by Andre Norton
“Rrrrrowwww!” A cream and brown shape slipped between two of the chests and stopped to try claws on the invitingly rough side of one.
“Feel right at home, Noble Warrior, is that it?” Papa was laughing. “Well, it is true you’ve seen some of this before. Does this suit your fancy, perhaps?” Papa picked up from a tabletop a shiny green carved figure. It might have the body of a man wearing a long robe of ceremony but the head was that of a rat!
“Your birth year, Thragun Neklop.” Papa laughed again, catching sight of Emmy’s bewildered face. “It is true, Emmy. Our Noble Warrior was born in the Year of The Rat. And he will have a very notable series of adventures, too.
“Ali San read the sand table for him and the Princess Suphoron before he left the palace. It’s all written out somewhere in my day book, I’ll find it for you. The princess wanted to be sure that Thragun was indeed the proper guard for MY princess. And here, my dear, is your robe, so you will look as if you belong in a palace.”
He reached over Lasha’s shoulder and picked out of the trunk a bundle of something which was both blue and green, like the gemmed feathers of Great-Aunt Amelie’s pendant. There were scrolls of silver up and down, and when Papa shook it out to show Emmy that it was a coat, she also could see that the silver lines made pictures of flowers and birds and—yes, there was a cat!
“Ohhhhh!” Papa put it around her shoulders and she was smoothing it. Never in her life had she seen anything so wonderful.
“A little big, but you’ll grow into it—” Papa did not have a chance to say anything else, for there came a loud snarl and then a series of deep-throated growls from floor level.
Thragun Neklop had left off his scratching to swing around and face a much smaller container of wood very sturdily fastened by a number of loops of rough rope. Slow, stiff-legged, he approached the box until his nose just did not quite touch its side, and there, with flattened ears, he crouched. One paw flashed out in a lightning-stiff strike and the extended claws caught in the rope, jerking the box so it fell toward the cat.
With another yowl he leaped up and away before crouching again, eyes slitted and a war cry rumbling in his throat.
“Here, now,” Captain Wexley said, “did you find your rat after all and is he in there?” He reached down and picked up the chest, standing it on the table.
At first, to Emmy, it looked just like any other box, but with Thragun Neklop snarling that way she began to feel more and more uneasy.
Papa was examining it closely. He looked puzzled.
“That’s odd. I don’t remember this.”
“Captain Sahib,” Lasha said, “that was of the sending by the rajah. It came just before we sailed and must have been stowed before you could examine it.”
“The rajah—” Papa stood very still looking at it. “But he would have no wish to send me a gift, unless,” he was smiling again, “he wished to celebrate my leaving. We were always far less than friends. All right, let’s see what he thought was due me.”
Lasha arose easily from his kneeling position. In his hand he held the knife which usually rode in his sash. “Captain Sahib, the warrior cat warns, let it be my hands that deal with this.” He moved swiftly to slash at the rope.
“Some trick, you think?” Papa looked very sober now. “Wait!”
The rope had fallen halfway off the box, but it was still tightly shut. Papa caught it up to carry it into the middle of the room, away from the group by the fire. Thragun Neklop sprang after him, and both the footmen and Lasha drew nearer. Emmy bit her lip. Her splendid new coat slipped from her shoulders as she clasped her hands tightly together. There was something—something very wrong now.
Lasha knelt and forced his knife blade into the crack outlining the lid and then very slowly he eased it up. Thragon Neklop, ears back, sleek tail bushed, watched the action unblinkingly.
Once the lid was off, there was an outward puffing of thick grayish fibers. Lasha stirred with the point of his knife.
“Cotton, Captain Sahib.” He went on pulling out the stuff carefully until there showed a colored bundle. It was dark red and it also had a great many cords around it which crossed and crisscrossed like a spider’s web. Once more Lasha used his knife on the roundish package. The cords fell away and so did the wrapping.
