The Cat's Job (6 page)

#

The cage was not large.

Cats had been piled within it like
lengths of furry firewood. The smell was very bad.

Wrinkling his nose, Val Con had
recourse to the lockpick once more. The hinges groaned when he
pulled the door open and he froze in a half-crouch, eyes and ears
straining.

Nothing.

Your luck is either very good or very
bad
, he
told himself, frowning at the curiously still pile of bodies. It
occurred to him to wonder if the prisoners were dead.

But the scrawny tortoise-shell he
plucked from the top opened its eyes sufficiently to glare, though
it did not offer battle. It closed its eyes and sighed.

Val Con held it by the scruff of the
neck and shook.

Eyes open and ears back, the cat
hissed, claws reaching. Val Con tossed the outraged feline into the
cageful of its kin.

There was a flurry of activity, dying
quickly out. The man thrust his arms into the heap, shifting cats,
sweeping them out of the cage and onto the floor, stirring things
around as best he could.

Suddenly, they were everywhere:
Twining about his legs; clinging to his hands; trying to climb his
leathers. One enterprising individual actually leapt to his
shoulders and began a barrage of purrs upon discovering the
herb-dosed hair.

Cage empty, Val Con swung the door closed and locked it,
and started back the way he had come, one hundred and forty-seven
-- forty-
six
the acrobat was still draped about his shoulders -- cats
grouped close around.

#

Val Con stood in the center of the
protected clearing, though he would have liked to sit down. The
prospect of being immediately engulfed by cats checked the urge;
instead he reached up an absent hand to scratch his newly-acquired
fur piece under the chin.

"All of them! And so quickly!" Kinzel
was saying, reaching down and capturing one fine orange-and-white
fellow. "You will be with your wife before dawn," he continued,
sitting on a rock and restraining the cat by main force. "We only
need -- oh."

Val Con stirred. "What is
wrong?"

"Nothing. It is only that I am
stupid." Kinzel looked up. "He took their curiosity
away."

Val Con raised a brow. "Not too bad a
notion," he murmured. "They will live longer so. And be less
troublesome."

"But they won't be
cats
!" cried the wizard. "It's the same as
taking away their instinct to hunt. Or their purr. Or
--"

"Yes, of course," soothed the King,
drifting closer. "And I am certain that, since it is Right that
cats be curious, your staff will now put all in order and I will
speedily be on my way."

"That's right," agreed Kinzel,
standing and releasing his prisoner. "If you will just put that
person on your shoulder down with the others... Good. Now stand
away." He closed his eyes and opened his arms.

Val Con watched the proceedings with
interest. The leaves twisted about the old wooden staff were full
and green and new; they swayed slightly, though there was no
breeze. Kinzel himself seemed to grow taller by a few inches, to
become less portly; and the ginger hair took on a glow.

The cats milled about, not much
impressed with the spectacle. Several began to move in Val Con's
direction.

There was a sheen of sweat on the
wizard's round face; he seemed to be straining toward something
just out of reach. Val Con clamped down on his feeling of impending
disaster; forced himself to wait quietly.

Kinzel opened his eyes, shook his head
and made his way unsteadily to the nearest rock, where he sat with
a bump.

The King of the Cats was immediately
at his side, on one knee, eyes sharp with concern.

"What is wrong?"

The wizard winced at the snap in the
smooth voice. "I -- there's a disturbance -- in the Power. The
staff -- I -- can't work for the Right when there is another
unBalancing force in the world..."

The green eyes had widened. "I beg
your pardon?"

Kinzel swallowed, remembering the
tiger held at bay earlier. "It's that I'm stupid," he repeated. "Of
course, you will have to be sent back first. Then I will be able to
restore the cats."

"So." The King bowed his head. "I am
ready, friend Kinzel. Do it quickly."

Kinzel levered himself up, took a
firmer grip on the staff and looked into the eyes of the man
kneeling before him.

Miri
! Val Con sent his awareness to the place where the song of
her glowed bright within him --

The wizard lowered his arms, eyes
awash with tears.

"No." Val Con was on his feet, felt
his hands moving with deadly purpose -- and stopped.

"Another way, then" he said sharply.
"What else might be done?"

The mage sank again to his rock. "The
cats are -- not Right. UnBalance. You don't belong here. UnBalance.
I cannot work for the Right without Balance."

"So I must be sent back or the cats
may not be mended. But I may not be sent back until the cats are
mended." He moved his head sharply, sending dark hair into bright
eyes.

"Friend Kinzel, I do not wish to
remain here. You -- or your staff -- are foresworn. There -- wait."
He tipped his head. "You spoke of my -- amulet. That was --
Moon-potent? That wearing it I might, myself, return to Miri. How?
There is the Moon, already high. Here I am, with my desire and my
will. What else is required? Tell me what I must do."

Kinzel frowned and shifted on his
rock. "Your will is very strong, and the amulet is powerful. The
Moon is full. But you are not a mage! It might be possible -- but
you would be working against the Power, not with it. You could harm
yourself. You could die..."

"A bad solution. Is there another? If
not, I shall attempt this one."

Kinzel thought. And, from the staff
purring in his hand or from the cats purring at their feet, or,
indeed, from the Moon itself came -- an idea.

He looked up at the King of the Cats
and spoke, slowly. "You must remember that I am not learned, that I
am stupid with spells and not clever or subtle. But it does seem
that if you were able to -- trick -- a mighty wizard into
commanding you, in Power, to begone, your will is sufficient to
hold and shape that command into -- into an arrow of desire,
sending yourself wherever you wish to be." He shrugged. "It is
worth the effort, and you will be further aided, if your wife
desires your return as much as you desire to return."

