The Incontinental Hotel was busiest when a convention was in town. Huge numbers of people came to Sydney for conferences, whether it was the comic collectors who gathered at the Wharf, the sex addicts who seemed to love Darling Harbour, or the ageing rockers who looked for their youth at the Entertainment Centre and, arriving home at 11pm, always felt a little cheated. Sydney had a place for every one of them and so, Russell Ransom liked to think, did the Incontinental Hotel.
The founder had not been rich and couldn’t afford prime real estate. The hotel he built was so far from the harbour it was never going to bring much profit. But the city had unexpectedly grown around the hotel and the ownership had passed into more enterprising hands. Nowadays the Incontinental was directly in the middle of the city, mere minutes away from all of Sydney’s most beautiful attractions and most desirable venues. Sometimes the façade seemed to clash with the more modern buildings around it, the glass sky-scrapers or the shiny metal Imax. Then at other times it looked perfect, a beautiful sandstone anachronism that gave the city some of its old-world charm. Of course, that was only when the management were quick enough to clean away the graffitti on the walls, big balloon-like letters that read “PEEPZ” and “CLUE”.
Ransom had been told the hotel was a fascinating place to work when there was a convention in town. The oddballs and hipsters from the convention all booked their rooms at the Incontinental Hotel and were a kind of entertainment to the staff. But Ransom was a newcomer to the hotel and hadn’t seen any oddballs yet. So far it was just an extremely tedious job, especially when he was given desk duty. He was quickly getting a list of favourite excuses for why the guests didn’t have enough money to pay their bills, or all the reasons why a 52 year-old woman should be allowed to redeem a voucher from 1993. He still pictured her face when he was working out, and each punch he landed on the bag was another victory.
Ransom came in to start his shift at seven the next morning and, as he set up the front desk, he began to wonder if this job would ever get interesting. The early hours were usually slow, so he was playing with the computer’s registration system when he noticed the number of check-ins had jumped for the previous night. There was something in town, he was sure of it, but he had no clues until he met his first event-goer over the reception desk.
“That will be $208.95, sir.”
“It’s less than that.”
“Um... did you use the minibar? The drinks are extra.”
The man made a “what is the world coming to?” sigh and handed over his credit card held together by pieces of sticky tape and pocket lint. Ransom swiped it through the machine. It beeped, and flashed a cryptic message saying “Transaction Declined”. Nothing Ransom could do would make it work, but the man across the desk insisted it was perfectly fine.
“I’ll go find an ATM,” said the man.
“Sorry, I can’t let you go before you’ve paid. Some people might try to avoid their bill.”
“Come on, mate, don’t do this to me. I’ll be back in five.”
But Ransom would not let him leave. Then he looked down over the counter and caught sight of the man’s little daughter. A sweet girl, aged about nine, tugging violently at her father’s pants.
“Take the girl,” said the man.
“What?!”
“I’ll leave her here while I go get money. I’m not gonna abandon my daughter over a hotel bill.”
Ransom opened his mouth but nothing sprung to his lips. By the time he started speaking the man was halfway through the lobby and headed straight for the doors, and his little girl stood in front of the counter staring soulfully up at the clerk. He angled his head up and saw a queue forming. He couldn’t serve any of them while this girl was in front of him and her father’s payment was unfinished. He felt his heart spasm – a sure sign of moral resignation and a long day ahead.
“Little girl, could you step-”
“I know a story,” she said. One or two of the waiting customers were peering over at the child.
“Is that so.”
“It’s a story about mice,” she said. “Do you want to hear it?”
Ransom eyed the queue. A break was always welcome, but he knew screaming customers weren’t. Then again, queue-jumping was unheard of. There wasn’t a flaming hoop in the world these people wouldn’t leap through. But the little girl didn’t care about his train of thought and was probably oblivious to it anyhow. She opened her little mouth and this was the story she told:
***
Once upon a time there was a kingdom of mice. But before I tell you anything else, you’ve got to understand this one thing because I won’t say it again: they only looked like mice on the outside. On the inside they had the souls of cats. Now this kingdom of mice were called the Mustard Mice. Their king Wenceslaus had many good advisors and many clever things in his kingdom, but one shadow hung over them: the Custard Mice. Long ago the Mustard Mice and the Custard Mice had been the same, but they had an argument and the King of the Custard Mice left the kingdom with his followers. Ever since then they had been at war, never in pitched battle but never missing a chance to steal or kill or dishonour their enemies.
