The Sign of the Cat (27 page)

T
HE TIGER WAS HEAVY.
The raft dipped and rose on the swell with an alarming tilt, first up, then down, with water splashing over the wood every moment.

“You're sinking us!” cried Fia. She clung to the mast like a shipwrecked sailor.

“Brigadier.” Duncan tried to speak calmly. “You've got to go back.” He glanced nervously at the raft. It didn't seem to be sinking—yet. But it was definitely lower in the water with 300-plus pounds of tiger on it.

Brig draped himself across the raft with a sigh. “I'm sorry if I am unwelcome, sir. But I know my duty. Orders are orders. Also, tigers are excellent sailors.”

“Oh, for—” Duncan bit off an exasperated word. It was futile to argue with a cat, especially one as stubborn as Brig. He shivered in the night breeze—he was wet through—and looked over his shoulder. The island, a dark mountainous shape behind them, had dwindled surprisingly. He couldn't go back now—a raft could not steer against the wind like a boat with a keel. Duncan braced his legs against the steering oar and tipped his head back to check his course.

“Rocks, sir, off the starboard bow!”

Duncan snapped his head down in a hurry and pushed the steering oar over, but the raft was clumsy and slow to respond. The rocks, barely above the surface of the sea, were black and glinting with wet, and directly in his path. The raft was going to hit them—there was nothing he could do—

“Make way, sir!” Brig roared, shoving past. The tiger leaped for the rocks, braced his hind legs, and pushed the raft away with all his considerable weight.

It was just barely enough. The rocks slid by, looking sharp and wicked in the moon's light. Brig gave a final thrust and then jumped back onto the raft. “You want to watch out for rocks, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Those low ones are nasty.”

“No kidding.” Duncan's voice was not entirely steady. “Thanks.”

“That's my job, sir.” Brig flopped down on the raft. “Next time I'll give you more warning. We should be out of the rocky zone soon, anyway.”

The sail belled out, catching the moon's light in a pure curve. Duncan peered ahead through the gloom. For a moment, he thought he saw the light of a ship twinkling far ahead—a lantern hung on the stern, maybe? But just as quickly, it was gone. Perhaps it had only been a star, low on the horizon.

Slap!
Something cold and clammy hit Duncan's cheek and bounced off. Near his feet, a narrow form flopped twice and slithered off into the sea.
Thump! Thump!

Brig was up at once, growling. Fia's meow sounded like a tiny scream.

“It's only flying fish,” said Duncan. He grinned as another silvery fish, its fins so elongated they acted as temporary wings, leaped from the sea and smacked into the sail. “Better catch them,” he said to Brig, “if you want a snack.”

“But why are they coming?” asked Fia, her eyes wide.

“They're attracted to light, same as the other fish.” Duncan looked up at the sail. The gibbous moon's light, reflected off the sail, wasn't bright like a torch—but it was a large area that was certainly lighter than the surrounding darkness.

“Got one!” said Brig in triumph as he speared a fish in midair. He popped half in his mouth and lashed out with his paw at another flash of silver. “And another!” he added indistinctly, with his mouth full.

Duncan's shoulders relaxed a little. It looked as if feeding the tiger wasn't going to be a problem. But the water situation was worrying. One extra kelp bag wasn't going to be enough for a full-grown tiger.

Fortune was with them, however. The next day brought a low shelf of clouds and a steady drizzle of rain. Duncan funneled water from the sail right into Brig's mouth. They had emptied one of the kelp bags by that time, and so Duncan filled that, too.

They were wet and uncomfortable, but that was far better than baking in the sun and being thirsty. Or so Duncan told himself all that night as he shivered in clothes that never dried out. What worried him most was the current. How could he tell whether they had found it or not? The sea was endless in all directions; there was no fixed point so Duncan could judge how fast they were moving. But the wind held steady behind them, and he tried not to fret.

