The Sign of the Cat (36 page)

Grizel padded up and peered through Duncan's legs. “A fine performance of Cat Trick #48. The best I've ever heard!”

“I don't remember #48,” Duncan said.

“Repeated Insistent Yowling, of course,” said Grizel. “If it's done correctly, it can drive a human nearly mad.”

“They're down,” said Betsy, who had pushed in next to Duncan. “No, they're up again—”

“That won't last long,” said Tammas, chuckling as the earl and Bertram staggered in circles, trying to shake off cats as they went. Now and then, a cat went flying, but it would land lightly on its feet and another cat jumped up to take its place.

“The cats are substituting for each other,” Duncan said, climbing onto the balustrade for a better view. “It's like they're playing some sort of cat team sport. There's always a fresh one ready to come in.”

“I'm playing too!” roared Brig. He bounded joyfully across the lawn and into the fray. With one heavy blow of his paw, both Bertram and the earl were knocked on their backs. The other cats promptly pounced on top in a yowling, smothering pile of fur and claws and lashing tails.

One of the baron's men stepped forward. “Shall we put them in chains, my lord?”

The baron snorted with laughter. “Yes, if you can get them out from under the cats. I don't know what the earl did to make them angry, but they're doing an excellent job of punishing him for it.” He wiped his eyes, still laughing. “Cat justice! I love it!”

The baron's guards reached into the writhing, furry mass and snagged two feebly kicking legs. With a clank and a snap, shackles were attached to their ankles, and the earl and Bertram were hauled to their feet. They clung to the guards, their faces pale as they shrank from the mob of hissing cats.

Duncan jumped down from the balustrade and flung his arms around Brig's thick, soft neck. “Good work, Brigadier. You came just in the nick of time.”

“Thank you, sir,” rumbled Brig plaintively. “May I please have a sheep
now
?”

 

CHAPTER 28

Kittens' Revenge

T
HEY SAILED FOR
C
APITAL
C
ITY AT DAWN.
When they landed, an emergency session of the Arvidian Council was called at the palace. And before nightfall, Duncan was sworn in as King and Protector of the Realm.

“But I'm not really the king,” he said.

“You are,” said his mother, “until we find the princess alive and well.”

Mr. Corbie, the old sailing master, had been called to the palace and was deep in consultation with Tammas. They spread out the charts on a vast table in the royal library and began to plot a course.

“I've sighted that island,” said the sailing master, “from a distance. But Tammas has anchored there, and he knows the currents and reefs. I'll want him along to help.”

Duncan said, “I can help, too.”

His mother straightened abruptly. “You won't be going.”

“You must stay here, in the palace,” said the baron. “Arvidia can't lose another king, not so soon.”

Duncan glared at them. It was the same old thing; someone was always trying to keep him safe. He opened his mouth to argue, but Grizel meowed at him from the window seat where she lay curled in the last golden rays of the setting sun.

Duncan stalked to the library window, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Remember your training,” Grizel meowed softly. “A cat never argues, nor does it plead. A cat considers the facts calmly and then decides. A king should do the same.”

Duncan gazed out the window for a long moment. Below him, Capital City lay spread out like a patchwork quilt, and in the harbor was a ship at anchor. Beyond that was the blue-green sea, stretching to the horizon. Somewhere, out there, the princess and old Mattie were waiting for him.

Duncan turned with dignity and heard Grizel give an approving sniff.

“I promised I'd go back for them,” he said. “And I'm the only one who knows how to get to the interior of the island. You need me to come along.”

“It would be most helpful,” the sailing master admitted.

Duncan's mother clasped her hands together. “I can't let you go again! You only just returned to me!”

“You can sail with us.” Duncan smiled at his mother. “And I'll appoint the Baron of Dulle to be my regent. He can stay here and rule until we bring the princess back—to be queen.”

*   *   *

Duncan climbed high on the ship's rigging and turned his spyglass on the far horizon. By the sailing master's calculations, they should have sighted Traitor Island two days ago. But even Tammas admitted that sailing was not an exact science … and they were on the far edge of the known world, where currents collided and winds were violent.

Duncan looked down at the deck a moment to rest his eyes and frowned slightly as he caught sight of Brig. The tiger was another worry.

Brig hadn't been himself since the day they sailed from Capital City. He picked at his food with a disinterested claw, stared glumly into space, and sighed a great deal; even obeying orders didn't seem to give him much satisfaction, and he refused to say what was wrong. Duncan let out his breath in an exasperated puff. Whatever was bothering the tiger, it seemed clear that he wanted to work it out on his own.

Meanwhile, Duncan was glad to be sailing again. Tammas was teaching him how to use a sextant and take the altitude of the sun. Duncan liked learning how to find his way on the trackless sea. One of these days, he was going to be an excellent navigator, Tammas said.

If only he could find Traitor Island! Duncan put the glass to his eye again and scanned the far, thin line where blue sky met bluer sea.

The breeze had freshened and was growing stronger. Duncan clung with his legs and gave a brief wave to his mother, who had just come on deck. He was starting to get used to this new, laughing mother who let the wind whip her hair and never wore a scarf at all, much less an ugly green one.

She answered every question he asked about his father now, as fully as possible. And she had explained about the grave on the hilltop cemetery, too.

“I saw a tombstone with the initials CDM,” she had said, “and I told you they were your father's initials. Naturally you thought that meant the grave was his, and I let you believe it. There was so little I could tell you; I wanted to let you have something, however small. And I wasn't lying—the initials
were
his.”

Duncan blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. “
LAND
!” he bellowed. “
TRAITOR ISLAND
!”

