The Tawny Man 1 - Fools Errand
Chapter XVI
CLAWS
The depredations of the Red Ship War took their heaviest tolls on the Coastal Duchies. Old fortunes were decimated, family lines failed, and onceproud holdings were reduced to ashy ruins and weedy courtyards. Yet in the wake of the war, just as seedlings sprout in the spring after a lightning fire , so too did many of the minor nobility find their fortunes swelling. Many of the humbler holdings had escaped the raiders' attention. Flocks and crops survived, and what would once have seemed secondary properties, came to be seen as places of plenty. The lesser onis and ladies of these lands suddenly found themselves seen as desirable matches for the heirs of older but suddenly less wealthy family lines. Thus the widowed lord of the Bresinga holdings near Galeton took a much younger and wealthier bride from amongst the Earwood family of Lesser Tor in Buck. The Earwood family was an old and noble line that had dwindled in both standing and wealth. Yet in the years of the Red Ship War, their sheltered valley prospered and shared harvest with the devastated folk of the Bresiriga holdings that bordered them. This kindness bore fruit for the Earwood family when aglea Earwood became Lady Bresinga. She bore her elderly lord an heir, Civil Bresinga, shortly before his death from a fever.
t . SCRIBE DUVLEN, “A HISTORY OF THE EARWOOD LINE”
Lord Golden moved with the grace and certainty that is supposedly bonebred in the nobility. Unerringly he led me to an elegant antechamber where his hostess and her son awaited him. Laurel was there, attired in a simple gown of jbs soft cream trimmed with lace. She was deep in conversation with the Bresinga Huntsman. I thought that the gown did not suit her as well as her simple tunic and riding breeches had, for her tanned arms and face seemed to make the dainty lace at the collar and belled sleeves incongruous on her. Lady Bresinga was elaborately flounced and draped for dinner, the abundance of her garments swelling the proportions of her bust and hips. There were three other guests: a married couple and their daughter of about seventeen, obviously local gentry. All had been waiting for Lord Golden.
Their reaction when we entered was everything the Fool had claimed it would be. Lady Bresinga turned to greet her guest, smiling. Her eyes swept over him, widening with pleasure. “Our honored guest is here,” she announced. Lord Golden turned his head slightly to one side, tucking Viis chin in with an innocent air as if he were unaware of his own beauty. Laurel stared at him in frank admiration as Lady Bresinga introduced Lord Golden to Lord and Lady Grayling of Cotterhills and their daughter Sydel. Their names were unfamiliar but I seemed to recall Cotterhills as a tiny holding in the foothills of Farrow. Sydel's cheeks grew pink and she appeared almost flustered at being included in Lord Golden's bow, and after that, the young gentlewoman's gaze appeared fixed on him. Her mother's eyes had wandered over to me and were frankly appraising me in a way that should have made her blush. I glanced away only to find Laurel looking at me with a bemused smile, as if she had forgotten she knew me. I could almost feel Lord Golden's radiant satisfaction in how he had turned their heads.
He offered his arm to Lady Bresinga, and her son Civil escorted Sydel. Lord and Lady Grayling followed and then came the Huntmasters. I followed my betters into the dining room and took up my post behind Lord Golden's chair. My position proclaimed me bodyguard as well as servant. Lady Bresinga glanced at me questioningly but I did not meet her eyes. If she thought that Lord Golden had breached her hospitality by having me accompany him, she did not comment on it. Young Civil simply stared for a moment or two, and then shrugged off my presence with a quiet aside to his companion. And after that, I became invisible.
I think it was the most curious vantage point I'd ever held in my spying career. It was not comfortable. I was hungry, and Lady Bresinga's board was loaded with dishes both savory and sweet. The servants who brought and cleared away the repast passed right before me. I was also weary and aching from the long day's ride, yet I forced myself to stand as still as possible, with no restless shifting, and to keep my eyes and my ears open.
