attached to my leggings by her embedded claws. Her yellow-green eyes looked up earnestly at mine. Coming up!
I refused the touch of her mind without, I hoped, seeming to. At the table, Lord Golden had led the conversation to what types of cats they might use tomorrow, and whether or not they would damage the plumage on the game. Feathers, he reminded them all, were what he sought, though he did enjoy gamebird pie.
I shifted my foot, hoping to dislodge the young bramble-foot. It did not work. Climbing! she insisted, and hopped up another notch. Now she hung from me by all four paws, her claws having penetrated my leggings to hook in my flesh. I reacted, I hoped, as any other servant might. I winced and then unobtrusively bent to pry the creature free, one thorny foot at a time. My action might have escaped attention if she had not mewled piteously at being thus thwarted. I had hoped to set her gently back on the floor, but Lord Golden’s amused voice with, ‘Well, Badgerlock, and what have you caught?’ directed all eyes to me.
‘Just a kitten, sir. She seemed determined to climb my leg.’ She was like a puff of dandelion fuzz in my hand. The deceptive depth of her fluffy coat was belied by the tiny ribcage in my hand. She opened her little red mouth and miaowed for her mother.
‘Oh, there you are!’ Lord Grayling’s daughter exclaimed, leaping up from the table. Heedless of any decorum, Sydel rushed to take the squirming kitten from my hand. With both hands she cradled the kitten under her chin. ‘Oh, thank you for finding her.’ She walked back to her place at the table, speaking as she went. ‘I could not bear to leave her alone at home, and yet she must have slipped out of my room just after breakfast, for I haven’t seen her all day.’
‘And is this, then, the kit of a hunting cat?’ Lord Golden asked as the daughter seated herself.
Sydel leapt at the chance to address Lord Golden. ‘Oh, no, Lord Golden, this is my own sweet pet, my little pillow-cat, Tibbits. She is such a mischief, aren’t you, lovey? And yet I cannot bear to be parted from her. How you have worried me this afternoon!’ She kissed the kitten on the top of her head and then settled the creature in her lap. No one at table seemed to regard her behaviour as unusual. As the meal and conversation resumed, I saw the little tabby head pop up at the edge of the table. Fish! The kit thought delightedly. A few moments later, Civil offered her a sliver of fish. I decided it meant little; it could be coincidence, or even the unconscious reaction that those without the Wit sometimes make to the wishes of animals they know well. The kit swiped a paw to claim possession of the morsel, and then took it into her owner’s lap to devour it.
Servants entered the hall to clear dishes and platters away, while a second rank of servants followed with sweet dishes and berry wines. Lord Golden had seized control of all conversation. The hunting tales he told were either fabulous concoctions or indicated that his life during the last ten years or so had been far different from what I had imagined. When he spoke of spearing sea-mammals from a skinboat drawn by harnessed dolphins, even Sydel looked slightly incredulous. But as is ever the case, if a story is well told, the listeners will stay with it to the end, and so they did this time. Lord Golden finished his recital with a flourish and a wicked gleam in his eye that suggested that if he were embellishing his adventure, he would never admit it.
Lady Bresinga called for brandy to be brought, and the table was cleared again. The brandy appeared with yet another assortment of small items to tempt already-satiated guests. Eyes went from sparkling with wine and merriment to the deep gleam of contentment that good brandy brings forth after a fine meal. My legs and lower back ached abominably. I was hungry as well, and tired enough that if I had been free to lie down on the flagged floor, I would instantly have been asleep. I scraped my nails against the inside of my palms, pricking myself back to alertness. This was the hour when tongues were loosest and talk most expansive. Despite the way Lord Golden leaned back in his chair, I doubted that he was as intoxicated as he seemed. The subject had rounded back to cats and hunting again. I felt I had learned as much as I needed to know about the topic.
