The Sign of the Cat

by Lynne Jonell

  “Yes, sir,” rumbled the tiger, hanging his head.

  “And now tell me again what happened the day the earl betrayed my father. Tell me every detail—don’t leave anything out.”

  * * *

  The great arched doors of the manor house were shut. Torches blazed in iron cressets on either side, flaring yellow against the sooty stone. Overhead, drifting down from the crenellated tower, Duncan could hear the click of dice and the low laughter of men. The baron’s guards must be up on the battlements, keeping watch for incoming ships or any danger. Duncan had a feeling they weren’t expecting a cat invasion. Even if they were, they couldn’t have seen the cats in the dark, not unless a cat happened to look up at the precise moment a guard looked down in its direction. Cats’ eyes gleamed in the dark only when you looked right at them.

  The cats had taken up positions in a ring around the manor house. Silent, eyes glowing in the dark, they sat without moving. Only the occasional tail flick showed that they were alive.

  What were their plans?

  Well, it was their business. He had to make plans himself. But now, looking at the great iron-studded doors, his heart failed him. What was he going to do—just go up and knock? The earl might have men stationed inside the doors.

  “Brig,” Duncan whispered, “do you see Fia? I need her.”

  Brig was not listening. The sheep that normally grazed the wide green lawn had taken one look at the tiger and, bleating, had scattered and then bunched together in a far corner by a stone wall. Brig was watching them with great interest.

  “They look easy to catch,” he rumbled under his breath. “But doesn’t all that fluff get stuck in your teeth?”

  “Leave them alone, Brig.” Duncan scanned the circle of glowing cats’ eyes for a mismatched set, and saw Fia at last. “All right, Brig, remember—no attacking anyone unless I order it.”

  The tiger gazed earnestly in the direction of the bunched sheep. A small line of drool glistened at the corner of his mouth.

  “Brig!” Duncan whispered sharply.

  “Sir?” Brig turned his head away from the sheep with an obvious effort.

  “You can’t go after someone else’s sheep—especially the baron’s. He’d turn you into a tigerskin rug in no time.”

  Brig sighed. “Understood, sir.” He looked at the sheep with obvious regret. “But sooner or later, I would like some dinner.”

  * * *

  The sword made it awkward to climb. Duncan struggled up the familiar footholds; he had not eaten for a long time, and his near drowning in the cage, followed by the steep climb up the hill, had exhausted him. Arms trembling with fatigue, he heaved himself up onto the second-story ledge and bumped the drainpipe with a rattle. Fia, tucked in his shirt, gave a protesting meow.

  He sidled along the ledge to Robert’s window and levered the window up with his toes. “Stay quiet,” he warned Fia, and ducked into Robert’s room.

  He crossed the floor carefully, sliding his feet forward in case he needed to kick clothes out of the way. Robert had never kept his room very tidy. But the floor was clear. Of course—Robert must be away at the Academy.

  Duncan inched the door open and peered out. The long hallway was deserted.

  Betsy’s bedroom was two doors down. She was probably at the concert, but just in case.… He tapped at her door and opened it a crack. Something extremely fluffy butted it farther open and slipped past his legs.

  “Hey!” Duncan’s whisper was urgent. “Mr. Fluffers!”

  The smoke-colored Persian was halfway down the hall already. “Spike is the preferred name,” he said coldly, and then he turned. “I know you! You’re the one who turned out to be a duke’s son and sent a letter saying you were running away to sea. You made your mother weep, sir.”

  “I didn’t run away; I was kidnapped!” Duncan said hotly. “And the earl tricked me into signing my name. I didn’t know he would write a fake letter and send it.”

  Spike crooked his tail at the tip as he considered this information. “The cat council was furious about that earl. They suspected him of stealing a crate full of kittens, but the humans still think he’s a big hero.”

  “He’s not,” said Duncan briefly.

  “He’s a kitten squisher!” Fia mewed.

  Spike’s ears flattened, and a low hiss escaped him.

  “He’s a traitor to the king, too,” Duncan added, “and he just tried to murder me. I’m going to tell everyone at the concert the truth about him right now.”

