Flight of the Renshai

CHAPTER 32

Matrinka reposed on the tall, canopied bed in the center of her bedroom, the curtains drawn back to reveal the bureaus, wardrobes, and the shelves that lined her room. Back propped against the headboard and knees drawn up to support the large, silver tabby in her lap, she petted Imorelda with the wistfulness that seemed to assail her whenever she found herself alone with her thoughts.

Three weeks had passed since Rantire had smashed Tae's nose. Gradually, the blue-black bruises had faded from around his eyes; and a bump had formed in the center where the bones knitted together without her ministrations. He looked more gaunt and haggard at every meeting, and he imparted less and less useful information. Meanwhile, the pirate attacks grew more frequent, more deadly, and the news coming from the front more harsh and horrible. She guessed it was worse even than she knew; Griff tended to protect her from the worst of it.

"I'm worried about him," Matrinka told the cat as she ran her hands over fur slick from her repetitive stroking. Few hairs came free, most already swirling through the air of her room. "Your master is courageous, but he's also a fool."

Imorelda purred heartily. Matrinka suspected she agreed. The queen could almost hear the cat's response in her head, as she had heard Mior for so many years. It seemed petty and self-indulgent to pine over an animal when so many humans were dying for her kingdom. Yet Mior had been so much more than just a cat: a confi dante, a physician, a sister, and her closest friend. "I hope he knows how lucky he is to have you." Matrinka smiled as she spoke. She knew how precious their bond was and took pleasure in the realization that Tae had such an extraordinary relationship that no one but Matrinka knew about or understood. "You're a beautiful cat and a special friend."

Imorelda rolled over, still purring.

Matrinka rubbed her belly with appropriate gentleness. Few cats enjoyed the enthusiastic scratches that dogs preferred in this area. As she worked over the cat's favorite places, she studied her room. Once, the shelves had held an assortment of wooden and ceramic knickknacks, most of which closely resembled Mior. Now, they lay empty. The myriad cats that filled the castle had shattered enough for Matrinka to pack the rest away. *Can anyone hear me?* Matrinka sent her plaintive call into the emptiness. She used to test every newborn kitten, every cat she passed; but months had gone by without even a single attempt.*If you can, please answer, even if only to say you don't wish to talk.* *I can hear you.* The response touched Matrinka so faintly, she thought she had imagined it.

Matrinka froze, her hands stilling on the cat.

Imorelda caught Matrinka's hand, clawing lightly. *Did… did someone… answer?* Matrinka held her breath, scarcely daring to believe. Failing the Pica test had driven her cousins and siblings mad, those not slaughtered by elves before the truce. She, too, had failed. Perhaps she had finally succumbed to insanity as well. *I answered.* The voice came to Matrinka's head, louder now, more sure.

Matrinka's heart pounded. Still afraid to trust what she had heard, she hesitated before asking,*Where are you?* *I'm right here.* Imorelda grabbed Matrinka's stilled hands.*Right here in your lap.*

Matrinka looked down to find Imorelda staring at her through intent green eyes.*You, Imorelda?* *Yes.*

It should not have wholly surprised Matrinka. Mior had eventually managed to communicate with Tae as well as her. Yet she and Imorelda had never managed to directly converse before.*How?*

Imorelda righted herself and shook out the remaining dislodged hairs.*I don't know. I was listening to you talk about how stupid my stupid master is and agreeing with every word. Then, I realized I could coordinate your words with your thoughts. Finally, I found your voice. It's different than Tae's, like on a different… pitch. Like how meows vary in deepness from cat to cat.*

Matrinka suspected it translated better as the range of human voices, but she veered from the technical. It did not matter.*So…* She scarcely dared to hope.*Can we talk now? Or is it a temporary thing?* *I've locked on your pitch,* Imorelda reassured.*We should be able to talk same as me and Tae.*

Matrinka sat up and released a whoop of joy.

