breeches had, for her tanned arms and face seemed to make the dainty lace at the collar and belled sleeves incongruous on her. Lady Bresinga was elaborately flounced and draped for dinner, the abundance of her garments swelling the proportions of her bust and hips. There were three other guests: a married couple and their daughter of about seventeen, obviously local gentry. All had been waiting for Lord Golden.
Their reaction when we entered was everything the Fool had claimed it would be. Lady Bresinga turned to greet her guest, smiling. Her eyes swept over him, widening with pleasure. ‘Our honoured guest is here,’ she announced. Lord Golden turned his head slightly to one side, tucking his chin in with an innocent air as if he were unaware of his own beauty. Laurel stared at him in frank admiration as Lady Bresinga introduced Lord Golden to Lord and Lady Grayling of Cotterhills and their daughter Sydel. Their names were unfamiliar but I seemed to recall Cotterhills as a tiny holding in the foothills of Farrow. Sydel’s cheeks grew pink and she appeared almost flustered at being included in Lord Golden’s bow, and after that, the young gentlewoman’s gaze appeared fixed on him. Her mother’s eyes had wandered over to me and were frankly appraising me in a way that should have made her blush. I glanced away only to find Laurel looking at me with a bemused smile, as if she had forgotten she knew me. I could almost feel Lord Golden’s radiant satisfaction in how he had turned their heads.
He offered his arm to Lady Bresinga, and her son Civil escorted Sydel. Lord and Lady Grayling followed and then came the Huntmasters. I followed my betters into the dining room and took up my post behind Lord Golden’s chair. My position proclaimed me bodyguard as well as servant. Lady Bresinga glanced at me questioningly but I did not meet her eyes. If she thought that Lord Golden had breached her hospitality by having me accompany him, she did not comment on it. Young Civil simply stared for a moment or two, and then shrugged off my presence with a quiet aside to his companion. And after that, I became invisible.
I think it was the most curious vantage point I’d ever held in my spying career. It was not comfortable. I was hungry, and Lady Bresinga’s board was loaded with dishes both savoury and sweet. The servants who brought and cleared away the repast passed right before me. I was also weary and aching from the long day’s ride, yet I forced myself to stand as still as possible, with no restless shifting, and to keep my eyes and my ears open.
All the talk at the table had to do with game and hunting. Lord Grayling and his lady and daughter were avid hunters, and evidently had been invited for this reason. Almost immediately, another common thread emerged. They hunted, not with hounds, but with cats. Lord Golden professed himself a complete novice at this sort of sport and begged them to enlighten him. They were only too pleased to do so, and the conversation soon bogged down into intricate arguments as to which breed of hunting cat did better on birds, with various tales exchanged to illustrate the different breeds’ prowess. The Bresingas were vocal in support of a short-tailed breed called ealynex, while Lord Grayling vociferously offered heavy wagers that his gruepards would take the day regardless of whether they sought birds or hares.
Lord Golden was a most flattering listener, asking avid questions and expressing amazement and fascination at the replies. The cats, he learned for both of us, were not coursing beasts, at least not in the same manner as hounds. Each hunter took a single feline, and it rode to the hunt on a special cushion, secured just behind its master’s saddle. The larger gruepards could be loosed against game up to the size of young deer. They relied on a burst of speed to catch their prey, and then suffocated it to death with a throat hold. The smaller ealynex was more often set loose in tall grassy meadows or underbrush, where it stalked its prey until it could leap upon it. It preferred to stun with a blow from a swift paw, or to break the neck or back with a single bite. It was sport, we learned, to loose such beasts upon a flock of tame pigeons or doves, to see how many they could bat to the ground before the whole flock took flight. Often these smaller, bob-tailed cats were matched against one another in bird batting competitions, with sizeable wagers riding on the favourites. The Bresingas boasted no less than twenty-two cats of both types in their hunting stables. The Graylings had only the gruepards, and but six of them in their clowder, but Lady Bresinga assured Lord Golden that her friend was fortunate in possessing some of the best breeding lines she had ever seen.
