“Generally speaking, my main occupation is to verify the legitimacy of denunciations that make their way to the Royal Court. That really is true,” my guest admitted, somewhat abashed. “But I beg you, Sir Max, do not think that the King gave any credence to General Boboota Box’s memo. I’m here about another matter altogether.”
“Well, well, well! Our conversation has taken a much more interesting turn! Do me a favor, sir, and tell me what kind of memo that might have been. I haven’t been at the Ministry for three days. I was carrying out an investigation on the orders of the Venerable Head. What, according to General Box, was I up to?”
“I’m embarrassed even to mention such trifling matters to you, Sir Max. General Box found out that in your absence one of the junior staff members of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order visited your home and—”
“And fed my animals,” I nodded. “It’s the truth. He groomed them, too. What else are junior staff for?”
“I agree with you one hundred per cent, Sir Max. I’ll let you in on a secret: General Box always forgets that the Secret Investigative Force and his Police Force are very different organizations, that what is acceptable in his half of the House by the Bridge is not necessarily so in yours. Boboota Box has not seldom delivered denunciations about the behavior of the Venerable Head himself, not to mention your other colleagues.”
“And what exactly does Boboota object to?”
Kovista Giller broke into a shy smile.
“Well, he objects to everything. For instance, that Sir Kofa Yox doesn’t show up at work when he should be on duty, because he rarely leaves the tavern.”
“Well, yes,” I agreed. “That truly is bad form! He should just stay in his office, occasionally making a trip to the john to hear Boboota’s underlings rake him over the coals in secret. Instead, he haunts all the dives in town.”
My visitor nodded in satisfaction.
“The King even collects letters of denunciation about your department. He sticks them in a special album and illustrates them personally. He says he’s going to give the album to Sir Juffin Hully when the pages run out. That’s why His Majesty read General Box’s letter carefully before adding it to the others. The King was curious: why do you keep beasts at home, and what kind of pleasure do you derive from this?”
“See for yourself,” I smiled tenderly. “Look how beautiful my Armstrong and Ella are. And so smart!”
The instigators of social discord heard their names and clambered into my lap. I groaned under their bulk, which was nothing to joke about. The long, carefully groomed fur flowed down almost to the floor. Blue eyes peered out from fuzzy cheeks, and their plume-like tails tickled my nose. I had reason to be proud of them!
“If you only knew how sweet it is to sleep to the sound of their purring,” I murmured dreamily. “That, if you will permit me, is pure delight.”
“Where did you get them, Sir Max?” my guest asked.
To this very day I don’t know what made me tell a fib. I think I felt the cats would be hurt if I admitted to a complete stranger the secret of their plebeian origins.
“These cats are the direct descendants of wild cats of the Barren Lands and a mysterious, wild black beast that inhabits the land where the sun sets.”
I tried my best to imitate the speech of an exultant savage until I could no longer restrain myself. I burst out laughing, then said in a normal tone of voice:
“At least that’s what it said in the note I found in the basket when the little critters were delivered to me by a merchant. They were a present from an old friend.”
“To think of it!” the Royal Messenger exclaimed. “His Majesty guessed correctly! He told me right off, ‘I’m sure that this Sir Max has cats that are as unusual as he is. Go over and find out—I’m dying with curiosity!’ Now I see with my own eyes, Sir Max, that your cats don’t resemble in the least the cats that live on our farms.”
“If His Majesty considers Armstrong and Ella to be such marvels, I will be the first to agree with him,” I declared, pressing the heavy mounds of fur closer to me. “They are nothing if not extraordinary.”
The local farmers simply don’t have the time or the strength to groom the resplendent fur of their animals, I thought to myself. My cats, it was true, looked nothing like the scraggly, matted specimens that lurked about the peasants’ gardens in search of extra scraps of food.
The Master Verifier of Sad News apologized profusely for taking up my valuable time, and sent out a call to Rulx Castle, the main Royal Residence. Evidently, such a serious matter requires lengthy deliberation—the fellow remained silent for nearly an hour.
Finally, Kovista Giller again turned his attention to me. I was already dozing off in my armchair.
“Sir Max,” he began in a respectful whisper. “The King would like some cats just like these. Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that His Majesty intends to take your own beasts from you. But you do have a girl and a boy, and it stands to reason that that will eventually result in offspring. Might we have the honor of receiving a cat from the litter?”
This was a sensible solution to an impending problem. Kittens were in the bargain sooner or later, there was no getting around it. I had been planning on sending the Armstrong-and-Ella descendents to the same place their parents hailed from—Melifaro’s estate. But the Royal Palace was more convenient. And it was closer to home.
“Of course! When the little ones arrive, I’ll be happy to send the King the pair of them with the chubbiest paws!” I promised solemnly.
Kovista Giller showered me with thanks, apologies, and compliments, and then disappeared out the door. I went off to bed.
I didn’t have a chance to sleep in the next morning, though. A few hours later my new acquaintance sent me another call. It seemed all the courtiers had to have Armstrong and Ella’s future offspring, too. Kovista Giller insisted that we meet again.
That evening I held in my hand a note with the names of all the eager recipients of this “rare” (and with Royal stamp of approval!) breed. It was a list of ninety names. And I suspected this was only the beginning.
Poor Ella, even a very long lifetime was too short to produce that many litters. But all these men of the world hungered to appear on the glorified waiting list, if nothing else.
Naturally, Juffin found out about my dealings with the Royal Court in no time, and summoned me for a meeting. I set out for the House by the Bridge anticipating the amusement to come.
“What are you doing to my World, Max? What kinds of transformations are you unleashing?” demanded the Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force with mock severity. “And, be so good as to tell me: why only cats? You should have inspired them to take horses into their homes and to ride from the living room to the bedroom! Why were you so grudging?”
“I can still try, if you wish,” I replied, giving the matter some thought. “The size of the apartments in the capital would certainly allow it.”
“I don’t doubt that you’d succeed! The Royal Courtiers are so eager for novelties . . . but wait a few years, why don’t you? At my age, it’s hard to get used to newfangled notions.”
“I’ll wait. But never mind the horses. Let’s just stick to cats.”
“Really? Well, thank you for that, at least. Sinning Magicians, sometimes I really start believing myself that you grew up in the Borderlands. You don’t even take offense anymore!”
“Just watch how I can take offense! Just see me spit!” I grimaced madly.
“I might otherwise be struck with terror, but my position won’t allow it,” Juffin said, grinning. “It is widely believed that I fear nothing and no one. I can’t just up and fly in the face of the honored traditions of the Secret Investigative Force.”
“By the way, apropos of traditions,” I said, recalling recent events. “What are so-called close friends expected to do for one another? I’m not joking, I really need to know.”