Imorelda rolled out of her lap onto the bedspread with an angry hiss.*Unless you insist on throwing me. Then, I just won't talk to you at all.*

Matrinka gathered the cat and hugged her.*I'm sorry, Imorelda. I'm just so happy.* It did not matter that she and Tae lived so far away. At least, when he visited, she would have the opportunity she had awaited for so long. *Me, too.* Imorelda began to purr again.*Now I can tell you all the best places to pet.*

Matrinka laughed. Imorelda reminded her so much of Mior.*Of course, you can. But, also, you can take messages between me and Tae, if you don't mind. And I'll have someone to talk to whenever you visit.* *You mean besides my stupid master?* *Besides your master, yes. He's like a brother to me, you know. I love him dearly.* *I know. But loving him doesn't make him any less stupid.*

Matrinka could not help worrying that she would lose the future opportunities, that Imorelda would forget how to communicate with her, or something might happen to the cat in the Eastlands.*Imorelda, why do you suppose I could talk to your mother, and now to you?*

Imorelda settled back into Matrinka's lap, still purring.*I suppose it's because you're one of the rare humans with a gift for speaking with your mind. And you're good-hearted, and-*

Matrinka waited breathlessly for the cat to finish. When she did not, Matrinka continued to stroke the striped fur casually and questioned.*And-* *And, you have a closeness, a bond for-* Imorelda was clearly having difficulty putting the concept into coherent words.*-certain cats.* She stopped purring to concentrate.*I'm not sure exactly, but it seems to require a certain type of closeness in the early relationship.*

Matrinka considered. She had first met Mior when her grandfather, King Kohleran, handed the calico to her as a grimy ball of fur rescued from a sewage pit. Imorelda had come to Tae as a gift of love from Mior herself.*I think I understand. The cat has to come into our possession by the kindness of a loved one.*

Imorelda's purring resumed. She rubbed a shoulder against Matrinka's hand.*You have too many cats.*

"What?" It was the last thing Matrinka expected to hear from a feline. *You have too many cats. They interfere with talking and bonding. Even if you had one you could communicate with, how would either of you know it?*

The proclamation left Matrinka speechless. Many people had told her, in ways ranging from tactful, to careful, to irritated, that her cats had overrun Bearn Castle. The servants griped about it all the time, though never to her face. Most put up with it because they loved the soft-spoken and gentle queen of Bearn and accepted her one eccentricity. But it had never occurred to Matrinka that the very thing she had done to try to breed another Mior might be keeping her from accomplishing that exact goal.*Oh, Imorelda. What should I do?*

Imorelda looked up at Matrinka as if she found the queen particularly dense.*Get rid of all these cats.*

Though simply spoken, the words were madness.*How can I possibly do that?*

Imorelda continued to stare.*Surely you don't have a deep attachment to all of them.Why, I doubt you know how many you have or that you can even tell a lot of them apart.*

Matrinka had to admit that Imorelda spoke the truth.*But I'll never find homes for all of them.There must be hundreds.* *Thousands, if you don't do something soon.* Imorelda butted Matrinka's hands, twining between them to get the attention back to its previous level.*Put them out; they can fend for themselves.*

Matrinka doubted it.*Not all of them.* *Then build sheltered cages and pile them inside with food and other things they need.There are herbs and surgeries that can render them sterile, and we know elfin magic can do that as well.*

Matrinka redoubled the petting.*I suppose that would not be inhumane.* *In fact, I wouldn't mind a few of those herbs myself.*

That surprised Matrinka who adored her own children and could scarcely imagine life without them. Losing just one had nearly destroyed her.*Oh, Imorelda. Don't you want a family?* *Tae and Subikahn are my family. And you.* *But kittens-* *Kittens are disgusting.* *-are charming,* Matrinka finished. *What?* they sent simultaneously, as each realized what the other had said. *Kittens are wonderful,* Matrinka explained.*Darling little furballs who love everyone and play all day.*

Imorelda disagreed,*They're churlish little varmints with the dexterity of turtles and the manners of rats.*

