Covering the length of the block across the roofs of the store buildings, he dropped into the branches of a stunted tree that shouldered across an alley. There he settled himself in a crotch of branches as if he had done this many times. He listened, looking up at the sky, looking around him.
He was broad shouldered, with big paws and a broad, square head; he had the body of a fighter beneath his wide curving stripes of gray and silver. He lay limp along the branch, though beneath his indolence his spirit seemed coiled like a spring. His thick, striped tail swung idly. But then its tip began to twitch as, looking up through the mist, he watched the exact place where the moon would lift.
Suddenly he tensed. His tail stilled. He listened intently, tracking the faint hush of fur against brick, then the crackle of paper as an approaching cat disturbed a fallen poster.
Then he scented her and relaxed, letting his tail swing again; he knew her.
The old buff female climbed rheumatically into the tom’s tree. He watched her, first lazily then intently, his yellow eyes suddenly widening. He saw that she was wild with news, her movements were jerky, he could smell her excitement.
He waited with growing impatience as she settled herself on a branch below him. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsh with agitation. “Three humans have come up.”
He stared at her. “From below? Through a door?”
“Yes.”
“Which door?”
“The warehouse on Telegraph. A man, a little girl, and a woman. The woman is like us.”
The tom’s body slid into a crouch. “Like us? Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. Her hair is piebald, her eyes are a cat’s eyes.”
“Who is she? Did you listen to them? Why have they come here?”
“I followed them last night. I have watched them all day.” She looked to him for praise. He broadened his whiskers at her and raised his tail.
“There was war in the world below,” she said. “These three have escaped a massacre. He is Prince Ithilel of Xendenton, the child is his sister. Xendenton has fallen, and these two seem all that is left of the royal family.”
“And the Catswold woman? Why is she with them?”
“I don’t know. But it was the Catswold who defeated Xendenton, fighting beside peasant rebels. The man and little girl discussed it last night after the Catswold woman slept; I listened from the roof next door through their open window. They think the woman is a traitor to them, that she is loyal only to the Catswold.”
“Then is she their captive?”
“No, she is the wife of the prince.”
The tom froze, his body going hard. He looked back at the female gently; she was old, and dear to him. “You did well, Loua.” He didn’t expect her to feel his distress. She had been born on the streets of the upperworld, her mother had no Catswold memories. Loua was as ignorant of her heritage as any common cat. “Why,” he said softly, more to himself than to Loua, “why would a Catswold woman be married to a prince of Xendenton?”
Loua mewled her confusion. “The small princess hates her. She says the Catswold woman betrayed them. How could the woman turn against her husband? Why would they marry if they are enemies?” Loua was always miserable when life did not add up. She hunched down, staring at McCabe.
McCabe said, “Tell me, this Catswold woman…What does she look like?”
“She is beautiful,” Loua said with envy. “Tall, sleek as silk. Her hair is gold striped with platinum and with red. Hair,” Loua said jealously, “bright as hearthfire, and her eyes are like emeralds. She must be gorgeous as a cat. Her name is Timorell.”
“Timorell…” McCabe tasted the name. “And where are they now?” His tail twitched with impatience.
“In an apartment on Russian Hill. From the roof next door you can see into the living room and into the couple’s bedroom. It is the street of the Great Dane, third house north of him on the same side.” She preened, expecting McCabe to praise her for bravery at circumventing the Dane. But McCabe was lost in speculation. Loua purred his name, moving closer; but then she turned away. She was too old to appeal to McCabe, too long past her prime. This Timorell would appeal. She hunched miserably, bereft of defense against beauty and youth.
As McCabe quit the tree he turned, his face filling the mirror. Melissa stared into his huge eyes, startled. He dug his claws into the branch, then leaped to the alley. In the shadows, before stepping into the street, he took another form.
McCabe stood tall under the fuzzy streetlight, adjusting his tie, then strode across Powell. His shoes made a soft echo in the fog. He was a tall man, powerfully made, broad shouldered, his dark gray hair streaked with pale gray. His hands were broad, capable, stained from work, the nails trimmed short and clean. His yellow eyes were light against his tanned skin. He was a man to whom most women were drawn, though some women avoided him with a strange fear.