“A teapot!” Papa laughed. “Nothing but a teapot!”
Thragun Neklop snarled. This was his palace; he was the guard. Such a thing as this had no right here. He could smell vile evil—a Khon, truly a Khon. Evil and with power. It had been asleep—now it was waking.
With a yowl Thragun leaped for the top of the table, ready to send this monstrosity crashing on the floor. Then he stopped, so suddenly that he skidded and his claws tangled in the brocade of the tablecloth so that he nearly lost his balance. Captain Wexley had picked up the-thing-which-was-eye-hidden, and still laughing, held it closer so Emmy and Great-Aunt Amelie could see it better.
A teapot it was, but not like any Emmy had ever thought could exist. At first it seemed to be a monkey such as Papa had drawn a picture of in one of his letters. Then she saw the lid and she jerked back on her seat, her hand going out for a safe hold on a fold of Great-Aunt Amelie’s shawl.
For the nasty face of the thing was twisted up as if it were laughing also, but a mean, sly laugh. Two knobby arms were held out, coming together at their wrists to form a double spout which ended in a fringe of bright red claws.
It had red eyes as well as claws, but the rest of it was a dull yellow color like mud. As it squatted between the Captain’s hands, Emmy felt it was looking straight at her. But it was Aunt Amelie who protested.
“Richard—that is a nasty thing. Who would ever give cupboard room to such? Certainly no one would USE it!”
The Captain was examining it closely. He caught at the top of the creature’s head and lifted it, peering into the body of the pot.
“Nasty perhaps, Aunt Amelie, but it is a treasure of sorts. It is carved of yellow jade—an unusually large piece, I must say, and these,” he placed the head back in position and now tapped one of the eyes, “are, unless I am very much mistaken, rubies, the claws are set with the same. It is worth a great deal—” He was frowning again.
“Why would the rajah give such to me?” he said after a pause.
Lasha spoke in a language Thragun could understand if the rest did not. “For no purpose of good, Sahib.”
“Precious stones or not,” Great-Aunt Amelie sat up straighter in her chair, “I would say that did not belong in any Christian home, Richard.” Suddenly she shivered and drew her shawl closer about her. “Gift or no, I would get rid of it if I were you.”
The Captain gathered up the red cloth which had been wrapped around it. “Very well. When I go to London next Friday, I shall take it. Hubbard has a liking for curiosities and certainly this is curious enough to suit him. I’ll pass it to him with my blessing and agreement that he can put it to auction if he thinks best.”
He passed the enshrouded teapot to Lasha who put it back into the box, though the cords which had kept it so well fastened were now past use. But he pushed the raw cotton back and hammered the top into place with the hilt of his knife.
Though Papa had other things which might have enchanted Emmy earlier, she kept glancing at the box. Something had spoiled all the fun of unpacking. And Thragun had taken up a post right beside that box as if he were on guard.
He yowled when Hastings, the footman, came to pick it up after they had seen each of the basket chests emptied, his tail moving in a sharp sweep.
“This, sir,” Hastings stepped back prudently, one eye on the cat as if he expected to be the goal of any attack, “where does it go?”
“Oh, in the library, I guess. On the side table there for now.”
Thragun followed the footman, saw the box put on the table. As soon as the man left the room, he jumped on the bench and leaned forward for a long sniff. His lips curled back in disgust. Khon right enough, though there was a touch of somet
hing else. He sat back to think, his tail curled over his paws. There was just a trace of scent left, but one he had smelled before. Once in the time of rains, when the Princess Suphoron had been ill, they had brought to her an old woman who had burned leaves in a brazier by the princess’ bed and fanned the smoke across her so that the princess had breathed it in. She had had a violent fit of sneezing which had pleased the old woman who said then that the princess had so expelled the Khon who had entered into her when she had visited an old shrine. For the lesser Khons were sometimes spirit servants of some god or goddess and lingered on in deserted temples long after those they served had departed.