Each group of mice hated the others so much. They had been raised to think the other mice were the wickedest people on earth. Mustard was like poison to the Custard Mice, and custard was like bile to the Mustard Mice. Each king would have destroyed the other if he could. But this is the most important thing. King Wenceslaus had the most amazing kind of cannons in the whole wide world. With these cannons he could rain death down on anyone he liked. They were only supposed to be used by the very wise, but now no-one could use them. Many years ago when the Custard Mice left the kingdom they took vital parts of the cannons with them. They stole the crystal matrixes, large cubes of purest polished crystal with small white blocks perched on every corner and halfway down every edge. The crystal cubes were twice as high as the biggest mouse in the kingdom, and were absolutely irreplacable. The Mustard Mice had the cannons and the Custard Mice had the crystals, and neither could do anything without the other.
Then one day the Mustard Mice were celebrating the birthday of their King Wenceslaus. There was a parade, and then they had games and performances and music. It was a public holiday and everyone was there to celebrate, because if one thing was important to the mice it was their love for their king. The day went on and all the mice had a great time and enjoyed themselves. But then night began to fall and the games stopped. They had fireworks all ready to be lit at midnight, but before midnight the king was going to make a birthday speech to all the people of his kingdom. He stood up on his hind legs and waved his paws in the air to get everyone’s attention. The crowd fell silent, but the king didn’t speak. Far off in the distance came a noise so quiet nobody had heard it before. There was a trumpet not far in the distance now.
Everyone wondered what this might be and who would dare interrupt King Wenceslaus in his birthday speech. Their heads turned to the direction of the music and caught sight of ghostly figures approaching. They marched in the night, their mustard clothes rippling in the still air. Two mice led the way, unrolling a long honey-mustard carpet. On either side marched bands of mice playing trumpets and drums, and behind the bands marched flag-bearers carrying the Dijon standard.
The marching mice reached King Wenceslaus and stopped. Then he saw an extraordinary thing. There, walking on the yellow carpet, not even being carried by his attendants, and dressed all in the Mustard colours was King Komnenos of the Custard Mice. He took long, uncertain steps along the yellow carpet. Although he was trying to be brave, he could not disguise a tremor in his legs. And behind him, herded into one large mass out of trepidation, was the entire kingdom of Custard Mice. And when they looked close, the Mustard Mice were amazed to see that every single Custard Mouse was carrying in his paws, gift-wrapped with colourful bows, a jar of mustard.
Komnenos stopped at the end of the carpet. A terrible silence gripped them.
“We are here,” said King Komnenos. His voice failed in the oppressive silence, cracking and falling flat before it reached the crowd of Mustard Mice. “We have come,” he said again, a little louder, “to surrender. There is a tribe of rats moving from the North, and we are unable to repel them. We tried everything. And suffered terrible losses. And so, there was nothing else for us to do but come back to you... our long lost cousins. You see before you the entire population of the Custard Kingdom. We have nowhere else to go.”
The Custard Mice were all looking down at their feet. The Mustard Mice exchanged puzzled looks, but King Wenceslaus did not move from the spot. The silence held.
“But,” continued Komnenos, “we don’t expect you to take us at our word. We have hated each other too long for that. Here. Here is how you will know our sincerity.”
He turned back to his own people and waved a paw. Then the sea of Custard Mice parted and out of their depths emerged a huge cart dragged by workers. And there, atop the cart and emerging out of the fallen night, was a huge sapphire cube of such incredible lustre that it caught every scrap of torch-light, mellowed it, tempered it, and released it back into the sky more beautiful than the moon and more brilliant than the sun. Small white blocks perched on every corner and halfway down every edge, and the whole thing was twice as tall as the biggest mouse in the kingdom. The Mustard Mice gasped and started murmuring. Some shouted when they saw the giant cube, others cried tears of joy, and others were so mesmerised they could never have uttered a single syllable. The Custard Mice had returned the matrixes they stole so long ago.
