It was a test. The cat passed it. She climbed into Dawna’s lap, briefly licked the top of each kitten’s head, then stared up at the warrior again as the kittens burrowed in toward the tabby’s nipples. “By the Gods, I believe you are hiring me. Why not? Very well. It’s a bargain.” She put out a hand to seal the deal, as she did with her human clients, and laughed at herself as the cat sniffed her fingers. “Here, then,” she said formally, unhooking the pennant. “My gage is the symbol of my service. Carry it until my duty to you is discharged.”
She wound the streamer twice around the cat’s neck, tying the loose ends in a bow. “A bit gaudy with your coloring, my lady, but not too bad.”
The cat seemed pleased, and began to wash her wet paw. The kittens were well into their morning meal.
But how to discharge her commission? Dawna thought, pushing the needle through the hard leather. She could hardly follow the cat on her morning rounds, nor shadow her as she stalked vermin. The cat solved the dilemma by departing abruptly from the mercenary’s lap, leaving the now sleeping kittens behind. The mercenary shrugged and went on with her repair.
As morning began, the smaller children emerged carrying slates and headed toward a house at the opposite corner of the square, where a goodwife was waiting with her hands on her hips: the village schoolteacher. The older children who were apprenticed were already on their way to and fro, discharging commissions for their masters. They all gave her a wary look as they passed her, sitting under the tree in the middle of the green, especially the blond boy whom she had spanked.
Once in a while the cat returned to feed her kittens. She had decided Dawna’s lap was by far the best place for the job. The butcher passed by with a cart full of meat, saw the red streamer around the cat’s neck, and snorted.
“How much is it paying you?” he asked.
“Two fish a day,” Dawna replied. “I’ve had better wages, but I’ve had worse, too.”
“You’re mad,” the butcher informed her. “That’s the silversmith’s cat. He’ll do as he pleases with her, scarf or no scarf.”
“If she has the wits to ask for my help, then she’s master of her own fate,” Dawna said.
Word spread quickly through the small town about her contract with the cat. From her vantage point on the green she could see all the comings and goings. Even the boy, who appeared to be apprenticed to the brewer, gave the orange cat a wide berth as he wheeled kegs of beer up and back from the brewery. The cat strutted, proudly displaying the red scarf around her neck as she went about her business.
One dark-haired lad did work up the courage to shy a stone at the orange cat. It just missed her, striking dust up from the pathway directly under her belly. The cat levitated in surprise, spun around to glare at her attacker, then she turned and stared directly at Dawna. No doubt remained in the warrior’s mind that the cat understood what she had commissioned. Dawna, grinning, began to rise from her seat under the tree. The boy’s face paled in fear, and he fled into an alleyway, his loose shoes pattering on the cobblestones. Dawna settled back again. She doubted he’d ever try again.
As long as she was there, that was. Dawna could not stay in Cabbage Town for long. By her reckoning she had perhaps a day, maybe two, before the townsfolk decided they were tired of the looming presence of an armed mercenary, one they thought was at least a little mad because she considered herself employed by a cat!
Shouting voices drew her attention to the river path. She saw nothing at first, but a small black-and-white cat came tearing up the hill, running full out. Its eyes were round with terror. It spotted Dawna and made directly for her. As it neared, Dawna saw blood, bright red on its fur. A cluster of children pelted up the hill ten steps behind it, throwing stones and clods of earth. By the time they reached the green the black-and-white was crouched underneath Dawna’s shield, trembling. Its eyes lifted to hers, beseeching. The blood dripped from a cut in its side.
“I won’t give you away, little one,” she said, laying a gentle hand on its neck.
The children cast about, looking for their prey. “It got away!” one of them shouted. “Let’s go find another!”
They shot Dawna defiant glances. So that was the way of it, she thought. As long as the orange cat was off limits, they were going to have their fun with other animals. She loathed this town and everyone in it.
