No One Noticed the Cat

by Anne McCaffrey

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  ALSO BY ANNE McCAFFREY

  DEDICATION

  NO ONE NOTICED THE CAT

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1996 by Anne McCaffrey

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Wildside Press, LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  ALSO BY ANNE McCAFFREY

  An Exchange of Gifts

  Cooking Out of This World

  If Wishes Were Horses

  The Kilternan Legacy

  The Mark of Merlin

  Ring of Fear

  Serve It Forth: Cooking with Anne McCaffrey

  DEDICATION

  To Amelia Michael Johnson

  my middle granddaughter

  who can read this for her own self

  NO ONE NOTICED THE CAT

  When Mangan Tighe, regent to Prince Jamas the Fifth, died, no one noticed the cat in their grief for the passing of this good and learned man. That he was of great age and had enjoyed his wits to the very end only served to heighten the sense of loss. Even Prince Jamas wept, though he had often railed at Regent Mangan’s firm but kindly control.

  “He never allows me any latitude,” Jamas would complain to his equerries.

  As they all knew that such restraints also kept Jamas from break­ing his neck, head, and back (not to mention all tradition), they merely looked sympathetic. Jamas came from a long line of willful, impetuous, gallant, adventurous princes. Which was why he had been orphaned at an early age when his hey-go-mad young parents killed themselves in a carriage race. The entire country breathed a sigh of relief when Man­gan, the former prince’s counselor, was made regent.

  Prince Jamas would have been slightly more annoyed than grief-stricken if he had been aware that Mangan had known to the second when his soul would leave his body. To protect the princi­pality Mangan had made so peacefully prosperous, the wise man had made certain unusual arrangements well in advance of his expectable demise.

  One of them had been to surround the young prince, who now had only a year to go before his majority, with discreet advisors. Mangan had also hand-picked and trained all the primary members of the Court of Esphania for their experience and varied skills so that the prince’s council would support their ruler and deftly handle any prob­lems that might arise.

  But Mangan had never whispered a hint to his prince that his al­lotted span was coming to an end. Which to Mangan was not sad but joyous.

  When the moment arrived, Mangan knew in his heart that he had done as well as he could to preserve Prince Jamas, the prince’s throne, and the commonwealth of Esphania. And he smiled as he died.

  “Look, he’s smiling,” the prince said, brushing tears from his eyes, for he had a generous heart and was sincerely de­voted to his regent-guardian. “Death must not be so bad after all.”

  So not even he noticed the cat who slipped with sinuous quiet away from the fold of the bed curtains where she had been maintain­ing her own vigil.

  Though not even Frenery knew it, the smoky-colored Niffy was one of Mangan Tighe’s last and best safeguards. Her installation had been as smooth and natural as many of Mangan’s other precau­tions. In fact, no one was quite sure where Mangan obtained her mother, a beautifully marked silver tiger-cat: not a useless lap creature but a fine huntress with great long whiskers and almond-shaped green eyes, large ears for listening, long legs for running, and thick fur for withstanding the chill of the castle’s stone corridors and floors.

  But one morning she was installed by Mangan in his pri­vate quar­ters, and he spent a great deal of time with her on his lap, caressing her, delighting in the softness of her thick dense fur, and listening to the even rhythm of her rumbling purr. But, most of all, laying the groundwork for his ultimate precaution. From his throat issued a sort of purr, too, which the cat obviously responded to by increasing her own rumble.

  From time to time, she would tilt her triangular face up to him, slowly closing her eyes and smiling as only a cat can smile. The tip of her magnificently plumed tail might twitch once or twice before she pulled it about her feet again and relaxed under his stroking hand.

  Miranda, for that was her name, produced three kittens: two black and one not quite black, for the underfur was softly gray and tortoise-shell in design.

  “I’d’ve thought you’d pick a black one,” Prince Jamas said when he inspected the litter in Mangan’s tower.

  “No, no,” Mangan said with a little laugh, “this is the one who chose me.”

