The Familiars (2 page)

Aldwyn landed on his feet—one of the advantages of being a cat—and took off running, the metal trap dragging painfully behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fishmonger come up alongside his scar-faced accomplice at the window.

“He’s getting away!” hollered the fishmonger.

“Well, he won’t get far,” responded the man with the bronze-tipped boots, not looking the
least bit concerned.

Aldwyn sprinted down the alley, sparks flying as the metal scraped against the cobblestoned streets, fighting hard to keep his balance. He had been chased before, but never with a trap pinching his tail like an angry crab. Usually, Aldwyn would have made a dash for the rooftops to get away, but he couldn’t, not with this thing weighing him down. He glanced back to see his pursuer exit the fish and fowl shop, pulling his crossbow from his side.

Still carrying the fish in his mouth, Aldwyn darted between two buildings and found a hiding place in a pile of scraps discarded by the neighboring swordsmith. He dug his way in, then remained very still.

“Hey, whiskers, what’s the big idea?” asked a voice from behind him.

Aldwyn turned to see a skinny rat gnawing on a piece of moldy bread with several of his rodent friends. With the fish between his teeth, Aldwyn whispered, “Gentlemen, nice to see you all again. Don’t mind me. Just passing through.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said the skinny rat, now
recognizing Aldwyn. “Last time you said that, you brought a knife-wielding butcher into our scrap heap.”

“Which we can all agree was really quite funny when you think about it,” said Aldwyn with a chuckle. “Right?”

The rats just stared back at him coldly, none too amused.

“I can tell this is a sore subject. But I’m more than willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”

One of the other rodents, short and stout with curly whiskers, looked down and saw the cat trap around Aldwyn’s tail. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”

“What, this?” replied Aldwyn, pointing to the metal vise. “It’s the latest fashion. They come in three different shades of rust.”

The skinny rat peeked his head around the corner, then darted back with panic in his eyes.

“It’s Grimslade!”

And suddenly Aldwyn knew that he really was in trouble: Grimslade was the infamous bounty hunter. Flyers plastered around the city advertised his services to kill any pest or vermin in exchange
for a bounty, whether it was paid in gold coins or jewels. Grimslade loved his job. Especially when he got to hunt cats. Rumor had it that his distaste for felines went back to his childhood, when his mother paid more attention to her five Abyssinian shorthairs than to him. While his mother’s cats had been allowed to curl up in the warmth of a bed each night, young Grimslade was forced to sleep on the cellar floor. Those early years of neglect had turned him into a bounty hunter: the vindictive, ruthless killer of all creatures who walked on four, six, or eight legs that he was today. Yes, Grimslade was what was commonly known as extremely bad news. And he was stalking Aldwyn through the streets of Bridgetower. Aldwyn tried to keep his cool, but there was real fear in his eyes now.

Together, the rats began pushing Aldwyn out from their hideaway.

“All right, so long,” said the skinny rat. “Buh-bye now.”

“Wait,” said Aldwyn, pretending to be a friend. “From one furry animal brother to another, please help me out. You know I would do the same for you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the rats shoved Aldwyn back into the open, right into Grimslade’s line of sight. The bounty hunter took aim, firing his crossbow and sending a bolt whizzing past Aldwyn’s shoulder.

Word had traveled across the rooftops that Grimslade kept a collection of paws from his previous bounties, but Aldwyn did not want to become part of his trophy case. As Grimslade readied his crossbow for another shot, Aldwyn darted for cover behind one of the lampposts lining the street. Grimslade fired again. This time, his bolt shattered the glass bowl housing the candle above Aldwyn’s head, sending a shower of still-warm wax onto the ground. Aldwyn stood there panting, pondering his next move. Then he heard the sound of metal smashing against metal, and he had an idea. He took off running for the nearby swordsmith’s workshop.

