“OH, HOW THE MIGHTY have fallen.” Ernst Listz gazed imperiously across the royal throne room of the mice of Boldavia, giving his usual speech with all the gravitas he could manage given his damp fur.

The Court of the Queen of Mice shifted uneasily, listening to their guest.

Peasants, Ernst thought. For all that this was a royal court and the Boldavian mice seemed to have secured more of a foothold in the city than he’d believed possible, they were still bumpkins compared to the old splendors of Ratdom. They could use a history lesson or two.

Ernst knew he cut a fine enough figure before the court—his waistcoat and tails might have been slightly out of date, the sky-blue silk faded, but his fur was groomed and his tail still firm. To such country mice he must look quite fashionable. Amused at the thought, he took a slow breath, and resumed his oration.

“Before the Fall, we were royalty, three tail lengths from the skirts of the Rat King himself. We feasted on the finest cheeses in the royal cellars of Bavaria, sipped deeply of the wines found there. We feared no man, or beast. We were the rulers of the Underearth. If only we had been satisfied to remain so. But the world of Men above was rich, and we climbed too far.”

He cast a warning eye at the gathered faces. Was anyone listening? How many knew that their ascent into the human kingdom could not last? A few traps, a few hungry cats, and all of this would be gone in an instant. He decided to put the weight of prophecy into his speech.

“What I know of that golden age is only what I’ve heard at family gatherings or in the old histories. I read them quite often. They remind me that what I saw as Paradise was only the fading light of a truly glorious age. The age before Hameln town and the Cursed One whose name must only be whispered . . . the Piper.”

A gasp ran through the room. Ernst preened his whiskers, pleased. Even here, in the backwater court of the Mouse Queen, they had not forgotten the devastation of Hameln.

Ernst puffed up and lowered his voice to a confidential stage whisper for effect. “Humans called him Pied, for the piebald outfit he wore.” He scanned the room, noting the piebald mice in the crowd. There were too many to offend, so he added to his description. “Gaily colored, they say, like a jester—black and white, yes, but also red, green, yellow, and blue. Leggings, tunic, cap, and feather, each of a different hue. A jolly figure, no doubt, if not for his cold, dark heart.”

Here, he paused dramatically.

“For that reason, and for the serpent-tongued pipe he played, all of ratkind call him Black. The Black Piper of Hameln, bane to the Kingdoms of Rodentia.”

A silence followed. Even the Mouse Queen seemed upset by the thought. Her whiskers twitched nervously, but her eyes remained calculating. Ernst waved his paw lightly in the air.

“But that was long ago, many generations by rat standards. For a while, my family used unwitting humans to buy and sell what treasures they had hoarded over the years—grain and cheese purchased with pearls and golden buttons, those sundry riches a diligent rodent might find, lost and forgotten by Man. Sadly, such wealth can only last so long.

“Mine is a gentleman’s trade. I act as a liaison between worlds. Animal or Man, if you desire to learn of either, you can come to me. Ernst Listz, Procurator, Tutor, and Scholar Extraordinaire. At your service, Your Majesty.”

The gray Queen squinted at him from her throne, a makeshift affair shaped out of tin and wire, fitted with a cushion of velvet and grass. She was no longer young, early middle seasons perhaps. One husband lost already. Probably to the traps, Ernst thought, though he’d heard whispers of darker dealings. Such rumors often turned out to be unfounded, usually planted by the subject to make themselves appear more dangerous than they really were. In this case, the Queen was said to be a witch. Leave it to country mice to be superstitious.

Ernst sucked his teeth, taking in the full length of the Queen’s purple brocade gown. She was heavily pregnant and appeared huge and lumpy, even beneath the elaborate dress. At least it was tailored—not the pilfered doll clothes most mice seemed to get away with these days. But she seemed common to the rat. All in all, not much of a witch, or a figurehead.

Ernst ran a paw delicately across his black whiskers.

The Queen sat silently, studying him. What is she waiting for? Ernst wondered.

As if in answer, there was a commotion at the back of the hall that turned everyone’s head, except for the Queen, who continued to gaze at the rat with a satisfied look.