  The kit crawled up to his still broad shoulder—for Mangan had once been a redoubtable swordsman— making the regent wince as its claws pierced through the fabric of his overvest to flesh. It settled itself neatly as if it held this position by right. Since it rode there whenever Mangan left his tower, everyone became accustomed to this behavior.

  When the kittens were weaned, Miranda took the other two down to the stables, where they became the scourge of vermin and sought no further advancement in their lot. The grooms, being a somewhat su­perstitious lot, made sure the palace dogs did not bother Master Mangan’s cats: not that even the most stupid of the canines would have had sufficient courage to attack Miranda.

  Niffy, for that was what the regent had nicknamed the one who had chosen him, lapped milk and ate the tender victuals which the cook daily provided for her on the regent’s breakfast tray. She also went everywhere with Mangan. Considerately, his valet put extra padding on the shoulders of his clothing to reinforce the much-clawed fabric.

  “That one has barbs on the ends of ’er prickers,” the valet said, nodding wisely. “Clings to him like to life itself.”

  While the regent attended to the many duties of his posi­tion, Niffy would nap in whatever sunlight came through the windows of his tower, or—which amused Prince Jamas im­mensely, for the young man often visited his mentor—sit on the current documents that passed across the regent’s desk. As if able to read, she would watch the pen as it scratched across parchment, inscribing letters to notables or docu­ments of state.

  “Does she read your final drafts, Mangan?” the prince asked once when he noticed that her eyes followed the regent’s busy right hand.

  Mangan chuckled, reaching up to stroke Niffy, who rose under his hand in appreciation, her purr audible.

  “No, my Prince, I trust I do not yet need such assistance,” he replied, “but she is a very wise one, indeed.”

  “Wise? A cat?”

  “Truly, my Prince. A cat has the wisdom to remain independent of humans and is always able to provide for itself, whereas dogs are de­pendent on constant care, A cat allows a human to be a friend if we have proved worthy of such an accolade. Yet it is faithful and recog­nizes that there are times when we poor humans are in need of the companionship only a cat can provide. Indeed, when I am vexed by a problem, I will often ask her to sit on my lap. I have found that stroking her fur and listening to her soft reassurance, I am able to find a solution to my problems.”

  “The cat solves your problems?”

  “No, my Prince,” and Mangan chuckled indulgently, “she provides the serenity in which to solve them.”

  “May I pet her?” the prince asked, lifting his hand toward Niffy.

  “Ask her,” Mangan replied.

  “After all, I am her prince. She’d better permit.” The prince was half-joking.

  Niffy raised the green almond-shaped eyes she had inherited from her mother and eyed the prince and his hand.

  Abruptly, the prince hesitated and then asked in a tone of some deference, “Will you permit me such familiarity, Lady Niffy?”

  Niffy tilted her head slightly, as coquettish
as any court beauty, a soft purr audible.

  “She permits?” Jamas asked Mangan, to be sure. Oddly enough, he did not wish to lessen himself in his regent’s eyes by being rebuffed by his cat.

  “Oh, indeed. That purr so informs you,” Mangan said and watched as his prince gently, but in quite the most satisfactory manner, stroked the animal.

  “I say, she has the most magnificent fur,” the prince said, rather pleased by the tactile contact. “I can see why it might be soothing just to stroke her.”

  “She’s a very comfortable person, my Prince.”

  “Yes, I do believe she is a person,” Jamas said, laughing slightly with embarrassment, for he had not really considered felines “persons” before now. In fact, he hadn’t much considered the domestic animals in his castle, especially when they provided the services he had come to expect of each, and certainly not as personalities. Niffy changed his perceptions. Dogs he had in plenty, but they helped him hunt.

  “Oh, very much a fur personage, my Prince, and more loyal than you might imagine a cat can be.”

  That incident, when Jamas tried to place it, happened a good two years before the regent’s death.