She opened her pack. “Stay there, little one,” she said, as the black-and-white began to edge away from the strange sounds. “I’ve got salve that will ease the pain and stop the bleeding.” The little cat held still for its physicking, then lay purring weakly as Dawna tied a makeshift bandage around its middle. When the orange cat returned she touched noses with the newcomer, then gave it a good washing before lying down to feed her kits. Dawna had a new client.
* * *
“Nay, I’ll not sell you red cloth, nor anything else,” the weaver said severely, spreading his hands protectively over the stock on his counter. “I’d suggest you go visit the priests and see if they’ll pray for your sanity. Now, leave.”
Dawna gave up the argument and departed from the white-painted shop. She had not gone five paces out of the door when something bumped her leg. She looked down to see the gray cat, a long, red ribbon trailing from its mouth. It draped the end over her boot and blinked moonlike eyes at her. She groaned.
“Not you, too! Does no one treat their beasts with respect in this town?” Dawna glanced about to see if anyone was watching her. She took a small coin and wrapped it in a scrap of cloth. “Give this to your master for pay,” she said. “I won’t have either of us in trouble for theft. I accept your commission.”
The gray cat dipped his head as if nodding, and trotted back into the store with the little bundle in its mouth. Dawna strode hastily up the hill, not wanting the weaver to come bursting out and accuse her publicly of sorcery.
Word had spread among the four-legged denizens of Cabbage Town, too. When she returned, her small camp was occupied by a dozen cats. Some of them bore the marks of recent ill-treatment; still others had old scars and limbs misshapen from being broken and left untreated. None of them had come empty-handed, or, rather, empty-mouthed. A little pile of offerings guarded by the orange-striped mother cat included sausage links, a raw chicken leg, a silk handkerchief, a child’s purse containing one copper coin and a thumbprint-sized religious medallion depicting the Forest God. The length of red ribbon from the weaver’s was barely long enough to make collars for all the worried-looking felines huddled near her. More clients. That night, they once again provided her with warmth, fresh fish, and not a few fleas. If she was going to be the protector of the local cats, she was going to have to pick them some fleabane.
* * *
“Rats!” the silversmith declared, confronting the warrior nose to nose as she stumped back up the hill after making a rough toilet at the river’s edge. The orange cat followed her, her latest catch clasped proudly in her jaws. “There are rats in my shop, and my cat,” he pointed accusingly, “has spent all the last day up here with you. Release the witchery you’ve placed on her so she can do what I keep her to do!”
“There’s no witchery,” Dawna replied, glancing at the cat, who’d taken her favorite spot among the knobby roots of the tree. Her kittens, looked after by her other charges, played with their mother’s tail, a leaf and a strand of hair from Dawna’s comb. “She’ll go, but your son must promise not to abuse her.”
“Er … ” the silversmith began. If he thought it was sorcery how could he argue? “Er. Done, then.”
He rushed away. Dawna glanced at the orange cat. “In your own good time, then. We’ll see if his word’s his bond.”
She was beginning to enjoy the company of cats. In many ways her little enclave on the hilltop reminded her of the war camp she had just left. Each warrior had her job to do, but was glad of the society of fellow warriors at the end of the day. She wished they coul
d talk as well as understand. Dawna missed human conversation. Her keen hearing allowed her to eavesdrop on the innkeeper’s guests at the edge of the green.
“ … Say the war’s over, so I guess that female up there was telling the truth …”
“ … Raspberry season down south. It’ll start here soon … ”
“ … Sixty dead in one town. Can’t tell me that’s not sorcery from the enemy!”
“ … Never happen here. Come on, let’s have another drink.”