Matrinka could not help chuckling.*Are we talking about the same thing?* *Kittens.* Imorelda's lower lip curled.*Yuck.*

This did not bode well for Matrinka's future.*Imorelda, maybe just one litter. For me?* *Yuck.* Imorelda turned her back, tail lashing. *You see, I think it's just possible that this mind ability is passed from mother cat to first daughter or some such. Like the bardic gift.* Matrinka put a hand back on Imorelda, only to have the cat shrug free. *I'll make you a deal. I'll have a litter, if you eat the placentas, lick the babies clean, and feed them from your nipples.*

Matrinka rolled her eyes. Obviously, she could not handle those duties as stated, but she did not quibble. At least, the cat had left the way open, if only a crack. She could throw away the placentas, wipe the kittens clean with towels, and craft a bottle small enough to feed them, if necessary. Perhaps, though, Imorelda's maternal instincts might take over during pregnancy or after the kittens were actually born.*You have a deal,* Matrinka said.

Compared to the tiny towns and hamlets Calistin and Treysind had thus far encountered, New Loven seemed like a metropolis, big enough to merit an actual dot on the world map. Cart traffic rumbled through cobbled streets, threatening unwary pedestrians, and shopkeepers hawked their wares from sheltered doorways or covered stands. Like most of the Westlands, the people ran the gamut when it came to appearances: their hair colors ranging from a dark brown nearly indistinguishable from Bearnian black to a tousled sandy, and several children sported locks nearly as golden as Calistin's. Face shapes, nose sizes, body types ran a vast spectrum that seemed to come from a myriad sources all meshed into one. Even their skin tones displayed more variability than most: the vast majority cooked a healthy brown by the sun but none as olive as Easterners nor as sallow as Northmen.

Treysind fidgeted as they neared the town proper, nervous about leaving his hero. Calistin had promised to stay clear of trouble, but he never seemed to feel bound by promises, at least not to his young companion. "Ya'll wait fo' me?"

Calistin studied the town, appearing perfectly calm and in control. But, the hand sliding near his left hilt betrayed a discomfort only Treysind could recognize. A hint of annoyance entered his tone, and he did not look at the boy. "I said I would."

"An' ya ain't gonna go gettin' into no trouble?"

Calistin turned his companion a withering look.

Accepting that, and knowing better than to push any harder, Treysind darted across the road and around the back of the shops. There, in the alleyway, he knew he would have the best chance for a private conversation with one of the owners.

Sure enough, within three blocks Treysind discovered a middle-aged, heavyset grocer with a stained apron dumping a bucket of scraps. Scrawny dogs surrounded him, their tails waving merrily, snatching the bits of food before they could hit the ground. One growled, snapping at his neighbor, and the grocer immediately stopped to give the offending dog a nudge with his foot. "No, Rawly. Wait your turn, or you don't get nothing."

Though not the least bit hungry, Treysind could not help suffering a pang of regret at the idea of so much food wasted on animals. This man might not consider the peelings, moldy bits, and cores fit for human consumption, but Treysind had eaten worse and savored every mouthful. Still, he waited until the man had finished and turned before approaching. "Sir?"

The grocer stiffened.The bucket crashed to the ground, splashing slime that drew the dogs closer. His gaze jerked to Treysind.

Treysind stepped fully into the sunshine, hands out to indicate he held no weapons. "Sorry if I's startled ya, sir."

The grocer snatched up the bucket and wiped his brow with the back of his other hand. "Scared me half-dead, child. What are you doing skulking in the alley?"

"Ain't skulkin'." Treysind tried to reassure. "I never skulks, sir. Jus' wonderin' if ya's got any trouble wit'… wit' brawlies." He used the slang term for street gangs that hassled businessmen for money. The usual scam was to promise that no harm would come to the store if they were well-paid to guard it. Of course, the only danger to the store was from the brawlies, themselves, if the shopkeeper refused their offer.

The man's eyes narrowed, but a hint of hope flashed through them briefly and disappeared. "Who's asking?"