All the talk at the table had to do with game and hunting. Lord Grayling and his lady and daughter were avid hunters, and evidently had been invited for this reason. Almost immediately, another common thread emerged. They hunted, not with hounds, but with cats. Lord Golden professed himself a complete novice at this sort of sport and begged them to enlighten him. They were only too pleased to do so, and the conversation soon bogged down into intricate arguments as to which breed of hunting cat did better on birds, with various tales exchanged to illustrate the different breeds' prowess. The Bresingas were vocal in support of a shorttailed breed called ealynex, while Lord Grayling vociferously offered heavy wagers that his gruepards would take the day regardless of whether they sought birds or hares. Lord Golden was a most flattering listener, asking avid questions and expressing amazement and fascination at the replies. The cats, he learned for both of us, were not coursing beasts, at least not in the same manner as hounds. Each hunter took a single feline, and it rode to the hunt on a special cushion, secured just behind its master's saddle. The larger gruepards could be loosed against game up to the size of young deer. They relied on a burst of speed to catch their prey, and then suffocated it to death with a throat hold.
The smaller ealynex was more often set loose in tall grassy meadows or underbrush, where it stalked its prey until it could leap upon it. It preferred to stun with a blow from a swift paw, or to break the neck or back with a single bite. It was sport, we learned, to loose such beasts upon a flock of tame pigeons or doves, to see how many they could bat to the ground before the whole flock took flight. Often these smaller, bobtailed cats were matched against one another in birdbatting competitions, with sizable wagers riding on the favorites. The Bresingas boasted no less than twentytwo cats of both types in their hunting stables. The Graylings had only the gruepards, and but six of them in their clowder, but Lady Bresinga assured Lord Golden that her friend was fortunate in possessing some of the best breeding lines she had ever seen.
“Then they are bred, these hunting cats? I was told that they had to be captured, that they would not breed if tamed.” Lord Golden fastened his attention on the Bresingas' Huntmaster.
“Oh, the gruepards will breed, but only if they are allowed to carry out their mating battles and harsh courtship without interference. The enclosure Lord Grayling has devoted to this purpose is quite large, and no human must ever enter it. We are quite fortunate that his efforts in that regard have been successful. Prior to this, as you perhaps know, all gruepards were brought in from either Chalced or the Sandsedge regions of Farrow, all at great expense, of course. They were quite rare in this area when I was a boy, but the moment I saw one, I knew that was the hunting beast for me. And I hope I don't sound a braggart in saying that, since the gruepards were so expensive, I was one of the first who thought of trying to tame our native ealynex to the same task. Hunting with the ealynex was quite unknown in Buck until my uncle and I first caught two of them. The ealynex are the cats that must be taken as adults, usually in pittraps, and schooled to hunt as companions.”
This all spouted from the Bresinga Huntsman, a tall fellow who hunched forward earnestly as he spoke. Avoin was his name. The topic was plainly his passion.
Lord Golden flattered him with his unwavering attention. “Fascinating. I must hear how such deadly little creatures are brought to heel. Nor was I aware there were so many names for hunting cats. I had assumed there was but one breed. So. Let me see. I was told that Prince Dutiful's hunting animal had to be taken from the den as a kitten. It must be a gruepard, then?”
Avoin exchanged a glance with his mistress, almost as if he asked permission before he spoke. “Ah, well. The Prince's cat is neither ealynex nor gruepard, Lord Golden. It is a rarer creature than either of those. Most know it as the mistcat. It ranges much higher into the mountains than our cats do, and is known for hunting amidst the branches of the trees as well as on the ground.” Avoin had dropped into the lecturing tone of the expert. Once he had begun to share his expertise, he would continue until his listeners' eyes glazed over. “For its size, it takes game substantially larger than itself, dropping down on both deer and wild goats to either ride them to exhaustion, or to break the neck with a bite. On the ground, it is neither as swift as the gruepard nor as stealthy as the ealynex, but combines the techniques of both with good success against small game. But of the mistcat, you heard true. It must be taken from its home den before its eyes are opened if it is to be tamed at all. Even then, it may have an uneven temperament, but those who are taken and trained correctly become the truest companions that any hunter could desire. They will only hunt for one master, however. Of mistcats it is said, 'from the den to the heart, never to part.' Meaning, of course, that only he who is sly enough to find the mistcat's den will ever possess one. It is quite a feat, to have a mistcat. When you see a hunter with a mistcat, you know you're seeing a master of cathunting.”
