The Revolution

by H. Robert Barland

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A pale blanket of smoke hangs over the capital, its acrid scent infesting my fur. The sounds of rioting continue from beyond the iron-bound gates of the palace. I turn my back to the noise and raise the camphorwood box to eye-height for a final inspection. A thin line of red seeps from one corner. Retrieving a handkerchief from my purse, I trace the hinged edge of the box. The square of silk falls open in my hand. Blood smears across the corner that bears the royal crest. An embroidered sunset of scarlet against the yellow silk. I toss it aside and it flutters to the ground like a dying moth.

I pad up the stairs to the palace proper. The box is a leaden weight carrying the hopes of a downtrodden people. Not that they’d thank me.

The commotion beyond the walls falls away, receding like the waning tide. It is replaced by a mournful yowling that speaks of disbelief and loss. The rebels have discovered that their leader is dead.

* * *

A guard, a tawny tabby with a torn ear, yanks the display box away from me. He flips open the doors to inspect the contents. Four others, ears flat against their heads and bare blades in their hands, scrutinise my every movement.

I stand with my arms outstretched. I’ve forgone my usual leathers, replacing them with courtier-style linens. An official with fashionable tortoiseshell-patterned fur runs his hands over my clothes. He is efficient and none too gentle. The guards have already removed the knife from my boot and the short swords from my waist. The official steps back, brandishing the dagger I’d hidden under the broad belt at the small of my back. He waggles it at me as if I were a naughty cub caught stealing from the cookie jar.

I give him a ‘worth-a-try’ shrug. They expect me to try, and I expected them to find it. They know I hate the king, but they also know I can do nothing about it. At least, that is their perception.

He tosses the dagger into a basket. I flex my paws, making a show of examining the blunted claws at their tips, as if bored by the whole process. The king insists that his visitors trim their claws to uselessness, and who are we to disobey the wishes of our illustrious king?

Scholars tell us that our ancient, four-legged ancestors wielded ever-sharp retractable claws. I ponder this as the official’s fingers sift through my fur. Hidden claws would be rather handy.

I chuckle at my weak, unspoken pun. The eyes of the guards dart all over me and their whiskers twitch. I quash my humour. It wouldn’t do to come this far only to be struck down by a skittish guard.

The official waves his fingers so he can check inside my ears. I bend down as indicated. This close I can see his is not a true tortoiseshell. Rather he has dyed his fur in patches and the regrowth of orange under the black gives it away. As thorough as he is, I note that he doesn’t touch the assassin’s cuff that pierces one of my ears. When he reaches my tail, he hesitates. It is shaved along most of its length leaving just a tuft at the end. Common wisdom has it that we only shave our fur when a dire case of parasites or disease forces our hand. It is a mark of shame to have to do so.

My tail had been a resplendent charcoal, a rarity much admired by those who knew me. I will admit it was a source of personal vanity. It pained me to cut the fur away, but we do what we must.

I proffer my tail to the official. He recoils, repelled by the proximity of the bared skin. He flinches and backs into one of the guards. The guard shoves him forward again then shoots a quick glance into the shadows. Two crossbowmen stand within a darkened alcove. Their fingers caress iron triggers. The windlasses they’ve used to span the brutal siege bows dangle from their waists. I am amused that they think I hadn’t already noticed them both. Such bows will send their bolts through fist-thick oak doors. A little excessive for one little cat, I think.

The guard with the display box has reset the bronze latch. He hands it back to me.

“Unlucky,” he states nodding to the box.

“It certainly was for her,” I reply. The box holder doesn’t appreciate my comment.

“Turn yourself right around and get you gone,” the guard sneers. The others chuckle. The phrase is newly popular at court and these guards ape those above their station. I let them see no emotion, but as I turn to the throne room, I smile at his choice of words.

That is exactly what I intend to do.

* * *

The throne room is wide and brightly lit by a multitude of glass-fronted lamps. I know from past inspection these are firmly affixed to the walls. The brass sheeting that lines the room is polished to a high sheen. There is nowhere here to hide, no way to sneak up on the king. His majesty’s corpulent form reclines on a divan dotted with tasselled cushions. Lavender and grey silks are draped around his body leaving his tail exposed.

