“You shall have your chance to begin a verse when you make up the last stanza, as always,” the father said severely.
Anthony sighed. “But there is nothing new to be said by the last verse,” he said, and raised a hand to forestall objections. “I know, I know—there is nothing new in the old songs anyway.”
Balkis watched his face, and saw the flicker of rebellion, the desire to begin a really new song—which he quickly suppressed.
“Begin the next stanza, mine eldest,” the father said with pontifical weight.
Baradur sang, “But from his corpse, the spirit rose…”
And they were off again, another round, from Baradur to Kemal, from Kemal to Philip, from Philip to Moti, and from Moti to Anthony. Balkis crouched quivering with anger as she realized that this game must happen every night of the winter months, the family sitting around the fire improvising new versions of the old tales in verse, and that her friend was never to move from his position as last, as no doubt he was last in everything else, too, including orders. Each of the others had a younger to command, but Anthony had no one— except, perhaps, herself. But Anthony hadn't tried to order her about—he seemed to know the difference between a servant and a friend.
She wished his father and brothers did.
They settled into the song, and Balkis found herself caught up in the story. Whenever Anthony's turn came, he was always ready, always had a line that rang with music and internal rhyme or alliteration, and she began to understand why he was so eager to begin a verse or to cast a line in its middle—the poetry came naturally to him, springing to mind unbidden, and he was near to exploding with it. She felt a sharp stab of envy, for although she could memorize the verses of her spells easily, she had a grueling time when it came to making up a new one.
Anthony showed his skill on the last verse, in which he could select the rhyme scheme, link internal rhymes, coordinate alliterations, and actually bring in metaphor, something unheard-of in the earlier stanzas. He gave the epic a pyrotechnic ending, making the final verse a dazzling display of acoustics. Nonetheless, his brothers scoffed.
“Oh, very pretty, Anthony!”
“Can you not manage plain, simple verse?”
“Surely Rustam would have scorned such frills!!”
“Well, what else would you expect of the clean-up boy?” Moti asked, and the others howled with laughter.
Anthony turned red with embarrassment and anger, clamping his lips shut to hold in hot words. Then his shoulders slumped, the flush faded, and he sighed. Once again, anger kindled within Balkis at seeing him so mistreated.
She could not help herself; she had to go to him, try to cheer him. She glanced out the rathole to make sure it was in shadow, unlikely to be seen—and it was indeed; the rat had chosen well. She squeezed her head through, and the rest of her flowed after, heart pounding. Then she skirted the wall, keeping tables and chairs between herself and the older brothers until she had to dare the last two feet of open space between a table and Anthony's stool. She covered the distance in two steps, not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to leave her exposed too long. There, she turned once to make sure all of her was under the stool and hidden from enemy eyes, and stretched forward to butt her head against Anthony's calf and twine herself about his ankles as well as she could without being seen.
She felt him stiffen, and hoped it was not with alarm. Her heart hammered—what if he leaped to his feet and kicked the stool over, thinking he had felt a rat?
But Anthony knew animals too well for that. His hand dropped down to swing beside the stool, apparently in weariness and negligence, but Balkis recognized a signal when she saw one, and stepped over to push her head against his palm. Anthony fondled her head, and she quivered with pleasure. fighting down feelings of alarm—a lost kitten was a lost kitten, after all, no matter the species, and Anthony was a friend who needed such reassurance as she could give.
Perhaps not—if he needed reassurance, his fear for her was greater than that need, for when his brother commented on Rustam's bravery in facing an overwhelming enemy, Anthony said, “It may be, Moti, but it also may be that he had more courage than sense. If he had been prudent, he would have known to go back home where it was safer
“Just the kind of thing I might expect a sissy-boy to say,” Moti sneered, but Baradur caught the slight emphasis on the last words and frowned. “An odd way to say it, clean-up boy. Have you some hidden meaning?” His glance followed Anthony's hand; too late, Anthony drew it back to his lap. His brother hooted. “What are you hiding there beneath your stool?” He jumped up and came toward Anthony, sidestepping to see around his leg.
Anthony turned with him, looking wounded. “How could you suspect me of concealing anything, brother?”
“Because he does!” Moti made a grab and yanked Balkis out from beneath the stool, banging her head on the seat as she came. The room swam about her as he held her up with a cry of victory.
She clawed and yowled in spite of the nausea. The lad, though, must have tormented cats before, because he kept his hands and wrists beyond her range as he held her up with both hands, crowing, “Look, brothers! Anthony has brought a friend home, a little friend!”
The brothers shouted with delight and crowded in to begin a new and rather sinister game.
CHAPTER 8
“Were you feeding her under the table?” the father demanded, his face darkening.
“And look!” cried Moti.” Tis a female! Anthony has found a girlfriend!”
“Aye, Anthony!” chorused Philip and Kemal, and Baradur demanded, “Shall you sleep with her, then?”
“Anthony the cat lover!” Kemal crowed, putting such a leer into the words that he gave them a double meaning.
“She will keep the rats from this house if you let her!” Anthony cried. “Let her go!” He leaped to catch Balkis from Moti's grip, but the lad pivoted, keeping Balkis from Anthony's reach, crowing, “Do you want her, then? Catch as cat can!” He tossed her to Baradur.
Balkis yowled as she flew and tried to turn in midair, but Baradur caught her by the tail. All her weight plunged against his hold, and the pain shot up her backbone. She caterwauled, spitting, front paws spread wide, claws out to catch. Baradur cried, “Ah, the clean-up boy has chosen a spitfire! Beware her claws, my lad!” Then he swung Balkis around his head. “Catch, Moti!”
Anthony barreled into him, knocking Baradur against the wall, and Balkis flew from his grip. She sprinted for the rathole, then dodged and twisted as feet slammed down in her way, hard hands grabbed for her, and hoarse voices shouted. But she made it through the rathole without worse scathe. A hand shot through to catch her tail, but she turned and bit, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger. The hand disappeared like lightning and its owner shouted with pain. “The little bitch! See how she has bitten!”
He had mistaken both Balkis' nature and her species, but she didn't feel obligated to enlighten him, especially since none of the others seemed to think his hurt worth noticing. They were too busy with something else; she heard a great deal of shouting and the sound of blows. She dared a quick peek and saw a pile of fists driving down toward the center. As she watched, one of the brothers went sprawling away, to show her Anthony, face swollen with fury. He spun to lash three quick punches at Philip, who staggered back and fell, then lashed out at Kemal. But Baradur caught Anthony's arms from behind and, shouting triumph, bent him backward and off balance as Kemal began to pelt Anthony with short, vicious jabs.