Raiders' Ransom (23 page)

“Don't worry, fishstink,” he says. “I'll see you again when this battle's over. And you can count on it being me doing the throwing next time, I'll make sure of it. You won't have the runt missing for you then.”

The old woman looks at my hand and whistles in through her teeth.

“You've had some right good fortune, little girl-boy. I never seen no one get such a little scratch from the wheel. Only needs a bit of bandage to set you right. Maybe you is a witch, and good luck to you if you are. Set some curses on them raiders for me.”

She shambles off, into the dark and fusty innards of the slave hall, leaving me back where I started. I sit silent and staring at nothing for a minute, till a small voice says, “Have you got your kitty with you?”

It's a little slave girl, her face all covered in dirt, wearing a shapeless kind of dress. Might have been white once, but now it's just muck-colored. Her legs are thin, with circles of purple
bruises above and below the shackles round her ankles. Her chain leads to a great big stone, so heavy it'd take ten men to lift it, just like mine does.

“He got taken,” I say, my heart wrenching to think of Cat and whatever them raiders might be doing to him.

The little girl pulls at her ankle, stretching her chain into a straight line, and shuffles over to me.

“Is he all right, your kitty?” she asks.

“I don't know.”

I keep going over it. Why did I tell them he was a seacat? Why did I let him go? Now he's probably crated up on some warship, and who knows what'll happen to him.

“I'm sorry,” says the little girl. “I liked your kitty. He was cuddlesome. Like Mummy's dog Dougal. He's a highland terrier, white all over. The Lord Sheriff of the Scottish Homelands gave him to my daddy, as a diplomatic gift. My daddy said he was too yappy, so Mummy got him. But I don't think he's yappy, he just gets excited. And he's ever so cuddlesome.” She sighs. “I wish I could go home and see him.”

The Lord of the Scottish Homelands?

“Are you Alexandra Randall?” I ask.

She startles, looks frightened for a second, like she's waiting to be told off.

“Only my tutor calls me Alexandra,” she says. “I'm Lexy. How do you know my name? Did my daddy send you?” She gets to her knees and starts looking around, like she's
expecting her pa to drop out of the scratchy old roof. “Are you here to take me home?” she says, much too loud.

“Shhh!” I say, and she claps her hand over her mouth, still looking about. “Your daddy didn't send me. But I did come to take you home.”

“Did a general send you?” she says through her fingers.

“No. No one sent me. I mean … I came by myself.”

Her hand comes down from her mouth, and she looks at the doorway.

“Have you got soldiers with you?”

“No. It's just me. I had a ransom for you. From your aunty. I was going to pay off the raiders and get you home.”

“You came with a ransom but no soldiers? How did you stop the raiders just taking the ransom off you?”

I reckon the look on my face must tell it all, cos Lexy slumps down, back into the beaten, frightened look she had when I first saw her. And no wonder. Some kind of rescuer I am: no ransom; no Cat; tied up in chains. Probably going to be killed by Roba first chance he gets.

“Why did my aunt send you without any soldiers?”

“She didn't,” I mumble. “It was my idea. I stole a jewel from her. I thought the raiders just wanted money.”

“Oh,” says Lexy, and she shuffles her skinny little legs. “Don't worry. I'm sure it'll be all right. Zeph said they'd make me a slave, that they wouldn't kill me. Maybe they'll do the same for you?”

We both look into the stinky dark of the slave house, and Lexy whispers, “But do you think being a slave is better than being dead?”

And I can't think of any comforting answer.

The old woman comes back and wraps up my hand in a dirty-looking bandage. After that, me and Lexy get as close together as our chains will let, then we just sit. The shafts of light from the broken roof track slowly over the muck-crusted floorboards, and when they get dimmer and redder, we know it's getting on for evening. Every now and then, some tattery person hurries in through the sackcloth door, grabs something, and rushes out again. But there's no one else in the slave house, just me and Lexy tied up in the corner. I suppose a war needs every slave to be slaving away.

When the red shafts of light break and disappear, and the doorway darkens into night, some of the slaves start coming back. They creep in through the door and find their spots, flopping down like they're too tired to talk or eat or do anything 'cept lay themselves out like dead things.

“I want to go home,” says Lexy. “I wish I was back with Dougal.”

I wish I was back with Granny. And Cat was sat on my lap by the fire. And Andy was coming round to play jacks after tea, and everything was how it was. But Granny's dead, and Cat's caged, and Andy'll soon be fighting, maybe dying, in
the battle. And I ain't done a single thing that's changed any of it. Tears trickle down my face. Angry tears, for being such a fool. Bitter tears, cos it doesn't matter, anyway, nothing'll bring Granny back. I push my fists into my eyes, shut them tight to try and stop the tears from coming out.

I'm so stupid! Stupid letter! Stupid puter head! Stupid idea to think I could ever rescue anyone!

Then I feel something. A light touch of something on my knee, small and soft. And I hear something: a quiet, gentle rumbling.

“Your kitty's here.”

I open my eyes, and there he is! Head-butting my knee, rubbing his body back and forth to get my attention. And when he sees I'm looking, he gazes up at me with his green eyes half shut. Which is him smiling.

“Cat!”

And he's up in my arms, nuzzling my chin, purring fit to burst. And I'm stroking his head, and ruffling his ear, and making his fur wet with my tears.

“How did you get away? Is anyone chasing you?”

But he doesn't tell me, just keeps on purring. And even though I'm staring at the door, no raiders come shouting or stamping for him. And I don't know why, cos things ain't really changed, but I feel so much better. Cat got out of that basket, so maybe I can get out, too?

After a couple of minutes, Lexy's saying, “Can I hold him? Can I hold your kitty?”