To be fair, it is an excellent specimen. Long, luxuriant, and powder-white, it is exquisitely maintained. It is, I think, the only thing to be admired of our ruler.

“Place It There,” he Commanded, pointing to the low viewing platter on the ground between us.

The power of his magic has me in motion even before I am able to acknowledge the order. My movements are still fluid, but I cannot deny the compulsion. I am forced forward and set down the box.

“Return To Your Line.”

The first black line marked on the floor is used by appellants when appearing before the king. This line is deemed suitable for most people. It is far enough away that should they make an attempt on his life, he’ll have time enough to employ his magic to foil the attempt. Many have tried; none have come close. So confident is he that no guards are stationed within the room. The only other occupants are the king’s mousling attendants. Their eyes stare with dull incomprehension awaiting instructions from the king. He has used his magical Commands on them so often that all independent thought has been burned away.

The line I am sent to is three times the distance of the other. My only rebellion is that I use a courtier’s shuffle rather than my usual confident stride. A hypothesis confirmed. I suppose, I should be flattered that he deems me such a threat that he keeps me so far away. Instead, I yawn.

The king tilts his large head trying to determine if I am mocking him. The long white fur that spills from his clothes waves in the air like water flowing. It gives the illusion of his already bulky form being larger still.

I may have pushed him a little too far. He is as petty as he is vain, but I know I am a valuable, if unwilling, asset. Before he can decide if I did indeed mock him, I bow my head in submission. The gesture mollifies him, and the swish of silks announces that he has risen from his repose. At the scrape of the latch, I look up.

He has unfolded the box, so that it lies flat. The severed head of the rebel leader on display. He doesn’t bother asking me to confirm the identity of the head. His Command had been specific and impossible to disobey. In death, the eyes of the decapitated revolutionary have rolled back in her head, her tongue lolling from her mouth. The king giggles as he nods to himself.

“So, this is what she looked like,” he murmurs. “Pity about the expression,” he says. “That’s bad luck.”

I feel a perverse joy in his discomfort.

The yowling outside rises. It invades the throne room, swelling as it rides on the tide of grief. The rebel leader had been a hero of the common folk. A selfless revolutionary driven to free her people. By contrast, the king is hated by all. The rich have been disenfranchised, the poor exploited. Only the soldiers, well-paid and well-fed, support him. In a world of fast blades and quicker tempers, that is enough. The riots outside are a symptom of his cruel reign. Were it not for his magic, he wouldn’t be king at all. The world is poorer for his presence.

The irony of a hired killer judging another is not lost on me.

I am jolted from my reverie as I realise that the king has asked me a question. I try to drag his words from my memory but cannot summon them.

“Just so, your majesty.” I hope my reply is vague enough to satisfy his query.

It isn’t.

“When I ask you ‘How did she die?’ you reply ‘Just so’?”

His voice is tight, angry. He narrows his eyes then flicks a long, sharp nail towards me. “Choke Yourself,” he Commands.

My hands leap to my throat. I tense the muscles in my neck in an attempt to save myself, but it is futile. I know. I am intimately familiar with the act of choking someone. I tumble to the floor, falling onto my side. I tilt my head up to see him gazing down, face impassive.

“I like you, assassin, I really do,” he says as my hands squeeze tighter. There is neither pity nor anger in his cold blue eyes. “But you need to be more careful about what you say,” he turns and walks away, “and do.”

Spots appear at the corners of my vision. The room begins to fade away, the corners drifting inwards.

“Release Yourself.”

I suck incense-heavy air through my tender throat. My vision swims back into focus. I find him standing in front of his divan, his back turned to me.

It is time. My toe claws dig furrows in the wood as I spring forward. I whip my belt from my waist, whispering softly against the linen, and cover the remaining distance in five, silent strides. I ready the belt to wrap it around his furry neck when his voice shatters the air.

“Be Still,” he Commands.

I cannot ignore it. My legs betray me, arresting my rush. I skid to a halt, the belt dangling from one hand. It swings back and forth like a hangman’s noose in the wind. His exposed back is a full body length away, but he might as well have been on the most distant of our moons.