In the soot-covered and smoke-filled smithy, a large man was hammering flat a broadsword, the kind used by the queen’s soldiers when they patrolled the streets for pickpockets and vandals. The swordsmith, protected from the embers that
were jumping from the hearth by nothing more than a leather apron, was covered in sweat from the heat of the dancing flames. He kept pounding away at the sword, sending tiny bursts of blue sparks from the anvil into the air. Aldwyn leaped for the iron worktable, carefully positioning his tail directly between the falling hammer and the sword. With a loud clang, the hammer came down square on the metal trap, splitting it in half, allowing Aldwyn to slip his tail free. He made a mental note to add this to his list of greatest escapes, then bolted out through a side door before the swordsmith could even realize what he had done.

Finally trap free and back at full speed, Aldwyn’s paws barely touched the ground. He ran through the copper district, where merchants were busy setting up displays of candlesticks and cooking vats outside their shops. But Grimslade emerged once more, not to be denied his prize. This was, after all, the same man who was said to have burned an entire building to the ground just to root out a single roach. When Aldwyn looked back, he was emboldened by the growing distance between
him and his pursuer, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He kept running at full speed. The next time he looked back, he saw that Grimslade had done something unexpected: he had stopped dead in his tracks. He loosened the gold draw-strings of a leather pouch hanging from his belt and a shadowy puff of smoke burst out, quickly assuming the shape of a dog. Aldwyn tried hard not to panic, because just as tales of Grimslade’s villainous doings had spread through the back alleys, so, too, had stories of his shadow hounds. Concocted from black magic, these canine apparitions were conjured from a mix of obsidian, black mondo grass, and burnt lupine hair. The tongueless Cave Shamans from Stalagmos, who brewed these predatory demons, found they could fetch a rich purse in the Sewer Markets from assassins like Grimslade. And they were well worth the coin. First created to guard the pitch-black jasper mines of Udula, shadow hounds could see in the complete absence of light, and their teeth could cut through chain mail. It was enough to make any feline fugitive’s paws tremble. Aldwyn was beginning to wonder if the flounder he still held
in his mouth was really worth the trouble.

The shadow hound sped toward him, avoiding the beams of morning light. It let out a supernatural growl that made the fur on the back of Aldwyn’s neck stand up. Picking up the pace, Aldwyn headed straight for what appeared to be a dead end: a fifteen-foot-high fence that surrounded the sacred rock gardens of Bridgetower’s Sun Temple. With the shadow hound closing the gap, Aldwyn got a better look at the beast chasing after him. No eyes, no nose, just a moving cloud of black that left wisps of smoke in its wake.

Aldwyn hit the wooden planks of the fence running, his claws vaulting him up and over the top. He landed in the rock garden on the other side, confident that no dog would be able to scale the same height. But the shadow hound was no ordinary dog. It moved straight through the fence like vapor, re-forming on the other side. Aldwyn’s eyes went wide as he took off once more, heading for the front steps of the Sun Temple. Not taking time to admire it more closely, he dashed through the entrance to save his skin.

Inside the temple, citizens of Bridgetower had
come to pray for the sun to heal their ruined fields, kneeling before a meditation pool illuminated by rotating mirrors. Rays of morning sunlight shot through a hole in the domed roof, bouncing off the glass reflectors and causing the water to glow brightly.

Aldwyn passed between two bronze offering bowls filled with flower petals and shiny coins. Overhead, grand pictures in gold leaf showed a bearded warrior on a horse pulling the sun across the sky. Aldwyn hoped to run through the temple and sneak out the other side, but found that the silver exit doors had yet to be opened. He turned back for the entrance, only to see the shadow hound blocking his escape. The pads of his feet began to sweat.

“Maybe we can discuss this,” pleaded Aldwyn, dropping the flounder to the floor. “What do you say we go halfsies on this fish? Fifty-fifty.”

The shadowy apparition let out a ferocious but silent snarl that sent tentacles of mist toward Aldwyn. He felt a terrible cold as the mist enveloped his white paw, but the tentacles retreated as quickly as they came.

