Somehow we slipped through the bandit’s pickets. It took them by surprise and made them angry. The ten who captured us and took us to the inn were furious. They fondled their weapons. They stomped along. One muttered continually under her breath. When I’ve made such a mistake, relaxing my vigilance so that someone slips past, I’ve been mostly afraid. But fear likes to hide behind anger, and I wondered what the bandit chief was like. Were they afraid that he would hurt them? Or be disappointed? Or do something unpredictable? Was he malicious or paternal or insane? I kept glancing at Yaendrid as we walked, wondering if she knew him.

  He was drawing. He had a whole stack of paper in front of him, which was very white in the gloom of the inn. As we were brought before him, I saw that he was drawing a single cat in the center of each page. His stylus was sharp and he dipped it into the inkwell with rhythmic regularity. Each drawing changed slightly, and was accomplished in a few quick strokes. There was a mastery to it that was astounding.

  The bar was positioned in the middle of the room, a smooth horseshoe, and we were brought to face him from the other side. He looked up for a moment and his eyes roved across us, pausing on Yaendrid before moving on. A flunky detached herself from a seat by the window and came to hover at his shoulder. She had copper hair that was absent of verdigris, but the face beneath it was very wrinkled. She moved with the fluid grace of a youth, despite the liver spots on the back of her hands.

  “A Sasturi,” she said, looking at Martiveht, “who is carrying a ghost. You see it, don’t you Oesair? Her robes are bleached white.”

  “All Sasturi robes are white,” Yaendrid said reasonably, appointing herself our spokesperson.

  “Not a stain,” the copper-haired woman muttered. “Not a single stain or speck of dirt. And that one smells of finery,” she said, nodding at Iyedraeka. “Pretty little thing, flitting about outside of her cage. Better watch out for the cat.”

  The bandit chief grunted. He turned a page, dipped his stylus, and drew. Yaendrid gave a sharp, annoyed smile. “Astute observations as always, Papermaker. Perhaps Oesair would like to hear about what’s been happening in Rahasabahst. I imagine that’s why the White Cats have come east from Ordalamia.”

  Prince Chahsaeda made a little, startled movement, as if he hadn’t realized, until that moment, that there was something suspicious about Yaendrid. The copper-haired woman’s sharp glance caught him, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Oesair, the Bandit Chief, forestalled her.

  “Your route?”

  “You won’t like it,” Yaendrid told him.

  “I won’t?”

  “We came through Old Shanty.”

  Our guards, who had been crowding in close around us, all took a step back. I vaguely understood what Yaendrid was trying to do, and contributed to her story, hoping that I was right to do so. “There were spirits in the well,” I said.

  A quick Look from Oesair, then he returned to his drawing. Another cat, another page turned. The copper-haired woman, stared at me openly. Her thin skin shivered like a sheet being shaken out. Then she turned her attention back to Martiveht. “Are you carrying an old spirit, Sasturi?” There was a tremble in her voice.

  Martiveht was quick on the uptake. “A young spirit,” she said. “Many people fled form the battle by the shrine. A few of them got to the old camp before we did.”

  “Unfortunate,” Oesair murmured, although it was hard to tell what he meant by that.

  “We know all about it,” Papermaker said. “Rajluetra’s little coup is in trouble.”

  “What have you heard?” Yaendrid asked, keeping her voice even, as if interested in only a casual way.

  Papermaker hesitated. Oesair drew another cat and turned the page. The cat he was drawing was shifting position, settling back on its haunches as he went from page to page. “Tell her,” he said, referring to Yaendrid.

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  “Rajluetra and her little prince have managed to seize the palace. But the city isn’t theirs. And the king is still alive. As is the younger prince.” I held my breath, but she didn’t look at Chahsaeda.

  A strange, assessing look came into Yaendrid’s eyes. “You have good sources of information.”

  “We’ve tamed some other pets.”

  “And you’re waiting to see if you can disrupt Rajluetra’s plans.”

  Oesair grunted. “It won’t take much disrupting. She’s an idiot.”

  “Where is the king?” Chahsaeda asked, and I cursed inwardly.

  Papermaker laughed. “He lies with his ancestors,” she said.

  “You said he was safe.”

  “They all lie, those royals. Every princess and prince is a liar.” She was looking directly at him, and she saw Chahsaeda blush with anger. “Ah,” she said. “Yaendrid, you’ve brought us a very fine mouse.”

  “I bring a proposal,” Yaendrid said.

  “From the king?”

  “Yes,” she lied. But was she lying? Who was her real master?

  “Tell it,” Oesair said.

  “Take your people south. Relieve the siege at the shrine. Forces are already gathering against Dasuekoh. He will be overwhelmed.”

  “Forces?”

  “The Duke of Nhadtereyba. The Count of Saharavin. The Duke of Taokeihla.”

  “The king believes that they’re loyal?”

  “Or course they’re loyal,” Chahsaeda said.

  The cat had begun to pounce. It did so very slowly, page by page. But I didn’t like the way it extended its claws. The bandit chief drew silently, and no one interrupted him. When the cat landed, it glared with fierce eyes out of the center of a page. Then it began to lick its paw. “Yes,” Oesair said.

  “Yes?” Yaendrid asked him.

  “She miscalculated. She got greedy. She thought that she had already won, when she tied that little prince to her sleeve. She has little understanding of civilization.” He turned his head and looked up at the ginger-haired woman. “More paper.”

  She nodded and turned to a chest in the corner of the room. I knew that we weren’t out of danger yet. We had killed four of his men, after all, and left a witness asleep on the forest floor. “We’ll travel onward,” I said. “We make for Nhadtereyba.”

  “Not the prince,” Oesair grunted. He drew another cat. He was finishing the stack of paper. There were only a few sheets left.

  “Prince?” I asked innocently, and received a hard look from Yaendrid.

  Oesair raised his head. He looked at me for a long moment, as if studying my face for a sketch. Then he grunted and looked down again. The cat bared its fangs. “Chahsaeda.” He grunted. “Rajluetra has her prince. I want one of my own.”

  “His uncle will be waiting for him at Nhadtereyba,” I objected.

  “Let him wait. We’ll all meet again in Rahasabahst.”

  Yaendrid took a step forward. “Oesair,” she said softly, “we saw the dog.”

  Our guard, who had been hovering right behind us, took a step back. Oesair came to the end of his stack of paper and Papermaker came forward. She slipped the finished sheets away with one hand and replaced them with paper that was as white as Martiveht’s robes. The bandit chief’s flow wasn’t interrupted. “The dog,” Oesair said, without looking up.

  “At Old Shanty. It was there.”

  He flicked a glance at Papermaker and she slipped out of the room. “When?”

  “Last night. It wandered off.”

  “In which direction?”

  “Probably in any direction where there was an interesting scent. It is still a dog, after all.”

  “You should have captured it.”

  “Should I have? To what end? The trade is ended.”

  Oesair grunted again. “The prince stays. The rest of you can go. Go to Nhadtereyba and speak to the duke. Tell him that we will meet in Rahasabahst.”

  Our guards closed in on us. Two of them stood at either side of Chahsaeda. Iyedraeka reached out a hand for him as we were turned and led away. It was a very elegant gesture. Meant to be reassuring and full of silent promise. It was entirely useless, as all such gestures are.

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  Copyright KPB Stevens, 2025

  The First Cats to Greet Us