Post by Seek on Oct 1, 2009 18:42:39 GMT 10
Title: The Cat and the Thief
Rating (and Warnings): PG-13, violence, is probably bad because I didn't get much chance to edit it.
Fairytale/Nursery Rhyme adapted: Puss in Boots. Liberally.
Word Count: 2377 words
Summary: George Cooper's star is rising in the Court of the Rogue. He will one day challenge for the throne of the King of the Rogue...until he meets a strange cat with purple eyes.
Notes: This is an AU, where Alanna gets sent to the convent. Also, Jon was never born. You may effectively consider that George did not become the King yet due to the chance meeting...with the cat.
The cat
The cat was sleek, with glossy black fur. It purred and wound itself sinously about George’s ankle – he bent downwards, knives already in hand. Carefully, he put them away once more, when he saw it was just a cat.
“And where did you come from?” He asked, gently ruffling the soft fur. The cat purred, gazing up at him with –
Eyes of an unnatural violet.
“Dark God!” George swore, pulling away immediately, one knife returning to his hand. Those of the world of the Tortallan commoners and thieves had their own supersititions, and George knew an unhealthy few about demons and spirits, enough to know he wanted to stay away from them.
He wanted to be King of the Rogue, and not tangled in supernatural affairs. Carefully, he examined the cat with his Sight – enough to see a strange, faint, white glow around the cat. Enough to tell him he was right; the cat wasn’t what it seemed.
But then he wasn’t sure – the glow only lasted for a moment, so faint a flicker he wasn’t even sure if he had seen it. The cat meowed plaintively, before rubbing against George’s ankle, and he laughed at his own folly. What would the gods have with a thief, anyway?
That night, the cat followed him home. Eleni Cooper raised an eyebrow at the sight of the cat, but apparently, she saw nothing, other than to remark about the strange purple eyes, and that she hardly saw him bring animals home.
“It wasn’t me.” George said. “The cat followed.” Eleni laid a saucer of milk down on the floor, and delicately, the cat padded over to the saucer. It sat down there, and regarded the two of them, unblinking, dignified.
George felt another prickle along his spine, but then the moment broke, and the cat put its head down, lapping the milk. He laughed at himself; it was just an ordinary cat, and hungry.
The cat followed George everywhere. Any of his fellow rogues who made cracks at him soon remembered once more why George had a great deal of respect in the Court of the Rogue, despite his age.
He broke Evrek’s nose, into the bargain, and pinked Veran before most of them laid off.
But perhaps he was making his Majesty nervous. His Majesty was growing slower, older, and challenges were coming, two a month. The lack of a challenge from a thief that had quickly climbed the ranks of the Court of the Rogue only served to leave a tense air of anticipation each time he came before his Majesty.
And then came the job.
The fight
“Take a job on the nobles’ court? Are you goin’ mad?” George snapped at Veran, who merely smirked, toying with his knife, spinning it between his fingers. It was a child’s trick, and the more fool he, or so was George’s opinion on that.
“Nay, his Majesty thinks ye be good enough f’ that. Unless ye want t’ talk t’ his Majesty?”
George considered that. Could he take on the King of Thieves? He was young. And he was fast. He nodded tightly, hand going to his knives. He stood up, abruptly, decision made. Perhaps he had put it off for too long, after all.
“I’ll do it.” He said. He was long overdue to call in for the throne that should be his.
He turned, and walked through the doorway.
The cat let out a plaintive mew, and padded after him, silent, watching.
George learned the hard way that Hetur Cordner was still strong enough for the likes of him. They circled, carefully, in fighter’s crouches. George studied his opponent warily – they both took off their shirts, leaving nought but breeches, knives in both hands.
Their audience was made of most of the Court of the Rogue, and a single black cat with purple eyes.
Hetur led in first, knives flashing. He darted in, thrusting upward with one knife, and stabbing low with one – the first glanced off the knife George held in his left hand, while the second barely missed George’s whipcord muscled abdomen. George used his forearm to slam Hetur’s with a shudder of bone on bone, and deep pain moved through his arm, but he ignored it, forcing one knife high and free, while the other tried to move in towards Hetur’s guts.
