The Sign of the Cat (32 page)

The water rushed seaward, and suddenly he was breathing in great gasps, taking in air in a panicked rush. He stared around him, salt water dripping from his eyebrows. He had whole seconds in which he could see the earl leaving the harbor crane and walking quickly toward the boardwalk and the welcoming committee. The harbormaster stood in a bright circle of lantern light with the band playing behind him. They would never notice Duncan's dark head or the bars of the cage in the black water beyond the ship, and now the next wave was rolling in—it was over his head—

There was a rhythm to the waves as they crashed in and sucked out. Duncan had time enough to breathe in between them, but it wasn't until the third wave had come and gone that he managed to get enough air to yell.

It was a useless attempt. The sound was swallowed up in a blare of trumpets. And the shout had taken up most of his air. He would not be able to yell after every wave; he had to breathe sometime.

Obviously the earl had not wanted to give Duncan a chance to attract anyone's attention; dumping his cage into the sea had filled that requirement nicely. At least he hadn't set it down in the deep water channel. If he had done that, Duncan would have had no chance at all.

When the fourth wave came and went, Duncan caught sight of the iron hook, still attached to the ropes on the cage. Once the crowd of people went away, it would be easy enough for Bertram to raise the cage once more and lower it back onto the ship. Yes, that was what would happen. Of course it would. The earl still wanted to get more information out of Duncan about the princess. Naturally he wasn't planning to leave Duncan in the water.

But when the fifth wave washed over Duncan and back into the sea, he saw the earl getting into the carriage waiting at the end of the dock. When the sixth wave had gone, Duncan saw Bertram walking swiftly from the gangplank to the carriage as the earl beckoned to him. And when the seventh wave had passed over his head, hissing, Duncan looked toward the waterfront and saw only the blank pavement, the lonely lantern, and a blowing bit of paper that looked like sheet music.

Duncan timed his breathing and tried to think. “Can you pick the lock underwater, Fia?” he asked when the surf rolled back.

The little cat nodded, shivering on top of the cage. “But I
hate
getting wet,” she said through her clenched teeth. “I don't know how Brig stands it.”

Working by feel and clinging to Duncan's hand against the push and pull of the waves, Fia held her breath and wiggled one claw in the keyhole. But this was the rusty padlock, with the stiff mechanism. It had been hard for her to open even when she had plenty of time—and plenty of air. She poked Duncan's wrist to signal that she needed to breathe.

“I can't … listen for … the click,” she gasped.

“It's all right,” said Duncan through chattering teeth. “Just try again.” He took a deep breath and held Fia high as another wave came pouring toward him. When it receded, he sucked in air as the water streamed from his hair, his face, his neck, his shoulders—

No. Not his shoulders. The water at its lowest point was up to his neck now. The tide was coming in.

Duncan tipped his head back so he could breathe for a few extra seconds. “Hurry,” he said.

“How … much time … do we have?” wheezed Fia after she had tried three more times.

Duncan calculated. He knew the bay and its tides, and at this phase of the moon, the highest point of the water would creep up an inch every two minutes or so. With every wave that came in, there would be a shorter time in which he could breathe, until at last he wouldn't be able to breathe at all.

“Seven minutes,” he said when he could speak. “Maybe eight.”

Fia's bedraggled face looked despairing. She sucked in another mouthful of air and poked Duncan's thumb with her claw—the signal for him to lower her to the padlock once more. She tried to unlock it again. She failed. She failed five more times.

Duncan looked up through the bars at her small anguished face, her mismatched eyes that glowed so beautifully in the dark. It wasn't going to work—he knew that now. But Fia didn't have to die.

“I'm tossing you onto the dock,” he said when he could speak, not wasting any words or breath. The wave would come back all too soon, and he had to make sure Fia was safe before then. If he let her try even one more time, he might not have enough time—or air—to do it.

“No!” Fia gasped. “I won't give up!” But Duncan's arm was already through the bars and cocked to throw.

He did not say good-bye. He needed his breath. He bunched his muscles—released them in a short, explosive effort—and Fia flew in a high arc through the night air, trailing a thin, piercing
miaow
. Just for a moment, Duncan had a glimpse of the cat scrabbling for a clawhold on the wooden dock, and then the next wave rolled mercilessly in.

 

CHAPTER 25

Army of Cats

P
ANIC FILLED
D
UNCAN'S CHEST.
It had weight and volume, like wet cement.

But he wasn't drowned yet. There were still a few waves left before the tide covered him completely; he would be able to snatch a few more breaths. There would be time enough to panic when he couldn't breathe at all.

Duncan curled his fingers around the bars above and pulled himself up until his nose pressed into the space between. His feet floated off the bottom, and he felt the cage rock slightly as the wave receded. Could he push the iron hook and chain off the top of the cage? Then it might float.…

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He found the hook with his hand, slick and cold and heavier than he had imagined, tangled in the links of chain. He had nothing to brace himself against. He pushed, but his arm was too weak.

His legs. His legs were stronger. He held on to the bars and worked one foot up through the gap. The mass of chain moved a little. If he could move it just a little more …

He snatched the last possible breath. He pushed with both legs, with all the force he had, and the chain slid off. He could hear the links clashing, and now their weight pulled the great iron hook, too, and the ropes lashed around the cage—

No, no,
no!
The words screamed in Duncan's mind as the cage tipped over. The waves rushed seaward, dragging it to deeper water. The iron hook and chain held it down, as firmly as any anchor. Duncan floated to the top of the cage, toward the dim, watery light from the wharf lantern. He reached up an arm through the bars. There was air on his hand; he could feel it, only inches away.