  Spike tapped his claws against the polished wooden floor. “May I suggest—may I strongly suggest—that you change your clothes? Robert’s room is just down the hall; I am sure you can find something in his closet that isn’t damp, torn, or smelling of seaweed.”

  Duncan glanced down at his clothes. It was true that he looked bad and smelled worse.

  “In fact,” Spike meowed, “I suggest that you put on Robert’s braided jacket with the gold buttons and sash.”

  Duncan blinked. “What for?”

  “Remember that you are the young duke,” Spike said. “You should look like one, especially when meeting the enemy. A cat looks more formidable if he fluffs out his fur, my lord.”

  * * *

  Resplendent in gold buttons, sash, and sword, Duncan moved silently along the passage, followed by two cats. Fia was busy meowing all the news to Spike, but Duncan had other things on his mind. He had to get Brig into the house, but the back door would be crowded with servants.

  Three corridors and one side stair later, Duncan slipped into the small garden room, breathing hard. It had large windows, he knew, and was seldom used.

  “What are we doing here?” meowed Fia.

  Duncan pushed open the window shutters and stuck his head out into the night. Across the lawn he could see small pinpoints of light, all in a line—the cats’ eyes, gleaming in the dark. But there were no larger, higher gleaming eyes. Maybe Brig was on the other side of the house. Duncan fervently hoped Brig was not chasing sheep.

  Could the tiger leap through the window? It was at least six feet off the ground.

  Duncan unwound the gold sash from Robert’s jacket. “Fia, go find Brig for me.”

  Fia poked her head over the sill. “That’s a long way down.”

  “Hook your claws into the sash, and I’ll lower you. When you find Brig, bring him back to this window and tell him to jump in. He can follow my scent to where I am. Oh, and, Fia?”

  The kitten, swinging from the sash, looked up, her mismatched eyes glowing orange and gold.

  “You’d better say those are my orders.”

  * * *

  Duncan crouched beneath the final curve of the grand staircase and peered past the newel post. This was a place where he and Robert had hidden many times while playing bandits, and though a little small for him now, it still served. Spike was on the other side of the carved fretwork panels and curled up in front of the stairs, his ears alert.

  The entrance hall was a vast, echoing space, with flagstone floor and high timbered ceiling. From his position, Duncan could see the massive front door, its oaken slabs studded with iron. Two of the baron’s footmen stood stiffly at either side. Near them, two of the earl’s sailors leaned against the wall, their arms folded. Each had a cutlass in his belt.

  Through a small side door, narrow stone steps curved up and around, ending (Duncan knew) in the tower where the baron’s men kept watch over land and sea. On the other side, the wide entrance hall opened into the ballroom. The brown velvet curtains drawn across the opening were not quite closed.

  A sound of clapping died down. There was a waiting silence. The first notes of a piano accompaniment came tinkling through the gap in the curtain. And then the clear, pure notes of a violin rose like larks singing.

  The hair on Duncan’s neck lifted. What was it about his mother’s playing? It was haunting, somehow, sweet and sad and fierce all at once, and it felt like a cord being pulled inside his chest. As he listened, Duncan fo
und himself remembering blue sky and wind in white sails, hot sand and a golden tiger’s rough breath, and he shivered.

  The earl’s men moved closer to the velvet curtain as if they couldn’t help themselves, their heads cocked to listen. The violin gave a last, high, shimmering note that fell into silence like snow drifting into a still gray pond. For the space of three heartbeats, there was no sound at all, and then came a roaring applause that the velvet curtain seemed hardly to muffle at all. The earl’s sailors glanced at one another sheepishly, then pushed through the curtain into the ballroom.

  Boots clattered on the tower stairs. A young baron’s guard, his hair falling in his eyes, ran down two steps at a time. He skidded on the flagstones, saluted the guards at the door, and muttered something Duncan couldn’t hear.

  Duncan’s fingers curled tightly into his palms. Had the tower guard seen a tiger?

  The heavy front door creaked open as the guards stepped out onto the portico. A waft of cool night air swirled in and ruffled the hair along Spike’s back.

