No One Noticed the Cat

by Anne McCaffrey

  As he climbed into his bed and pulled the curtains against the draughts that could not be excluded from the castle, he was glad that he had always insisted— from the time he was eight—that he was old enough to sleep by himself and without the ceremonies generally besetting a ruler at bedtime. He had been pleased that Mangan had supported this alteration in custom. His valets and equerries could fuss over him all they wanted in his dressing rooms, but his bedroom was his private place: a fact he appreciated even more after the onset of puberty.

  Jamas was as well favored as his ancestors had been, and not just in looks. And he was as lusty as the best, if not as insatiable as some. (Mangan had handled that aspect of his education deftly.)

  There just happened to be a secret passage from the West Tower up to the prince’s bedchamber. In fact, the castle was rather well equipped with such discreet amenities. Mangan had taught his young charge where every single one of them went and how to open the hidden locks.

  “Did Mangan teach you all the secret ways, too, Niffy?” Jamas asked the cat as he pulled his covers up. “Is that how you got here before I could?”

  She blinked slowly. He couldn’t be sure if that meant agreement.

  “I didn’t see you on the steps and you certainly didn’t leave the hall before I did. I felt you on my feet all night long. Did you get enough to eat?”

  Niffy then smiled her feline smile and, seeing him settled, circled a spot level with his head on the spare pillow and lay down.

  “You miss him, don’t you?” he said, reaching up to stroke her head.

  She purred.

  “I will, too.”

  Her purr deepened. She smiled at him again, then tucked her head down. Shortly after that her purr dwindled into silence.

  No one quite noticed when Niffy became a fixture in the prince’s vicinity. Perhaps they had been so accustomed to her presence with the regent that it was unremarkable.

  “You seem to have been adopted,” Baron Grenejon said one morning, when he saw Niffy jump up on the prince’s desk as Jamas was rereading the latest demands from his southwestern neighbor, the self-styled King Egdril…Egdril the Eager, he was often called. This “king” had eagerly annexed a small but well managed valley when its count and his heir had been killed in a boating accident. He had eagerly taken, for his second wife, the clever daughter of a duke farther south, acquiring additional lands. He had eagerly disposed of some rather annoying pirates on the Great Inland Sea as well as their ships, eagerly acquiring their routes for more peaceful trades.

  “Adopted by Niffy?” the prince said, reaching out to run a welcoming hand down her luxurious, silky fur. “Yes, well, I guess you could call it that. Found her in my room the night of Mangan’s feast. Poor thing misses him, and I don’t mind. Sleeps on my pillow.”

  Grenejon raised dark well-formed eyebrows. “Every night?”

  The prince laughed because he suspected Grenejon knew that the pretty brunette dancer from the troupe just then entertaining at the castle had eyed the handsome young prince in the manner which often led to beddings. As indeed it had.

  “Mangan raised that cat. She’s as discreet as he was.”

  “Hmmm, yes. You know, Mangan was sort of feline in the way he could maneuver around obstacles and problems.”

  “Like this one?” Jamas said, slapping the document with some asperity.

  “Exactly. Now, what would Mangan say we should do?”

  Jamas, who was rather hoping Grenejon would suggest a show of force, exhaled an abrupt breath. He gazed out across the room, catching Niffy scrupulously cleaning her claws.

  “I’d show him mine, I think.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Abruptly certain now of a course of action that could be just as much fun as a battle but less dangerous, Jamas tilted his chair back, balancing himself deftly. “Why, we invite our brother ruler to join us in a hunt. I know there’s been a report of barguas in the Fial Valley on our mutual border. King Egdril fancies himself a hunter. Well, barguas make excellent sport. Let us show him how we Esphanians deal with…predators.”

  “Oh, an excellent idea, my Prince.”

  “Good. Make the arrangements, Grenejon. I shall answer this now. Frenery!” Jamas called, and the secretary peered round the door. “A letter! Oh, Grenejon,” he added to his equerry, “this won’t take long. Have the courier ready to ride.”

