ERNST SAT IN his damp cell—a cage of roots guarded by two piebald mice. If he had any hope of outrunning his captors, he would have chewed through the roots an hour ago. But the mouse army of Boldavia was as wide as an inland sea, and he was but a tiny raindrop.

You’re a fool, Ernst, he told himself. He had seen madness in the Queen’s eye, and used it to feed himself, to cloak himself in glory. But now it was time to pay the Piper. He laughed bitterly. The Queen had been right. Hameln was a failure for ratkind alone. Soon, Nuremberg would belong to the mice. And then what use would there be for a washed-up rat?

“Captain to see the prisoner!”

The piebalds guarding his cage snapped to attention.

Ernst peered through the root bars with interest. Even bad news meant new opportunities, and he’d rather not waste the whole night in jail. He rose and straightened his coat and tail.

The captain was none other than Snitter, the hoary-furred piebald who’d hired him so long ago.

“Not so different from that tavern in Vienna, is it?” Snitter asked in his rough voice.

Ernst wrinkled his nose. “No, I suppose not. Except a warm stove would be welcome right about now.”

“No doubt,” the old soldier said. “I see you served our Queen well. Her boys have come a long way under your tutelage.”

“Under her spell, is more like it,” Ernst said before he could stop himself. Bitterness never won allies. “The Queen was a formidable mouse.”

“The Queen, in my opinion, was mad,” Snitter said without compunction. Beside him, the guards’ ears twitched. Such remarks were treason, and traitors belonged on Ernst’s side of the cage. “But perhaps madness is divine after all,” Snitter added smoothly.

The guards shared a glance and shrugged.

“What brings you my way?” Ernst asked. “Small talk is a fine art, but it can be managed just as well outside of a prison cell.”

Snitter laughed. “Patience, Herr Tutor. The King might have need of you yet. I just came by for a little company. You and I are alone here, Listz. Never mind the guards. They’ll do as they’re told. But tell me. My mice will follow their King to the very shores of death on faith alone. Is it well founded? You helped raise these boys. I need to know—can they do it? Can they topple a city like Nuremberg? If so, we’ll back the King to the very end. Or should we . . . cut our losses, when the time comes? Let the madness end with the King?”

Ernst peered at Snitter through the roots. The mouse was getting on in seasons. This would likely be his last campaign. The outcome mattered little for him, then—unless he was the sort of leader who cared about his troops. Would he be willing to let his King commit suicide rather than see his foot soldiers’ lives dashed uselessly upon the rocks of vanity?

Ernst made a decision. One that he hoped would get him out of this cage and back into the game.

“Yes,” he said. “They can.”

Snitter whistled a low breath, and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

“With guidance, that is,” Ernst added quickly. “From those of us who have more experience.”

The old mouse gave Ernst a strange look. “Very clever. Now, if I leave you here and we lose, it’ll be my fault. If I let you out and we lose, none of us will live to regret it. But, if we win . . .” At last, Snitter waved a paw for the guards to open the cage door. “You’re crafty, rat. I’ll give you that. And we’ll need craftiness on top of numbers to win this war. You’re reinstated. Come with me.”