  Somehow or other, the prince, though eager to assume total control of his destiny on reaching the age of twenty-one, had always imagined that Mangan would still be in his tower quarters, with Niffy keeping him company, ready to take over vexatious or tedious problems and solve them in his wise, smooth, and clever way. As ruler, Jamas would then be able to do what he wanted to.

  “Why did he have to die now?” Jamas asked his favorite equerry, a baron not many years his senior but of a more cautious nature: one of Mangan’s most felicitous appointments for Jamas. “I mean, we have that border dispute…”

  “Ah, but Jamie,” and Grenejon Klanto, Baron Illify, slipped into the familiar mode since they were alone in the prince’s quarters in that hour after Mangan’s death, “you said you knew how to manage that yourself.”

  Jamas, his mouth open to refute that allegation, closed it. One of Mangan’s maxims echoed in his head: There is no harm to admit error. To compound it with falsehood is most unwise!

  “Well, not as Mangy would have…no, he’s dead. I can’t be disrespectful when he isn’t even cold, can I?” Jamas said in a rueful tone. Then he ran both hands through the crisp blond curls that delighted women and irritated him. Straight hair did not sweat as much under a helmet. “No, mine would have been a more direct approach.”

  Jamas sighed because he was a very able swordsman and had studied classic battle strategy and troop deployment with more enthusiasm than he had coped with the hazards of grammar and spelling. He had, of course, had the very best possible martial training available—as did every male of his line—and had become extremely proficient in every way possible of rendering an opponent helpless, if not dead.

  Jamas liked fighting. Mangan had studiously avoided martial confrontations. Which, Jamas had felt, deprived his princely self of a chance to show off his prowess, proving his valor and reminding foes that he would be a dangerous adversary.

  War is the last resort and the most expensive one, was another of Mangan’s maxims. Diplomacy might take longer but has more lasting results for the commonweal.

  “Not now,” the prince went on, “when the princedom is in mourning.”

  “Not too much mourning, your highness,” said Frenery, who had been Mangan’s secretary for decades. He bobbed in an effort to show his respect to his sovereign. “The regent did not wish to, ahem, bore the court or put the treasury to unnecessary expense for obsequies which, he said,” and Frenery gave a little cough for the regent’s idiosyncrasies, “he would not be able to enjoy or control.”

  Prince Jamas frowned at the plump Frenery. “What?”

  “Well, sire, to be sure, you remarked yourself that our dearly departed smiled as he passed from his mortal coil?”

  “Hmm, yes, I did. So?”

  “The regent requested that post mortem ceremonies be limited to a fine meal and good wines with perhaps a libation to his memory? If you were so disposed?”

  “Humph,” was the prince’s surprised rejoinder. He was somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to endure long-winded eulogies, the longest of which would surely come from Frenery, who was so punctilious about protocol, respect, and stuff like that. Despite his deep affection and respect for Regent Mangan, Jamas had not been looking forward to such rituals. For a man of Mangan’s rank and prestige, speakers could waffle on for hours, and he could think of other things that he would rather do on a fine spring day.

  “Eat, drink and be merry, huh,” Grenejon said with the hint of a smile. “Yes, Mangan would prefer that, sire. He was never one for pomp and ceremony.” Grenejon cast a meaningful glance at Frenery, inviting his support.

  “Oh, yes, Baron Illify, quite right. In fact, the regent set aside a fine red wine which he hoped could be used for the occasion.”

  “Did he?” the prince was cheered. Mangan’s taste in wines was known well beyond the borders of Esphania: and rightly.

  “Yes, bins 78, 79, 80, and 81,” Frenery said, consulting the thick sheaf he always carried about with him for note-taking. Several sheets broke loose and fell to the floor, as they often did from Frenery’s overfull notebook. Baron Grenejon almost automatically bent to retrieve them.

  “Mangan was always forethoughtful, wasn’t he,” the prince added and then gave orders for a sumptuous banquet to follow immediately after the interment of the regent Mangan’s mortal remains.