Avoin's voice suddenly faltered. If some sign had passedbetween him and his mistress, I had not seen it. Was the Huntsman involved, then, in the circumstances that had brought such a cat to the Prince?
Lord Golden, however, blithely ignored the implications of what he had heard. “A sumptuous gift for our Prince, indeed,” he enthused. “But it quite dashes my hopes of having a mistcat as my hunting creature tomorrow. At least, shall I have the prospect of seeing one set loose?”
“I fear not, Lord Golden,” Lady Bresinga replied graciously. “We have none in our hunting pack. They are quite rare. To see a mistcat hunt, you will have to ask the Prince himself to take you along on one of his outings. I am sure he would be delighted to do so.”
Lord Golden shook his head merrily, tucking his chin in as if taken aback. “Oh, no, dear lady, for I have heard that our illustrious Prince hunts afoot with his cat, at night, regardless of the weather. Much too physical an endeavor for me, I fear. Not at all to my taste, not at all!” Chuckles tumbled from him like spinning pins in a juggler's hands. All around the table, the others joined in his mirth. Climb.
I felt the prickle of tiny claws and glanced down. From somewhere, a small striped kitten had materialized. She stood on her hind legs, her front feet securely attached to my leggings by her embedded claws. Her yellowgreen eyes looked up earnestly at mine. Coming up!
I refused the touch of her mind without, I hoped, seeming to. At the table, Lord Golden had led the conversation to what types of cats they might use tomorrow, and whether or not they would damage the plumage on the game. Feathers, he reminded them all, were what he sought, though he did enjoy game bird pie.
I shifted my leg, hoping to dislodge the young bramblefoot. It did not work. Climbing! she insisted, and hopped up another notch. Now she hung from me from all four paws, her claws having penetrated my leggings to hook in my flesh. I reacted, I hoped, as any other servant might. I winced and - , then unobtrusively bent to pry the creature free, one thorny foot at a time. My action might have escaped attention if she had not mewled piteously at being thus thwarted. I had hoped to set her gently back on the floor, but Lord Golden's amused voice with, “Well, Badgerlock, and what have you caught?” directed all eyes to me.
“Just a kitten, sir. She seemed determined to climb my leg.” She was like a puff of dandelion fuzz in my hand. The deceptive depth of her fluffy coat was belied by the tiny rib cage in my hand. She opened her little red mouth and miaowed for her mother.
“Oh, there you are!” Lord Grayling's daughter exclaimed, leaping up from the table. Heedless of any decorum, Sydel rushed to take the squirming kitten from my hand. With both hands she cradled the kitten under her chin. “Oh, thank you for finding her.” She walked back to her place at the table, speaking as she went. “I could not bear to leave her alone at home, and yet she must have slipped out of my room just after breakfast, for I haven't seen her all day.”
“And is this, then, the kit of a hunting cat?” Lord Golden asked as the daughter seated herself.
Sydel leapt at the chance to address Lord Golden. “Oh, no, Lord Golden, this is my own sweet pet, my little pillowcat, Tibbits. She is such a mischief, aren't you, lovey? And yet I cannot bear to be parted from her. How you have worried me this afternoon!” She kissed the kitten on the top of her head and then settled the creature in her lap. No one at the table seemed to regard her behavior as unusual. As the meal and conversation resumed, I saw the little tabby head pop up at the edge of the table. Fish! the kit thought delightedly. A few moments later, Civil offered her a sliver of fish. I decided it meant little; it could be coincidence, or even the unconscious reaction that those without the Wit sometimes make to the wishes of animals they know well. The kit swiped a paw to claim possession of the morsel, and then took it into her owner's lap to devour it.
jsp.
Servants entered the hall to clear dishes and platters away, while a second rank of servants followed with sweet dishes and berry wines. Lord Golden had seized control of all conversation. The hunting tales he told were either fabulous concoctions or indicated that his life during the last ten years or so had been far different from what I had imagined. When he spoke of spearing sea mammals from a skin boat drawn by harnessed dolphins, even Sydel looked slightly incredulous. But as is ever the case, if a story is well told, the listeners will stay with it to the end, .and so they did this time. Lord Golden finished his recital with a flourish and a wicked gleam in his eye that suggested that if he were embellishing his adventure, he would never admit it.