* * *
By the next morning Dawna could feel that the town’s tolerance limit had been reached. Though they couldn’t tell she knew what they were doing, the adults went about furtively, peeking at her from behind trees, ducking into one another’s shops and homes, coordinating what they planned to do, to drive away the invader. She had plenty of time to divine their intention. By the time they’d formed up into a mob, three hours after they had begun, she had had time to bathe, enjoy a hearty breakfast of grilled fish and purloined sausage, pet and doctor all the cats, and don her full armor, including her buckler and newly-polished sword. The gleaming hilts of dirks poked out of both boot tops, and a war hammer, her least favorite weapon but a good one of last recourse, hung ready at her belt. She had fifteen cats with her now. Most of the adult felines of the town had come to her during the last day, bringing an offering, hoping for protection. They clustered behind her heels.
Led by the silversmith nearly the entire human population of Cabbage Town stalked into the common and surged partway up the hill where she held her vigil. They were carrying tools of their trades, such as shears and hammers, or garden implements like hoes and spades. Only two bore themselves like former soldiers: the school teacher and the dyer, who both carried short-swords of uncertain age. The rest held their makeshift weapons with no conviction. Dawna felt certain she could defend herself if it came to a fight, but she intended that no fight should begin. A few of them stopped dead when they saw how she was attired. She smiled. Half the battle was already won.
Pushed by the others, the silversmith finally stepped forward out of the mob. He cleared his throat.
“Sell-sword, we’ve concluded … all of us,” he turned to gesture at the crowd, “that, er, it is disruptive to the, er, well-being of our town, of which you are not a citizen, that … that … ”
“That I should leave?” Dawna finished for him.
“Um … er … yes,” the silversmith squeaked out, surprised at her capitulation. He seemed to take heart. “I mean, that is, forthwith. You must be on your way at once. Carrying only what you came with. Er. Yes. You must leave our cats behind.”
“Very well,” Dawna said, crossing her arms. “I won’t touch a single one.” Muttering erupted amongst the townsfolk. She had agreed so easily. What were they missing? They would be missing quite a lot, soon, if she was not wrong. She raised her voice. “I’ve got a few words to say that I want everyone to hear. I wish to thank the citizens of Cabbage Town for the use of green for the last two nights. It would have been a cold and uncomfortable place to stay, if not for the hospitality of your cats. They’ve shown me the common courtesy that I thought humans owed to one another, certainly that which one might expect to be extended to fellow subjects of this kingdom.
“To my hosts and clients, then,” and she turned to look into the round eyes of the cats huddled at the foot of the tree, “I depart now for my home town of Marigold Down. If you are afraid to remain here, you may come with me. I’ll find you somewhere better to live where you need never again fear a boot or a stone. I know my father would be grateful for good hunting cats. His barley harvest is much troubled by rats.”
“Now, sell-sword!” the silversmith protested. “Didn’t you just agree not to take our cats with you?”
“Now, silversmith,” she countered, turning to face him. “They’re dumb creatures, aren’t they? You’ve all said as much for the last two days. You don’t honestly believe that they can understand me, do you?”
“Uh. Er. No. I suppose not.” The muttering in the crowd got louder. Dawna pitched her voice so it could be heard clear down to the bottom of the hill.
“I swear to you by my soul that I will not take a single animal out of this town. If any follow me, it will be by their own volition. Will that satisfy you?”
“Not me,” the butcher growled, stepping forward with a cleaver in his hand. “I’ll see you to the edge of town, mercenary, just to make sure you don’t steal anything of ours.”
“And I!” exclaimed the weaver.
“And I will, too,” said the barber-surgeon, a dark-complected man with beefy arms. In all, six of the boldest elected to act as her escort. Dawna glanced back as she marched down the hill with her honor guard trailing behind. All of the cats who had been there had melted away into the undergrowth.
“Go on about your business,” the butcher ordered the rest of the crowd. “We’ll see she doesn’t turn back.”
Dawna led the six townsfolk toward the northern edge of town. Six days’ march would bring her within sight of Marigold Down, and another half day to her father’s home to the northwest.
“Goodbye,” she said, nodding to her escort.
“Good riddance,” the butcher said. As one, the men turned and stumped back toward town.
