by Andre Norton
The approaching cat looked like death incarnate. He was a good six inches longer than the average adult Tom, and at least four pounds heavier. The tufts of hair on the tips of his ears showed that somewhere in his ancestors there had been a bobcat, which was further confirmed by his twitching stub of a tail. His coat suited his court position, for it was solid black from his nose to his tail. As he strutted slowly toward his king, massive muscles could be seen rippling under his glossy hide.
“Sir Ex,” as he was known to the court, was a Tom without the slightest twinge of mercy. It was hard to believe he was the same bedraggled kitten that their king had saved from a storm sewer at the risk of his own life, that had been two years ago, and “Sir Ex” had rewarded his king with a devotion unparalleled in catdom.
“How can I serve my lord?” the big cat murmured with a voice like an idling diesel engine.
“You know what the boss wants,” responded the Chamberlain. “How soon can we get some action against this glorified fleabag?”
“I should be ready to lower the boom on the mark by 5:45 Wednesday morning, on the execution field. Will this be soon enough to please my king, or would he prefer I cut him to ribbons tonight while he sleeps?”
“I prefer the formal execution. It will better impress other members of the canine tribe that might become troublesome.”
Two days, mused the king, his mind racing like a calculator. Two days will give sufficient time for the visitors to report back to their king, and then… he decided on a bold stroke of diplomacy.
He waved a regal paw to an elderly cat at the head of his loyal advisors. It was evident from the elder’s arthritic walk and the white hairs on his muzzle, that this was one of the oldest dwellers in Catasia. After consulting with him in subdued tones, the king nodded to his hit man in satisfaction.
“The Royal Astrologer informs me the stars are right and the weather should be good on the day you have chosen. I trust your judgment in this matter, for you have never failed me.”
Then turning his attention to his visitors, he continued, “Return to your king, most welcome visitors, and inform him that he is invited to send a detail to observe this execution, or if he should choose, to even come himself to observe our royal justice!”
We’ll teach that upstart not to doubt our ability to cope with any situation! His entire contingent of bodyguards could not polish off a dog the size of Flintface! Wait until he sees Sir Ex in action, his whiskers will have a permanent curl!
Now if they had been human beings, the entire court would have gasped aloud at their king’s audacity. Suppose Sir Ex failed to bring it off? But being well-mannered cats, they merely squinted their eyes and flicked the tips of their tails in anticipation of the great event.
The court broke up and the citizens went their various ways. Soon all Catasia would be buzzing with the king’s daring invitation, but it was tacitly understood that no information would be leaked to anyone friendly with the intended victim; for cats know well the value of guarding secrets, and in all the animal world, no one can keep a secret better than they.
Sir Ex passed the word: he had an urgent message for the Sirs Fairhowl and Strongheart, they were to report to him at once. They knew better than to keep him waiting.
The message was simple; the “mark” was to be placed under constant observation. It was urgent that he know Flintface’s personal status by 5:30 Wednesday morning. In the meantime, Sir Ex had some work to do on the important matter of checking out the execution machine.
So saying, he moved over to his favorite “scratching post,” a nearby telephone pole, and proceeded to peel off great splinters of wood while he exercised his powerful back muscles. Without a sound the other two knights melted away into the morning darkness.
His two scouts came back and reported to Sir Ex the following evening, but their report was not good. Their target was in bad with his owners. They had caught Flintface chasing cars and had chained him in his yard for an indefinite time.
“That’s it, boss. You will have to postpone the action until the ‘mark’ serves his time and gets out of the clink!”
In the stream of cat profanity that followed this suggestion the two royal knights gathered the following information: Sir Ex felt that dog couldn’t do anything right, not even to keeping an appointment to depart this life; he was saddled down with two asinine helpers who did not know that you simply did not put off affairs of state; and by the cat-god’s headdress, he for one was going to make the deadline if he had to do everything all by himself!