Lady Bresinga called for brandy to be brought, and the table was cleared again. The brandy appeared with yet another assortment of small items to tempt alreadysatiated guests. Eyes went from sparkling with wine and merriment to the deep gleam of contentment that good brandy brings forth after a fine meal. My legs and lower back ached abominably, I was hungry, as well, and tired enough that if I had been free to lie down on the flagged floor, I would instantly have been asleep. I scraped my nails against the inside of my palms, pricking myself back to alertness. This was the hour when tongues were loosest and talk most expansive. Despite the way Lord Golden leaned back in his chair, I doubted that he was as intoxicated as he seemed. The subject had rounded back to cats and hunting again. I felt I had learned as much as I needed to know about the topic.
The kitten had managed, after six thwarted efforts, to gain the top of the table. She had curled up and briefly napped, but now was wending her way amongst the bottles and glasses, threatening to topple them as she rubbed against each. Mine. And mine. This is mine too. And mine. With the total confidence of the very young, she claimed every item on the table as her own. When Civil reached for the brandy carafe to refill his glass and that of his companion, thekitten csv, arched her little back and bounced toward him on her toes, intent on making good on her claims. Mine!
“No. Mine,” he told her affably, and fended her off with the back of his wrist. Sydel laughed at the exchange. A slow excitement uncoiled within me but I kept my dulled stare apparently fixed on my master's shoulder. Witted. Both of them. I was sure of it now. And as it tended to be inherited in families. . .
“So. Who did catch the mistcat for the Prince's gift?” Lord Golden suddenly asked. The question almost followed from the conversation, yet it was pointed enough to turn all heads at the table. Lord Golden gave a small hiccup that bordered on being a discreet belch. It was enough of a distraction to combine with his slightly goggled stare to take the edge from his query. “I'll wager it was you, Huntsman.” His graceful hand made his words a compliment to Avoin. “No, not I.” Avoin shook his head but oddly volunteered no more information.
Lord Golden leaned back, tapping his forefinger on his lips as if it were a guessing game. He rolled his gaze about the table, then chortled sagely and pointed at Civil. “Then it was you, young man. For I heard it was you who carried the cat up to Prince Dutiful to present him.”
The boy's eyes flickered once to his mother's before he gravely shook his head. “Not I, Lord Golden,” he demurred. And again, that unusual silence of information withheld followed his words. A united front, I decided. The question would not be answered.
Lord Golden lolled his head back against his chair, and took a long noisy breath and sighed it out. “Damned fine gift,” he observed liberally. “Love to have one myself, from all I've heard. But hearing's no substitute for seeing. B'lieve I will ask Prince Dutiful to allow me to 'company him some night.” He sighed again and let his head wag to one side. “If he ever comes back from his meditation retreat. Not natural, if you ask me, for a boy that age to spend so much time alone. Not natural a'tall.” Lord Golden's enunciation was giving way rapidly.
Lady Bresinga's diction was quite clear as she asked, “So our Prince has retired again from the public eye, to follow his own thoughts for a time?”
“Yes, indeed,” Lord Golden affirmed. “And been a long time gone this time. 'Course, he has a good deal to think about these days. Betrothal coming up and all, Outislander delegation coming. A lot for a young man to handle. I mean, how would you take to it, young sir?” He wagged a finger in Civil's general direction. “How'd you like to be betrothed to a woman you've never met . . . well, she isn't even a woman yet, if rumor runs true. More like a girl on the cusp. She's what, eleven? So young. Terribly young, don't you think? And I don't understand the advantages of the match. That I do not.”
His words were indiscreet, verging on direct criticism of the Queen's decision. Looks were exchanged around the table. Plainly Lord Golden had taken more brandy than he handled well, and yet he was pouring more. His words hung unchallenged in the air. Perhaps Avoin thought he was turning conversation into a safer channel when he asked, “The Prince often retreats to meditate, then?”