The kitten had managed, after six thwarted efforts, to gain the top of the table. She had curled up and briefly napped, but now was wending her way amongst the bottles and glasses, threatening to topple them as she rubbed against each. Mine. And mine. This is mine, too. And mine. With the total confidence of the very young, she claimed every item on the table as her own. When Civil reached for the brandy snifter to refill his glass and that of his companion, the kitten arched her little back and bounced towards him on her toes, intent on making good on her claims. Mine!
‘No. Mine,’ he told her affably, and fended her off with the back of his wrist. Sydel laughed at the exchange. A slow excitement uncoiled within me but I kept my dulled stare apparently fixed on my master’s shoulder. Witted. Both of them. I was sure of it now. And as it tended to be inherited in families …
‘So. Who did catch the mistcat for the Prince’s gift?’ Lord Golden suddenly asked. The question almost followed from the conversation, yet it was pointed enough to turn all heads at the table. Lord Golden gave a small hiccup that bordered on being a discreet belch. It was enough of a distraction to combine with his slightly goggled stare to take the edge from his query. ‘I’ll wager it was you, Huntsman.’ His graceful hand made his words a compliment to Avoin.
‘No, not I,’ Avoin shook his head but oddly volunteered no more information.
Lord Golden leaned back, tapping his forefinger on his lips as if it were a guessing game. He rolled his gaze about the table, then chortled sagely and pointed at Civil. ‘Then it was you, young man. For I heard it was you who carried the cat up to Prince Dutiful to present him.’
The boy’s eyes flickered once to his mother’s before he gravely shook his head. ‘Not I, Lord Golden,’ he demurred. And again, that unusual silence of information withheld followed his words. A united front, I decided. The question would not be answered.
Lord Golden lolled his head back against his chair, and took a long noisy breath and sighed it out. ‘Damned fine gift,’ he observed liberally. ‘Love to have one myself, from all I’ve heard. But hearing’s no substitute for seeing. B’lieve I will ask Prince Dutiful to allow me to ’ccompany him some night.’ He sighed again and let his head wag to one side. ‘If he ever comes back from his meditation retreat. Not natural, if you ask me, for a boy that age to spend so much time alone. Not natural a’tall.’ Lord Golden’s enunciation was giving way rapidly.
Lady Bresinga’s diction was quite clear as she asked, ‘So our prince has retired again from the public eye, to follow his own thoughts for a time?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Lord Golden affirmed. ‘And been a long time gone this time.’ course, he has a good deal to think about these days. Betrothal coming up and all, Outislander delegation coming. A lot for a young man to handle. I mean, how would you take to it, young sir?’ He wagged a finger in Civil’s general direction. ‘How’d you like to be betrothed to a woman you’ve never met … well, she isn’t even a woman yet, if rumour runs true. More like a girl on the cusp. She’s what, eleven? So young. Terribly young, don’t you think? And I don’t understand the advantages of the match. That I do not.’
His words were indiscreet, verging on direct criticism of the Queen’s decision. Looks were exchanged around the table. Plainly Lord Golden had taken more brandy than he handled well, and yet he was pouring more. His words hung unchallenged in the air. Perhaps Avoin thought he was turning conversation into a safer channel when he asked, ‘The Prince often retreats to meditate, then?’
‘It’s the Mountain way,’ Lord Golden confirmed. ‘Or so I am told. Wha’ do I know? Only that it’s not the Jamaillian way. The young nobles of my fair home are more worldly-minded. And that is encouraged, mind you, for where better will a young nobleman learn the manners and ways of the world than t’be out in the midst of it? Your Prince Dutiful might do better t’mingle more with his court. Yes, and to look closer to home for a suitable consort.’ A Jamaillian accent had begun to flavour Lord Golden’s softening words, as if intoxication took him back to the speech habits of his erstwhile home. He sipped from his glass and then set it back upon the table so awkwardly that a tiny amber wave leapt over the edge. He rubbed his mouth and chin as if to