The Sign of the Cat (2 page)

Grizel put her forepaws on the windowsill. Duncan opened the window and leaned out. “What?” he meowed back.

Grizel nudged Duncan aside with her head. “It's for me,” she hissed. And to the cat in the street below she meowed, “What news?”

“Cat Council tonight,” called the tabby. “At moonrise. In the graveyard.”

“What for?” Grizel asked. “What's on the agenda?”

“Kitten examinations,” said the tabby. “Territory disputes. Dog-taunting assignments. Old Tom warning about impending disaster. The usual.”

Duncan grinned. He loved kitten examinations.

“Can't stay to talk—lots more cats to notify,” said the tabby, turning away.

“I'll be there,” called Grizel to the cat's retreating back, and its tail swished once in acknowledgment.

“I'm going, too,” said Duncan.

Grizel leaped onto his lap. “If you do, the other cats will make fun of me again. They'll say, ‘Can't she go anywhere without that red-haired
master
?'”

Duncan rubbed the top of her head gently with his knuckles. “I'm not your master, and they know it. And my hair isn't red anymore. It got darker this year—it's practically brown. Especially on a cloudy day.”

Grizel settled herself more comfortably, curling her tail around her flanks. “You shouldn't go. Your mother wouldn't like it if she knew you were sneaking out at night.”

Duncan was silent. Of course his mother wouldn't like it. But it wasn't as if he was doing anything
bad
.

“If I don't tell her,” he pointed out, “she won't need to worry.”

Grizel looked at him through half-shut eyes. “A mother's rules are for her kitten's own good.”

“I'm not breaking any rules,” Duncan said firmly. “My mother never said, ‘No going to cat councils in graveyards.' Not once.”

Grizel made a small huffing noise. “She may not have said that
exactly
—”

“See? You even agree with me.” Duncan curled his fingers around the cat's bony jaw and began to scratch her under the chin. “Good kitty,
nice
kitty.” He let his fingers pause. “Promise you'll wake me up in time to go?”

Grizel tipped her head and squeezed her eyes almost shut. “Scratch a little more to the side, and I will … yes, right
there
.” A rumbling vibration began in her chest as she subsided into a contented purring.

Duncan did not want to be a bad son. But there was no way his mother would understand about the cat council, and he would rather not mention the graveyard. She always got a worried look on her face when he visited the grave she had told him was his father's.

He scanned the cliffside road again. Maybe his mother was teaching an extra piano lesson today. He should probably set the table for supper. And maybe tonight he could offer to play their old game of Noble Manners. It was getting boring for him (what use was it to learn all the customs and dances and courtesies of nobles—barons and earls and dukes—when he would never be one?), but it seemed to please his mother. With any luck, she would forget to ask for his report card.

Grizel gave a little mew of protest. Duncan, who had forgotten to keep his fingers moving, began to scratch again, this time behind the cat's ears.

Petting a cat was not the most exciting thing in the world. Still, it was pleasant, sitting in his favorite spot on the stairs. The small window overlooked the bay far below, curved and shining in the late-afternoon light, and he could see the fishing boats coming in from the sea, floating like curled-up leaves on the water. Halfway up the hill, the rooftops of his monastery school flashed orange and gold in the sun.

Duncan and his mother lived in the cliffside part of the island of Dulle, where the sun scorched them in summer and the sea wind scoured them in winter. It was a long walk down to the bay, and they did not often have the money to pay for the freshest fish. But Duncan loved the little house that was tucked under the overhanging cliffs. He loved being up high where he could see everything spread out beneath him, as if he were a king looking out over his realm. And sometimes at night, if there was no mist, he could even make out the glittering lights of Capital City on the far curving edge of the sea.

Someday he would sail there to make his fortune. And then he would be able to take care of his mother so she wouldn't be afraid anymore. He didn't know what Sylvia McKay was afraid of, exactly, but he was sure that when he was a man, he would be able to protect her from whatever it was.

Something moved at the edge of Duncan's vision. He snapped his gaze to the street below and saw a tiny white kitten.

It looked like Fia, a kitten he had seen roaming the monastery school. He had given her treats once or twice. But what was she doing out alone?

The kitten blinked up at his window. Even from this height, Duncan could see the startling difference in her eyes—one blue and one green. It was Fia, all right.

He slid Grizel gently off his lap and thumped down the stairs in his socks. He undid the double lock that his mother had installed—
snick, snick
—and he was out on the cobbled street, paved with stones as smooth as the Arvidian Sea could make them.

“What is it, Fia?” He sat down on the doorstep, its rough edges warm beneath his hands. “Are you lost?”

“Not me!” Fia swiped a tiny paw at Duncan's knee. “Only
baby
cats get lost!”

“Ah,” said Duncan.

Grizel slipped through the open door and gave the kitten a disapproving look. “Where's your mother? You shouldn't be out on the street by yourself.”

Fia switched her tail. “I'm just as big as my littermates—well, almost—and
they
can go out by themselves. Anyway, I have a message.”

Grizel shook her head. “You can't be a messenger cat. You haven't even passed your kitten examinations yet.”

“I'm
going
to pass them,” said Fia with dignity. “And I'm
practicing
to be a messenger cat. And I have news for Dunc—”

Fia stopped midword and swallowed hard. She tensed as if to dart away, but she was too slow for the cream-colored cat who streaked from behind a flowerpot and bowled her over with the force of a small, four-legged truck.

The white kitten squirmed under the pressure of two firm paws.