Deflected off Hetur’s other knife; the thief-king smashed his knee between George’s legs, and an explosion of fire rained – the cat hissed in alarm, and instinctively, George forced his elbow forward until it met resistance – hard – feeling a line of pain and warmth along his forearm, and a grunt of pain from Hetur.
Blinking his watering eyes to clear them, George moved backwards once more, knives held on guard. It had been a low blow, but not that such moves were completely eschewed. The hisses of sympathy from the males in the crowd, at least, were for him. He felt his left elbow – it was bleeding, but he didn’t think the cut was bad.
That, at least, was good.
The thief-king grinned. “First blood.” He said, grinning.
This didn’t have to be to the death, they knew. But sometimes, it was, and perhaps this time, it would be.
This time, George moved first, on the aggressive. He moved slowly, measuredly, before lunging with the swiftness of a snake, scoring a red line across Hetur’s chest. It was less deep than he would like, but Hetur coolly slashed his left-knife across the line of George’s eyes, and George quickly allowed himself to crumpled before the blow, using his fall to roll and cut upwards for Hetur’s guts. It was a dangerous position, being not on his feet, and George forced himself backwards swiftly.
They circled once more.
Knife-fights were more often than not sporadic; they circled around flurries of quick motion, and then into long periods of waiting, a test of skill and stamina if there ever was one.
Of course, that meant both were nervous. The King of the Rogue was nervous too. George grinned, wiping his palm on his breeches, before he gripped his knife again. It wasn’t just him – both were retreating constantly, too cautious.
Might as well worry Hetur more, and go in for the kill.
The cat’s screech warned him of the cut, but as he thrust his knife forward, he was too late; the knife bit deep into his side and his abdomen. Gritting his teeth, George thrust the knife forward, and buried it almost to the hilt in Hetur’s shoulder, twisting it until the man hurled himself back in pain, before he pulled free the knife.
Both were bleeding from too many cuts; both swayed on their feet. The pain struck, and George knew he wouldn’t win the fight. Hetur was crippled, but he could die.
There was only one answer.
The plan
George decided his wound must have been infected; there was no other explanation, or he had gone crazy, talking to a cat. He began to think that more and more, as the water grew colder, and his wound hurt more. It was a crazy plan, of course, but he supposed he had been desperate. How else could he pass off as a noble, in any case?
I have a plan, the cat had said, and when those amethyst eyes stared coolly at him, George believed.
He passed out by the time he heard arriving hoof-beats.
The deception
You are the son of a distant cousin of the fief of Malorie’s Peak. It is a border-fief, so few will know you. You are a bastard son, which is why you speak like a commoner, the cat instructed.
Blearily, George repeated just what the cat had said.
His rescuer spun and reformed before his eyes, and he swore silently, forcing himself to bear up and focus. Dark, with a sharp nose, and grey eyes –
King’s Reach, the cat said. Allen of King’s Reach.
But George could not help it – the wound was barely healed, and cried out, and George found himself losing the fragile grasp he had on the world.
The Court
Allen had seemed to find it his duty to educate the noble bastard about Court. He explained about etiquette, and so many things that George’s head whirled. But he supposed Allen was a good man, and he nodded at what Allen said, absorbing them.
Somehow, the cat’s scheme had worked. He was in the Court.
He was impersonating a noble.
George was reasonably sure he could pull the job off, and then vanish, until Allen introduced him to the powerful sorcerer, and the heir to the throne (the king’s nephew)–
Prince Roger of Conté.
As he regarded the smiling sapphire blue eyes of the Prince, and saw ice beneath, and blood in the orange fire of the Prince’s Gift…
George knew that one trickster had recognised another, and he promised himself he would not fall to a noble.
Be careful, the cat warned. Do not underestimate him.
“I never do.” He said, aloud.
The warning
It was the cat which warned him, when the ice he had been skating on crumbled, and he tumbled into icy waters.
He later saw the fleeting silver glow that revealed the Gift.
He knew who it was.
