ARTHUR SHIVERED IN HIS CHARIOT. The four albino mice pulled it dutifully to a stop before a makeshift tent at the base of the square’s decorative fountain. It would be comforting to be back inside again. Perhaps because of his mother’s protectiveness, or the recent memory of owls, Arthur found he did not like open places and, above all, he did not trust the stars. They winked down at him now, like the many heads of his ancestors enjoying a private laugh, and he was the butt of the joke.

The chief of intelligence, a severe older piebald with an unnervingly calm voice, ushered Arthur out of the coach along with his tutor, the rat, Ernst Listz. Ernst had been brought along in chains for his usefulness as a translator. Use him now, they had decided, and punish him later.

They emerged from the chariot in silence. Arthur hurried toward the safety of the tent, but the rat stood on his haunches and sniffed the open air wistfully.

Hannibal scowled. “We’ve a battle to command,” he hissed.

The small party proceeded inside.

“My liege,” the head of intelligence was saying. Arthur couldn’t remember his name. He’d had difficulty focusing since leaving Boldavia. His nightmares now came in droves, night after night. He was being consumed by a beast that he could not escape. A terrifying voice called to him from beyond. It offered help, but also—something else. Arthur did not know what. All he knew for sure was that trying to escape the beast would mean his death.

His brothers, of course, said nothing of these dreams. They hardly slept anymore, so eager were they to lead Mother’s army into war. And if the dreams did leak over into his brothers’ minds, they saw it as an omen. Rodentia was a ferocious warrior and they stood at its beating heart.

It made Arthur sick.

“—just escaped, Your Majesty,” the piebald was saying. He was pointing to another piebald, a filthy thing mottled amber instead of black, with shrewd red eyes.

The albino bowed deeply, graceful despite his appearance. “Agent Dusker, sire. I have cornered your enemy for you, upstairs in the house across the square.”

“Why didn’t you report back earlier?” Hannibal hissed. “We have had to rely on others for your information.”

The albino faltered. He was having trouble deciding which head to speak to.

Hannibal solved that for him by hissing again.

“I . . . uh . . . I wanted to watch his moves closely, sire. The assassin is unarmed but for a toy sword. He had two companions, the clockmaker and a young girl. The rest of the house sleeps. I confer him to you.”

“Confer?” This was Ernst, speaking in the contemptuous tones Arthur had heard him use toward so many others, but never to Arthur himself. “You can hardly confer that which you do not possess.”

The rat turned to Arthur and his brothers. “You have a field army, sirs, not a guerilla band. City mice survive by hiding. But your army is designed to be bold. Your mother trained them to meet the enemy in open spaces, not townhomes. Too many men in close quarters”—the rat shuddered—“and the tramp of feet alone could defeat you. What were your losses in the market square?” He did not wait for an answer. It was many, they all knew. “And then there is the furniture. Enter the house, and your army will be scattered, every chair and sofa an obstacle. I would not send them in without first getting the full lay of the land. And even then . . .” He let doubt hang in the air for a heartbeat.

Arthur frowned.

“Those siege engines of yours are useless beyond that front door,” Ernst continued. “I doubt they could even climb the steps. You must fight one of two ways—on your own territory by issuing a challenge, or inside the house, alone.”

“Alone?” Arthur piped up before his brothers could stop him. “That’s impossible! We have no chance against that monster on our own!”

“It’s true,” Roland agreed. Hannibal started to protest, but Roland continued. “Shut it, Hannibal, we’re not all as tough as you. Besides, that monster killed Mummy, and she was tough as nails. Why risk it? Call the monkey out into the field.”

“Yes!” Arthur concurred. Although, why on earth the human boy would come out to them, he did not know. “We’ll draw him out. Taunt him. Scare him into running straight onto our sword.”

“Sires.” It was the chief of intelligence again. Snitter—that was his name.

The old piebald’s whiskers twitched in distaste. He disapproves of us, Arthur realized. No. He disapproves of bickering.

“You won’t have to,” Snitter said. “It appears our enemy has come to the gate on his own.”

A cold wave of fear washed over Arthur. This was it. Trapped in the belly of the beast, with no one else to save him.

And then a voice the size of the ocean called out across their ranks. “Where is your King?”