Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

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."