  Duncan put his mouth to an opening in the carved fretwork panel; his meow to Spike was hardly louder than a breath. “Go find out what’s going on.”

  Spike strolled across the flagstone floor. He nosed at a corner near the door as if smelling for a mouse, but his ears swiveled toward the guards talking outside.

  Duncan told himself that Brig was very good at camouflage. He told himself that if someone had spotted a tiger, there would have been more noise and commotion.

  The Persian cat drifted back across the entrance hall, his smoky fur almost the same color as the flagstones. He paused by the newel post and meowed his report just loud enough for Duncan to hear. “One of the tower guards sighted a ship coming in, signaling something or the other. He’s sending a carriage down to the wharf to meet it.”

  “A ship?” whispered Duncan, relieved. “I thought they might have seen Brig! Did you hear anything else?”

  Spike scraped his claws across the gray stone floor. “I did notice a slight disturbance among the sheep.”

  Outside the open door, the guard and footmen were talking beneath the flaring torchlight. A faint sound of panicked bleating came from somewhere in the dark.

  Duncan’s heart sank. He had been so sure that Brig would obey orders, no matter what.

  Off in the ballroom, the piano began a lively island dance. Duncan recognized the tune at once: “Red-Haired Boy.” His mother had hummed it when she taught him the steps to the Arvidian reel. She had bubbled with laughter when his feet had gotten tangled, and he had made the same mistake three times over just to hear her laugh again.

  But now the violin joined the piano with long, low, quivering tones, like the cry of a seabird at dusk. An undercurrent of sadness washed through the lighthearted tune, turning it into something broken and alone.

  Duncan clenched his fists. Of course his mother was grieving. According to Tammas, the Earl of Merrick had told her that her son was dead. And that lying, murdering kitten-squisher of an earl was probably in the front row right now, clapping and smiling and planning the lies that would persuade the duchess to marry him and make him a duke—and soon enough, a king.

  A wave of fury surged in Duncan, tinting his vision red and thrumming in his ears. The guards were still outside as he strode across the flagstones to the velvet curtains. He would do it without Brig. He had to. He put his face to the gap and looked into the ballroom.

  The crowd was quiet, entranced, every eye on the slender figure on the dais who was playing her violin as if she were drowning and music alone was air and light.

  Duncan hesitated, his hands on the soft velvet. His whole life, his mother had trained him to avoid notice and attention. Now he had to interrupt a concert, stand in front of hundreds of people, and accuse the most powerful man in Arvidia next to the king himself.

  It would have been so much better with a tiger.

  The ballroom was alight with candles, their glow reflected and magnified by hanging chandeliers with hundreds of glass prisms. The edges of the ballroom were shadowed, lined with figures in dark jackets—earl’s men, wearing the sailors’ navy blue. No one was paying any attention to Duncan yet. A meek voice in his head told him it was not too late to back out. Near his ankles, Spike gave a small cough.

  He set his teeth grimly and started forward. But before his foot quite left the floor, something jerked at his hip. His heart gave a violent bound.

  “Sorry I bumped your sword, sir,” rumbled Brig. “It sticks out kind of far, doesn’t it?”

  Duncan gripped Brig’s shaggy head, speechless.

  “I told him and told him to come!” shrilled Fia, leaping around Duncan’s ankles, “but he said the orders had to come direct from you!”

  Brig lifted his chin with dignity. “With respect, sir, the chain of command was not clearly defined.”

  Duncan’s heart settled to a rapid, forceful beat. “It doesn’t matter—don’t worry about it.” He breathed deeply, expanding his chest as far as he could. He wove his fingers into Brig’s neck fur and set his eyes on the aisle that stretched out before him.

  They moved forward, quickly and steadily—the boy, the tiger, an extra-fluffy cat, and a kitten. At first no one seemed to notice. Then row by row, as if touched by a moving wave, heads turned, shoulders shifted, mouths opened in shock. Duncan could feel the crowd’s collective gaze on his skin, and their murmur pushed at him like audible hands. Some of the people were half standing now. There was a sudden movement of men along the side walls.

  “Steady,” Duncan murmured to Brig.

