THE CAT AND THE RAT faced off in the alleyway. The tom was less mangy than the rat would have liked. He preferred his predators old and toothless. The rat was not as fat as the cat would have preferred. He liked a nice plump snack, but this rat was one of those rangy fortune hunters who had fallen on hard times.

They eyed each other in the night. The rat’s nose twitched, long whiskers glistening with the damp of the wharfside cobblestones. He rose to his full height, an impressive seven inches, and spoke.

“I should warn you,” he said in perfect Catish, “I am quite the dab-hand at this.” On the last word, he pulled his rapier from its sheath. Slender and wicked, the sharp blade (which he liked to call “Viper’s Sting”) flashed brightly, a vicious slice of moonlight in the depths of the shadows.

The cat raised a whiskered brow. Most rodents spoke a few words of Catish—mainly phrases such as “spare me,” “please,” and “mercy.” Although that last one was a mistranslation. There was no word for mercy in the cat tongue, only “swiftly.”

Ernst Listz was the sort of rat who knew the difference, the sort that could converse in more languages, both Man and Animal, than the average river rat, or even the exceptional one. Indeed, few scholars, rodent or human, spoke the tongues of other species. For, though they lived side by side, rarely did they try to understand each other. The cat might consider him an extra-special meal as a result, but Ernst would make sure it was hard won.

Suddenly, the cat made a sound that needed no interpretation: he chuckled and grinned, revealing two rows of very compelling argument. Each ivory tooth was as long and sharp as Ernst’s little blade.

The rat set himself en garde, his sword at the ready, and waited for his opponent to strike.

The cat flattened his ears.

Ernst twisted the sword in his paw and smashed it into the cat’s bared fangs with a quick snap.

The cat blinked, startled, even as his forepaw shot out.

Ernst dropped to the ground in that peculiar way only rats can. He whipped his hard pink tail around, poking the cat in the eye.

The cat hissed and struck, snagging the tip of Ernst’s tail.

“Ha, Sir Rat! I have you now,” the cat purred, his open eye gleaming green in the dark. The offended eye remained closed. Until Ernst pricked it with the tip of his sword.

“Do you?”

The cat winced. They formed a circle, linked tail to claw and eye to sword.

“Détente?” Ernst proposed. The scales were in perfect balance—neither cat nor rat had the upper hand—but for how long? More than one tomcat had willingly surrendered an eye for dinner. But, like a rat’s tail, once lost, the eye would not grow back. The fight was a draw.

The cat sighed. “Well played, friend Rat. Fortunately, it does not suit my purposes to eat you at this time.”

Ernst nodded, but his sword did not waver.

“Well then, I bid you on your way, Sir Tom. May our paths lie ever in opposite directions.”

The cat appreciated the sentiment and chuckled again, a deep throaty sound called a “purr” by those human wretches who kept cats in high regard. Ernst held back a sneer.

By unspoken agreement, each released the other and took two paces back.

“Adieu,” said the cat, displaying an unusual knowledge of a human tongue. Like cats and rodents, Man and Animal lived side by side in companionable ignorance. The only thing more rare than a cat who spoke Human was a man who spoke Catish, or any of the other languages of the Animal Kingdoms. But of course, these wharf cats came from all over and ate scraps at the tables of the world. Like rats had done once, long ago. Ernst relaxed his stance as the feline turned slowly and slipped into the night, his tail whipping silently in his wake.

And then Ernst collapsed against the cobblestones and breathed deeply, never mind the muck and the smell. The sweetest breaths always came immediately on the heels of cheated death. He could have hurt the brute with Viper’s Sting, certainly, but with that mouth full of fangs, it was more like a battle of one against thirty. Odds even an adventurer like Ernst would rather avoid.

After a moment, his heart slowed enough for him to take stock. These alleys were likely crawling with cats waiting to take advantage of newly docked ships, and of the dull-witted rats who had spent too much time at sea, unsteady on their legs, out of practice in avoidance and combat.

Ernst sheathed his sword, inspected his tail—dimpled, but not cut, by those claws—and smoothed down his fur. Likely the tom had passed him up so easily because he was already full, dining on those very sea rats.

No one I know, of course, Ernst comforted himself. He might have acquaintances and kin in Paris, London, even Munich. But he was new to Vienna. If he disappeared here, no one would notice. But he was a Listz, from a long illustrious line of rodents, born of better times, destined for greatness. Or at least betterness. A hot meal, a soft bed, and an appreciative audience would be a start. Clean clothes would be better, but . . . Ernst sighed, retrieved his satchel from the gutter, and slung the strap across his shoulder. He stretched his long back, dropped to all fours, and scurried the rest of the way to the Underwall, a tavern near the water where he had heard a rat might find work. Someone with his talent for languages and etiquette, his understanding of human culture, could surely find a way to put a meal in his belly and the night on the far side of a sturdy door.

It was time to sing for his supper.