On the third day, the clouds lifted, the sun came out, and everyone cheered up. Brig, who had spent much of his time napping, his bulk spread across the whole raft with his tail dipped in the water, suddenly snorted awake. “The water's too warm!”

“Oh, don't whine,” said Fia. “You don't hear us complaining, do you?”

“I mean, the water's changed
temperature
,” rumbled Brig, annoyed. “I have a highly sensitive tail, you know. The water was colder before.”

“Maybe you just peed in it,” suggested Fia. “That turns water warm, you know.”

“Oh, shut up,” Brig growled.

Duncan trailed his hand in the sea. “I think you're right, Brig.” He beamed. “We must be in the current! The Arvidian Current is supposed to be warm!”

Brig swelled out his chest. “
I
knew that. Your father talked about it when we were crossing the Rrrrrift.”

“The Rrrrrift?” said Fia, making a mewing sound that was almost a laugh.

“Tigers have their own ways of saying things,” Brig said with dignity. “Just as kittens have their way. ‘Oh, help, help!'” he squeaked, making his voice high and helpless sounding. “‘The tiger is
sinking
us!'”

Fia muttered something about military tigers that didn't sound like a compliment, turned her back, and began to groom herself.

Duncan was so happy about the current that he almost didn't care that the two cats were bickering. But the sailing master had once told him it was important to keep a peaceful crew. Personalities rubbed up against each other on a ship—or a raft—and “better to stop trouble before it starts,” the sailing master had said.

Perhaps it was time to pay some compliments. “Fia,” Duncan said, “I've noticed that you've become an excellent hunter. When we get back, you are going to pass those kitten examinations with high marks!”

Fia's odd-colored eyes brightened. She began to purr.

“And Brig…” Duncan gazed at the tiger. “You saved my father the day the earl attacked him. You jumped off the ship when you saw something was wrong and dragged him up that slippery path in the sea cave, and Lydia and Mattie, too.” He laid a hand on the tiger's shoulder. “Thank you.” It seemed like an inadequate thing to say, but he hoped Brig would understand how very grateful he was.

“It was my duty, sir,” said Brig, saluting.

Duncan saluted back.

“I hope you see,” Brig added apologetically, “why I almost killed you the day you washed up on the beach. I saw the earl's badge on your cap, and I thought you were on his side. I hate that human. I hate everyone who works for him. When I saw that badge, I just sort of went crazy, sir.”

“I understand,” said Duncan. His cap was tucked away in a pocket, in case of need, but he had long ago borrowed Mattie's scissors and snipped off the earl's badge.

“We all hate him,” said Fia, and she put her paw on Brig's.

Suddenly the sail flapped and the boom started to swing. Duncan adjusted the steering oar in a hurry. The wind was picking up; it made a thin whistling in his ears. They were in for a blow, if he read the signs correctly. Perhaps he should furl the sail. If he sailed under bare poles, he might avoid the wind pushing the raft out of the main current.

*   *   *

The storm blasted them for three cold and weary days. Duncan was glad that Brig was there, after all, for the tiger could stand a watch and brace the steering oar and growl to wake him when conditions changed.

Duncan was able to snatch a few hours of sleep with the tiger at the helm. Fia tried to do her job of lookout, but there was nothing to see except gray sea, and gray sky, and white tossing foam. Eventually she crawled into one end of an empty kelp bag and stayed there, shivering, her pointed face peering out and her whiskers whiffling in the wind.

The constant motion kept the raft creaking, the ropes alternately straining and relaxing as the sea pushed and pulled at the little craft. Duncan hoped the ropes would hold. He had been confident in his rope-making skills back on the island, but now, on the grim sea, he wasn't so sure.

Well—if it all came apart, they could hang on to the tiger. Brig would keep them afloat for as long as he could swim. If they drowned, at least they would all drown together.

The storm blew itself out at last, leaving wisps of fog trailing over the surface of the sea. Far in the distance, Duncan thought he could see a dark blot that might be an island. He could see no lights, but even an uninhabited island meant they were getting closer to Capital City.