  Frenery was not quite as elderly as he looked or acted, and he wrote quickly in a fair hand, never faltering as he took the prince’s dictation. He also nodded and smiled his approval of the courtly and complimentary phrases in which Jamas couched the invitation to his fellow monarch. (Actually, Esphania was a much larger principality than King Egdril’s, even after the recent acquisitions. Traditionally, Esphania’s rulers were princes; having had their domains as gifts from an emperor long since dead and an empire long since divided into smaller principalities, princedoms, and provinces which had managed to remain intact.)

  Frenery handed the completed parchment to the prince, while he held wax to the candle. The prince took off his heavy signet ring and affixed his seal to the wax.

  Niffy had finished her ablutions, and now she peered over at the document.

  “Oh, do be careful, Niffy,” Frenery said, about to brush the cat aside. “The ink’s not quite dry.”

  “She won’t smear it,” Jamas said indulgently and turned the letter slightly to the right so that the cat could “read” it. “What do you think, Niffy? Have I struck the right note?”

  She gave a soft sort of noise deep in her throat and then, leaping gracefully off the desk, proceeded to curl up in the sun on the window seat.

  “Now that it’s approved,” Jamas said, grinning at Frenery, “I’ll sign it.”

  Frenery regarded his prince with wide-eyed concern and managed a little laugh.

  “My Prince will have his little joke.”

  Jamas regarded his secretary with a bland expression. “And what if it isn’t a joke, good old Frenery?”

  “Oh?” Frenery shot him a worried glance.

  Jamas laughed, pleased at the effect of his remark. “Do take this to the courier and urge him to waste no time in its delivery. I would ask you to join us in the hunt, Frenery, but…” He grinned again as Frenery waved his hands in dismay. “I do believe hunting barguas is not your favorite occupation. You can mind Niffy for me during my absence. She misses Mangan, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly, my Prince. Yes, she does, for I often find her in his quarters.”

  “So that’s where she goes when she’s not lounging around mine.”

  “Should I… I mean, well, are you…will you need…that tower?”

  “Am I replacing Mangan? That’s impossible. No, leave his quarters as they are. It isn’t that the castle lacks other apartments, is it?”

  And truly that was so, since the castle was immense. The Esphanian Dynasty had thrived since the end of the Empire, and the castle had long outgrown its original keep and battlements, with wings added here and towers climbing out of corners, while storage facilities went down several levels into the solid rock of the cliff. Five generations ago the dungeons had been converted to house the wines laid down every year from the vineyards.

  The village which had once clung merely to the skirts of the rocky heights on which the castle perched had turned into a good sized, prosperous city. It had several market squares, possessed craftsmen of high skill in every profession, and did very good foreign business.

  The fertile farmlands and the wide river that led to the not too distant sea were well managed. Products from the orchards, fruit and nut, as well as from the vineyards on the mountain slopes, were prized in many parts of the world. Trade was profitable and, now that King Egdril had executed the coastal pirates, was in a period of expansion.

  King Egdril with his customary eagerness replied affirmatively to the prince’s invitation, and Frenery, with a select group of chefs, equerries, kennelmen, dogs, and servants went to t
he proposed site in the Fial Valley to prepare suitable, if temporary, quarters.

  Torquedy Vale was chosen without hesitation, for the area had not only a rushing river feeding a large and tranquil lake, but flat meadows for pitching tents and grazing horses as well as sufficient space in the forest glade to invisibly house the necessary small army of servitors such an expedition required for comforting amenities. Foresters were sent out to find barguas-trace so that the hunt could narrow its search and provide immediate sport.

  Once Prince Jamas learned of the acceptance, he went through the lists of his chief nobles, selecting those to accompany him. Mangan had seen to it that Prince Jamas was sufficiently well acquainted with his subjects that he had no trouble choosing the most appropriate.

  “Moxtell of Oria is too blind to be safe on a hunt…” Grenejon said as he took over Frenery’s duties as secretary during the good man’s absence.

  “Ah, but he’ll bring his three sons and two brothers with him, and they’d give a good account of themselves in a barguas hunt.”