Then when the entire Custard Kingdom bowed down before the Mustard Mice, Wenceslaus knew they were telling the truth. The Mustard Mice rushed forth to welcome back their kin of so many generations and bask in the light of the crystal matrixes. They lit the birthday fireworks and the sky burned with the colours of joy. Wenceslaus stood on the spot, smiling at the scene before him. But the leader of the king’s army did not smile. Ronan caught the attention of Gaspar, his closest friend in the king’s court, and made his way through the crowd to find the king. Ronan leaned over his shoulder in the sparkling night and said,
“Sire, I do not trust them.”
Wenceslaus looked back at him unhappily. “Ronan, I’m disappointed. Isn’t it enough that the Custard Mice have come on their knees? Isn’t it enough that they’ve returned the crystal matrixes? With that one act they have given us power over the whole world, including them. Now that the cannons are complete, no-one can defy us. Can’t you enjoy this historic day?”
“No. They have no business here, and they don’t look war-torn to me.” He looked over to Gaspar for support, but he merely shrugged. Ronan ploughed on. “There must be a catch, sire. There is always a catch.”
Komnenos came forward through the joyous crowd with his arms spread wide. He embraced Wenceslaus, who hugged him back. “Come, Komnenos, I shall make you my most trusted advisor. You know so much about the Northern lands and the ways of your people, I inisist upon it. And if these rats ever give us trouble, we shall be ready for them.” The king looked up at the massive crystal cube and the others standing behind it in the darkness. “How do they... how do they... work?”
Komnenos looked surprised. “Your majesty doesn’t know?”
“When the Custard Mice stole the matrixes out of the cannons, they kidnapped our engineers. We have studied the operation of the cannons, but we know nothing about the crystals.”
“Then you don’t have atomic gloves?” Wenceslaus was at a loss. Komnenos said, “One needs atomic gloves to handle the cubes. Only an atomic force can repel the electro-strong force generated by the crystal’s nuclei. If anyone touches the crystal without protection, his paws will get incinerated.”
Ronan hissed, “He’s lying! He wants to get the cannons.”
But Wenceslaus merely brushed him aside and said to Komnenos, “Then summon your handlers, and have them prepare the cannons.”
And so the Custard Mice began work on the cannons that very night. Their engineers handled the crystals with every care, transporting them to the cannons and then loading them into the bays. The cannons were long, steel tubes with a cubic cross-section. There were five of them, all piercing the sky like the deadly spindles of a silver crystal. Now that the Custard Mice had possession of the cannons and the matrixes, they started loading the steel tubes and returning the ancient machinery to operation. They worked without stopping, their atomic gloves glowing green through the long night.
As they laboured, Ronan and his colleague Gaspar walked out onto the cool mud flats with the green-glowing workers behind them. A figure detached itself from the Custard engineers and followed them at a distance. Ronan and Gaspar walked out far into the plains where they thought they couldn’t be heard, and there they plotted against the Custard King.
“They have the cannons,” said Gaspar. “And the king won’t listen to us. What can we do?”
“Wenceslaus needs to be shown that the Custard Mice have not changed. He needs to see their wicked hearts.”
“He won’t act without proof. He’s already given them control of the cannons, he trusts them too much. What do you think they’ll do with them?”
Ronan’s whiskers shivered in the night. “Once the cannons are working, we are done for.”
Ronan and Gaspar stayed out on the plains all night, examining every word Komnenos had said for some clue about how they might unmask him. Soon dawn began to creep above the horizon, and the two Mustard Mice knew they had to return before the sun picked out their silhouettes for all to see. They turned and came face to face with the figure who had followed them.
The Custard engineer stood perfectly still, and so did they.
“The king told us the same thing he told you,” said the engineer. “He told us we had to surrender for our own good, there was no other choice. He said we’d be reunited with our long lost families. But I think he’s lying.”
“To his own people?” asked Ronan.
“What better cover?”
Gaspar started to speak, but Ronan held him back. “The rats. Do they exist?” The Custard Mouse nodded. “Then what makes you think Komnenos is lying?”
“He’s always done what’s best for his people. I know you don’t have any reason to listen to me, but I don’t want to see a massacre – my people or yours.” The Custard Mouse looked up at the rising sun and then back at the cannons. “I have to get back,” he said. “If you want to act, you don’t have much time. The cannons will be ready tonight. But when you do make a move, remember what I said. Remember the Custard People are innocent in all this. And remember me.”
As the Custard Mouse went back to his people, Gaspar leaned in to Ronan and whispered, “Can we trust him?”
Ronan shook his head. “No. But we can keep him close.”