So I pass him over, cos I reckon she needs cheering up just as much as me. But she doesn't know how to hold him, heaves him up in his middle just the way he hates. Straight off he's wriggling, and not long after he's squirmed out of her arms onto the dirty old floor. But he's happy when he gets there, and settles down to give himself a bit of a clean.

Lexy pats at her lap, trying to get Cat to sit back down. But he ain't interested.

“I know what you like, kitty,” she says, fiddling about at her neck. She pulls a ribbon out from inside her dress, with a wooden bead on the end. It's a charm against fevers, like Granny used to make me wear in bed.

“Here, kitty. Something to play with.” She lifts the ribbon over her head and starts bouncing the bead on the boards.
Tip, tap, ratter, tatter.
Cat's ears perk up at the sound, and when he sees the bead dancing about in the fire-lit darkness, his head starts bobbing with it. His tail flicks, his haunches crouch, a paw inches forward … then pounce! He's caught the bead, making happy growling noises as he tries to get a chew on it.

“You can't have it, kitty!” Lexy laughs, and she gives a little tug to the ribbon, flicking the bead out of Cat's paws. He chases after it, bounding and tumbling about as he plays.

“Look at him rolling around!” says Lexy.

“He can do more than just roll. Hold it over his head.”

She lifts the ribbon so the bead's swinging above Cat's upturned face.

“Mreow!” he says happily, and lifts a paw to catch it.

Lexy pulls the ribbon a little higher. Cat tilts his head right back, lifts his other paw, and he's standing up on his haunches, belly showing long and straight, gray paws waving above his black head as he tries to catch the bead.

“He's dancing,” I say. Lexy looks happy. She smiles like she's at home, playing with her pet, not like she's a hostage shackled in the dark.

“He likes to dance,” she says. And he does; catching things above his head is one of his best games. I've even seen him jumping up at birds flying overhead, though he ain't ever caught one. So Lexy bounces the bead, and Cat dances about underneath, and we're all so lost in the game we don't notice what's going on around us. Don't notice other people coming to watch. Not till there's a crowd all about us. A crowd of raggedy broken people, staring at Lexy, me, and Cat. Slaves, crept through the orange-flickered darkness to see Cat dance.

Lexy drops the ribbon. Cat hides behind me.

“Your cat, he's pretty,” says one of the slaves.

“Dances right sweet,” says another.

“I had a cat,” says a woman with long black hair. “She were a lovely thing, tabby with white paws. Best mouser in the street, everyone said so.”

“I dunt never seen a cat what danced before,” says a small, bent-over-looking man. “Was you bagged from a traveling fair or summat?”

“I saw a pig on a traveling fair once, could add up figures.”

“There was fairs come to our village every summer, and I never saw anything like that.”

“Well, here's a cat that dances, have you seen that before?”

“Can you make him dance again?” says a tired-looking woman with a jagged scar across half her face. “I ain't seen anything so heartening in five years I been here.”

“Yes! Get the cat dancing!”

“Please.”

But Lexy's cowering now, looking frightened and little. And Cat's all huddled behind me.

“Give me the ribbon,” I say to Lexy. But when I try pattering the bead on the boards, Cat doesn't want to play. He only wants to keep out of the way of all the strangers. I can't say I blame him, after all he's been through.

“He doesn't want to dance anymore,” I say, and get a groan from all the people around.

“Can't you make him?” says someone.

“How can I do that? He's a cat, he does what he wants. You think I should beat him or something?”

“No!”

“Never. Not beatings. No one should get beatings.”

They all nod their heads at that, and I reckon they should know.

“I seen your cat dancing,” comes a voice, loud and creaky. “Fire lit his shadow right on the walls. Looked like a great tiger or summat.”

It's the old woman, shambling across to us. She shuffles through, and the others get out of the way, like they respect her. Or they're afraid of her. She nods at Lexy. “And it cheers me up to see the little mite looking happy.” She kneels down, awkward and stiff, and peers round behind me to take a look at Cat.

“My cat got bored easy,” says the old woman. “If'n she didn't catch a mouse in a few minutes, she'd just go wandering off. Maybe your cat's bored with the ribbon?”

“I haven't got anything else,” says Lexy quietly.

“But I have!” crows the old woman. She fiddles around in a fold of her sackcloth dress and pulls out a long leather string. On the end of it there's a thin metal hoop, with two keys. The keys to our shackles.

“These make a nice tinkly noise. I should think that's what a cat likes best.”

What Cat likes best is a warm fire and a full belly, but I shan't stop her trying. The old woman takes the leather and starts jangling the keys on the floor.
Trink, trink, clink.
And they do get Cat's notice, he never could resist things that flash — probably reminds him of fish. He pokes his head out from behind me, then his paws, then I can feel his tail flicking against my back. Then he pounces on the keys, and a laugh goes up from everyone around us.

“Go on, Nancy,” says the bent-over man. “You get him dancing.”

And she does. She gets him dancing and jumping and rolling and tumbling, just like there was no one watching. And all the slaves are cheering, and Lexy's laughing, and Cat's pouncing and grabbing. Then, just when the keys are dangling right over his head, he gets his claws curled right into the metal hoop. The old woman says, “Oi! Let go. Them keys ain't yours!” and everyone laughs. But Cat doesn't let go, he just keeps pulling on the ring. The woman's pulling back at her keys, stretching out Cat's legs as he fights to keep hold of what he's captured.

“You got yourself a tug-of-war there, Nancy!” says the black-haired woman.

“You'll hurt him!” cries Lexy.

The old woman keeps on pulling, and Cat pulls back, and suddenly there's a twitch, and a ripping noise, and the leather string snaps in two, flinging the metal hoop and the keys out of Cat's grasp, into the smoky air. There's a tinkling as they land, a clattering as they slide across the muck-covered floor, and then silence as they disappear.