  As his equerry added their names to the list, Jamas continued to stroke Niffy.

  “True,” agreed Grenejon dutifully.

  “Besides, Moxtell might not see, but Mangan said that had interfered not at all with the old Earl’s knowledge of what goes on about him.”

  “Hmm.” Grenejon grinned. “Now, about the younger Fennells…”

  “Be sure their uncle doesn’t think he’s included. That man needs a bridle for his tongue, and he’s just the sort who’d delight in insulting His Eagerness just to have a bit of sport. Address the invitation to Lady Camilla and tell her that if her brother comes, we’ll collect the fine he’s been appealing in the courts. Doubled!”

  “The one Mangan levied on his lands for his last insult?”

  “The very one.”

  “Mangan taught you well, my Prince.” Grenejon looked up, then, because Niffy’s purr reached a louder pitch. “Are you taking her?”

  “If she’ll come,” Jamas said, having just decided that she should. Niffy regarded him with her green eyes and smiled.

  “How?”

  “In my saddlebag, of course. Wouldn’t risk her riding on my shoulder.”

  “Wise, considering the pace you usually ride at. Shouldn’t wonder she’ll join the hunt.”

  Niffy smiled again.

  When the royal party arrived, fifty strong with a sufficient scattering of grayer heads among the young bloods to suggest that this wasn’t a youthful escapade, they found all in order. Just as the dust settled, the honored guest and his entourage appeared from the opposite direction.

  Prince Jamas saw that King Egdril’s retinue included several fair ladies, mounted astride the fine-limbed horses that were bred on the Mauritian coastal plains. The horses’ light brown coats and flaxen manes and tails made them particularly noticeable among the larger bays and blacks which the men of the party rode.

  The girls were almost as noteworthy as their steeds. Dressed in hunting gear (although Jamas was not certain that barguas made appropriate prey for women), the three girls were certainly attractive: two brunettes and one stunning redhead whom Jamas immediately took to be as strong-minded and willful as that flamboyant coloration. She wore her mahogany hair in one thick plait down her back, where it dangled just above the cantle. That she sat the cavortings of her mount easily suggested to Jamas that she was going to insist on joining the hunt no matter what wiser heads might say.

  Of the two brunettes, who had equally long plaits, one was already playing the coquette with Grenejon. The other merely watched, her eyes darting from one face to another.

  A nudge from Baron Illify reminded Jamas that his first obligations were to his fellow ruler.

  Jamas kneed his favorite chestnut stallion toward King Egdril and held out his hand.

  Egdril was in his middle years, fit and spare of frame, one hand steady on the reins of his fractious mount, which snorted at the proximity of another stallion. The two rulers both nodded as they forced their horses to obey their leg aids and come to a halt side by side. Egdril had very white teeth in a tanned face, a carefully cropped beard that was more white than black, framing a strong face. His eyes took the measure of this young prince, and Jamas returned his forearm clasp with equal strength.

  They both laughed at this initial test of each other’s worth.

  “We meet at last,” Egdril said. “And at a splendid site,” he added, twisting in his saddle to gaze around him at the tenting and visible accommodations. Servitors were already dashing forward with beakers of thirst-quenching beer.

  Accepting his, Egdril took a swig and went on. “Let me make known to you my nieces,” and he gestured to the three girls and winked broadly at Jamas.

  “By all means, do,” Jamas said with as broad a grin.

  “The Baroness Salinah!” The redhead tilted her head gracefully, though she held her head high and proudly as she eyed the prince in a very open manner. “My deceased sister’s only child. The Ladies Willow and Laurel are my widowed sister’s daughters.” The names evidently did not please Egdril. “My sons,” and he made a broad gesture to bring two riders forward.

  “Geroge is the elder and Mavron the cadet,” the king said, and both men—older than Jamas and Grenejon and, to judge by the scars on their faces, warriors of some experience—made properly respectful short bows to the prince.

  Then Jamas introduced the more important members of his entourage, Moxtell, whose male companions were eyeing the three girls, and the Fennells, whose uncle had seen the wisdom of remaining at home, and went down the rankings to Baron Illify.

