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It was a test. The cat passed it. She climbed into Dawna's lap, briefly licked the top of each kitten's
head, then stared up at the warrior again as the kittens burrowed in toward the tabby's nipples. "By the
Gods, I believe youarehiring me. Why not? Very well. It's a bargain." She put out a hand to seal the deal,
as she did with her human clients, and laughed at herself as the cat sniffed her fingers. "Here, then," she
said formally, unhooking the pennant. "My gage is the symbol of my service. Carry it until my duty to you
is discharged."
She wound the streamer twice around the cat's neck, tying the loose ends in a bow. "A bit gaudy with
your coloring, my lady, but not too bad."
The cat seemed pleased, and began to wash her wet paw. The kittens were well into their morning meal.
But how to discharge her commission? Dawna thought, pushing the needle through the hard leather. She
could hardly follow the cat on her morning rounds, nor shadow her as she stalked vermin. The cat solved
the dilemma by departing abruptly from the mercenary's lap, leaving the now sleeping kittens behind. The
mercenary shrugged and went on with her repair.
As morning began, the smaller children emerged carrying slates and headed toward a house at the
opposite corner of the square, where a goodwife was waiting with her hands on her hips: the village
schoolteacher. The older children who were apprenticed were already on their way to and fro,
discharging commissions for their masters. They all gave her a wary look as they passed her, sitting under
the tree in the middle of the green, especially the blond boy whom she had spanked.
Once in a while the cat returned to feed her kittens. She had decided Dawna's lap was by far the best
place for the job. The butcher passed by with a cart full of meat, saw the red streamer around the cat's
neck, and snorted.
"How much is it paying you?" he asked.
"Two fish a day," Dawna replied. "I've had better wages, but I've had worse, too."
"You're mad," the butcher informed her. "That's the silversmith's cat. He'll do as he pleases with her,
scarf or no scarf."
"If she has the wits to ask for my help, then she's master of her own fate," Dawna said.
Word spread quickly through the small town about her contract with the cat. From her vantage point on
the green she could see all the comings and goings. Even the boy, who appeared to be apprenticed to the
brewer, gave the orange cat a wide berth as he wheeled kegs of beer up and back from the brewery.
The cat strutted, proudly displaying the red scarf around her neck as she went about her business.
One dark-haired lad did work up the courage to shy a stone at the orange cat. It just missed her, striking
dust up from the pathway directly under her belly. The cat levitated in surprise, spun around to glare at
her attacker, then she turned and stared directly at Dawna. No doubt remained in the warrior's mind that
the cat understood what she had commissioned. Dawna, grinning, began to rise from her seat under the
tree. The boy's face paled in fear, and he fled into an alleyway, his loose shoes pattering on the
cobblestones. Dawna settled back again. She doubted he'd ever try again.
As long as she was there, that was. Dawna could not stay in Cabbage Town for long. By her reckoning
she had perhaps a day, maybe two, before the townsfolk decided they were tired of the looming
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presence of an armed mercenary, one they thought was at least a little mad because she considered
herself employed by a cat!
Shouting voices drew her attention to the river path. She saw nothing at first, but a small
black-and-white cat came tearing up the hill, running full out. Its eyes were round with terror. It spotted
Dawna and made directly for her. As it neared, Dawna saw blood, bright red on its fur. A cluster of
children pelted up the hill ten steps behind it, throwing stones and clods of earth. By the time they
reached the green, the black-and-white was crouched underneath Dawna's shield, trembling. Its eyes
lifted to hers, beseeching. The blood dripped from a cut in its side.
"I won't give you away, little one," she said, laying a gentle hand on its neck.
The children cast about, looking for their prey. "It got away!" one of them shouted. "Let's go find
another!"
They shot Dawna defiant glances. So that was the way of it, she thought. As long as the orange cat was
off limits, they were going to have their fun with other animals. She loathed this town and everyone in it.
She opened her pack. "Stay there, little one," she said, as the black-and-white began to edge away from
the strange sounds. "I've got salve that will ease the pain and stop the bleeding." The little cat held still for
its physicking, then lay purring weakly as Dawna tied a makeshift bandage around its middle. When the
orange cat returned she touched noses with the newcomer, then gave it a good washing before lying
down to feed her kits. Dawna had a new client.
* * *
"Nay, I'll not sell you red cloth, nor anything else," the weaver said severely, spreading his hands
protectively over the stock on his counter. "I'd suggest you go visit the priests and see if they'll pray for
your sanity. Now, leave."
Dawna gave up the argument and departed from the white-painted shop. She had not gone five paces
out of the door when something bumped her leg. She looked down to see the gray cat, a long, red ribbon
trailing from its mouth. It draped the end over her boot and blinked moonlike eyes at her. She groaned.
"Not you, too! Does no one treat their beasts with respect in this town?" Dawna glanced about to see if
anyone was watching her. She took a small coin and wrapped it in a scrap of cloth. "Give this to your
master for pay," she said. "I won't have either of us in trouble for theft. I accept your commission."
The gray cat dipped his head as if nodding, and trotted back into the store with the little bundle in its
mouth. Dawna strode hastily up the hill, not wanting the weaver to come bursting out and accuse her
publicly of sorcery.
Word had spread among the four-legged denizens of Cabbage Town, too. When she returned, her small
camp was occupied by a dozen cats. Some of them bore the marks of recent ill-treatment; still others had
old scars and limbs misshapen from being broken and left untreated. None of them had come
empty-handed, or, rather, empty-mouthed. A little pile of offerings guarded by the orange-striped mother
cat included sausage links, a raw chicken leg, a silk handkerchief, a child's purse containing one copper
coin and a thumbprint-sized religious medallion depicting the Forest God. The length of red ribbon from
the weaver's was barely long enough to make collars for all the worried-looking felines huddled near her.
More clients. That night, they once again provided her with warmth, fresh fish, and not a few fleas. If she
was going to be the protector of the local cats, she was going to have to pick them some fleabane.
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* * *
"Rats!" the silversmith declared, confronting the warrior nose to nose as she stumped back up the hill [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]