't my world or my story. I used to run only when my life was in danger, I used to take any opportunity I was given, any charity of food or clothing, any chance to sleep in someone's barn. I took whatever no one wanted, claimed what people threw away. I was the garbage of society, after all, and so I lived off the garbage people produced.

But this was too much. Nothing threatened my life here yet, but everything here threatened my idea of freedom.

I threw aside the heavy blanket and slipped off the bed. The bed sheets were so soft and smooth I melted off them like butter, but when my feet met the floor I was as heavy as lead. My knees trembled and I wobbled forward, holding myself against the the headboard and then the wall, my balance faltering with every step. My heart sped, the room began spinning and I closed my eyes against a wave of nausea. I had been fed and rested for so many days, I was not cold, I was clean as I had never been before, they had even cut my hair, but I was weaker than I had ever been in my life, I was moving like a slug.

I left the wall and staggered toward a chair that looked more stable than it actually was. With a clatter it fell over, and I with it, the rich deep carpeting softening the impact. The door burst open and Mitchillie flew in. She was not a very young woman and was heavily built, but she moved admirably fast, grasping my shoulders with powerful hands. "My Lord, you mustn't," she cried, dismayed. "You haven't moved for days! You mustn't rush your body, young master!" She went to lift me off the floor, but I wouldn't have her treat me like a baby.

"Who are you calling a lord and a master?" I snapped, my voice hoarse and weak. Poor Mitchillie, she was truly a kind soul, she didn't deserve my ire.

"Never mind that," she cooed, unmoved by my temper. "We need to get you back in bed. Look at you; you're pale as a ghost and sweating all over!"

"I'm fine," I croaked, and with effort that made my stomach tie in knots, I rose to my feet.

"No, you mustn't!" she pleaded. "You'll hurt yourself."

"You don't understand," I said as sharply as I could. "I don't belong here." I took a step toward the door, my whole body shaking.

And stopped. At the doorway, the old man stood, his arms crossed, his expression grave. "Already causing dear Nurse Mitchillie trouble, I see," he said, his gaze darkening. "Apologise at once, child, and get back into bed."

It was already taking all my effort just to stay upright, I didn't have energy to argue with the Grand Master, but I couldn't comply either. I was a child, but I wasn't used to being scolded and ordered about. So I simply stood and scowled contemptuously at him.

He sighed and fixed his gaze on me. I knew that he was not about to argue with me either; he was going to get his way, if not with words, then by force. I could sense the command form in his mind; I could sense how it was hurled at me. I retaliated instinctively, it was not a conscious thought, nor an unconscious thought, it all happened outside of me, and yet somehow I anticipated it, somehow I could follow it.

The old man was beaming, satisfied. "You can barely stand on your feet, yet you can fight my magic without having ever been trained. As expected from the son of Harlock Cooper."

The pleasure of my success was outweighed by my resentment about being reminded about the Grand Master's bogus theory. Nevertheless, I had performed magic. Magic made me eager and with it came an unfamiliar longing that was almost like hunger.  "I'm not his son," I retorted, if I hadn't bothered answering, I might have been able to react in time to deflect the Grand Master's second attack.

As if I was a feather carried on the breeze, I was wafted back into the bed, the blanket covering me once more. I tried to fight, to get up, but the blanket pinned me to the bed.

"Did you know," the Grand Master said, now doubly delighted that he had gotten past my guard. "That this used to be Harlock's room in the years when he was my apprentice?" He walked to the corner of the room and tugged a silken cord that opened a heavy curtain, revealing a wall with a portrait on it. It was a painting of a younger version of the Grand Master with a boy around my age.

Mitchillie exclaimed, clasping her hands over her heart. "What a likeness!"

The old man turned to me with a look of satisfaction. "As you can see, there is no question in the matter of who your father is."

I could not understand what he was trying to convey with showing me this portrait of young Harlock Cooper. I was not impressed or persuaded. The Grand Master's smile wavered slightly and Mitchillie excused herself from the room. Finally, it seemed that if I didn't react, nothing would happen to improve my situation. "So, you took me in because I remind you of him?" I asked dryly.

"You remind me of him in the same way this portrait does," he said. "You resemble him perfectly." He snatched a hand-mirror that was placed by the washing basin and held it up to my face. Mirrors had gotten quite popular; ever since glass manufacture became so cheap, even commoners could afford a mirror. I didn't much care about my appearance, and I had only chanced to see my reflection in a mirror a few times. Usually, I just made do with a hasty look in a shop window or a muddy puddle. Neither were like seeing one's face clearly in a silver-backed mirror.

I inspected my features in the looking glass, and then up at the portrait, and again at the glass. My face was thinner, longer, mousier. My eyes were darker, my cheeks browner. But put those details aside; disregard the fact that my face took the shape of my life, and the portrait on the wall might as well have been me.

I wanted to say that this was some sort of trick; I wanted to accuse the Grand Master of enchanting the glass or the portrait. But even as the words formed on my lips, I already knew that this wasn't true.

Yet I couldn't simply go along with this. I felt opposed to it with every fibre of my being. I turned away, averting my gaze from the mirror. "It's too late for him to be my father," I said darkly, and quietly, "I hate him." At those words, I knew I spoke the truth; I hated Harlock Cooper like I had never hated anyone before. I hated him for being famous and powerful. I hated him for allowing my life to be the way it was. I hated him for being dead.

"Nevertheless, you are tied to him." The Grand Master's voice was soft, was he trying to sound fatherly?

I struggled against the blanket. "I'm a street kid, I'm not tied to anything."

"You are no longer a street boy; I am responsible for you now." His voice rose in pitch, he glared at me and I at him. My struggle was futile, against him and against the blanket. But still I could not surrender.

"I don't need a guardian," I said through gritted teeth. "You can't keep me here."

"Unfortunately for you, the King's law proclaims that any child under the age of thirteen must have a legal guardian."

"The law," I said, "is bullocks."

The Grand Master smiled a nostalgic smile "Only criminals believe that, boy," he said. "Criminals and your father."

"In that case your King is a criminal."

The Grand Master's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," I replied sullenly.

"I'm not pretending, boy, what in the name of the gods are you referring to?"

I shut my mouth, my throat clogged with wrath, rage coursed through my blood like poison. I was angry to be in the palace, in close proximity to the one who had issued that edict. I was enraged to be near the person who spilled the blood of every single street person I knew. I was consumed with fury at the murderer of Moe and Fizz.

"Murder," I spat, my vision blurred by sudden tears. "Your King is a murderer."

"Kings are above being accused of murder." The Grand Master's voice was deep and commanding – an adult speaking to a child.

"Your King has blood on his hands."

"Ah, but don't you see? The problem is, my boy," the old man smiled ruefully at me, " he is your King as well."