As the two Mustard Mice walked back into the city, their king was rising out of bed and getting ready to have breakfast with the Custard King. He kept a close eye on Komnenos as they ate, and then afterwards he insisted Komnenos go on alone to supervise the work on the cannons.
“You should come,” said Komnenos. “You’ll want to see every minute of the work.”
Wenceslaus protested that he had enough work of his own to finish at the palace, but that he would join Komnenos later that day. When the foreign king left to supervise the day’s work, Wenceslaus left the dining room and crept down to Komnenos’ room. He took his time and searched every space. He went through every trunk and piece of luggage that Komnenos had brought with him. He read every paper, every letter and every log book and he found no sign of wrong-doing. As the day wore on it came to the point when there was nowhere else to look, and Wenceslaus knew once and for all that Ronan had been wrong about the Custard Mice. He sat down on the bed, and looked around to make sure he’d left no traces of his presence. Komnenos’ jar of mustard was sitting on the night table. He hadn’t given it to Wenceslaus yet, so Wenceslaus took the jar and tasted the mustard. He immediately pitched forward and, clawing at his throat, vomited onto the floor. As he wiped his whiskers clean, he looked down at the jar and saw the worst. It wasn’t mustard in the jar. It was custard.
As evening fell over the Mustard kingdom, the clouds began to gather. When the lightning started up the matrixes flickered with jagged sapphire flame. The Custard Mice were even more sure to keep their skin away from the crystal. Komnenos supervised the loading of the last matrixes into the cannons until there was only one cube left in the open. It sat on the ground next to its cart, all ready to be lifted by the worker mice. Komnenos surveyed his work with an eager smile, and watched the lightning tear through the beautiful crystal. That was when he noticed his workers looking away from him. He followed their gaze and there, illuminated in the night, was King Wenceslaus. He carried a sword in one paw and it was pointed at Komnenos.
“This is a very interesting gift,” said Wenceslaus, holding up the jar of custard.
“Oh,” said Komnenos. “You weren’t supposed to have that yet.”
“I BET I WASN’T,” screamed Wenceslaus. He threw the jar at Komnenos, who was just quick enough to catch it. “Taste it.”
“But-”
“TASTE IT.”
Komnenos opened the jar and tasted the contents. It tasted sweet and sickly at the same time. “Your highness... this can’t be my jar. I brought you a jar of mustard. Would I treat a friend like this?”
Wenceslaus bore slowly down on the foreign king, making each menacing step reverberate in Komnenos’ heart. Komnenos backed away, terrified of the figure before him. As Wenceslaus drew closer he raised his sword to Komnenos, who tripped backwards and fell against the last matrix with unprotected skin.
He scrambled up, and saw the horrified looks around him. “Don’t look at me like that. The cubes aren’t in the active phase... You’ve got to believe me. For god’s sake, it’s not even day, there’s no light to-”
The king’s sword rang through in the air, and the blood of the Custard King flashed red in the lightning strikes. The Mustard Mice bore down on the Custard Mice, and the only one they left alive was the engineer who had plotted with Ronan and Gaspar. As the two Mustard Mice watched the carnage below, the Custard engineer turned away and covered his ears. Ronan held up the jar of mustard he had taken out of Komnenos’ room.
“Hide it,” said the Custard mouse. “And make sure no-one ever finds it.”
***
Russell Ransom looked down at the pretty little girl who had just finished speaking her tale. “Little girl, where did you hear that story?”
“None of your business,” she said. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Know what?”
“Whether the Custard Mice were telling the truth or not.”
“I thought they were innocent,” said Ransom, somewhat confused.
“You would,” said the little girl.
Ransom rubbed his chin and felt yesterday’s stubble. “What’s the moral of that supposed to be?”
“Come closer and I’ll whisper it in your ear.” As Ransom leaned over the counter, the girl flicked him between the eyes and he staggered back. “There isn’t one.”
Ransom blinked and rubbed his forehead, and when he looked up again the girl’s father had returned with a wad of cash in his hand. Ransom snatched it out of his hands and shoved it into the till. As the man was leaving Ransom saw his hair tied back in a pony-tail, and a set of brushes in the man’s paint-stained bag. The last he saw of the little girl was her spiteful grin. Somewhere in the back of his head he remembered the exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, but before he had time to bring this thought to the fore the waiting customers stepped up and Ransom put on his smile.