Then Sir Ex resumed the calm, probing air that all catdom had come to fear and respect. Was the mark on a leash, rope, or chain? Were they certain? How long was it? Where was it fastened, to the fence or a peg in the ground? Were they positive?
Over and over the questions were asked until Sir Ex had an accurate picture of the situation. Flintface was in his backyard, chained to a wrought iron fence about six feet long, and the chain had a snap lock on it. Clearly the cats would have to enlist outside help. And he knew where that help was going to have to come from.
“Where does this monkey Peppo live?” he snarled at the other two knights. Silently they led him over rooftops to the home of some sleeping humans only fifteen minutes away form the dog’s home. There, sleeping in a basket on the back porch of this house lay their future partner, Peppo, sound asleep.
Peppo awoke to face the meanest looking cat he had ever seen. It was watching him from the other side of the back porch screen.
“Be silent, little one, and listen and you won’t get hurt,” hissed the terrible face. “Our king has honored you by permitting you to aid us in carrying out his orders. Do you remember the big boxer dog named Flintface that chased you down the street a moon ago?”
The little monkey hissed and bared his teeth to show that he remembered the humiliating incident.
“He was warned for that, then committed an even more evil crime. The king has put out a contract on him, and we intend to collect it tomorrow morning. It must be done in a very public way to be a warning to other mutts not to step out of line, get the picture?”
The little monkey jumped up and down to show his excitement.
“I’m glad you approve,” the big black cat said sarcastically, while the two other knights smirked to themselves in the shadows.
Then he continued, “You will come along with my two aides tomorrow morning early. Can you get out, or will I have to slash this screen for you?”
Peppo assured them he could open the simple screen door without any trouble.
“Good. You will go with them to Flintface’s house, but be sure to stay outside the fence. If he is asleep, you will reach through the fence and unsnap his chain, understand?”
“You want to unleash that creature in our community?” the little monkey whispered with terror in his voice.
“Only long enough, little one, to take him to his place of execution. Do you remember what happened to the bulldog Ironjaw several moons ago?”
The monkey nodded affirmatively. “But that was an accident, or was it…?” and here his voice trailed off as he looked at the black cat’s unblinking eyes. “What happens if he’s awake?”
“Then my two knights will keep his attention until you can do your job, and little friend, do not fail us or the next time we see you…“He made a knifelike movement of one extended claw across his throat. If it had been possible for a monkey to turn pale, Peppo at that moment would have turned snow white!
If any humans had paid attention at 5:00 on Wednesday morning they would have seen an amazing sight, for every cat in Catasia surrounded the square in front of the local printshop. And each one moved into their chosen position without making a sound. The few humans moving about were too concerned with their early morning tasks to pay attention to the affairs of cats!
And though the visiting cortege of cats was burning up with curiosity about the method of execution of a beast so large, the host animals offered not the least
bit of information. “Keep them in the dark until the last minute,” had been their king’s final order.
Greywhiskers led the visiting king to the second floor flower box of the house of the people who claimed to “own” him. He, with the wisdom of his race, merely permitted them the honor of feeding him, or providing shelter when the weather was bad, and he paid for that with a few purrs or an occasional dead mouse left on their doorstep. The box had a perfect view of the pavement in front of the printshop facing them.
“Nice view,” King Blue-eyes remarked politely.
“Thank you,” replied Greywhiskers equally politely. “The large warehouse to the right,is my private game preserve. If you’d like, we can go in there after the execution and have a hand at a rat killing.”
Blue-eyes permitted a deep purr of anticipation and replied with gleaming eyes, “Why, thank you, now you are talking my language. I’d be delighted to accept your invitation!”
Talking your language indeed, fumed the host king! Why I’d drop dead before I spoke the sacred tongue with that Siamese accent!