The duel
He broke into the Prince’s chambers, to stop the attacks on him. And then he learned the horrible truth: the Prince was killing his aunt, by image-magic, and of the Gift, George was well-informed, since his mother was Gifted.
He was held, helpless by the power of the Prince’s Gift, struggling, in the air.
And then the cat strolled in, mauve eyes intent on the Prince, who paled, his Gift hold slackening only a little. Not enough for George to escape, although he tried.
I see I was too late to tell you he was here, the cat said.
“You follow him around all the time. I am not foolish.”
You tried to kill him. It was too dangerous. I am a cat; and naturally, I should pick the winning side. I am not a dog.
Roger regarded the cat speculatively, frowning as he stared at the purple eyes, and tentatively tested the cat with his Gift.
The cat licked its paws – it was beginning to clean itself. Ah, a powerful Gift. But can you shapeshift? Only the most powerful of mages may do so.
“I can do so!” Roger exclaimed, proudly. “I am the most powerful sorcerer in Tortall, cat.” His blue eyes narrowed, and the orange flare of his Gift surrounded him; a moment later, a lion was where Roger had been. It stalked the cat, roared, before Roger was back, a smirk across his handsome features.
Indeed you are powerful. But I do not believe you can become something small. It is a limit for even the powerful. Could you become something so small as a mouse?
“Indeed I can.” Roger said. “And if I do, cat, will I have convinced you?”
Oh, you will. But it is impossible; no human sorcerer can become a mouse.
The Gift burned, and in Roger’s place, there was a small, grey, mouse.
It stared smugly at the cat.
As the cat pounced on the mouse, George realised the horrible truth – Roger had remembered the cat was a cat – he had, in fact, called him a cat… which meant…
He stopped struggling against the magical bonds; they had weakened enough for him to move his arms. He said a silent prayer to the Trickster, and hurled the knife.
The knife spun through the air to thrust itself in the chest of Prince Roger of Conté. A blossom of red spread out, staining from where the knife was –
And then Prince Roger tumbled back, slowly, dead.
The ending
George had fled quickly, at the suggestion of the cat. The cat called the attention of the Lord Provost, and an inquiry had begun. His deception had been swiftly found out, but as the cat had promised, his life was changed; the king had pardoned him, and he had been ennobled with lands at Pirate’s Swoop he might one day see.
After the large scandal over the death of the Prince had died down, it was announced the Queen’s mysterious barrenness had ended; she had conceived a son, and with all luck, he would be born near Mid-Winter.
One day, when he was practising with a sword in an empty corner of the practice courts, the cat found him.
In the courtyard, the cat said, with no explanation.
George walked to the courtyard, to find baggage, and servants aiding. Another noble lady had come from the convent to Court, and he caught a glimpse of copper-red hair, and then she turned, and he saw violet eyes, as purple as the cat’s, and he knew, somehow, he had to meet her.
She was beautiful, although her face was stubborn, and she had a fire in her that somehow called to George. And then their eyes met – and she stared at him, unblinking.
Where the Sight guided, George followed. “So, you’ll be the young Trebond who’s come.” He said, making no attempt to disguise his commoner’s accent.
“Who are you?” She demanded, immediately.
“Baron George Cooper…of Pirate’s Swoop.” He said, gravely. It was difficult for him to get used to the extra words about his name; and his mother had been strongly gratified he was leaving crooked paths behind, but didn’t want to leave a healer’s post. “And who be you?”
She had made the acquaintance of a dignified and pleasant knight named Sir Myles, who was tutoring George, and even now, George could not help but feel they were meant for each other.
“Lady Alanna of Trebond,” She replied, making some attempt at a curtsey.
The watching nobles winced. George grinned, when he saw the cat move before Alanna, mewing and gazing at her. He heard someone swear when identical purple eyes met, and Alanna easily scooped the cat up in her arms without fearing for her dress. He liked her more and more; she was bold, in a way most of the noble ladies from the convent never were.
He had a feeling that somehow, Alanna would make things interesting at court.
I officially blame renegade for this, but well, here's my post for the GFC, and approximately my last on this forum before I go off for exams mugging. I didn't do this well at all (in fact, I'm a little embarrassed by it, but I'm sorry, since I didn't have the time to edit much.)
