Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone - Chapter 19: John Talks Lots (The Cat Does Not)

“I’m telling you, I saw her talk.”

John Baker was making those innocent eyes of his again. Aaron wasn’t fooled for a moment.

“Right. Hey John, what did the fox say to the kirin?”

“I’m not lying! On my mother’s own grave, I swear it.”

“Is your mother dead?”

The answer to that was no. Aaron shook his head and gave a slow tug of his string. Inch by inch, it slipped through the treacherous battlefield at his feet.

“Well, not talk exactly, but Cook leaned down and she leaned up and it looked like she was whispering something in his ear. She’s a puss-in-boots. She’s got to be.”

“Mm-hmm.” He was sitting in the kitchens, a basket of socks by his right foot, a yarn ball by his left, and a white cat in-between, lazily hooking the string with claws and teeth as it trailed past. His fingers worked of their own accord, mending a hole here or a run there. His back was up against the bricks of one of the baking ovens. The room was warm, the oven was sweltering; he was so hot, he might need to move soon. He wasn’t even wearing his coat—it was draped over the back of a nearby chair, utterly unnecessary. There was snow in the courtyard, but Aaron was completely, entirely warm.

John caught the smile on his face. “You seem in a good mood.”

“Isn’t it a wonder? Being warm in winter?”

The baker’s boy laughed like someone who’d never given it much thought.

Since that afternoon in the Lady’s rooms, Aaron had done his utmost to lay low. He’d met with her a few times since, briefly relaying harmless news from the Downs while dropping fresh towels in her room, or while bringing her a requested snack from the kitchens. She preferred pastries, little puffy things with tart centers. Sometimes he brought her medicines from the raccoon down in Twokins, bought with Clev’s help—strange ingredients, things that were only tried when there was nothing else left. The other servants said she brought the king a new concoction every night, trying to cure the disease whittling away at him. She never spoke to Aaron about it, only told him what she required.

And he brought back reports—entirely factual reports, in the same manner that flour was bread, plus or minus a few ingredients. What information he did bring seemed to please her. It was almost enough to make him wonder how long he could keep this act up. Another month, another year? Until he’d borne the name Markus for longer than a boy dead and forgotten? It was a weird thought, but one he’d been having lately.

He liked it in the castle. He liked the way Mrs. Summers trusted him to work out of her sight, even though she shouldn’t. He liked the way that he was allowed to wander the halls and no one checked his pockets when he went back to his bed at night, even though they should. Just because he hadn’t stolen anything yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t. That he was simply trusted not to defied imagination. He liked being warm. Above all, he liked the fact that he had seen neither his Death nor Markus’ since the day he’d been hired.

“Would you mind fetching more wood?” the blond boy asked it oh so reasonably.

“Isn’t that part of your job, Mr. Apprentice Baker?” Aaron quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, yes. But I don’t really like to do it.”

“So you wait until I’m telling you how nice and warm I am, then you ask me to go outside?” He leaned down towards the cat, jerking the string. She sank in teeth and claws. “What say you, Mrs. White? Should I go?”

“I’ll give you first pick of the honey rolls.”

“You’ll leave them unguarded sooner or later. Why do you think I’m hanging around?”

John was spluttering and Aaron grinning when the scribe walked in. She had a bundle of paper and brushes and ink held in her arms, and she clutched them close to her chest when she saw him.

“Evening, Mabel,” Aaron said.

“Evenin’.” She stopped in the doorway.

“Mabel!” Flour puffed into the air as the blond boy turned. “Did you have time to help me with a letter?”

“I did. A bit. But if yer busy—”

“We’re not busy. Aaron’s just bullying me, is all. Have a seat.” The boy gestured magnanimously to a table. A table rather close to Aaron’s stool.

Her eyes flicked uncertainly.

Aaron set aside his work and stretched. “You can have my seat, if you’d rather be close to the ovens.”

“You’re leavin’?”

“Someone’s bribing me to do his job for him. It’ll cost you two rolls, by the way. The best two.”

The boy made a face. “You can’t shove honey rolls in your pockets, Aaron.”

“I was going to shove them in my mouth, thank you.”

The blond flushed. “Two, then. You’ll have your pick before the king himself.”

“We’d best make that a secret between ourselves.” With grave solemnity, Aaron knelt before the cat. She stared back, idly mauling a length of yarn between her teeth. “You won’t be telling on us to His Majesty, now will you, Mrs. White?”

“Oh, get out of here.” John laughed.

Aaron left the socks and yarn tucked neatly in their basket and shrugged on his coat. Mabel spread her supplies on the table, too focused on her hands to glance his way, even a little. When the door shut behind him, John was launching into his latest letter home as the scribe’s apprentice hurried to open her ink.

