I had just come back from Elderwick, after a rather long and tiring afternoon at the Mayor’s office. He’d treated me to tea, and explained a new development in City affairs, to wit, the return of the Injurious Princess. “She’s trying to solve a problem in her country’s history, and I had thought that a person of your…range of contacts might have a few good ideas. Also, there’s another matter.”
Long story short, he wanted me to take care of a friend of hers, at least while she was in town. “You would seem to be the best person to handle him.”
Her Most Serene Emissary of the Carnelian Coast retreated in high dudgeon to her shared apartment with the real ministers of the Banded Prince on arrival, huffing that nothing like this ever happened in a proper home for one of her stature. The kittens kept to their den. The bats flew even further into the rafters, followed by the two ravens, Poetry and Sophistry. The rats disappeared down one hole. The weasels down another. The Sapient Spider created a few loops and crawled off into the dark.
The rest of us, fleshlings, fungus, and sundry other flightless bipeds in the house gathered in the parlor as a welcoming committee, with drinks and zeefood cocktail. The Presterbyte Ambassador opined that whatever happened, at least I had had the honor of their trust. My wife had a worried look. The others were everything from doubtful to noncommittal — it was clear that no one was especially happy about this.
I opened the basket.
A young, bony, combat-scarred tom slithered out. Hissed. Then, in a superbly nonchalant gesture, he gave a long, luxurious spray to the foreleg of the chaise longue. Then he planted himself in the center of the Aubusson rug, and coughed up a hairball.
Nigel, late of the Fisher-Kings, and currently acting footman, broke the silence. “That’s going to take some doing, cleaning that up.”
The Starveling Cat, our erstwhile, though unreliable, enforcer and House defense system sniffed, and stalked out of the room, though not before adding his marking to the leg.
Clearly something Needed to Be Done, though it wasn’t clear what.
It was then that Bastet (“please don’t call me that”), Midnight Matriarch of the Menagerie of Roses made her presence known. (She’s like that).
I’d hardly ever seen her pull rank on anyone. Not even another cat. The high and the humble got her respect, the young and simple her fond regard, the pretentious got her amused charm, the downright treacherous her impassivity and private scorn. Even the Starveling gave her a wide berth.
I suppose that’s what’s being a real aristocrat is all about. But this — I’d never seen this before.
She didn’t just walk into the room, she wafted. Wait! Did she just twitch, not just her tail, but her whole hindquarters? Did she just tread? No, it’s gone.
The Mog looked puzzled, then decided to sneeze, instead.
“Well, she’s certainly nothing to sneeze at.” Sophistry, the dark Raven, had glided onto my shoulder. He bit my earlobe, gently. “Perhaps you need an interpreter.”
“You understand Feline?”
“Shh. Kind of a necessity, in my position. But, yes.”
What was happening needed no interpreter, though it was mighty cryptic.
She caught his eye. She blinked, slowly.
He arched, then let out a low growl. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. Keep back.” Soph murmured.
She was fully facing him now. She twitched again, slowly, deliberately. Then tread. All this time, she kept looking him full in the face, but her face held the guileless innocence of a feline debutante. “Really? You must…tell me. Better, show me! I don’t know anything about such things. My life here…is so, so sheltered…” Soph continued.
He growled again, but it wasn’t working. “He’s wavering.”
She sat, and turned in her paws. “The defense rests. Now let’s see who walks off first.”
A long moment passed.
He unarched, and sat, but kept his paws.
She rose up, lightly, and washed his ear for some time, making small cat noises. “I…I can’t make it out.” She left the room, in the direction of the dining room, her head and tail held high.
The breath everyone was holding was let out. The Mog rose to his feet slowly, his head down, and for a short while, tried to bury the hairball. Then, shaking his head, looked at all of us and said:
“Wot you all lookin’ at?”
And loped down the stairs to the kitchen.
Later Bastet came up onto the arm of my favorite easy chair. Seeing Sophistry’s bite mark, she washed my ear, and purred.
“What did you tell him?”
“Oh, nothing. I just told him that this was one of the safest. best guarded places in London, and it would be hazardous to roam. Also that you’re going to take him to the see the Duchess. Then I made some hints about why all we Palace cats are all so…calm…so contented….” She groomed her flank. “Do this for me, please? I know you’re friends, but I’d really rather not bring up old wounds…"
Later, he became the most insufferably haughty arriviste prig, and sought the lovely paw of dark Bastet, leading to the local Padre conducting her wedding… in Coptic….but that’s another story.
And then, I got another Mog….
edited by Alissa Mower Clough on 10/28/2018