-Seek.
Rating (and Warnings): PG-13, violence, is probably bad because I didn't get much chance to edit it.
Fairytale/Nursery Rhyme adapted: Puss in Boots. Liberally.
Word Count: 2377 words
Summary: George Cooper's star is rising in the Court of the Rogue. He will one day challenge for the throne of the King of the Rogue...until he meets a strange cat with purple eyes.
Notes: This is an AU, where Alanna gets sent to the convent. Also, Jon was never born. You may effectively consider that George did not become the King yet due to the chance meeting...with the cat.
The cat
The cat was sleek, with glossy black fur. It purred and wound itself sinously about George’s ankle – he bent downwards, knives already in hand. Carefully, he put them away once more, when he saw it was just a cat.
“And where did you come from?” He asked, gently ruffling the soft fur. The cat purred, gazing up at him with –
Eyes of an unnatural violet.
“Dark God!” George swore, pulling away immediately, one knife returning to his hand. Those of the world of the Tortallan commoners and thieves had their own supersititions, and George knew an unhealthy few about demons and spirits, enough to know he wanted to stay away from them.
He wanted to be King of the Rogue, and not tangled in supernatural affairs. Carefully, he examined the cat with his Sight – enough to see a strange, faint, white glow around the cat. Enough to tell him he was right; the cat wasn’t what it seemed.
But then he wasn’t sure – the glow only lasted for a moment, so faint a flicker he wasn’t even sure if he had seen it. The cat meowed plaintively, before rubbing against George’s ankle, and he laughed at his own folly. What would the gods have with a thief, anyway?
That night, the cat followed him home. Eleni Cooper raised an eyebrow at the sight of the cat, but apparently, she saw nothing, other than to remark about the strange purple eyes, and that she hardly saw him bring animals home.
“It wasn’t me.” George said. “The cat followed.” Eleni laid a saucer of milk down on the floor, and delicately, the cat padded over to the saucer. It sat down there, and regarded the two of them, unblinking, dignified.
George felt another prickle along his spine, but then the moment broke, and the cat put its head down, lapping the milk. He laughed at himself; it was just an ordinary cat, and hungry.
The cat followed George everywhere. Any of his fellow rogues who made cracks at him soon remembered once more why George had a great deal of respect in the Court of the Rogue, despite his age.
He broke Evrek’s nose, into the bargain, and pinked Veran before most of them laid off.
But perhaps he was making his Majesty nervous. His Majesty was growing slower, older, and challenges were coming, two a month. The lack of a challenge from a thief that had quickly climbed the ranks of the Court of the Rogue only served to leave a tense air of anticipation each time he came before his Majesty.
And then came the job.
The fight
“Take a job on the nobles’ court? Are you goin’ mad?” George snapped at Veran, who merely smirked, toying with his knife, spinning it between his fingers. It was a child’s trick, and the more fool he, or so was George’s opinion on that.
“Nay, his Majesty thinks ye be good enough f’ that. Unless ye want t’ talk t’ his Majesty?”
George considered that. Could he take on the King of Thieves? He was young. And he was fast. He nodded tightly, hand going to his knives. He stood up, abruptly, decision made. Perhaps he had put it off for too long, after all.
“I’ll do it.” He said. He was long overdue to call in for the throne that should be his.
He turned, and walked through the doorway.
The cat let out a plaintive mew, and padded after him, silent, watching.
George learned the hard way that Hetur Cordner was still strong enough for the likes of him. They circled, carefully, in fighter’s crouches. George studied his opponent warily – they both took off their shirts, leaving nought but breeches, knives in both hands.
Their audience was made of most of the Court of the Rogue, and a single black cat with purple eyes.
Hetur led in first, knives flashing. He darted in, thrusting upward with one knife, and stabbing low with one – the first glanced off the knife George held in his left hand, while the second barely missed George’s whipcord muscled abdomen. George used his forearm to slam Hetur’s with a shudder of bone on bone, and deep pain moved through his arm, but he ignored it, forcing one knife high and free, while the other tried to move in towards Hetur’s guts.