“Sixty-forty works, too,” said Aldwyn.

A few of the worshippers looked up from their prayer as the dog moved into the attack position. Baring its jet-black fangs, the hound leaped forward, flying through the air, straight for Aldwyn’s neck. Aldwyn dodged out of the way, finding himself cornered up against one of the large rotating mirrors. Just as the shadow hound got ready to pounce again, Aldwyn thought fast.

He flicked his paw, spinning the sun reflector so the concentrated beam of sunlight was directed right at the smoky beast. The light seared a hole straight through the apparition, and it let out a blood-curdling scream. Then, in a flash of black, the hound exploded. Only a sprinkling of powdered obsidian was left behind.

Aldwyn took a deep breath, picked up the flounder, and exited the temple with an air of cockiness, ignoring the commotion he had caused among the worshippers. He crossed through the garden, climbed up a nearby tree, and leaped over the fence to the neighboring street.

Crossing the merchant square, Aldwyn passed an elderly woman with a patch of chin fuzz selling
potted plants from her handcart. He looked around and realized that he had never been down this block before. At first glance, it looked no different from any other row of stores selling cauldrons, spices, or books. But he had never seen steam pour out of an empty cauldron or the pages of books flip on their own—although there was a good chance it was just the wind. And, come to think of it, why was the old lady with the chin fuzz selling plants that were shriveled up and dead? What use could they have? Well, it didn’t really matter, as long as there was a flat rooftop where he could finally eat his flounder in peace and catch a long nap afterward.

Thwoop!

Aldwyn could feel his teeth vibrating as the fish was shot straight out of his mouth with a bolt from Grimslade’s crossbow.

“You’re an impressive foe,” Grimslade called out, “but the chase ends here.”

For a split second, Aldwyn was torn between running for his life and retrieving the fish, which was now pinned to a wooden barrel by the arrow. A second bolt that brushed past the fur on his
head helped him make up his mind. Aldwyn dashed around the corner and ran for the first window he could find, leaping into where he did not know.

2

UNFAMILIAR SURROUNDINGS

A
t first he could hardly see anything, so dark was the inside of the room. Then Aldwyn’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he noticed dozens—no, hundreds of cages, stacked floor to ceiling. Inside were animals of all kinds, from butter newts and salamanders to periwinkle falcons and three-toed sloths. There were spoon-billed mockingbirds, badgers, and hedgehogs covered in poisonous-looking needles. In a nearby glass tank, six diamond-shelled tortoises levitated in a circle while fast asleep, floating a
few inches above the bottom. On a shelf beside them, a mouse with a single ivory horn sticking out from its head was in the midst of a heated debate with a hairless aardvark.

“You can’t cast a proper hex without black lichen,” argued the mouse.

“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised what you can do with locust dung,” said the aardvark. “It’s a pretty versatile component.”

“But who wants to smell that stuff?” responded the mouse, cringing.

Aldwyn didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about—hexes, components, locust dung
—
so he decided to turn his attention to a neighboring cage, where a buck-toothed wombat was munching on the last bite of a baby carrot stick. After finishing, she gave her tiny tail a shake and disappeared. Aldwyn blinked, not sure if the light was playing tricks on his eyes. He gave a quick glance around, and spotted the wombat now standing on the store counter, stuffing her furry pouch with more carrots from a wooden bowl.

It was a lot for Aldwyn to take in, these unusual
creatures with their unusual talents. But before he could give it any more thought, he spotted a rotund, middle-aged man with curly red hair walking out from the stockroom with a cup of appleberry cider in his hand.

“Hey, you,” a voice whispered behind Aldwyn. “You better get back in your cage.”

Aldwyn turned and saw that the warning had come from a large-eyed lemur who was hanging upside down in his cage. On second thought, it couldn’t be a lemur since, as far as Aldwyn knew, lemurs definitely did not have two tails.