Robin Hobb - The Inheritance and Other Stories

He was still crying, but the permission to eat diverted his attention from the angry man in the door of his home. He sniffed and nodded once and then poked a finger at the cake. “Ow!”

“It will cool fast out here. Break it up in pieces. And don’t let the chickens steal it from you!” For the curious flock already had come running to see what the boy had.

“Mine!” he said decisively, and she almost smiled. She rose, pan in hand, and turned back to the door as Pell bellowed her name again.

“What do you want?” she asked him calmly. She stood at a safe distance.

“That damn cat pissed all over my clothes!” He tried to gather the blanket closer. He was shivering.

His fine clothes, cut and sewn to fit him, soaked with cat piss. She didn’t let herself smile. “So you’ve told us. Why are you yelling my name?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

She gripped the pan in her hand and found herself marching up to the door. “Nothing,” she said, and she actually shouldered past him. “It’s your problem, not mine.”

He stared as she hung the empty pan on its hook. “Where’s my breakfast?”

“I really don’t know.” She rounded on him with a quizzical stare. “Did you bring something for your breakfast? If so, I haven’t seen it. If you brought any food into this house in the last three years, I haven’t seen it.” She caught up her basket and shawl and managed to get out the door before he could decide how to react to that.

As she started down the path, he shouted after her, “What did you do with my other clothes?”

Did he mean the ones he’d left behind when he abandoned them? “I used them for rags and quilting,” she said. She didn’t lift her voice. He’d either hear her or not.

“If I see that damn cat again, I’ll kill him.”

She knew Marmalade and had no fear for him. But, “Kill Marm? Kill my Marmy?” Gillam came toward her at a trot, his face full of childish concern.

She stooped down to speak quietly to him. “No, Gillam. Marmalade is too smart for him. Don’t worry. I tell you what. Let’s go to Serran’s house and do washing first and hang it up in the nice wind to dry. Then we’ll look for greens on the way home.”

“With fish?” he asked her hopefully.

“Maybe with fish. Let’s see how far the tide is out. Perhaps we can cut across the beach.”

“Beach!” he exclaimed, and she smiled. Gillam loved the beach, and exploring it would add time to their journey, not reduce it. Usually she didn’t take him down the steep rocky path, but today she wished to get as far away from Pell as fast as she could, and stay away as long as she could.

“You had no right!” Pell bellowed after her when he realized she was leaving. “Those clothes belonged to me!”

She didn’t look back.

“You can’t take a man’s rightful possessions! What is mine is mine, and I will take it back!”

Cold clutched at her heart. He meant Gillam. His son. Her son. Her most precious of all things precious. That was why he had come back, she suddenly knew. Not for her or the cottage. To take Gillam.

“Let’s run!” she suggested, as she seized her boy’s hand and set off at a trot with Gillam jogging beside her.

From the rafters, the tom watched the man below him. The intruder kicked his wet clothes again, cursed some more, and then began to rummage through the sparse contents of the shelves. The cat watched him; there was no meat there, but he found a turnip and ate it. While he chewed, he took the lids off several other containers, grumbling all the while, and then abandoned his search for easy food. The cat could have told him there was nothing in the cupboard worth eating. All it was good for was attracting meaty little mice, which the cat had no intention of sharing.

Hilia was right. The big male human was going to be a problem. He took up too much of the bed, he smelled as if he might try to claim the territory, and he’d caused the cat to miss out on a nice eggy bit of cake this morning. And he’d made the boy wail, and the cat detested that awful sound. And he’d driven the woman away before she had built up the fire for the day. The cottage was rapidly cooling.

He glared down at the man. You need to leave. This is my territory and you are not welcome.

The man paused in his turnip chewing and looked up into the rafters. He had that stubborn look that people got when they knew that a cat was thinking about them but they didn’t want to accept it. “Cat? You up there? I’m going to kill you, you little bastard!”

I doubt it. You’re clumsy and heavy and slow. Everything that I’m not. The cat dug his claws into the beam and noisily sharpened them. When the man turned to peer up at him, he deliberately strolled across the rafter over the man’s head. He leaped up at the cat, batting futilely at him while roaring angrily. The cat sat down and wrapped his tail neatly around his feet. The man threw things, a vegetable, then a cup that shattered when it hit the wall, and then his boot, which landed in the fire. None of the objects hit the cat. The man was throwing them too hastily.

When he dragged a stool over and began to climb up on it, the cat stood, stretched, and then strolled along the beam until he reached the eaves. From there it was easy to push his way out through the storm-worn thatch. With a quick twist of his body he was up on the roof. He climbed quickly to the peak and sat down. He caught a glimpse of Rosemary and Gillam just as they turned and took the path that would take them down to the beach. He wondered if they would come back. The big human male was making an obvious claim to the territory. The female might be wise to take her kit and move on. He knew the ways of rogue males. He might very well kill the kit in the hopes of taking her as his mate again.

He didn’t like that idea. The female brought home food and shared it. She kept the shelter warm, and she was comfortable to sleep with. He doubted that the male human would provide any of that for him. So. How to be rid of him? He settled on the roof, folding his paws neatly under his chest and tucking his tail around him. He stared out to the horizon and pondered. How did one kill game that size?

Rosemary had to take the long way home. The tide was in, and that meant she had to follow the meandering path on top of the sea cliffs rather than cut across the bared beach. She paused for a moment to stare across the wide blue bay. On the opposite tooth of the land, she could just see the hazy buildings of Dorytown. Meddalee’s home. She wished Pell would just go back there. Let him chase his pretty girl with the fancy clothes and rich father. Just let him go away.

The wind blew harshly, pushing against her. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Come on, Gillam. Let’s get home and get warm.”

“Too tired. Too cold.” He sat down on the beaten earth of the path. His nose and cheeks were bright red, as were the tips of his ears. What had become of spring? And would she have warmer clothes for him before winter returned? He was growing so fast. She refused to think that far ahead. With a sigh she stooped down, hoisted him to her hip, and fashioned her shawl into a sling to take some of his weight. He’d already eaten more than half the smoked fish that Serran had given them for doing the wash. Rosemary had eaten some of it and concealed the rest in her bag for later. Damned if she would share it with Pell! But she might give the cat a bite or two.

Something in her had hardened. She was weary and Gillam was heavy, but heavier still were the words that Serran and Tarsha Wells had loaded onto her. “You should run, girl,” Serran had said bluntly after Rosemary had admitted that Pell had come back to the house and spent the night there. “Run while you can. Today. Don’t wait until he gets another child on you. Everyone knows what a charmer that man is. He’ll talk you into his bed, plant a baby in your belly, and then be off again. Don’t let him. Don’t even go back there.”