“Like I said, none of your business.”
“Then whose business is she?”
“Mine.”
“Is that her notion or yours?”
The poet’s eyes flashed in the dimness. Then he shook his head and, without a word, began searching his pockets for his golden comb. Realizing he’d left it in his discarded outer shirt, he cursed and started running his fingers through his mud-crusted hair instead.
“Well, Glomar,” he said as he groomed, “it has been awfully nice running into you, as it were. So you made it through Cozamaloti in one piece? Wouldn’t have thought it possible. Cats, of course, always land on their feet, so the fall was nothing to me. But badgers aren’t known for their grace, now, are they? No wonder you bungled your leg, eh? Any luck in locating my lady Gleamdren? Didn’t think so. You know what they say: No points for starting first if you finish last.”
“I’m not finished yet,” growled Glomar. Judging from his voice, Imraldera thought, he really must be a badger. She could think of no other sort who would speak with that growl. But he sounded honest, which she liked.
She wondered what kind of woman Lady Gleamdren was to boast two such dissimilar suitors.
Eanrin got to his feet and put out a hand to Imraldera. Surprised, she took it and allowed him to assist her up. The interval out of the blistering heat had revived her somewhat, and she found she retained some residual strength in her limbs. But how hungry she was! She wondered if her fate was to starve in this barren world.
The poet bowed to Glomar. “We must be on our way. We hasten to my lady’s rescue, and since your company would prove more hindrance than help”—he indicated Glomar’s ankle—“we must here make our farewells. Farewell!” He turned and hopped up into the windowsill, his lithe body blocking the light and making the inner tower still gloomier. “Come, Imraldera,” he said, bending to reach her, hauling her up beside him before she quite had a chance to think.
“Wait!” Glomar struggled upright. Imraldera, grabbing the window frame to keep from tumbling out into the street, turned around to face him. His bow was much less graceful than Eanrin’s, but his gruff voice was respectful when he addressed her.
“My lady,” he said, “you need not cast your lot with that dragon-bitten mog. You’ve done me a good turn, and I am grateful. I must continue my search for sweet Gleamdren—she’s this fine lass, you see, the finest, exceptin’ your fine self—but if you would accompany me, it would be my honor, and I’ll see to it you leave Etalpalli safe and sound—”
“I think not!” Eanrin, once more a cat, arched his back and flattened his ears, snarling down at the captain. His tail lashed. “She’s with me, Glomar.”
“Why don’t you let the lady speak for herself?”
“Because she can’t, that’s why. She’s a cursed mute, and she’s mine!”
“Yours? And what would Lady Gleamdren say about that, I wonder?”
“That’s not your business either.”
“But this poor lass is yours?”
“Absolutely! I rescued her!”
“Is that so? It wasn’t her I saw leapin’ into anyone’s arms just now!”
“I’ll claw your eyes out, badger!”
“I’d like to see you try, cat!”
Imraldera, ready to burst with her desire to scream, scooped up the hissing tomcat and hurled him at Glomar’s head. Howls, snarls, and bloodcurdling curses filled the darkness, but she didn’t care. She leapt down into the street.
Eanrin tore at Glomar’s nose; Glomar snapped at Eanrin’s ears. Then both stopped midbrawl, realizing what had just happened.
“Dragon’s teeth!” Eanrin swore.
“She’ll be lost to us!” Glomar growled. He pushed the poet, who was once more a man, off of him, and they scrambled for precedence at the window. Pushing, pulling, they scrabbled up onto the sill and looked out. Both breathed in relief.
Imraldera sat in the middle of the street, collapsed on her knees, her shoulders and head bowed. But she was there. They climbed hastily out of the tower and crept on quiet, repentant feet behind her. Neither spoke but stood, waiting for her to acknowledge them in some way. She would not turn. They saw a shudder pass through her body, but otherwise she sat still.
“Is she . . . crying?” Glomar whispered to the cat-man.
Eanrin shrugged.
“Speak to her. Say somethin’ to . . . to make it right,” urged the captain.
“Why me?”
“You’re the poet. You’re the one with the words. Besides, she’s your responsibility, remember?”
Eanrin gave the captain a dirty look. But he took his cat form and, purring shamelessly, sidled up to the mortal maid. He bumped her elbow with his nose, adorable as a kitten, and rubbed his body around until his paws were in her lap. “Imraldera?”