  Someone large moved in on Duncan from his left. At the same time, a golden cat with brown-tipped ears trotted stiffly down the center aisle.

  “Grizel!” gasped Duncan.

  “Cat Trick #17!” Grizel meowed sharply. “Now, Fia!”

  There was a stumble and a crash somewhere behind him. A part of Duncan’s brain rummaged around in his memory. Of course—#17 was Getting in the Way. He wanted to laugh, but his mouth felt stiff. His mother was still playing, her eyes closed, oblivious to everything but the music.

  A footman came up from behind and reached for Duncan’s elbow. “Sir!” he hissed. “Remove yourself at once! I have called the guards down to deal with the tiger!”

  “Let me go!” Duncan tried to pull his arm free without success.

  “Spike!” hissed Grizel. “Together, now—Cat Trick #24!”

  The cats, golden and smoky, launched themselves at the footman below his knees in a coordinated assault. The man gave a yip of pain and released his grip on Duncan’s arm.

  Duncan grinned. Cat Trick #24 had to be Surprise Ankle Attack—or was it Rapid Toe Pounce? Either way, it had worked perfectly. But now another footman approached, holding an umbrella like a club, and sailors from the side wall were headed their way. Spike meowed a loud warning.

  The cat’s piercing cry reached to the front row; Robert’s sister, Betsy, leaped up from her chair and came running back. “Bad Mr. Fluffers!” she hissed, and then skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open.

  Duncan put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Betsy—the tiger’s trained.”

  Betsy’s eyes were as wide open as her mouth. “But the earl said you were lost at sea!”

  “The earl’s a liar,” Duncan said. “And he squishes kittens.”

  Betsy’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth snapped shut. She made an imperious gesture to the room at large and said, “Leave my friend alone. And his tiger.”

  “But, Lady Betsy,” began the first footman. Betsy glared at him, and he took a step back.

  In a stately manner, with chins lifted high, Duncan and Betsy walked down the center aisle with the tiger between them. Spike, Grizel, and Fia brought up the rear, their tails waving like flags in a stiff breeze.

  Duncan’s mother, standing above the crowd on the dais and fully absorbed in her music, lifted her head at last. The violin’s clear melody faltered, trailed away. There was a tiny clatter as the
bow dropped to the floor. Someone reached forward and caught the violin before it fell.

  “Duncan.” The sound was hardly more than a whisper. Lady Sylvia stood motionless, her eyes wide and dark in a face gone suddenly pale.

  Duncan took three great strides, leaped up the steps of the dais, and threw his arms around her. “Mother,” he said, burying his face in her shoulder. He took a deep breath of her scent; for one short moment, he felt like a small child once more. Then he leaned back and looked her in the eyes. “I didn’t run away.”

  Color was beginning to flood back into his mother’s face. “But the note?” she whispered. “The signed note?”

  “I didn’t write it. He tricked me into signing my name, and then he locked me in and took me away.”

  “He?” his mother demanded. “Who?”

  Duncan turned. “Him,” he said, pointing to the man whose face had turned an unhealthy shade of gray beneath its bandage. He raised his voice. “The Earl of Merrick!”

  Brig growled.

  CHAPTER 27

  Cat Justice

  THE ROOM HUSHED. Duncan could hear the tick of a clock somewhere, and the quiet scrape of a chair.

  The Baron of Dulle was a bulky man, with a nose that tended to be large and a face that tended to be red. He moved hastily, and his chair tipped over with a crash. “Come, my boy. You’re overwrought—you’ve had some difficult experiences. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” His bluff, good-humored face looked anxiously from Duncan to the tiger.

  “No, Daddy, listen to him,” Betsy begged.

  “Taking advice from little girls now, are you, Baron?” The earl got to his feet with a forced-sounding chuckle. “We’re sensible men, you and I—we have no time to listen to the wild imaginings of a couple of children. Allow my men to handle the tiger, if you will—it escaped from my ship, and the boy doesn’t realize how dangerous it is.”

  Brig growled, low in his chest. “I’m dangerous to you, chum.”

  The earl took a step back. Bertram was half out of his chair, and the baron looked from the tiger to Duncan, startled.