The very faint smell was indeed that of the smoke which had been raised to banish that Khon. Yet it certainly had not banished that which still was snuggly housed within the teapot. Perhaps the smoke had been used to keep the thing in the pot under control until it was completely uncovered.
Thragun snarled and spat at the box. He did not know if the Khon was free to do anything now, he was simply very sure that, as a guardian for Emmy, he must keep alert.
Thragun hunkered down, his legs drawn under him. It was cold here. There had been a fire earlier, but that had been allowed to go out. Though the window draperies were not closed, twilight outside made the room thick with gloom. He could see fairly well. Certainly the box was not opening again by any power of the thing within it, nor could his keen ears pick up any sound. The Captain would take this away—he had said so. Only not at once and Thragun rumbled another small growl at that thought. No good lay ahead for any of them, he was as sure of that as he was that he had a tail to switch in irritation.
However, just to sit and wait upon the pleasure of any Khon was not the way of a Noble Warrior. Thragun never had had a great deal of patience. He preferred things to move into action as soon as possible. They had once before in this house—
Thragun’s blue eyes became slits as he remembered the time when Emmy herself had been in a danger, which he had sensed quickly but others apparently had not known. Then Cook had taken a hand in the game—
Cook, and someone else who had a jealous need to keep this house peaceful.
A Khon was a Khon he knew. In his own land there would have been ways of forcing the creature out of cover. Thragun’s paws reached out and he pushed the box a little. Somewhat to his surprise, it actually did move a fraction. He snatched that paw back with a yowl of rage. The thing had dared to burn him!
The cat arose and walked slowly around the box, keeping his distance but with his head out as he drew deep sniffs in spite of the disgust that the foulness he could scent was decidedly growing stronger. Hot—fire—but the only fire he should smell now was the faint smoky exhaustion of the last live coals in the fireplace.
However, the heat he sensed did not come from any innocent coals or bits of smoldering wood. What was the Khon trying?
Magic—to fight that which sheltered this thing would take magic. Magic spread from a source like a plant grew from a grounded root. Only here, Thragun Neklop considered the matter carefully; there was no root for HIS magic, nothing to serve him as that pot served the intruder. He needed magic which was at home right here, in this other land. And he knew exactly where to find it.
After a last careful survey of the box, Thragun jumped to the floor and padded purposefully to the door. It was close to tea time, he knew, when these who rightly valued him provided excellent food on his own dish. His tongue curved over his lips and he paused for a moment by the half opened door of the drawing room, scenting the feast waiting within. However, there was a time for one’s taking one’s ease and enjoying one’s rightful food, and there was a time when duty called elsewhere.
Thragun walked on firmly and then, possessed by the need to do something needful, he flashed down the hall. Hastings was coming with a tray, Jennie holding open the door for him. It was easy enough to slip through and get down to the kitchen.
The smells wafted from well-filled tea stands were as nothing compared with the fragrance here. Cook was working at dinner already. As she moved ponderously from table to stove, she caught sight of Thragun.
“Got a bit o’ what’s right for th’ likes of you, my fine gentleman. Give yourself a taste of this. ‘Twill only be a foretaste—but Christmas is a-comin’ an’ you won’t be sayin’ no to a bite or two of goose then. We have ‘im already a-hangin’ in the larder.”
She dipped something out of a large pan into a bowl.
“Now then, you’ll be a-takin’ that outside of ‘ere—I got me too much to do to go dodgin’ you this hour.”
She carried the bowl to a second door and set it on the floor, closing the door behind her.
Thragun considered a new problem now. The creature whose help might be well needed had first appeared on a flight of stairs not too far away. There was no way for a cat to transfer this treat to that place. Very delicately he pushed at the bowl and it scraped across the stone flooring. It took three more efforts to get it to the top of the stairs, but there was no way of taking it down. He sat, eyes half closed to consider the point.