He was going to drown. This was how his father had died.

And then something large and dark blocked the lantern's glow like a fast-flying cloud. The bars above him shuddered and cracked. Everything was breaking around him; the whole cage crashed in and something had him by the collar; he was being dragged over the jagged wood and sandy bottom and then his head broke the surface at last and he breathed cool, sweet air in great shuddering gasps.

Something was licking his face with a tongue like sandpaper. Duncan rolled over to see Brig's shaggy muzzle and a pair of brightly shining, very worried eyes.

As it turned out, Fia had not wasted time meowing on the dock. She had intelligently raced back onto the ship, tumbled down three ladders to the hold, picked the lock on Brig's cage, and led him back outside where he was just in time to see Duncan's hand above the waves. Brig had launched himself at the cage, over 300 pounds of furious leaping tiger, and the wooden bars had cracked under the impact.

Duncan cuddled Fia and wheezed out his thanks. Then he threw his arms around Brig's thick neck and buried his face in the tiger's damp fur.

“Just doing my duty, sir,” Brig said, but his ears flushed, and he looked ridiculously pleased. He lifted his paw in salute. “Now, with your permission, I'll secure the perimeter. It's hostile territory, so I shall use my camouflage skills. We tigers are particularly good at camouflage.”

He shook the water out of his ears. Did water magnify sound? Fia's meow sounded loud, as if there were more than one cat.…

There
was
more than one cat. Suddenly Duncan saw furry backs and waving tails all around him. The wharf cats had begun to gather; they had heard Fia's piercing meow of alarm, then Brig's roar of fury. Now, as Duncan filled his lungs with precious air and wrung his shirt dry, Fia explained things to the ever-increasing crowd of cats.

She worked her way backward, telling how Duncan had almost drowned (but cats had rescued him), of bloody battles with shipboard rats (the cat always won), how the princess was still alive (a very large cat had saved her), and in general covered everything that had happened from a cat's point of view. When she got to the Squisher and Grinder, the cats moved restlessly, glancing at one another, and all the mother cats covered their kittens' ears.

Duncan, meantime, had been watching the lights moving on the hill. His time in the water had seemed like forever, but in reality it had probably only been a half hour since the earl and Bertram had left. The baron's manor house was lit from top to bottom; only a few lone straggling lights were still moving toward it. The concert must be about to start.

His instinct was to run straight to his mother, to just burst in and tell everyone what had happened. But he had had time to think.

It would be stupid to walk up to the front door, dripping and filthy. The baron's footmen would not let him into the manor house like that, and explanations would take time. Worse, the earl or Bertram might see him first.

Duncan knew how quickly the earl could think of a lie; he knew how quickly Bertram could bundle him out of sight. There had to be a better way.

Cats were still coming, padding through town streets, winding their way down the cliffside road. They sat around Fia in a half circle, quiet, watchful, with their ears pricked forward. Latecomers climbed trees and awnings, and Old Tom clawed his way up a thick wharf post and perched there with his shoulders hunched and his whiskers stiff, listening in perfect silence. But when Fia told about her capture and the kitnip that the Earl of Merrick had discovered and used to steal kittens, Old Tom could keep quiet no longer.

“I
told
you! I told you all!” he cried in an anguished meow. “But no one would
listen
!”

A murmuring meow swept through the ranks of cats, and then a commanding
mrreoow
rose above the rest. “All right, Tom; we're listening now.”

Duncan looked for the cat who had spoken. A large marmalade cat leaped up onto the low eaves of a boatshed. He looked like the cat who had run the kitten examinations in the cemetery, so long ago.

The marmalade cat gazed calmly down at the assembled cats. “We must come to a decision about this dog of an earl. We have enough here for a quorum; I suggest we hold a cat council immediately. All in favor, meow.”

A chorus of meows rose at once.

“All opposed, hiss.”

The wharf was silent. Then, suddenly, a single cry rang out. “
Fia!
My baby!”

From far off, at the base of the cliffside road, a cream-colored streak came flying across the waterfront and straight through the rows of gathered cats, scattering them right and left.

“Mommy!” breathed Fia.

The cream-colored cat gave a last great spring and landed in front of Fia, her tail straight up and quivering like a feather. “I knew it was you, I knew it!” she meowed, sniffing Fia's cheeks in a sort of ecstasy. “I could see your eyes from far off—your beautiful, beautiful eyes! I would have known you anywhere!”

Mabel butted Fia's head, rubbed along her flanks and twined their tails together, while Fia stood still in shock. “You think my eyes are beautiful?”

“Of course!” Mabel nuzzled the tender spot just behind Fia's jaw. “No other cat has such lovely eyes of two colors but my daughter!”

“But—but—” Fia stammered. “You never
said
you thought they were beautiful. I thought you were ashamed of them.”

“Well, naturally, I didn't want to give you a big head.” Mabel's tone was slightly acerbic. “It's never wise to pay a kitten too many compliments—they're hard enough to manage as it is. But you're way past kittenhood already—why, look at you, you're almost grown up!”

“I'm a good hunter, too,” Fia said modestly. “See this scar on my ear? That's from my first rat!”

The cat council was going on, so Fia and Mabel moved to one side to exchange their news. Duncan paced around the crowd of cats—there were hundreds now—but he couldn't locate Grizel anywhere. He passed Old Tom, still perched on his post, and questioned him.

“Grizel? Old cat, a little creaky?”

Duncan nodded.

“She's been sick lately, I heard. Must be all that rich food up at the baron's house—whoa, excuse me, it's coming to a vote!”