"Esther M. Friesner - Puss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Mistake nothing: I would not have him die. His death would never bring my
freedom. Oh, but it was a rare pleasure to see him stare at me, disbelieving, and be
brought up short by recollection of my fine promises, and obey. I destroyed the
rustic smock and hose while he floundered in the chill water, cursing. I had hardly
done it when the rattle of coaches from the road summoned me to the next part of
my plan.
"Help! Help, ho!" My paws flailed the air; I brandished my plumed hat to make
the coachmen see so small a creature as a cat before the horses trampled me.
"Robbers, thieves, rascals and hounds! They have despoiled my good master, the
Marquis of Carrabas!"
The coaches reined up sharply, the beef-faced king shouting orders that were
obeyed instants before they fully left his lips. Lackeys scuttled down the frozen bank
to haul my old master's son from the water. Horseblankets wrapped him in their
stable smell, stinging my eyes with remembrance of all I owed him. He was bundled
into the king's own coach, and I scrambled after.
He was not so stupid as I feared. He kept his mouth shut, scenting fortune. The
king marked him for a modest man, but I felt a tug at my spirit and read contempt in
the princess' green eyes. Together we were whirled back to the castle, and while the
king decked out my old master's son in cloth-of-gold and satin, I paced before the
fire.
"Puss." My name, a hiss. Green eyes behind the heavy draperies, and a white
hand beckoning me into the shadows. My whiskers twitched. Her scent was all
jasmine and gillyflower. There was a small door, a passage suitable to servant's use,
or assassin's. This lavishly appointed chamber granted to my lord, the Marquis of
Carrabas, was one reserved for those of whom the king still cherished doubts.
I followed her, vanishing as cats are wont to vanish. There were no lights in the
narrow passageway, a lack which troubled neither her nor me. Fresh air stirred the
small fur of my face and we were in a deserted hall. From there three twists and a
roughcut flight of stairs brought us into the princess' own chamber.
No white here, nor frail yellow gold, nor any of the pallid waterwashed colors
most prescribed for princesses. Bed and floor and walls were draped and spread
and hung with rich stuffs colored like a dragon's hoard, like the spoils of a long-dead
city. My scarlet boots clicked over little, winking tiles like those I had known of old,
among the tumbled pillars of my home. A fireplace of black marble grinned, glibly
hideous with gargoyles. On the abandoned needlework frame I saw the icy, critical
stare of the pale god's mother.
"Come to the window, Puss," the princess said. There was but one. It was
narrow and dingy-paned, a poor view for a royal lady. Her eyebrows, feathery as a
moth's arched high with bitter amusement. I leaned against the slanty sill and gazed
across the green lands to a vast forest fencing the horizon.
"There, to the east," she directed. "One turret is all you can make out from here,
beyond the trees; a turret like a thorn. A thorn in my father's side greater than the one
my mother lodged in his heart when I was all the heir her body could bear him."
I saw it then, a tower sere and brown. The setting sun's last light was swallowed
up at a gulp by the hungry stones. I dropped from the window, landing on my
booted feet. "Whose castle is it, Highness?"
"Who knows?" Her laughter fell around my ears like chips of stone. "It lies over
one of the finest trade routes in these lands, that much I know, and guards the freest,
shortest passage to the sea. Much good that does our people. It has been decades
since any man of our kingdom was fool enough to try herding his goods over that