"Name's Treysind." He tried to look as composed as Calistin always did. "Gots a compan'on what hates brawlies. Kills 'em, even. Fights 'em one at a time, all at once't, in big ol' packs. Don't matter. Bigger the challenge, better he likes 'em."

Clearly intrigued, the grocer lowered the bucket. Dark bangs hung over green eyes that displayed interest and caution simultaneously. "He any good, this friend of yours?"

"Never loses. Not never."

"How many times has he fought? Like… once?"

Treysind could not count the number of times he had personally witnessed Calistin in battle or spar. "Hunnerds. Fighted fo' Bearn 'gainst them pirates. Even's bested Renshai."

"Renshai?" The man's brows furrowed, and he loosed a harsh laugh. "Now I know you're lying."

"Renshai," Treysind repeated, trying to look as dead serious as he could. "I's seed it. Seed it more'n once't."

The grocer scratched his head, still clearly unconvinced; yet he could not discard such a significant possibility without fully exploring it. "And, I suppose, this friend of your'n wants money to take care of my… problem."

"Nope. Ain't wantin' no money."

That clearly took the man aback. "So what's he doing it for?"

Now that he had the grocer's full attention, Treysind considered his words. He could not afford to squander the grocer's interest now without risking losing his hero, too. "I telled ya. He hates brawlies. An' he loves ta fight. Wants ta work he's sa'ward an' earn some glory fo' he's name."

The grocer grunted into a silence that stretched uncomfortably long.

Treysind tried to imagine the thoughts spinning through the grocer's head, wondering what kept him from plunging into what seemed like a perfect situation. He supposed the grocer needed to exercise a certain amount of caution. If Calistin lost, and the brawlies found out the grocer had given up their location, they might harm him or his store.

"I ain't fightin'," Treysind reassured the man. "An' m'hero ain't knowin' wheres I learnt how ta find them brawlies." He hoped that addressed the grocer's concerns without adding to them.

"Well," the grocer finally said. "You didn't hear it from me, but them brawlies come out as soon as it gets dark and the shops close down, looking for their share of the profits." He glanced around to ascertain they were alone, then moved nearer to Treysind and lowered his voice further. "They normally use the alley, too."

Treysind nodded encouragingly. He hated brawlies even more than the shopkeepers did. They practiced their bullying on street kids, took what little of value they could find, and thought nothing of raping, maiming, or killing boys like Treysind.

"Your best position's three doors down." The grocer made a gesture westward. "Khalen, the fabric-seller bought a load of expensive Eastern material last fortnight and hasn't found a buyer yet. He's short on cash since, and the brawlies been tapping him for every copper. I'm the only reason his family's eating, and he's hinted about doing something desperate."

"Thanks." Treysind wrestled down a smile. It would not do to appear gleeful, even though he felt like dancing. Calistin had become his hero by mowing down brawlies. It seemed only fitting to satisfy that endless Renshai bloodlust, that eerie godlike skill, by pitting it against the worst miscreants society had to offer. No compromise had ever seemed more appropriate. And he, Treysind, had given birth to the idea and brokered its commission. He, Treysind, had done something totally and unarguably right. For the first time in his life, he felt empowered, capable, and smart. He turned, preparing to leave.

The grocer muttered under his breath. "In for a copper, in for a gold." He called to the boy, "Treysind?"

Treysind stopped, whirled.

"They usually come in a group of five. Sometimes six. Their leader, they call him Savage, he's enormous. I'm a tall man, but he's got a head on me. And strong…"

Treysind nodded, waiting for the grocer to continue.

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. "Just tell your friend these ain't your regular small-town brawlies."

"Don't worry. He likes 'em big."

"I just don't like to see young heroes killed by their own bravado. Such a waste."

Treysind refused to worry.When it came to warfare Calistin never made mistakes. "Gonna take more'n a mess a brawlies ta take down Cali-Stan." With that, he turned again and retreated.

Treysind could barely hear the grocer's soft reply, "I hope you're right, boy. I just hope you're right."