Murtagh

“Give it a good push,” said the man. “It’ll open right fine.”

Murtagh put his hand out and pushed. An arched door swung open, revealing a small storeroom. A lit candle sat in a sconce on the wall, and after the profound blackness of the tunnel, the flickering flame was almost blinding. Several barrels were stacked in one corner, and dried hams and chains of sausages hung from hooks in the ceiling.

“Nasty business that,” said the man. Murtagh turned to see him closing the door behind them; when shut, the outline of the door was practically invisible. The man brushed cobwebs from his shoulders and made a face. “Too many spiders down there. Right, she’ll be wanting to see you directly. This way.”

Murtagh followed as the man led him through several side passages in the fortress—retreating behind corners whenever they heard voices—until they arrived at a dark wood door somewhere on the eastern side of the complex.

The sleeveless man bowed in what Murtagh thought was a slightly mocking fashion and opened the door for him.

Murtagh stepped through it.

***

He found himself in a sumptuously appointed study. Rows of polished bookcases lined the walls; thick dwarven rugs, rich with reds, greens, and blues, covered the floor; and a beautiful map of Alagaësia, painstakingly annotated with thousands of names, was framed as a centerpiece above a stone fireplace, wherein a stack of logs merrily burned.

Facing the door was a great desk of carved wood. And sitting behind the desk, propped up on a green velvet cushion, was none other than the werecat Carabel.

She was in her human form, which meant she appeared to Murtagh as a slim, grey-haired woman no taller than four foot. A loose white shift left her lean arms uncovered. Murtagh guessed the shift made it easy for her to change shape if she wished. Although she had the same general contours as a human, there was no doubt that Carabel wasn’t. Her cheekbones were too wide, her emerald eyes too angled, her pupils too slitted, and there were small tufts of white hair on the tips of her ears. Murtagh wasn’t sure if the tufts were because Carabel hadn’t fully transformed or if they were a normal feature of her race.

Until then, he had never actually seen a werecat, and he found himself unexpectedly hesitant.

On the desk in front of Carabel were three things: the cage with the finch he’d bought, now empty save for a few yellow feathers; a plate with cuts of cold meat; and the parchment he’d given the page, unfolded to reveal the lines of runes written within.

The sight puzzled Murtagh. If the werecat had intercepted his message to Ilenna, was she acting as Lord Relgin’s spymaster? And did that mean she had used the magician and soldiers as a ploy to force him into her clutches? Or were things as they appeared, and she really had been trying to save him from Relgin’s forces?

Murtagh forced himself to remain relaxed even as he realized his understanding of the situation was woefully inadequate. I’m going to have to step carefully. Very, very carefully.

The door shut behind him, and he was conscious of his guide taking up a position in the back corner, cudgel still in hand.

Carabel cocked her head and watched Murtagh in exactly the same way he had seen yard cats watch a bird or mouse they were stalking. He had a sense that she would happily sit in silence for the rest of the day.

Or until she got bored, and Murtagh didn’t think he wanted to deal with a bored werecat.

He motioned toward the wicker cage. “You enjoyed the bird, I take it.”

Carabel lifted one perfectly sharp eyebrow. “It was acceptable, man of the road.” She had a plummy, purring voice that oozed self-satisfied confidence. And yet, Murtagh detected a note of underlying strain. Her gaze shifted to the sleeveless brute at the back of the room. “Was there trouble on the way?”

“Close, ma’am, but none worth mentioning.”

“Good.” She smiled, revealing sharp little fangs. “You have met Bertolf, yes? He is a most excellent help. He fetches me meats and morsels and tasty mysteries such as yourself.”

Murtagh wasn’t sure if he liked being referred to as tasty. He allowed himself an expression of cultured amusement, as he would have used at court, and made a sweeping bow. A bit of theatrics never hurt, especially with cats. “My apologies, Lady Carabel, but the finch was intended for another. Or perhaps you didn’t know?”

With one long, needle-tipped nail, she pricked the center of the parchment square. “Oh yes, I knew. You sought to speak with Ilenna Erithsdaughter, did you not?”

“That’s right.” Murtagh felt glad he’d couched his message to Ilenna in deliberately vague language that, he hoped, would mean little to others.

Carabel gestured at the chair in front of the desk. “Sit, human. We have much to speak of.”