  Mastering their grief, the palace chefs managed a feast of gastronomic excellence.

  “Mind you,” the head chef said with both honest sorrow and happy anticipation of showing off his talents, “lately the regent hasn’t been able to enjoy the rich and highly seasoned dishes of which I am a master. But I do believe I managed to cater quite inventively, titillating his palate without upsetting his digestion.”

  The second chef nodded, which was all that was required of him when his superior launched on this sort of talk.

  “Therefore, we shall contrive to present all the foods I’m sure the regent would have liked to have eaten were he enjoying the superb health our prince does.”

  And he did so, and the prince found that he could put aside his grief quite easily when confronted with pickled neats’ tongues, tiny spiced sausages, chilled shellfish, livers cooked with apples and oranges, cold fruit cream soups, and the swan/goose/duck/chicken/ guineafowl/squab entree, and the baron of beef, the racks of lamb and the stunning array of vegetables and legumes which generally accompany such courses. The removes were equally sumptuous: fish, scallops, prawns, lobsters, and mussels simmered in butter and garlic, and the special sauces for which the head chef was renowned.

  In Mangan’s cellar, a white wine had been set aside for the fish courses, as dry as one could be had, as well as the fine red. Of both there had been sufficient to keep full the glasses of the guests: the principal earls, dukes, counts, viscounts, and their families, all of whom wished to honor the regent. For in truth, Mangan Tighe had managed not to quarrel with any of them, and they all wished to be present to honor his memory. Especially as there was such a splendid feast.

  But, first, the prince did his duty by his mentor and guardian. He rose to his feet before the assembled, who hastily rose to theirs. He lifted high his glass, as did they.

  “Let us tonight remember, as he would have wished us to, the fine qualities, great wisdom and kindness of the late Mangan Tighe, regent, friend, and mentor. We shall miss him greatly, but we wish him well in the afterlife to which he has gone. May he still be smiling!”

  The prince nearly spilled his wine before he could get the glass to his mouth because he felt something rub his silk stockinged legs. If the toast he drank was no more than a sip, and if he sat down abruptly, pushing aside the fine linen tablecloth to peer under the table, he was the prince and everyone was just as glad the toast had been so brief.

  “What’s the m
atter, my Prince?” Grenejon asked, leaning across his table companion.

  “Ah, nothing, nothing,” the prince said, unwilling to admit that he thought the regent’s cat had just stroked his legs. He brushed the notion aside and applied himself to the superb food.

  However, later, as the harpers went from incidental dinner music to the more enjoyable ballad singing, he felt something settle against his right foot. Inconspicuously dropping his napkin, he had a good look under the tablecloth as he retrieved the napery.

  Niffy’s bright eyes glinted at him in the gloom. Prince Jamas also noted how many ladies’ slippers were standing empty under the long head table.

  A touch on his shoulder and he straightened up. A fresh napkin was dangled at him.

  “Nonsense, this is fine,” he said, waving off the servitor.

  From time to time thereafter, he dropped the odd morsel. Each time he felt the weight shift from his foot for a moment or two. When Niffy resumed her position, she purred her thanks. She particularly liked the liver and purred so loudly that Jamas was certain everyone else could hear her.

  No matter, his offerings were acceptable to Niffy. After all, Jamas thought, she would be missing her master, so why shouldn’t she share in the feast?

  Niffy also decided to share the prince’s bed, for she was there when Jamas finally sought it.

  “Did we feast and wine Mangan properly, Niffy cat?” he asked her, and she gave him her green-eyed smile from her seat on his pillow. He was oddly reassured to see her there. She’d been so close to the old regent she might have taken it into her head to dwindle away. Some animals did when their masters died.

  He’d never permitted dogs in his bedroom—not after the first occasion. They were such restless sleepers, always chasing something that got away in their dreams and yipping as well as scrabbling their nails on the bare wood floors. They also tended to smell. Cats, however, were notoriously clean and neat and slept quietly, curled up in mounds of fur.