by Sharon Lee
Kinzel tipped his head, listening to the soft purring of his staff. He nodded and walked forward, at a slight angle to the wall.
“There’s a door,” he said to the shadow at his side. “Then a long corridor, then another door. Beyond that is—I am sorry, my friend—a cage. The cats are in the cage.”
“Are they indeed?” It was too dark for Kinzel to see the ironic lift of the eyebrow. “Are there watchers? Men and women with weapons? Alarms?”
Kinzel took further counsel from his staff. “No watchers. Fallan and his ‘prentice are the only men in the keep and they are both far from the cage.”
“Alarms?” insisted Val Con, keeping pace with the wizard, though the wall loomed close.
“I don’t—” began Kinzel—and stopped.
Half a pace beyond, Val Con spun to face him, both brows up and clearly visible in the Moon’s light.
“Friend Kinzel?”
The mage frowned, moved back two steps and cast about, as if looking for a way around a wall perceived, yet unseen. He shrugged gracelessly and walked forward again, gripping his staff with its green vines tightly.
Two paces underway, he stopped. Sharply. Almost, Val Con thought he heard a thump, as if wizardly nose had brought up against invisible barrier.
“Alarms?” he guessed, glancing over his shoulder at the keep.
“Wards,” corrected Kinzel, bringing his hand up and rubbing his nose. He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t seem to be able to come any further.”
Val Con pushed his hair from his eyes, stepped to Kinzel’s side, turned and walked toward the wall, one-two-three paces. He turned back, hands on hips.
“The way is clear. I discover no barrier.”
“For you, no barrier,” Kinzel said, eyes half-closed as the staff hummed in his hand. “The wards are set to keep out anything—anyone—born to the world.”
“Ah. I begin to see the why behind your staff’s actions.” He sighed. “I go on alone, then?”
“It will be easier for you that way, won’t it? Even if I weren’t warded away? You are silent—and so quick. I’m clumsy, and you would have to wait for me.” He gestured with the staff.
“That clump of rock and scrub we passed?” Val Con nodded. “I will wait for you and the cats there. The staff will re-Balance and then it will send you home to your wife.”
“So? And how many cats are in this cage? Does your staff know that? And how shall I bring them away? In my pouch?”
Kinzel thought. “There are one hundred and forty-seven cats in the cage,” he said slowly. “And as to how you’ll bring them out—you’re the King of the Cats. Surely they’ll follow you?”
Suddenly, surprisingly, the King laughed, flinging his hands Moonward; then he was leaning forward, speaking with earnest briskness.
“In all my experience of cats, never have I seen anything that leads me to suppose that they will follow anyone—King or no. Especially, perhaps, would they fail to follow their King. Who, if he is truly that, would not ask it of them. Another way, I implore you. Some assurance that the task is not wholly the errand of a fool.”
Kinzel was already reaching into his pouch, pulling out a twist of paper tied with yellow string. Bracing the staff against his shoulder, he untied the string.
“Come here.”
The other man stepped forward until their noses nearly touched and Kinzel could smell old leather and new cloth and another scent, which was that of the King himself.
Kinzel paused, blinking into the green eyes. “Are you a man, my friend?”
“Yes.” said Val Con softly. “I will tell you this: Cats are not found on all worlds. But on the worlds on which they are found, they are—cats. Other creatures change. Including men. Especially men. It is a mystery, is it not? A wonder. But I am a man—human—as much as you are.”
“All right,” said Kinzel, pulling the string free and stashing it in his pouch. “It is only that, if you were a cat, the herb might make you a little drunk.”
He untwisted the parchment and took out a pinch of dried leaf, which he sprinkled over the King’s head. He liberally treated hair, shirt, belt and boot-tops, repeating the process until the leaf was gone.
Val Con stepped back, nose wrinkling. “What is it?”
“An herb cats find enjoyable. I think they’ll follow you now.”
“Behold me delighted,” murmured the King and sighed.
“Friend Kinzel. This I lay upon you. Should I not return—you will go to my lady and explain what has transpired. You will tell her how you were able to call me here, so she may guard herself from like attack.” He sighed again.
“She will know, should I die. So ward yourself well before you go to her. Her temper is not overgentle, and her way with weapons nearly equals my own.”
Kinzel bowed and brought the staff between them, so the other could see the Power glittering there. “This thing I do swear, should you fall in the service of the Right.”
“A mighty oath, friend Kinzel . . .” And the King was gone, one shadow among many, fading toward the steel and stone walls.
The outer door was locked—the work of a moment. Val Con slid into the corridor beyond, making sure that the door did not relock itself.
Empty, the hallway; lit sporadically by three smoky torches. The shadows were deep and plentiful.
The second door stood wide open.
Val Con paused in a pool of shadow, glaring. He bent and located two stones on the floor. Straightening, he tossed one through the door.
Nothing.
He faded closer, and threw the second stone.
A lance fell point-first from high up and buried itself solidly in the granite floor just beyond the doorway.
“Ah,” breathed Val Con. Then he was through, hugging the wall and pretending himself invisibly weightless.
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.