Deflected off Hetur’s other knife; the thief-king smashed his knee between George’s legs, and an explosion of fire rained – the cat hissed in alarm, and instinctively, George forced his elbow forward until it met resistance – hard – feeling a line of pain and warmth along his forearm, and a grunt of pain from Hetur.
Blinking his watering eyes to clear them, George moved backwards once more, knives held on guard. It had been a low blow, but not that such moves were completely eschewed. The hisses of sympathy from the males in the crowd, at least, were for him. He felt his left elbow – it was bleeding, but he didn’t think the cut was bad.
That, at least, was good.
The thief-king grinned. “First blood.” He said, grinning.
This didn’t have to be to the death, they knew. But sometimes, it was, and perhaps this time, it would be.
This time, George moved first, on the aggressive. He moved slowly, measuredly, before lunging with the swiftness of a snake, scoring a red line across Hetur’s chest. It was less deep than he would like, but Hetur coolly slashed his left-knife across the line of George’s eyes, and George quickly allowed himself to crumpled before the blow, using his fall to roll and cut upwards for Hetur’s guts. It was a dangerous position, being not on his feet, and George forced himself backwards swiftly.
They circled once more.
Knife-fights were more often than not sporadic; they circled around flurries of quick motion, and then into long periods of waiting, a test of skill and stamina if there ever was one.
Of course, that meant both were nervous. The King of the Rogue was nervous too. George grinned, wiping his palm on his breeches, before he gripped his knife again. It wasn’t just him – both were retreating constantly, too cautious.
Might as well worry Hetur more, and go in for the kill.
The cat’s screech warned him of the cut, but as he thrust his knife forward, he was too late; the knife bit deep into his side and his abdomen. Gritting his teeth, George thrust the knife forward, and buried it almost to the hilt in Hetur’s shoulder, twisting it until the man hurled himself back in pain, before he pulled free the knife.
Both were bleeding from too many cuts; both swayed on their feet. The pain struck, and George knew he wouldn’t win the fight. Hetur was crippled, but he could die.
There was only one answer.
The plan
George decided his wound must have been infected; there was no other explanation, or he had gone crazy, talking to a cat. He began to think that more and more, as the water grew colder, and his wound hurt more. It was a crazy plan, of course, but he supposed he had been desperate. How else could he pass off as a noble, in any case?
I have a plan, the cat had said, and when those amethyst eyes stared coolly at him, George believed.
He passed out by the time he heard arriving hoof-beats.
The deception
You are the son of a distant cousin of the fief of Malorie’s Peak. It is a border-fief, so few will know you. You are a bastard son, which is why you speak like a commoner, the cat instructed.
Blearily, George repeated just what the cat had said.
His rescuer spun and reformed before his eyes, and he swore silently, forcing himself to bear up and focus. Dark, with a sharp nose, and grey eyes –
King’s Reach, the cat said. Allen of King’s Reach.
But George could not help it – the wound was barely healed, and cried out, and George found himself losing the fragile grasp he had on the world.
The Court
Allen had seemed to find it his duty to educate the noble bastard about Court. He explained about etiquette, and so many things that George’s head whirled. But he supposed Allen was a good man, and he nodded at what Allen said, absorbing them.
Somehow, the cat’s scheme had worked. He was in the Court.
He was impersonating a noble.
George was reasonably sure he could pull the job off, and then vanish, until Allen introduced him to the powerful sorcerer, and the heir to the throne (the king’s nephew)–
Prince Roger of Conté.
As he regarded the smiling sapphire blue eyes of the Prince, and saw ice beneath, and blood in the orange fire of the Prince’s Gift…
George knew that one trickster had recognised another, and he promised himself he would not fall to a noble.
Be careful, the cat warned. Do not underestimate him.
“I never do.” He said, aloud.
The warning
It was the cat which warned him, when the ice he had been skating on crumbled, and he tumbled into icy waters.
He later saw the fleeting silver glow that revealed the Gift.
He knew who it was.
The duel
He broke into the Prince’s chambers, to stop the attacks on him. And then he learned the horrible truth: the Prince was killing his aunt, by image-magic, and of the Gift, George was well-informed, since his mother was Gifted.