*   *   *

They had had weeks on the return trip for Lydia to get used to the idea of being an orphan—and a queen. Mattie had found the trunk of new clothes that had been brought for Lydia, and she'd promptly begun to sew, altering them to fit. And there were daily sessions with the duchess on everything from court etiquette to affairs of state. So on the evening when the ship sailed into the Capital City harbor with signal flags flying, Lydia put on her new royal garments, listened to her twenty-one-gun salute with calm composure, and walked down the gangplank to the sound of trumpets as if she had been hearing them all her life.

Brig disappeared somewhere into the twilight the minute they docked. Duncan was just as happy to let him go. The tiger had been moody the entire trip, and Duncan was tired of asking him what was wrong.

That night, Duncan slept in a huge chamber at the palace, on a vast feather bed with a swansdown pillow—and the feeling that his room was rocking beneath him. He almost felt as if he were still on the sea, he had been afloat for so long.

Early the next morning, Duncan swung his leg idly from a broad marble windowsill and stroked Grizel as she purred beside him. He gazed at the spacious landing, the Persian carpets, and the wide, sweeping staircase descending below, and wondered when Lydia was going to wake up. They had a plan to visit the palace dungeon.

The baron had told them that he'd transferred the earl and Bertram from the jail at Dulle to the more secure dungeon in the palace. “Some of the island cats seemed to want to come too,” the baron had added, chuckling, “so I let 'em. I'll tell you this—cats on a ship, or in a jail, make for fewer rats!”

Duncan fidgeted. He wanted to see for himself that the Earl of Merrick was locked up securely, but if Lydia didn't hurry up, there would be no time. She was going to be crowned today.

There was a click of claws on the marble floor behind him, and a tiger's apologetic cough. “Sir?”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. Brig's moody expression was gone, and in its place was a look of high delight. Yet his tail was held low—something Duncan had hardly ever seen. In cat language, it meant the cat was unsure or needed a favor.

“What is it, Brig?”

The inside of Brig's ears turned pink. “Might I take a leave from active duty, sir? For a few days … or weeks … or maybe more? I want to go on a nice, long—er—”

Duncan waited.

“
Honeymoon
,” the tiger said in a small voice.

Duncan choked. Something horribly like a hoot seemed caught in his throat, and he strained a cheek muscle trying not to grin.

Brig cleared his throat. “You may remember,” he said, “that the Fahrian miners left
two
tigers with the royal ship, as a gift to the king. I was one. The other tiger was a young female, barely more than a cub. Anyway, the earl brought her to the king, who put her in the zoo here in Capital City. Betsy took me there to visit, before we set sail for Traitor Island.”

“Aha!” said Duncan.

Grizel's purr stopped. She lifted her head alertly.

Brig's ears turned pink right down to his scalp. “Well, that tiger is older now. She has a really lovely pattern of stripes, quite fetching, and such perky ears—”

Grizel made a rasping noise that sounded like a snort, suddenly smothered.

Duncan gave up the battle to keep from grinning. “What's her name?”

Brig's furry face took on a besotted look. “Bertha,” he said tenderly. “Isn't that the most beautiful name you've ever heard? Berrrrrtha,” he murmured, stretching out on the parquet floor. He closed his eyes, as if in some happy dream.

“A name meant to be purred,” said Duncan, gazing at the tiger fondly.

“She doesn't like the zoo,” Brig said earnestly. “I finally got up the nerve this morning to ask her to be my mate. And she said
yes
! So I was wondering, would you let us live on Duke's Island, in the forest? The wild is a much better place for a tiger than a zoo. And Bertha thinks it would be a much better place to raise the cubs.” He smiled foolishly.

Duncan chuckled. “Sure, you and Bertha can live in the forest on my island—”

“Oh, sir!” Brig reared back in an excess of joy. “I'll tell her right away!”

“On one condition,” Duncan added. “Promise to stay away from my sheep—if I ever get any, that is.”

A door squeaked somewhere down the hall, and Lydia dashed out with one shoe in her hand. “Hurry! I barely escaped. Get out of sight, or they'll catch us!”

“Who?” Duncan held Lydia's arm as she hopped into her second shoe.

“Servants!” Lydia hissed. “They want to do everything for me! It's making me crazy!”

They ran on tiptoes along the echoing hall and turned a maze of corners, followed (more slowly) by Grizel. “Right, left, right, right,” Lydia whispered, keeping track of the turns. “I studied a map of the castle. I'm pretty sure this is where we go down.”

They had come to a narrow staircase of stone, rough-hewn and with no handrail, that curled down and around a central tower. One hundred and fifty-three steps down, they stopped at a wooden panel in the tower wall and slid it open.

Spike was there, curled up on an inner ledge. “Visiting hours are—oh, hello! It's you!”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. The cats had things awfully organized if they had set up visiting hours for the dungeon. He stuck his head over the ledge and looked down.

Twenty feet below was a small, stone-walled room with two benches, two buckets, and two men sitting hunched. A pungent smell rose up, and Duncan could guess at the contents of one of the buckets, at least. A bit of crisscrossed iron showed where the barred door must be, and a torch on the wall filled the dungeon cell with flickering light and shadow.

The earl looked up. His expression, forbidding in the wavering light, turned wicked. “Come to gloat, have you?” he shouted up at Duncan.

Lydia pressed up against Duncan's side and peered down as well.

The earl gave a great start. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am the Princess Lydia, whom you betrayed!” Her voice carried down the echoing tower, clear and cold and regal.

There was a strangled sound from below.