‘Then they are bred, these hunting cats? I was told that they had to be captured, that they would not breed if tamed.’ Lord Golden fastened his attention on the Bresingas’ Huntmaster.
‘Oh, the gruepards will breed, but only if they are allowed to carry out their mating battles and harsh courtship without interference. The enclosure Lord Grayling has devoted to this purpose is quite large, and no human must ever enter it. We are quite fortunate that his efforts in that regard have been successful. Prior to this, as you perhaps know, all gruepards were brought in from either Chalced or the Sandsedge regions of Farrow, all at great expense, of course. They were quite rare in this area when I was a boy, but the moment I saw one, I knew that was the hunting beast for me. And I hope I don’t sound a braggart in saying that, since the gruepards were so expensive, I was one of the first who thought of trying to tame our native ealynex to the same task. Hunting with the ealynex was quite unknown in Buck until my uncle and I first caught two of them. The ealynex are the cats that must be taken as adults, usually in pit-traps, and schooled to hunt as companions.’ This all spouted from the Bresinga Huntsman, a tall fellow who hunched forwards earnestly as he spoke. Avoin was his name. The topic was plainly his passion.
Lord Golden flattered him with his unwavering attention. ‘Fascinating. I must hear how such deadly little creatures are brought to heel. Nor was I aware there were so many names for hunting cats. I had assumed there was but one breed. So. Let me see. I was told that Prince Dutiful’s hunting animal had to be taken from the den as a kitten. It must be a gruepard, then?’
Avoin exchanged a glance with his mistress, almost as if he asked permission before he spoke. ‘Ah, well. The Prince’s cat is neither ealynex nor gruepard, Lord Golden. It is a rarer creature than either of those. Most know it as the mistcat. It ranges much higher into the mountains than our cats do, and is known for hunting amid the branches of the trees as well as on the ground.’ Avoin had dropped into the lecturing tone of the expert. Once he had begun to share his expertise, he would continue until his listeners’ eyes glazed over. ‘For its size, it takes game substantially larger than itself, dropping down on both deer and wild goats to either ride them to exhaustion, or to break the neck with a bite. On the ground, it is neither as swift as the gruepard nor as stealthy as the ealynex, but combines the techniques of both with good success against small game. But of the mistcat, you heard true. It must be taken from its home den before its eyes are opened if it is to be tamed at all. Even then, it may have an uneven temperament, but those who are taken and trained correctly become the truest companions that any hunter could desire. They will only hunt for one master, however. Of mistcats it is said, “from the den to the heart, never to part”. Meaning, of course that only he who is sly enough to find the mistcat’s den will ever possess one. It is quite a feat, to have a mistcat. When you see a hunter with a mistcat, you know you’re seeing a master of cat-hunting.’
Avoin’s voice suddenly faltered. If some sign had passed between him and his mistress, I had not seen it. Was the Huntsman involved then, in the circumstances that had brought such a cat to the Prince?
Lord Golden, however, blithely ignored the implications of what he had heard. ‘A sumptuous gift for our prince indeed,’ he enthused. ‘But it quite dashes my hopes of having a mistcat as my hunting creature tomorrow. At least, shall I have the prospect of seeing one set loose?’
‘I fear not, Lord Golden,’ Lady Bresinga replied graciously. ‘We have none in our hunting pack. They are quite rare. To see a mistcat hunt, you will have to ask the Prince himself to take you along on one of his outings. I am sure he would be delighted to do so.’
Lord Golden shook his head merrily, tucking his chin in as if taken aback. ‘Oh, no, dear lady, for I have heard that our illustrious prince hunts afoot with his cat, at night, regardless of the weather. Much too physical an endeavour for me, I fear. Not at all to my taste, not at all!’ Chuckles tumbled from him like spinning pins in a juggler’s hands. All around the table, the others joined in his mirth.
Climb.
I