“
I
have news for
you
,” said Fia's mother. “You do
not
leave the monastery grounds unless I am with you. Do I make myself clear?”

“But I want to tell Duncan something!”

The cream-colored cat stiffened her whiskers. “Are you a cat or a postmaster?” she demanded. “We cats do not concern ourselves with human affairs. We have enough to do with our own. And I certainly have enough to do with looking after one harum-scarum little kitten who can't seem to obey the rules.”

Grizel coughed behind one paw. “Human affairs aren't
completely
without interest, Mabel. You have to admit that you usually wander down to the bay when the boats come in. And you're not too proud to beg for a fish head or two.”

Mabel drew herself up with dignity. “Of course I don't expect you to understand,” she said frostily. “You've never been a mother—you haven't a mother's feelings. But I, who must provide for my litters—”

“One every year,” Grizel murmured to Duncan.

“—must get proper nourishment. Come along, Fia. We needn't waste any more time.” She picked Fia up by the scruff of the neck and stalked away.

“But what about my message?” Duncan meowed after them. “What's your news, Fia?”

Fia's small voice came floating back. “Your mother is—”

Fia's words were cut short by a fierce shake, and Mabel, with the kitten dangling from her mouth, disappeared around the corner.

 

CHAPTER 2

A Strange Sail

D
UNCAN KNEW WHAT HE WAS SUPPOSED TO DO
if his mother was working late—do his homework, make himself something to eat. But today had been the day when they took the national tests at the monastery school, and Friar Gregory, his teacher, had assigned no homework.

Grizel butted his leg with her head. “What about supper?”

At the word, Duncan's stomach sent up a small grumbling sound of discontent. He opened the icebox and saw what he had expected to see: a little bread, a little cheese, a couple of wilted carrots. Enough for one person, perhaps, but certainly not for two.

Duncan chewed on a fingernail. If he ate it all, his mother would come home to nothing. She would say she wasn't hungry, of course—or she would say that they had fed her supper at her last music lesson. It might even be true.

He closed the icebox slowly. Probably his mother was fine. Probably she had something to eat. And whatever Fia had wanted to tell him about his mother, it was probably something that only a kitten would think was important.

“Try the sea chest,” suggested Grizel, who had seen what was in the icebox and had not been impressed. “I've seen her take money out of it, in an emergency.”

Duncan glanced up the stairway to the landing. The old black sea chest with its brass bindings had been there as long as he could remember, but his mother kept it locked, and he had never once seen inside. “This isn't exactly an emergency,” said Duncan.

“Of
course
it's an emergency.” Grizel's meow was insistent. “There's no
fish
.”

“There's no money, anyway. If there were, she would have bought some food.” Duncan shrugged, trying not to care that the icebox was nearly empty. He pursed his lips in a whistle and pounded up the stairs to the window again. Maybe his mother was coming up the road by now. Maybe she was late because someone had paid her early and she had stopped to buy groceries.

The cliffside road was still empty, but in the bay below there was plenty of motion. The fishing boats were closer now, inside the sweep of beach that curled around the bay like a cat's tail. People, so small from this distance they looked like moving black dots, gathered at the shore, waiting to buy fresh fish for their suppers.

But there was something else moving. A scrap of white, out at sea. Duncan leaned out the open window and shaded his eyes, squinting. A sail, but on what boat? The fishing boats were almost in. And the big supply ship from Capital City had already come yesterday and gone again.

He licked his finger and tested the breeze. The boat at sea had her sail out full—she was running before the wind, heading straight for the island of Dulle. She might enter the bay in a half hour.

Grizel brushed up against his side and gave an inquisitive meow.

“There's a new boat coming in,” said Duncan. He stepped over Grizel and hurried down the stairs.

“And where do you think you're going?” The cat followed him, her whiskers stiff.

“Down to the wharf. There might be mail. There might be news.” Duncan yanked on his boots and promptly broke a bootlace. He grunted his impatience and tied a reef knot to join the broken ends. Hanging around sailors was useful—he'd learned all his knots from them years ago.

“There might be trouble from your mother if you go down to the docks.” Grizel planted herself in front of the door and fluffed out her fur to make herself seem bigger. “You know she doesn't allow you to go there when the ship from Capital City comes in.”

Duncan pushed the end of his bootlace carefully through the eyelets. “She doesn't allow me to go when the
supply
ship comes in. That's because it's big and uses dangerous equipment for unloading. But this is only a sailboat, and it looks pretty small to me.” He knotted his laces tightly. A boy who was clever and quick on his feet stood a good chance of making some extra money if he got to the wharf when a boat first docked. The skipper might need an errand run or a message delivered.

“But your mother will worry!”

“She won't know I've gone until I get back safely. And she'll like it if I bring some fish for supper.” Duncan stood up.

Grizel's ears pricked forward with sudden interest. “Or eels?”

Duncan reached for the door. “You won't get anything if you don't move out of my way.”

Grizel hesitated. “Put on your cap, then. You told your mother you would. And I'm coming with you.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. The leather cap his mother insisted he wear when he went outside was a little much, in his opinion. With the earflaps down, it covered every bit of his dark red hair, and it even buckled under the chin. It was a good cap to have when the sea wind turned cold—the other boys had caps like it, too—but it was stupid to wear it on a sunny afternoon. Still, Grizel was right. He had promised.

“You'd better fasten the chin straps,” said Grizel, but Duncan ignored her. Only little boys buckled their caps.