have to do. She’d have to sleep with one eye open and her sword at her side. It’d be a cold night and a wakeful one.
* * *
Birdsong woke her at false dawn. Dawna’s free hand clenched on something unfamiliar, which squirmed. She struggled to sit up. A heavy weight on her chest and legs shifted. Her hand fumbled for her sword. Instead of metal her fingers touched fur. Her eyes flew open. Green eyes in a wedge-shaped gray head regarded her from an inch away.
“Wha’?” Dawna sputtered, thrashing. “Gah?’
The gray cat was curled up just underneath her collar bone. More of the weight on her moved. She raised her head to look. Behind the gray cat a blanket of felines rolled or stalked off Dawna’s body, leaving behind cold morning air. Dawna gaped in amazement. They had spent the night on her, providing her with a living blanket. But that was not all. From the protected hollow in the crook of her arm four kittens, two gray, one orange and one calico, looked up at her with trusting eyes. The mother cat unwound herself from a ball next to Dawna’s head and came over to rub against Dawna’s jaw, then began to lick the kittens vigorously.
“Well, so much for my reputation for vigilance,” Dawna said, touching the little ones’ delicate heads. The kits were so young their ears were still rounded. The mother cat’s rough tongue pushed her fingers away from the calico’s ear. “I’m glad my sisters-in-arms weren’t here to see me sleep through that. Thank you for keeping me warm. I was comfortable. A kindness for a kindness.”
The mother cat arched her back upward, stretched forward and back, then stalked away, leaving her kittens in the curve of Dawna’s arm.
“Wait, I’m not a nursemaid!” Dawna called, then chided herself. How could she expect a cat to understand what she was saying?
It wouldn’t be long before the townsfolk emerged to take up their chores for the day. If Dawna hung about too long they’d begin to gather in small groups, eventually working up enough mob courage to drive her out of the village. She intended to be on her way long before that psychological moment arose, but in the meanwhile, her damaged boot needed attention.
Gingerly, she peeled off the battered black shoe. It would have been nice to have the local shoemaker fix it for her, but under the circumstances he’d most likely be afraid to do business with her. Never mind: she had pieces of leather, waxed cord and a needle in her pack, same as she used for patching her armor.
The kittens crawled in her lap and batted at the end of the string. Dawna gently pushed them away as she took another stitch.
“You still here, sell-sword?” a voice demanded. Two very nice, honey-colored boots stopped just over a body’s length from her knee. She’d have liked to have a pair like that. Dawna looked up, in no hurry. In them was the weaver, wearing a defiant expression, though his eyes were scared.
“I’ll be gone soon enough,” she said.
“Sooner’s better than later,” he replied. It almost sounded like a threat. Dawna went back to her work. The weaver hesitated for a moment, the beautiful boots rocking back and forth with indecision, then strode away. Dawna dismissed him. He wouldn’t be the one to attack her, but he’d stand at the back and shout encouragement to the stupid ones at the front. Dawna knew his kind.
A soft but insistent mew interrupted her thoughts. The orange cat had returned, laying another fish at her feet. Her right paw was wet up to the shoulder, but the rest of her was dry. A good hunter.
“You’ve decided to feed me, eh?” Dawna said, picking up the fish. It was a mature brook trout, twice the length of her hand. Plenty of good meat on it. The cat chirruped, expectantly. “Is it out of gratitude?” Dawna asked. “Because you already thanked me last night.”
The cat chirruped again, and settled down with her paws tucked under her breast. Dawna had had few dealings with cats except on her
* * *
Birdsong woke her at false dawn. Dawna’s free hand clenched on something unfamiliar, which squirmed. She struggled to sit up. A heavy weight on her chest and legs shifted. Her hand fumbled for her sword. Instead of metal her fingers touched fur. Her eyes flew open. Green eyes in a wedge-shaped gray head regarded her from an inch away.
“Wha’?” Dawna sputtered, thrashing. “Gah?’
The gray cat was curled up just underneath her collar bone. More of the weight on her moved. She raised her head to look. Behind the gray cat a blanket of felines rolled or stalked off Dawna’s body, leaving behind cold morning air. Dawna gaped in amazement. They had spent the night on her, providing her with a living blanket. But that was not all. From the protected hollow in the crook of her arm four kittens, two gray, one orange and one calico, looked up at her with trusting eyes. The mother cat unwound herself from a ball next to Dawna’s head and came over to rub against Dawna’s jaw, then began to lick the kittens vigorously.
“Well, so much for my reputation for vigilance,” Dawna said, touching the little ones’ delicate heads. The kits were so young their ears were still rounded. The mother cat’s rough tongue pushed her fingers away from the calico’s ear. “I’m glad my sisters-in-arms weren’t here to see me sleep through that. Thank you for keeping me warm. I was comfortable. A kindness for a kindness.”
The mother cat arched her back upward, stretched forward and back, then stalked away, leaving her kittens in the curve of Dawna’s arm.
“Wait, I’m not a nursemaid!” Dawna called, then chided herself. How could she expect a cat to understand what she was saying?
It wouldn’t be long before the townsfolk emerged to take up their chores for the day. If Dawna hung about too long they’d begin to gather in small groups, eventually working up enough mob courage to drive her out of the village. She intended to be on her way long before that psychological moment arose, but in the meanwhile, her damaged boot needed attention.
Gingerly, she peeled off the battered black shoe. It would have been nice to have the local shoemaker fix it for her, but under the circumstances he’d most likely be afraid to do business with her. Never mind: she had pieces of leather, waxed cord and a needle in her pack, same as she used for patching her armor.
The kittens crawled in her lap and batted at the end of the string. Dawna gently pushed them away as she took another stitch.
“You still here, sell-sword?” a voice demanded. Two very nice, honey-colored boots stopped just over a body’s length from her knee. She’d have liked to have a pair like that. Dawna looked up, in no hurry. In them was the weaver, wearing a defiant expression, though his eyes were scared.
“I’ll be gone soon enough,” she said.
“Sooner’s better than later,” he replied. It almost sounded like a threat. Dawna went back to her work. The weaver hesitated for a moment, the beautiful boots rocking back and forth with indecision, then strode away. Dawna dismissed him. He wouldn’t be the one to attack her, but he’d stand at the back and shout encouragement to the stupid ones at the front. Dawna knew his kind.
A soft but insistent mew interrupted her thoughts. The orange cat had returned, laying another fish at her feet. Her right paw was wet up to the shoulder, but the rest of her was dry. A good hunter.
“You’ve decided to feed me, eh?” Dawna said, picking up the fish. It was a mature brook trout, twice the length of her hand. Plenty of good meat on it. The cat chirruped, expectantly. “Is it out of gratitude?” Dawna asked. “Because you already thanked me last night.”
The cat chirruped again, and settled down with her paws tucked under her breast. Dawna had had few dealings with cats except on her
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