An eyebrow slid upward. "I believe the
stipulation may be met." He sighed. "I infer that you are not the
wizard best -- tricked?"

"Fallan is," admitted Kinzel, "a
mighty mage. He's learned and subtle and -- quick to
anger."

"And thus it might be possible." The
King of the Cats looked over his shoulder at the keep. "Very well,
friend Kinzel; where is Fallan now?"

* * *

Miri lit the candles north to south
and stood back to survey the arrangements. The long glass rods were
placed on the wooden platform in a faintly familiar pattern. She
groped after the image and found it in her memory of Zhena Trelu's
kitchen, worlds away.

A funnel.

* * *

Fallan jumped out of bed like a cat
with its tail afire, snatched up his staff, caused a robe to wrap
him and willed himself from here to there.

A heartbeat later he stood blinking in
the center of the tower laboratory, half-blinded by the Moonlight
streaming in through the unshuttered window.

In addition to Moonlight, all the
candles were burning, as were the spirit lamp and the meldfire. His
books were piled in zig-zagged heaps on the normally immaculate
work tables. Bottles and jars containing elixirs, potions and drugs
had been shifted about.

Fallan felt his stomach sink at the
thought of so much work gone -- and was assured by his staff that
nothing was lost, only rearranged.

But by what agent? The keep was
warded. The tower was warded. It had, in fact, been one of the
wards that had awakened --

"Boo!"

The mage jumped and spun, staff up to
hold at bay whatever demon had made that sound --

Who only laughed from his crosslegged
perch atop the poisons cupboard and tossed a glittering object from
hand to casual hand.

Fallan sputtered, staff
sparking.

The little man in black leather
grinned, green eyes very bright.

"Were you looking for me?" he asked
gently.

"I am looking for the intruder in my
laboratory," snapped Fallan.

"Well, then," said the little man
amiably, "you have found him. Your luck is good."

"And yours," replied the wizard, "is
bad." He brought his staff up, Words forming on his tongue -- and
swallowed them, eye caught by the glitter of the intruder's
toy.

"Put that down!"

"What, this?" The man held up the
faceted ball, closed one eye and looked through it with the other
before opening both and grinning at the outraged
magician.

"I'd prefer not to, thank
you."

"You will put that down," Fallan
informed him, voice scintillant with Power.

The little man's hands slowed for the
barest of instants. Then he moved his head sharply and
smiled.

"You are in error."

Fallan felt anger and Power surge
together, and exercised control. He stepped back a pace and,
keeping his staff between them, surveyed his visitor.

Thin, dark hair, green eyes; the gold
of his skin named him a foreigner. The leather clothing argued a
warrior, as did the paler gold of an old scar across the high line
of one cheek. At his throat hung something that shone with the
light of the Moon. His staff reported Power there.

"Who are you?" Fallan barked, staff
reinforcing demand.

The little man raised an eyebrow. "I
might ask the same of you."

"You ask the name of a mage when you
stand within his keep -- uninvited, nay! Warded away! I, since you
need to ask, am Fallan. The Ferocious. The Mighty."

The little man yawned and tossed his
toy upward. Fallan felt his heart lodge in his throat. The ball
dropped floorward and was caught, as a seeming afterthought, by a
golden hand that looked too frail to support the weight.

Fallan the Ferocious swallowed a sigh
of relief and snapped again: "Who are you?"

"Have you told me all of your name,
then? But perhaps you only give the shortest form." The intruder
smiled. "I am called, in the short form: Val Con yos'Phelium,
Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife
Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentree's of The
Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy, Miri-mated --" He bowed from his perch
atop the cabinet, cupping the faceted ball close against his heart,
"King of the Cats."

"King of the Cats!" It was Fallan's
turn to laugh, which he did with an ineptitude that spoke of long
unfamiliarity. "The King of the Cats is a tale for children -- or
wood wizards!" And he -- laughed -- again.

"Ah," said the little man, "that
explains much. I was summoned by a wood wizard."

Fallan stopped laughing.

"This wood wizard -- his
name?"

The -- King of the Cats -- shrugged,
tossing the glittering ball from hand to hand. "Kinzel, was it?
Yes, I believe it may have been Kinzel."

"And he summoned you? Why?"

"Did I not say? To free the cats, of
course."

"Of course," agreed Fallan smoothly.
"And why have you not done so?"

The King of the Cats blinked his
bright eyes. "But I have."

"What!" Fallan sent his awareness
away, downward; touched upon the empty cage, the sprung trap, the
vigilant wards -- and returned to the tower room.

"This is the second time I have been
here tonight," the little man said. "Really, friend Fallan, if you
mean to call this keep your own, you had best guard it more
closely. As it is, anyone might walk in to surprise you at your
dinner. Or in your bed..."

But Fallan was no longer listening.
"Not of this world. You are not born into this world!"

"You have not listened to what your
ears have heard," the King of the Cats chided. "Of course I am not
of this world."

Fallan gripped his staff with both
hands, murmuring the Words that came to his tongue, foreknowing the
power that this entrapment would afford him. To have such an one
obey his commands! What might a man born of another world not
accomplish for his master in this one!

The King of the Cats was holding
something out. Something that glittered and fair cried aloud with
Power. A raven's egg crystal, faceted with geometrical precision --
a mighty focusing tool for a mighty magician.