A small, neat-looking piebald in nondescript clothes approached the throne. With an imperceptible nod, the Queen allowed him to come closer, and the piebald whispered something into her ear. The mouse court truly was a different place. Here, the piebalds seemed to be the Queen’s right hand. Spies, Ernst thought, with distaste. But it was clever. What decent rodent would ever give a scruffy piebald a second thought?

With a wave of her hand, the Queen dismissed her agent. Her eye fell once again on Ernst, and he straightened under her gaze.

When she spoke, her throaty voice belied her size. Her accent spoke of old royalty. “Thee speak of Hameln, rat? A true failure—for your kind.”

“For all rodents, madam.” Ernst favored the Queen with a gracious bow.

“For rats!” the Queen said sharply, her paw squeezed into a fist. “We mice have not failed! You see the city above, the world around? Mine! Thee speak of the Piper, the scourge of ratkind. Dost thee know naught of the enemy of mice?”

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, ‘beg,’” she scowled. “This, we mice no longer do. We fight. We rule. We thrive!”

Ernst was at a loss. Was the old bag insane? “But, surely the legend of the Piper tells us—” The Queen cut him short with a huffed wheeze that he realized was a laugh.

“They send me an educated rat,” she said to her court. “But what does he know of suffering and survival?” Her laughter grew and the audience shifted nervously, unsure of the appropriate response.

Ernst stiffened. He’d made his way through palaces and hovels for many a season. He would not be insulted by this little upstart. But then again, the first meal a true survivor swallows is his pride. He looked up at the Queen, innocence and confusion painted on his face.

“Your Piper, Sir Rat, was so very long ago. A tale to scare younglings, yes? Oldlings, too, perhaps?” The Queen waved her paw as if clearing the air. Her black eyes glittered, all humor gone. “A tale of defeat.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty. I did not mean to offend,” Ernst replied with a fluid bow. Not just a simple country mouse, this one. At least not one easily impressed. He held himself in that position, nose to floor, until the Queen spoke again.

“Thee speak to me of the Pied Piper to frighten me? The Queen of Boldavia?” She snorted. “We have fought and died in our own time beneath the heel of Man. Your Piper is but a fable. Our villain is real.”

Ernst slowly stood erect, but kept his eyes downcast in a show of obedience. The Queen liked that, he could tell.

Toe the line with this one, Ernst. Ego is the way in. “Forgive me, my Queen, if I speak out of ignorance. Your kingdom is mighty. The very fields lay down their wheat for you. What ill can plague you that you have not yet conquered?”

The Queen preened before her court, drawing her whiskers through her small paws. “Drosselmeyer.”

“And what is a Drosselmeyer?” Ernst asked. A shudder rippled through the crowd of mice at his back.

The Queen grew very still. “He is the Scourge of Mousekind. Maker of Traps. Killer of Broods. Whole families, gone. Bloodlines, gone. Hope, gone.”

Ernst’s mouth grew dry. They may have been a backwater kingdom with country ways, but bloodlines ended? Even in the darkest of days, they were mice. That was impossible.

“But we are many, Your Majesty,” he ventured.

“And he is but one,” she said, raising a sharp claw. “And yet . . .” She looked across the chamber and signaled for the little gray that had led Ernst here. The mouse bowed deeply to his Queen.

“Fleetfoot,” she said, “bring him to the device.” The Queen gave Ernst a considering look. “Business between us is well desired. You speak the tongues of mankind? The ones in Allemandes, Deutschlandes?” she asked. The unfamiliar names stuttered off her tongue like pebbles from her throat.

Ernst dabbed his nose with a lace kerchief, yellowed with age. “Of course. I speak German, French, and Italian.” Boldavian was but a version of German, and every worthwhile rat spoke at least two other tongues. But the lady before him was not a rat.

“Good,” she purred. “Now go. Learn of the enemy, Drosselmeyer, that you may teach us how to defeat him. And perhaps thee shall be tutor to our royal heirs.” She patted her stomach. “Kings, they will be. Among mice and men. Kings to be feared.”

Ernst sighed inwardly. Not the ideal situation. Being nursemaid was one thing, but another entirely when the mother was mad. Fortunately, mouse children grew quickly. At most, he would be stuck here for half a year or so. And being at court, even a country mouse court, was better than living on the streets.

Ernst bowed deeply. “Until the joyous event, then, my lady.”

The Mouse Queen merely laughed as her attendant led him away.