He was held, helpless by the power of the Prince’s Gift, struggling, in the air.
And then the cat strolled in, mauve eyes intent on the Prince, who paled, his Gift hold slackening only a little. Not enough for George to escape, although he tried.
I see I was too late to tell you he was here, the cat said.
“You follow him around all the time. I am not foolish.”
You tried to kill him. It was too dangerous. I am a cat; and naturally, I should pick the winning side. I am not a dog.
Roger regarded the cat speculatively, frowning as he stared at the purple eyes, and tentatively tested the cat with his Gift.
The cat licked its paws – it was beginning to clean itself. Ah, a powerful Gift. But can you shapeshift? Only the most powerful of mages may do so.
“I can do so!” Roger exclaimed, proudly. “I am the most powerful sorcerer in Tortall, cat.” His blue eyes narrowed, and the orange flare of his Gift surrounded him; a moment later, a lion was where Roger had been. It stalked the cat, roared, before Roger was back, a smirk across his handsome features.
Indeed you are powerful. But I do not believe you can become something small. It is a limit for even the powerful. Could you become something so small as a mouse?
“Indeed I can.” Roger said. “And if I do, cat, will I have convinced you?”
Oh, you will. But it is impossible; no human sorcerer can become a mouse.
The Gift burned, and in Roger’s place, there was a small, grey, mouse.
It stared smugly at the cat.
As the cat pounced on the mouse, George realised the horrible truth – Roger had remembered the cat was a cat – he had, in fact, called him a cat… which meant…
He stopped struggling against the magical bonds; they had weakened enough for him to move his arms. He said a silent prayer to the Trickster, and hurled the knife.
The knife spun through the air to thrust itself in the chest of Prince Roger of Conté. A blossom of red spread out, staining from where the knife was –
And then Prince Roger tumbled back, slowly, dead.
The ending
George had fled quickly, at the suggestion of the cat. The cat called the attention of the Lord Provost, and an inquiry had begun. His deception had been swiftly found out, but as the cat had promised, his life was changed; the king had pardoned him, and he had been ennobled with lands at Pirate’s Swoop he might one day see.
After the large scandal over the death of the Prince had died down, it was announced the Queen’s mysterious barrenness had ended; she had conceived a son, and with all luck, he would be born near Mid-Winter.
One day, when he was practising with a sword in an empty corner of the practice courts, the cat found him.
In the courtyard, the cat said, with no explanation.
George walked to the courtyard, to find baggage, and servants aiding. Another noble lady had come from the convent to Court, and he caught a glimpse of copper-red hair, and then she turned, and he saw violet eyes, as purple as the cat’s, and he knew, somehow, he had to meet her.
She was beautiful, although her face was stubborn, and she had a fire in her that somehow called to George. And then their eyes met – and she stared at him, unblinking.
Where the Sight guided, George followed. “So, you’ll be the young Trebond who’s come.” He said, making no attempt to disguise his commoner’s accent.
“Who are you?” She demanded, immediately.
“Baron George Cooper…of Pirate’s Swoop.” He said, gravely. It was difficult for him to get used to the extra words about his name; and his mother had been strongly gratified he was leaving crooked paths behind, but didn’t want to leave a healer’s post. “And who be you?”
She had made the acquaintance of a dignified and pleasant knight named Sir Myles, who was tutoring George, and even now, George could not help but feel they were meant for each other.
“Lady Alanna of Trebond,” She replied, making some attempt at a curtsey.
The watching nobles winced. George grinned, when he saw the cat move before Alanna, mewing and gazing at her. He heard someone swear when identical purple eyes met, and Alanna easily scooped the cat up in her arms without fearing for her dress. He liked her more and more; she was bold, in a way most of the noble ladies from the convent never were.
He had a feeling that somehow, Alanna would make things interesting at court.
I officially blame renegade for this, but well, here's my post for the GFC, and approximately my last on this forum before I go off for exams mugging. I didn't do this well at all (in fact, I'm a little embarrassed by it, but I'm sorry, since I didn't have the time to edit much.)
-Seek.