Page 46 of Time's Fool

Kit, on the other hand, had no idea where to go, since if there was an alewife in this establishment, he didn’t see her. He didn’t see anything but felines, their eyes gleaming creepily in the light of a large fireplace. Gods, there must be dozens of them!

“Stay here,” Gillian said, as several of the creatures wound around his legs affectionately. “I’ll go see if Rilda will spare us a moment.”

She was gone before Kit could protest, through a darkened doorway on the opposite side of the room into what he assumed were the proprietor’s personal quarters. Or perhaps those were up the staircase on the left-hand side of the place; he didn’t know. And wasn’t likely to find out, as the way up was blocked by at least two dozen cats who were sleeping on the stairs.

More of the creatures were lying on a shelf arrayed three quarters of the way around the room, licking paws and flicking tails. Still more were occupying the tables and benches scattered about, with one atop a man’s back who had slumped over as if he’d had too much to drink. Still more were tripping people up, including another man who almost hit the floor when one of them suddenly darted through his legs.

He cursed, but didn’t kick the creature, who went on its way unbothered; it was apparently the human’s job to avoid taking a fall. It joined the others on this side of the room, which included tabbies, sleek black shadows, fluffy orange boys and a pure white one with bright blue eyes. They all seemed fat and well cared for, without the missing bits and stumpy tails of the street variety, and were quite unafraid of people.

That included one on a nearby bench that yawned, stretched and rolled over to show its belly when Kit favored it with a glance, as if to say “this seat is taken.”

He supposed that at least a man didn’t have to worry about rat droppings in his food, and found a section of wall to prop himself up.

The group of ne’er-do-wells from outside came in a moment later, with the young woman throwing him a malevolent glance as she passed, before sashaying across to the right-hand wall where the fireplace cracked and flickered, and where a young, rat-faced man was sorting through a pile of clothes. The woman took out something from her bosom that glittered in the firelight and presented it to the man, who held it up. A fine gold chain gleamed for a moment as he inspected it, while the rest of the crew gathered around.

In short order, a silver buckle, several men’s hats, a couple of rings, a seal, a fluttering of handkerchiefs and some worsted wool stockings were produced, all of which were examined and paid off. No one seemed to care that Kit was watching them, including the receiver of the stolen goods, who never even glanced his way. So, they were protected here.

Kit hadn’t felt any spell or charm when he came in, but then, he’d been with Gillian, who was apparently well known in these parts. He wondered what he would have encountered alone. Considering the amount of hostility he’d experienced so far, he was just as glad he didn’t know.

It was curious, however. Back when he was a spy, he had frequented alehouses on the regular, both here and their equivalents abroad, to obtain information. People talked, and when they were drunk, they talked a great deal. A place such as this usually offered a good chance to pick up local gossip.

But nobody was talking at the moment. Of course, it was an odd time of day, too late for dinner and too early for supper, with workmen still at their jobs and the evening’s revelers not yet out. But there was an odd tenseness in the air.

And that was before a cat brushed up against him, the pure white one, and then jumped onto a nearby table. For a split second, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he saw a beautiful woman where the feline had been, lounging on the old boards as if on a velvet chaise. Her hair was the startlingly white of the cat’s fur, her eyes slanted and lovely and as blue as the skies, and her body dressed in nothing but a bunch of silver chains, as gossamer fine as the gold one the doxy had just sold.

And then Kit blinked, and the cat . . . was merely a cat. One that lifted a hind leg to lick itself a moment later, dispelling whatever strange fancy had taken him. But not the unease that had just ramped up considerably.

He wished Gillian would hurry up.

He wished that very much.

But instead, nothing happened except that a woman and young child came in from the street.

Thankfully, this woman was not at all strange. She looked like a thousand others in the city, the wife of a local workman perhaps, dressed in plain clothing that had seen better days, but had been patched to make do. She and the child walked across the house to the back room where Gillian had disappeared, and vanished into the darkness beyond.

There didn’t seem to be so much as a candle glowing in there, but she must have known where she was going, for he didn’t hear her fall. The fire crackled, the cats licked and slept and yawned and were tickled under the chin by one of the faux sailors, who seemed to like the creatures. And in a few moments, the woman was back, with her arms full of provisions.

There were loaves of bread sticking out of a basket that she hadn’t had before, a covered pot of what smelled like pottage nestled alongside them, and pottage with meat in it at that, and several large pies held in the crook of her arm. Even the little girl carried a pail with something that smelled like pears sloshing around in it. It was heavy enough to give her trouble, causing the woman to trade her the pies for the pail.

They reorganized things to their liking and departed again, while Kit’s forehead wrinkled. Not just at the quality of the food, which was considerably better than he’d have expected from a place like this, but at the fact that he had smelled none of it cooking. The pottage had been hot enough to have little wisps of steam escape from under the cloth that covered it, yet there was nothing bubbling over the fireplace and nothing in the air once they had gone.

At least, not in this room, which smelled largely of muddy boots, wet wool and cat.

He expanded his senses, exerting a small amount of power to take them from mostly human to something far beyond. And now that he concentrated, there was the faint sound of running water coming from somewhere nearby. That was strange enough to cause him to focus on it, and to be immediately slapped in the face with an assortment of other sensations, none of which belonged in a run down, cat-filled ale house in a bad part of London.

A fresh breeze came to his nose, one scented faintly by a tinge of sweetness. Not flowers, but something green and fragrant, with a hint of fruitiness behind it. And then his ears brought to him, over the gurgle of what sounded like a brook, the buzz of insects, the shush-shush of wind in tree tops, and the faint sound of laughter and speech in a language he didn’t know, but which sang in his veins.

Kit came off the wall, unthinking, only to have someone suddenly appear in front of him. It was the large Abraham man, who had assured the others that Kit could be trusted. He seemed less certain now.

“That wall’s a good place ter wait,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Mebbe have a drink, ‘til ‘Gil gets back.”

“Back from where?” Kit asked, because most ale houses weren’t large. And what kind of proprietress wasn’t on hand to greet guests and take orders?

He tried again to find out, yet the man remained stubbornly in his way. And although Kit could have gotten past him, the other members of his little gang were now gathering round. Some had ale pots in their hands, having helped themselves from a barrel by the back door; others were bare handed but suddenly seemed to find him fascinating.

“Oh, ho, ho, he’s in trouble now!” someone said loudly, and closely enough to make Kit jerk and look behind him. And then up, to where a large crow was perched just out of the cats’ reach on a ledge near the ceiling. “Pretty boy, pretty boy. Are you a pretty boy?” it asked Kit, and cocked its head at him, as if unsure.

“That’s Old Tom,” the Abraham man said. “Word is, a witch turned him inter a crow for annoying her one day, then got used t’him and kept him around. That’s wot he’s doin’ here.”

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