My master is a sleepyhead, which suits me generally, save on those cold mornings when I do not wish to stir from my basket for sustenance. This is such a morning. I gently grumble to myself, then step out onto the frigid floor. I have heard of another cat avoids this unpleasantness by wearing shoes, but I shall soldier on stocially without them. I smell, distantly, bunnocks on a grate. I pad downstairs. The fluppery sounds on the hearth are cooking porridge, so there will be warm milk nearby. I grin. So good, these imported chefs, to remind my master of his childhood treats.
A half-dessicated rat lies in a corner. It belongs, I think, to Mortimer, who is familiar with the Necromancer Vespasian. As it is raw and lacks any sort of gravy, I signal a servant, by a sharp hissing sound, that it offends me and that it should be removed at once.
The cook, rightfully deferential to her superiors, gives me my due in the little silver bowl. I lick it clean, then perform my toilet, until I am, again, immaculate. It is tidiness that separates us from the farmyard. I check my reflection in the bottom of the bowl. Ah. Are we not the spirit of dignity? Excellent. Today is the Grand Tribunal and we must be at the top of our form, to use an equine reference.
I return to my master's chambers, the best, of course, that Duremar can offer to a visiting dignitary. I think the lack of carpets odd, but then magi have their little ways. Our valet, Edbert brings a cushion for my inspection, but its feathers make my stomach tingle with hunger, which will never do. He sacrifices, I later learn, an emminent scarecrow for the sake of my comfort, replacing it with a straw-stuffed one. Hrrrm. Not too bad. It will do. It is time to wake the master. I think of bells. Many bells. He awakes. I tell him to dress sharpish, as today is a big day. He is happy, as always, to oblige. Edbert helps him to disrobe and wash, then to shave. I approve his choice of clothes.
Much pomp and mundanity follows. At the end of it, my master is seated in his big chair in the centre of the room and I am resting upon his lap, on my cushion. I lay, as though napping, while he strokes me -just so- behind the ears. I feel along the metallic umbillici between us. Then I pull them in subtle and cunning ways, so that my master becomes my willing marrionette.
"Sodales, I, Gesephus, Primus of House Bonisagus, do welcome you to this most Grand of Tribunals. I remind you that we are here under solemn charge, to weigh carefully all arguments and to choose rightly the course of the Order for the next thirty-three years. Let none speak rashly! Let good counsel and good sense prevail."
They are impressed. I can tell. They have heard the rumours that he is twilight-addled, that he cares for nothing but playing with childish toys, baubles, and his cat. That fiend Lancelor sees his chance at unseating my master fall to the wayside, crushed, if only he knew it, beneath the wheels of my felonious strategy. Poor Gesephus purrrrs contentedly, understanding I have faced down one of his enemies. He begins to dream of mice. Many of them have the faces of Archmagi he knew in better days. Some of these dignitaries are present. Their little daggered smiles are gone now, because Gesephus is neither drooling nor playing with the coloured twine they provided, so thoughtfully, supposedly for his cat.
The Prime Follower of Guernicus makes a speech that is less that captivating. I sense he had a lengthier one prepared, that he intended to steer the meeting himself, but that, now, alas for him, is impossible. The Grandest Praeco is not, as he had imagined, dim-witted, but watches him with frighteneingly sharp and, somehow, alomst beastial eyes, that seem to bore deep into his coniving little soul. I show him my master's teeth. This seems not to reassure him.
"Thank you, Primus of Guernicus, we will be glad of your assistance today. We are greatly reassured that you seem to have come prepared for every eventuality.", says my master's mouth, in a warm, but oddly cutting, way. I think that I am truly beginning to enjoy myself. I draw another curve in my master's lips, by jiggling the bronze cord in the fashion I have so often practiced in private. Again, perhaps, it is a little too broad. The Quaesitor sits down and seems to collect his thoughts.
The Primus Mercere walks around the assembly with a jar filled with small, polished stones. Each is numbered. The lowest number will speak last. This advantages them, in that what they wished to discuss might be instead mentioned by an earlier envoy. An Italian has the lowest ball, which is a pity, as it will make things nastier in the conclusion. The ball will hang over us like the sword of Damocles, so that our final deliberations will be rancourous. The highest ball, in contrasting fortune, is held by a Scottish woman. Things are about to become interesting indeed.
Borders.
Why is it always borders?
Cats, you see, mark everything they touch as theirs. Though a fault in their design, humans lack this most important ability. Simply saying "Who does it smell like" will not satisfy them, so they need argue about who found the isle of Lewis first and whom first plucked which berry and wether it matters if they knew the fruit had vis in it, since, to humans, eating is hardly claiming perpetual use. Now others will quarrel over who saw the Nile first and wether this wizard was a real person or just a folk story. Still others argue that they are not like other wizards and should have a seperate space for themselves.
The Grand Tribunal is the only organisation where the smaller a tribe is, the more power its members have. If, for instance, Hibernia split into Oriel and Connact Tribunals, they would suddenly gain extra votes. The Scots try to merge Normandy and Stonehenge, Stonehenge tries to merge the Celtic Tribunals, Novgorod tries to merge Thebes and the Levnant, the Normans try to merge the Greater Alps and the Rhineland, the Rhine tries to stack all French speakers together and in the end, two or three little strips of territory change hands. Lewis becomes Scottish. Iceland becomes Hibernian. The east bank of the Nile becomes Levnantine, the west Roman. Were humans cats, they'd now go and rub themselves on trees in the area. I find the thought of the Primus of Guerincus thouroughly rubbing his beard over the surface of an obelisk comic, but were it to give him power there I would not put it past him. He is a fleabag of a man. I can tolerate their carping no longer. I shall lunch.
In my chambers, a cat comes to me. It is a kitten of mine and is familiar to Gianna, daughter to my magus. Her name is Lucienne. She looks at me through sly eyes and pulls back her ears in exasperation.
"Your master is senile, so my mistress says. How is it that he speaks? Why is it that he makes conversational references to rodents? I have never seen you so apparently disinterested in a political proceeding, Father."
"Well, I admit it then."
"And now?"
"Now I shall have Gregory of Merinita marched, and Jacqueline of Guernicus too."
"Ah. And then will all serve you?"
"Yes."
"I note, with interest, that you will be the only remaining familiar Tom, save my half-brothers."
"This is as it should be. In the wild, toms kill the kittens of their rivals, to bring cats again into heat."
"In the wild, cats band together to prevent such murder by toms.", she replies, testingly.
"Shall you oppose me?"
"I dare not."
I pause. I puff! I exasperatedly project "You will gladly inherit my territories when I die, and will be greatful for the lack of competitors."
"True. I am a hypocrite and mercurial, but that is my nature. Fare well this afternoon, Father." She flicks her tail and is gone, her curiosity, oft rumoured to be fatal in our kind, assuaged.
It is her way to leave the difficult work to others and to pull strings from behind the scenes. Ah. It is a curse to have children so similar to oneself. Must all cats suffer this? Did my ancestress Tanith, familiar to Triamona, put up with such standoffishness? Perhaps. Urbastis, if you are listening, give me strength to endure, to protect your gifted children and to smite all toms from Iceland to Persia, if they be not of my line.
The bells sound again, to call us back to deliberations and so again I am drawn to the fray. For I am a tom, and we are territorial, and Europe is mine, and none will take it from me, save that they scratch out mine eyes before I kill them. Gesephus feels the redness of my thoughts and, like a child pulling the wings from a fly, he smiles.