Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Monster

Jasper was worried. He stared moodily out of his office window at the carts that trundled down the cobbled street below. Compared to its usual bustling chaos, the street was quiet. Everything was quiet. It was—at the risk of coining a phrase—perhaps a little too quiet.

"Byron Lamley's been gone a long time," he muttered, almost to himself.

At the table behind him, Graydon Heppingworth was sucking lazily at the last remnants of flesh on the bones of a large trout. Tanner Bowland was toying idly with a rather savage-looking knife. And Septimus Cordial was running out of patience.

"To the dogs with Byron Lamley!" cried the big orange cat, banging his fist on the table. "We should never have left the rescuing of our king to a fat old housecat. I was against it from the beginning."

"You were indeed," drawled Graydon Heppingworth. "But you failed to proffer any comparably practicable suggestion. Your idea, I recall, was to force our way into the palace and fight our way down to the dungeon. Even if we ignore the moat, the drawbridge, and the rain of arrows that would likely greet us before we even reached the gates, it's difficult to imagine the four of us making much headway against an entire army. And it's even more difficult to imagine rallying the citizenry to rescue a king they haven't even seen since the usurpation, and who is widely assumed to be dead."

"But we told them he wasn't dead!" protested Tanner. "We told them!"

"We did tell them," answered Graydon flatly. "And they may even have believed us. But seeing is much better than believing, my young friend. Much, much, much better."

"Suppose Lamley's ruse was discovered?" persisted Septimus. "Suppose he's now rotting in the dungeon too?"

Jasper turned from the window. "Lamley's no fool," he said. "He's unlikely to give himself away through some casual slip-up. Besides, who would suspect him? We've all grown used to the notion that housecats are mere tame beasts, with no will or intelligence of their own. Even I was stunned when my couriers brought back a cogent response from Lamley. I had thought for certain they were off on a fool's errand. It seems our friend Thumbledramp knew better."

"He's an odd cat, isn't he?" demanded Septimus.

"Most odd," agreed Graydon. "I rather fancy he's concealing a darker and stranger secret than any our good King Leopold had in store for us. We haven't seen him without his cloak, remember. And the possibilities of his true nature are ... provocative."

Jasper frowned. He didn't much like this line of thinking. "Thumbledramp is our ally," he insisted. "And currently suffering the same torments as our king and Miss Lamley. He deserves our sympathy and our help, not this idle, pernicious gossip."

"You speak of help?" spat out Septimus. "You condemn idleness? You who counsel us to do nothing but sit here sucking on fish-bones?"

Under normal circumstances, Jasper would never have stood for this kind of impertinence on the part of a brash young fool like Septimus Cordial. At the moment, however, he was much too worried to argue very fiercely—even if he had not suffered from the horrible suspicion that Septimus might after all be right.

"We must give Lamley time to act," said Jasper evenly, trying to put conviction in his voice. "It was only this morning that he was admitted to the palace. I watched him myself, from a distance, as he stood miaowling stupidly in front of the gates. I watched the gates open. I saw the laughter and delighted jeering of the guards as they let him inside. His imposture is working. He is a figure of great merriment, as we knew he would be. That will give him protection; it will also give him freedom. Who minds where a housecat goes? If he has not yet rescued the king, it is no doubt because he awaits the best possible moment to make his move. We must be patient. It is the only course available to us."