“Same to you,” Dawna said under her breath. The sooner she shook the dust of Cabbage Town off her feet, the happier she would be. And now to see if her speech had had any results.
It had. As soon as she left the clean, gravel track for the muddy forest path, cats began to appear like magic out of the surrounding undergrowth. The orange cat popped out from beneath a flowering gorse bush with her kittens marching in a file behind her, and claimed the warrior with a cheek-swipe along her boot top. Dawna stopped only long enough to scoop up the little ones and put them in makeshift sling made of a fold of her cloak. The gray cat and the injured black-and-white came running from another hiding place. In all, eighteen cats and a couple dozen half-grown kits would be making the long journey northward with her. As soon as she felt safe stopping she would tie red ribbons around the necks of each to show the people they met that these cats were under her protection. She hoped she wouldn’t run into anyone as thick as the denizens of Cabbage Town.
“Come along,” she said to the cats, setting a light pace once she was out of sight of the town. “We’ve got a long way to go, and I’ve always found a story helps to pass the time. Now, let me tell you about the siege of Valorin…”
The kittens against her chest purred their approval.
Gil couldn’t keep Shadow out of anything. The four-year-old ex-tomcat considered a closed door or any other blocked egress to be a personal challenge and an affront to his feline sensibilities. Although what Great-aunt Erma was speaking about, sitting there at the front of the room in her ancient rocker, could affected Gil’s entire future, he had only half of his attention on her. The other half was fixed on the black cat.
Just as he feared he would, Shadow nudged open the lid of the old coal-box next to the marble fireplace and climbed inside. The lid dropped shut with a bang. Aunt Erma turned a gimlet eye toward the noise and cleared her throat irritatably. Embarrassed, Gil got up to retrieve Shadow. Thank God coal-bins were just for show these days. All he needed was a cat daubing sooty footprints all over the spotless mansion.
“Gilbert Todhunter, are you listening?” Great-aunt Erma asked, turning her wheelchair toward him. She was a deceptively frail-looking old lady with wispy white curls arranged around her narrow head.
“Sorry, Auntie,” Gil said, sitting down. He tried to hold the restless cat still. An almost impossible task, with his cousin Charlotte’s white English bulldog Augustus right behind them, giving him the eye. Charlotte herself was watching Gil. In a room full of cousins, Charlotte was the only one he really worried about. Gil believed the old saw that people and their pets were a lot alike. Ce
rtainly he was tall and rangy, with black hair like his cat’s. Charlotte, was short, pale, and stocky, with bowed legs like her dog’s, and tenacity to match. At home in Philadelphia, Charlotte had her own consulting firm. She was an efficiency expert. Gil thought it was probably because she loved telling other people what to do. She had brought Augustus in hopes he could sniff out Great-great-grandpa Todhunter’s scent before anyone else.
“I’m old,” Erma was saying, “and I’ve got all that I need for what time I believe I have left. So, what I mean to do is to choose my successor to the Todhunter fortune, while I’m still alive. I have seen too many family fortunes cut up into small pieces and ruined by squabbling heirs. I hate that. I want the estate to pass down the generations intact. I have no children of my own, so I have invited you, my great-nephews and -nieces to participate in a little contest. The United States government did it once, and now I’m doing it. I’m starting a little land rush, right here in my very own home.
“You could say my grandfather all but invented land speculation. He waited for homesteading settlers to return here from the land rushes, and made them good offers for their stakeholding deeds. Everybody was happy. They got cold, hard cash, and he got land, which looked worthless at the time.” She smiled, and her blue eyes glinted sharply. “At the time. Grandpa knew better. His deals made him very rich. I’ve lived very well on the interest alone. Most of the deeds have never even been exercised, so I left them exactly where Grandpa did. They’re still good, and worth a tidy little fortune. Winner takes all: land, house and money.”
“Where are the deeds?” Charlotte asked, setting her heavy jaw in a way that made her look like Augustus. The twenty or so other cousins leaned forward, avidly.
Cats Triumphant Page 6