Duncan unfurled the sail and looked over the damage. There was a tear that he could mend with Mattie's needle and thread alone, but in another spot, a whole piece had ripped free. He needed more cloth, and he had none—except the clothes he was wearing.

He pulled off his father's shirt. He still had his jacket for warmth.

Brig and Fia watched in silence as he stitched the shirt into the sail. When he was finished, he folded the point of the collar down so that the monogram could be seen, and sewed it flat. He pulled on the sheet and cleated the line. The sail filled with air, and the raft picked up speed. Above them, the duke's initials were a small bright spot in the patchwork sail.

Brig yawned widely, his fangs showing white and his tongue curling. “I can take a watch, sir,” he said, and yawned again.

It was tempting. Duncan wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and sleep for days. But there had been that dark blot in the distance. It had disappeared into the gray fog and sea, but perhaps it was still ahead somewhere; he had to keep a lookout. And Brig was exhausted—he might fall asleep.

“I'll take first watch,” Duncan said, shaking his head to clear it. He set the sail and lashed the steering oar. Then he leaned his head against the lashings and propped his eyelids open with his fingers. The gray light faded to black. The waves murmured alongside, rocking him gently in the cradle of the sea, and the night slid past in inky darkness.

He was dreaming. There was a moon just rising, thin like the worn edge of a coin, and the smell of salt and seaweed in his nostrils. He was damp—in a boat, perhaps? There was water sloshing somewhere—but high above, in the darkness, he saw a window, a rectangle of light.

He had not dreamed this dream for a long time. He struggled to wake, to escape the dread and longing that washed through him like a suffocating wave. Something splashed on his cheek, and he opened his eyes, but the window was still there, high and bright, surrounded by stone. It was set in a castle.… A corner of the high wall stood revealed, its battlements knifing against the star-sprinkled sky.

Suddenly, sharply, Duncan knew he was awake. His heart beat faster.

The raft drifted closer to the island on the flood tide. Duncan silently trimmed the sail to catch the tiny breeze that was bringing them in. It was not his home island of Dulle, he knew that much. And it could not be the island of Capital City—that would be bright with lights.

But he seemed to know it all the same. Just beyond those reeds, there would be a shallow lagoon and a stand of white birches.…

Brig snored lightly, his muzzle resting on his paws. Fia was curled up next to the tiger with her eyes shut.

Duncan put a hand on the steering oar and looked around him, entranced. Memory rushed in like a flood tide, and suddenly he could almost hear the whispering swirl of his mother's skirts and feel the stone floor of the castle cold and hard beneath his bare feet. His mother's hand had pulled him across the wide, sloping lawn beneath the turrets; the trees that seemed so friendly in the daytime had turned into something frightening in the dark, reaching out with long, rustling fingers. His short legs had stumbled, and then he had been picked up and carried along, bumping in his mother's arms, though he was too big to be carried anymore. The sound of surf had grown louder, and he had been lifted into something that rocked beneath him. He had gotten water in his boot. There had been a smell of tobacco.

There was a smell of tobacco now. Someone was smoking a pipe not far away.

Duncan beached the raft quietly in the sandy lagoon and let down the sail. It was almost slack water—he could see by the rim of seaweed on the sand that the tide was as high as it would go. He looped a mooring line around a slab of rock and tied it securely. He wouldn't wake the cats—they were exhausted.

The sand was firm and cool under Duncan's bare feet. He stepped up onto the wide, sloping lawn with growing excitement. The shape of things, the placement of trees, seemed as if he had always known them. Duncan tipped his head back to take in the whole castle, and the moon rinsed his face with pure light.

There was a sound like a sudden intake of breath. Duncan's hand was snatched and held in a hard, roughened grip. A man knelt before him, raising a wizened face working with emotion. “My lord duke!” said the man, and kissed Duncan's hand.

 

CHAPTER 22

Captured!