  “But now, Egdril, dismount and accept my hospitality. Our friends can mingle and get to know each other without more formality.”

  So they all swung down from their saddles and handed their horses over to the grooms awaiting them.

  “He brought fifty, too, if you include the girls,” Grenejon said in Jamas’ ear.

  “I can count.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” cried red-headed Salinah as Niffy emerged from the saddlebag where she had made a comfortable journey and, leaping down, loped off into the nearest copse.

  “My cat,” Jamas said.

  “Your cat?” Salinah’s tone was a combination of distaste and contempt.

  “Your cat?” The echo came from the lips of the brunette, Laurel, and her voice combined surprise with interest.

  “You and your cats, Laurel,” Salinah said. “Can’t abide the creatures.”

  “You prefer dogs?” Jamas asked politely enough, but he had lost all other interest in the girl.

  “There is a use for them,” she said and then turned her head in the direction of the excited barking of the great, shaggy barguas-hunting dogs. “May I?”

  “Baron Grenejon will escort you, Baroness Salinah,” Jamas said, turning away from the redhead to bend a smile on Laurel and her sister. “As you no doubt appreciate, a cat is an individual.”

  Salinah gave a sniff as Grenejon escorted her away.

  “Let me accompany you to your quarters, Egdril,” Jamas said, neatly twining the arms of the two girls in his as he led the party. Egdril grinned at the maneuver and fell in step beside Laurel.

  Jamas found himself of a height with his fellow ruler, though perhaps not as broad as the more mature man. They could certainly look each other straight in the eye, which subtly reassured the young prince.

  It was fortunate that Frenery had thoughtfully provided six private chambers within the arching domed tent of the royal quarters. The king obviously approved as he set foot on the thick carpets that decorated the floor of the entry.

  Casting a quick eye about the large interior chamber, Jamas saw that it was comfortable, not ostentatious, though fruits and other dainties had been placed on the tables by the piles of cushions which were traditionally used on such progresses. An appropriately regal wooden chair did stand to one side in case the king preferred it.

  Now his retinue began to arr
ive, setting up the bits and pieces which a well-seasoned traveller like Egdril generally carried in his baggage train, including a much more regal chair. There was a whispered conference as Jamas’ steward intercepted Egdril’s and exchanged notes. Now men and women arrived with hot and cold finger foods as well as an assortment of beverages.

  Egdril sank gracefully onto a pile of cushions, reaching languidly for a hot-house peach.

  “Clever, these,” he said, patting the cushions with his free hand before taking a bite of the peach. “Not that the ride was arduous but older bones do like a bit of comfort.”

  Jamas chuckled, denying “old bones” with a flick of his fingers. Willow and Laurel were accepting drinks from the trays and settling themselves quietly.

  “Sorry to learn of old Mangan’s demise,” Egdril added. “Fine statesman. You were lucky to have him as your regent.”

  “Indeed. He is sorely missed by us all.”

  With a keen eye, Egdril lobbed the peach pit into a receptacle in the corner and licked his fingers.

  “Shall we have good sport in the hunting tomorrow?” Egdril asked and went on before Jamas could assure him so. “The girls are well able to handle themselves on a hunt, even for barguas. I only brought wards who don’t faint or act foolish. Salinah’s the finest shot with the crossbow in Mauritia. Drives my quarrels right through the middle eye in the target butts.”

  Just then the two princes, Geroge and Mavron, arrived, accepting wine from the drinks offered as they joined their father and Jamas. Conversation quickly devolved into the hunting available in Mauritia, including the large piscine fighters which offered a struggle to the venturesome. Despite the river Thuler’s access to the sea, Esphania was a landlocked principality, so Jamas graciously allowed himself to be regaled with descriptions of the denizens of the deeps and the battles that could be waged between the fisher and the fished.

  Shortly thereafter Salinah returned from inspecting his dogpacks. She emphatically informed her uncle that they were fine animals and she looked forward to hunting with them.

  “I should like a bath,” she said to no one in particular, but Jamas waved toward the private quarters and she went off.