Five-thirty sharp arrived, and right on schedule two large, powerful trucks backed up to the printshop doors. Few words were spoken by the humans as they began loading the large bundles of freshly printed newspapers onto the trucks. Unnoticed by the humans, a large black cat with a twitching stub of a tail stalked slowly down the center of the street. He looked like an old time western gunslinger about to “call out” an opponent. He was the picture of poise, confidence and… murder.
“My Royal Executioner,” purred Greywhiskers proudly. “I taught him everything he knows. You are about to see poetry in action, and he never misses.”
Blue-eyes kept his thoughts to himself. True, he had never seen a cat quite like the one below, but polishing off a dog the size of a boxer was not an easy task for a dozen cats! No, let the old goat brag, I’ll try not to laugh in his face when this is all over!
But Sir Ex was not as confident as he appeared. As he heard the first truck pull away from the loading dock, he was wondering what was stopping his fellow knights.
Sir Fairhowl and Sir Strongheart did have a problem. While Peppo was safely protected outside the wrought iron fence, the dog was crowding close to it making it impossible for the little monkey to unsnap the chain. Further, the violent barking and growling of the dog might bring an irate human being into the picture at any moment.
With their natural inborn sense of timing, both knights realized now was the time to get the big dog moving. Both thought about having to explain their failure to Sir Ex. No way!
“Flank attack! Draw sabers, ho!” snarled Sir Fairhowl.
Both cats flashed in toward the dog’s unprotected backside, both struck a flank simultaneously, their sharp claws cutting red trails of blood down his rear legs.
With a howl of rage and pain, Flintface spun to meet his attackers. This was the opening the little monkey was looking for; he rapidly reached through the fence and unsnapped the chain. He never looked back, for his job was done. Quickly Peppo leaped into a tree and sped for home.
There was a strangled roar from the dog as he dashed after the two cats. In his rage, he sounded just like he was strangling. Never questioning his sudden freedom, he dashed down the street pursuing his fleeing adversaries, his length of chain bouncing behind and kicking up sparks from the pavement. It never occurred to the stupid beast that the two fleeing felines could have escaped easily up a post or over a fence. This was war! Death to catdom!
Back at the king’s observation box, the sound of the back doors on the second truck being slammed almost drowned out the distant sound of a very angry, baying dog chasing two fleeing cats. This was going to be close, Sir Ex reasoned.
As the truck slowly moved away from the loading dock, its headlights picked up the sight of two large alley cats racing across the road in front of them. They did not pick up the form of the larger black cat crouched facing the side road from which the other cats had just emerged. Sir Ex rose to his full height and moved gracefully to the center of the road.
The truck’s headlights illuminated the scene like a stage production. There was Sir Ex in the classic feline challenge pose: mouth open, back arched, stub of a tail pointed skyward, right forepaw extended with claws shining, ears flattened close to the skull, and mouth issuing the insult no red-blooded dog could ignore.
“Mangy kitten killer! You who would run from the shadow of an adult cat! Come face the anger of Sir Ex!”
The enraged dog forgot the other knights and turned to face the challenger. At a normal time he would have thought twice about taking on this cat, but in the heat of the recent chase, all sanity seemed to have left him. He spun in his tracks and raced after the black cat fleeing directly into the path of the approaching truck.
At the last instant, with split second timing, Sir Ex pivoted and aimed himself at the exact center of the truck. He crouched just in time for the big machine to rumble safely over him. The pursuing dog, being taller, did not have that option.
The heavy truck bumper struck the boxer with a resounding crunch. He did not even whimper as he went spinning through the air, to land as a bloody mass of bones and fur beside the road.
Greywhiskers smirked contentedly. “My Royal Executioner never disappoints me,” he gloated.
Blue-eyes looked as shocked as it is possible for a cat to do and just nodded his head in admiration. The many cats watching in the shadows melted silently into the pre-dawn darkness. Their feeling was one of complete confidence; as long as Greywhiskers IV was on the throne, Catasia would be secure.