“It's the Mountain way,” Lord Golden confirmed. “Or so I am told. Wha' do I know? Only that it's not the Jamaillian way. The young nobles of my fair home are more worldlyminded. And that is encouraged, mind you, for where better will a young nobleman learn the manners and ways of the world than t'be out in the midst of it? Your Prince Dutiful might do better t'mingle more with his court. Yes, and to look closer to home for a suitable consort.” A Jamaillian accent had begun to flavor Lord Golden's softening words, as if intoxication took him back to the speech habits of his erstwhile home. He sipped from his glass and then set it back upon the table so awkwardly that a tiny amber wave leapt over the edge. He rubbed his mouth and chin as if to massage away the brandy's numbing effect. I suspected that he had done little more than hold the brimming glass against his lip.
No one had replied to his comments, but Lord Golden appeared not to notice.
“And this time has marked his longest absence of all!” he enlarged. “That's all we hear at the Court these days. 'Where is Prince Dutiful? What, still in seclusion? When will he return? What, no one can say?' Very dampening t'spirits at the Court for our young ruler t'be absent so long. Wager that his cat hates it, too. What d'you think, Avoin? Does a hunting cat pine when his master's away for long?”
Avoin appeared to consider it. “One devoted to his cat would not leave it long alone. A cat's loyalty is not a thing to be taken for granted, but courted day by day.”
Avoin drew breath to continue but Lady Bresinga smoothly interrupted. “Well, our cats hunt best while dawn is still on the land. So if we are to show Lord Golden our beauties at their prime, we had all best retire so we may arise early.” At a small sign from her, a servant moved forward to draw back her chair. Everyone else came to his or her feet, though Lord Golden did so with a small lurch. I thought I heard a small titter of amusement from the Graylings' daughter, but Sydel was none too steady herself. Knowing my role, moved forward to offer Lord Golden a firm arm. He loftily disdained it, waving me aside and scowling at my impertinence. I stood stolidly by as the nobility offered goodnights to one another, and then followed Lord Golden to his chambers.
I opened the door for him and saw him through it. Following him, I perceived that the household servants had been at work in our chambers. The bath things were tidied away, fresh candles filled the holders, and the window was shut. A tray of cold meats, fruit, and pastries rested on the table. My first act after closing the door was to open the window. It simply felt wrong to have a solid barrier between Nighteyes and me. glanced out, but saw no sign of the wolf. Doubtless he was doing his own prowl of the premises, and I would not risk questing out toward him. I made a swift circuit of our rooms, checking for any signs of a search, and then looking under beds and within wardrobes for possible spies. The Bresinga household and its guests had been wary tonight. Either they knew why we had come, or they were expecting someone like us to come seeking the Prince. But I found no spies in the bedclothes, nor any sign that my carelessly hung garments had been disturbed. I never left a room in perfect order. It is easy to return a searched room to perfect order, more difficult to recall exactly how both sleeves of the garment flung across the chair touched the floor.
I completed a similar perusal of Lord Golden's chamber while he waited in silence. When I was finished, I turned back to my master. He dropped heavily into a chair and puffed out an immense sigh. His eyes drooped as his chin dropped to his chest. All of his features sagged with drink. I made a small sound of dismay. How could he have beeri so careless as to get drunk? As I watched him, he kicked out his feet one after the other so that his heels clonked against the floor. Obediently I went to draw his boots off and set them to one side. “Can you stand?” I asked him.
“Whsay?”
I glanced up from where I crouched by his feet. “I said, can you stand?”
He opened his eyes a slit, and then a slow smile stretched his mouth. “I am so good,” he congratulated himself in a whisper. “And you are such a satisfactory audience, Fitz. Do you know how draining it can be, to strike poses when no one knows they are poses, to assume a whole different character when there is no one to appreciate how well I do it?” A glint of the old Fool's mischief shone in his golden eyes. Then it faded and his mouth became serious. He spoke very softly. “Of course I can stand. And dance and leap, if need be. But tonight is not for that. Tonight, you must go to the kitchens and complain of how hungry you are. Fetching as you look, I don't doubt you will be fed. And see where you can lead the conversation. Go ahead, go now, I am perfectly capable of getting myself to bed. Do you wish the window left open?”
“I would prefer it so,” I hedged.
And I. The confirming thought from Nighteyes was softer than a breath.
“Then it shall be so,” Lord Golden decreed.