The world outside was white and black. Startlingly so. The courtyard, the walls: black. The crescent moon, the snow: white, and each as luminous as the other. Aaron shoved his hands in his pockets and made for the far side of the courtyard, a smile still on his lips.

Warm. He was outside, and flakes of snow as big as pastries were settling in his black hair, but still he was warm. He had shoes and new pants, and a coat, and a sweater that had been knitted fine enough for a noble. Of course he was warm. And when he got back, there’d be fresh bread waiting for him, and that would be warm, too. It was getting so that he didn’t even feel the need to tuck extra food into his pockets. He still did just in case, but he didn’t need to. He hadn’t missed a meal in weeks.

Winter in the castle would be quite different from winter in the caves. The thought itself made him warmer than ever.

A friendly wuff sounded from the night. Aaron knelt down, greeting the wolfhound with a rough scratch behind her bitten-up ears. A short whistle brought her back to her master’s side. Aaron stood and nodded briefly at the kennel master. The man returned the gesture and walked on.

Aaron hauled first one load of the rough-split logs, then another. In between he was treated to one of the baker boy’s exceedingly detailed letters home. It was all Mabel could do to keep up with him.

“My friend Aaron is great. He’s always so helpful now that he’s not in a dungeon.”

The scribe looked up. “You really want me to write that?”

John grinned. “Maybe not. Here, write, ‘I’ve made good friends with a scribe named Mabel, who has the best handwriting I’ve ever seen, and will be the next Royal Scribe before you know it.’ ”

The scribe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing.

“I’m friends with Aaron, too. He’s the housekeeper’s errand boy. He’s always really helpful and I’ve felt like I could tell him anything from the moment I met him. I hope you meet him one day.”

Aaron turned his back to them as he dropped the wood off in its crib, hiding a flush of his own.

“But he doesn’t always believe me. Like about how there’s a cat in the castle who’s definitely a puss-in-boots.”

“There is?” Mabel was staring at John wide-eyed.

“There is,” the baker’s boy nodded solemnly.

“A graceful and wise creature, just as our grandparents tell.” Aaron nudged the yarn ball with his foot in passing. The white cat rolled onto her back, claws stretching far above her head to reach after it. It earned him a snort from the girl, at least.

Aaron went back out to the wood pile. He was halfway through picking up the next load when he felt the gaze.

It was just a tingle in his scalp at first. Something that might just as well have been the cold, finally getting to him. But he was warm from carrying the wood. He’d opened his coat up, even. Unbuttoned it the whole way down, knowing that he’d have no trouble getting warm again if he got too cold.

He rolled the tension from his shoulders and carried on like he hadn’t noticed a thing. He stacked one more log on top of his armful for good measure, then went directly back to the kitchens.

“…I really hope to see the king again, but he doesn’t seem to leave his rooms much. I see Prince Orin a lot, he always looks really busy but I said ‘hello’ to him once and now he always whistles it back if there’s no one else around. His accent’s a little weird. He sounds like grandma, but I don’t think I should say that to him, not with him trying so hard. I haven’t seen the princess at all, but I met Prince Connor. He comes in at night and grabs enough snacks for two right before bed. He says he likes my honey rolls. Oh, perfect! That’ll be enough. Exactly two rolls worth.” John Baker craned his neck as the frowning scribe scratched out that last line of writing. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a bit of work to be done at the stables. Save them for me, will you?”

The white cat, snug now inside the basket of socks, blinked slowly over its wicker side as he left.

Outside, tucked in a shadow where buildings met, he waited for the stable master to send his workers to bed. It was not long. One last check to see that all tack was polished and stored properly, one last walk through the horses to find all coats neatly brushed and all hay fresh. Then the doors were shut for the night, with only a kid left on watch for any couriers who might come or go in the night. Aaron buttoned his coat as he waited.

The stable was near empty, the guards’ attention elsewhere, and the kennel master making his rounds on the far side of the castle by now.

In a flash, Aaron climbed straight up the wood stack and vaulted, never stopping. His hands caught the wooden lip of a window and his feet found every crevice in the old stonework. Before any of the guards on the walls could turn around, he’d pulled himself into the hayloft through a half-shuttered window.

The figure who crouched there was startled. It began to cry out, but he silenced it with a hand over its mouth and an arm across its throat, pushing it back against the stone, away from the window.

“I think you’d best explain yourself,” he suggested. “I trust you’ll be quiet about it, unless you want the rat catchers swarming over both of us.”

He gave his words a moment to sink in. Then he eased back his hand from the figure’s mouth. From her mouth.

Oh.

So he’d just manhandled a fey, then.