The following conversation was reported to the chronicler by one Inkdevil, mascot cat of the printshop, who liked to ride the newspaper truck on its daily rounds dropping off papers.
“Hey Jack,” the truck driver said to his helper, “did you see that? That’s the third time this year that ol’ bob-tailed alley cat has gotten a dog killed by a truck. D’you think he planned it that-a-way?”
“Naw,” Jack replied. “Cats ‘r dumb animals. Jes’ one of them coincidences if ya ask me!”
Hermione at Moon House by Ardath Mayhar
From the Journal of Hermione:
The Grange (Moon House)
Oxbridge
June, 1884
For the past Years, these Journal Entries have been quiet-even dull, for the Tastes of some. However, following my former Position, with its disastrous Ending, that has come as a welcome Relief. Dullness, when one is a Familiar to Adepts, equates with Peace, and that is desirable to lone Females engaged in doing their Duty and rearing their Young in a conventional Manner.
Sir Athelstan Girby is, by and large, a very pleasant Gentleman. His astronomical Investigations tend to be most convenient, taking place as they do by Night. The Calculations that he performs by Day in his Study are not likely to cause unexpected Consequences of the sort that Sorcerers tend to create.
In addition, he is partial to Kits, which is most gratifying to their proud Mama. My new Litter is at this Moment at Play about his Feet and rolling on his Lap as he absently fondles their furry Ears. The Opportunity this gives me to write in my Journal is advantageous, for in my past Employment it often fell out that my Master kept me so occupied that I became remiss in my monthly Reports to the Coven of Familiars.
Sir Athelstan’s Work, I must admit, is not something that I Understand, even after two Years of constant Attention. The Astrolabe, the Mathematical Calculations, the measurings upon Charts of the Heavens, all those are a Mystery to one trained in the more Occult Practices of Magicians.
However, as he does not need my Presence or my Skills in the Practice of his Art, that is of no Consequence. This has become most gratifying, as I was never one to court closer Acquaintance with Demons and suchlike Conjurations. The Stars, the Moon, and the Planets keep their proper Distance, as well they should, leaving our quiet Household to its own Devices.
My Reports to the Coven are, of course, invariably Dull and without Sub
stance. It has occurred to more than One of my Peers that an Astronomer, who is no true Magician, should need no Familiar.
Being one who has always tried industriously to perform her Duty, I have also suggested to my Master that he might easily dispense with the Presence of so many Feline Persons within his Household. But Sir Athelstan became most Disturbed at the Suggestion, rising to his Feet and pacing to and fro in a most unsettled Manner.
“I am a lonely Man,” he said to me in Reply. “And while an ordinary Cat, content to keep the Mice in order and to sit by the Fire and Purr, might suffice for Some, I require a more responsive Companion. Perhaps I do not use your special Abilities to their Fullest-indeed, I regret that you may feel somewhat Frustrated at the lack of such Exercise. Yet after enjoying the Company of Hortense, your lamented Predecessor, I could not find it in my Heart to return to more ordinary Domestic Pets.”
At that Point he stopped and bent to look into my Eyes (which I must admit are a fetching Shade of Green), and to set his Hand lightly upon my Head. “You are my Friend, Hermione. After that, a mere Pet would just not Do.”
Once, of course, I had thought over his Explanation, I could only agree. The Coven, after being apprised of his Needs, granted an extension of his special Privilege, and so we continue as we were, a Family in every Sense of the Word.
The Kits, of course, adore their large Playmate. Often I feel that they disrupt his Work, but when I call them to Order, Sir Athelstan almost always objects and keeps them Nearby. That pleases me, as a Mother, and yet I could only feel that it might lead to Disaster. However, I felt at the time that might be only a Reflection of the Culmination of my former Position.
Having one’s Kit devour a mouse that happens to be one’s Charge, however understandable such an Error might be, can only leave Scars upon the Memory of the Familiar involved. It has left me more Cautious than before, you may rest Assured.