“There have been many attempts on my life in the past,” he says, turning and drawing close to me. “But, I stand here still.”

The king has brought himself within arm’s reach, but I can do nothing. I will my feet to move but they feel like they are locked in stone.

“By now, I would have thought you would know better.” He leans closer still. His whiskers, coated in gold leaf, brush my face. He sidles up to me and lays his arm around my shoulders, confident in his magic. The scent of the clove oil he uses on his fur fills my nostrils. I feel a shudder rising within me, but it fails to rise to the surface, impotently beating at me like a fly caught in a bottle.

“You are wondering, ‘How did he see me?’ ” the king says in a stage whisper. He strokes a finger down my cheek as if pondering the question, then snaps his fingers. “It’s the walls!” He dances away and spins, arms outstretched. Long fur trails from his arms like a comet.

“They are lovely, aren’t they? Polished to a mirror shine,” he says. A half-smile creases his lips, exposing his fangs, yellowed by excess. “A mirror shine,” he reiterates. The smile becomes cruel. He flicks the circular ear of a mousling servant with one taloned claw. Blood trickles through the grey. The slave shows no sign of having noticed the assault. “I see all that happens in my own throne room. I control everything.”

He stops and turns his head slightly towards me, not quite meeting my gaze. “I’ve killed people for less,” he says casually. He admires his claws, testing the points with his thumb. The flickering light of the lamps makes them gleam.

“A great deal of people,” he says turning to look directly at me, “and for a lot less.”

He looms before me. His face is so close I can smell his scented breath. “But as I said, I like you.” He indicates the box with a tilt of his head. “And you are useful to me.”

He bops me on the nose. I have seen him use the same gesture many times before dismissing — or passing judgement on — someone.

He shakes his head and sighs in mock disappointment before returning to stand before his divan.

“I’ll call for you when I need you again.  What is it they are saying in court these days?” He clicks his fingers. “Ah, yes. Turn Yourself Right Around and Get You Gone,” he Commands.

The smile breaks across my face like the morning sun racing across the plains of my homeland. Eyes widening, the king realises something isn’t right but I am already moving. Spinning on the spot, my tail flies out. A quick twitch sends it higher. Neck high. The soot-darkened blade hidden within the tuft of my tail whips across his throat. Instantly his fur darkens to crimson as blood burbles and seeps from the cut I have made. I complete a full revolution as Commanded then begin the walk towards the exit.

I can’t stop; the Command still compels me, but I am able to look over my shoulder. The king has fallen to his knees, hands clutching his throat. His mouth works but no sound emerges. His clawed hands fail to arrest his motion as he topples forward. The mouslings stand uncomprehending.

I step through the door and feel the king’s Command slip away from my mind like a sheet of silk. I stride past the guards without collecting my weapons. One imagination-starved guard calls out, “Turn yourself right around and get you gone” at my retreating back.

I smile to myself but do not look back. It took me months to popularise the saying at court. It will likely be longer until it is forgotten. I’d baulked at shaving my tail but it was the only way I could hide the blade from their probing paws.

Padding down to the palace gates, I resist the urge to run. The night braziers are just being kindled and in their wavering light my shadow appears to dance. The sneers of the guards are dismissive, but they ready the bolt on the small monk’s door set into the larger gate.

There is a shout from behind me.

I fake a stumble and bring myself up close to the gates, my shoulder under the heavy bar. The wide-eyed guards are slow to react. A quick shove and the bar clears the cradle. It tumbles to the stones. I pull on the doors and step into the shadows. The guards recover, leaping towards the gate, but the rebels have seen the movement of the gates and spill into the palace grounds. They vent their rage over their leader’s death, overwhelming the guards in seconds leaving lifeless corpses behind as they surge up the palace steps.

I stare at the dead. They’ve given their lives for their king, just as the rebel leader offered up hers to me to rid the land of the king. Revolutions are rarely bloodless, but I have had enough of death.

Stepping out into the now empty gate, I turn myself around and am gone.

 

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