There were no secrets in Hob’s Green which were unknown to Thragun by now. He always began the night curled up by Emmy. But if she chose to sleep away the more interesting hours, he did not. When the house was quiet, he would go prowling on his own. He had met Hob when Mrs. Cobb, the cook, had set out a bowl of cream to entice the house luck. That had been several months ago when there had been need of all the help one could summon. When another sort of Khon had commanded ill services in this house.
He and Hob had come to an agreement then and had acted together to dispose of she-who-was-black-of-thought. Thragun’s lips drew back a little and his fangs showed. Yes, he and Hob had done together what must be done, and most efficiently also.
Since then he had seen Hob once or twice on his midnight trips of discovery. Whether Mrs. Cobb did or did not believe that the fortunate fall of Miss Wyker down the staircase had anything to do with Hob or not, she had since left out a bowl of cream each Saturday night and that was always drained dry in the morning.
However, Hob was not one who yearned for companionship and had not ever sought out Thragun—which was right and proper—a noble guard and a house thewada had really very little to do with one another, as long as the safety of what they were responsible for was not threatened—
Thragun gave a very small growl. His head came higher and he sniffed an earthy, dried grass smell, whiffing up the stairs.
There was the faintest of scuttling sounds and something which might have been a ball of shadow detached itself from the wall on the right-hand side of the stairs. It landed beside the bowl and yellow eyes regarded Thragun slyly. Small but broad flat feet shuffled on the stone and Thragun saw Hob throw up his long thin arms, his fingers clawed as if in threat. Not that that meant anything—it was Hob’s first line of defense to try to frighten.
“Hob’s Hole—Hob’s own—” The voice was high and cracked. “From the roasting to the bone.
Them as sees, shall not look
Them’s as blind, they shall be shook,
Sweep it up and sweep it down—
Hob shall clear it all around.”
Whether Hob could read thoughts the cat had no way of telling, but certainly he had grasped ideas quickly enough before. So now Thragun wasted no time in coming straight to the point.
“There is a Khon of great evil now under this roof.”
Hob had reached out with both hands for the bowl of offering, but he did not lift it from the floor. Instead he turned his head to one side, his face toward the kitchen door and partly from the cat. It was very wrinkled, that face, with eyes far too large, a pair of slits for a nose, and a sharply pointed chin as if he shared a bill with a bird. His eyes, which appeared to give forth a glow of their own, blinked slowly and then swung back to the cat.
Thragun nodded. Hob had forgotten his usual greed, at least long enough to give heed to the cat.
“The master of th
is household,” the cat continued, “has been gifted by an enemy with the source of great evil. Should it escape under this roof, we shall know trouble, and that heavy and soon.”
Hob blinked again and then looked down at the bowl. He snatched it up as if Thragun might dispute his ownership and gulped down its contents without even stopping to chew the tender chunks of meat.
Thragun’s quiver of tail signaled his impatience. If this were another of his own kind, they would not be wasting time in this fashion. Hob’s tongue was out and he held the bowl at an angle where he could run that around the sides to catch the last drop.
Then his voice grated again:
“Hob’s Hole!” He stamped one foot to emphasize his claim of ownership.
“Not while the Khon lingers here,” the cat answered. “This is a Khon of power and it will take magic well rooted to send him forth again.”
The distant sounds of servants’ voices reached them and Hob shook his head violently. Thragun knew that refusal to venture far from the portion of the house which the thewada considered its own would hold as long as there was any bustle in the kitchen or the hallways. To impress Hob with the seriousness of this, he must wait until the lower floor of the house was quiet and deserted in the night and he could guide the other to see for himself what kind of darkness had come to trouble them.
Thragun slipped down the hall twice during the evening to see if anything had changed in the library. The box remained as it was. Yet as he marched around it each time, he became more and more uneasy. There was always a bad smell to Khon magic, and to the cat that seemed to grow stronger every time he made that circuit. Yet there was nothing he could do as yet.