It Began with a Cat
- Enekos
- Aug 2, 2023
- 6 min read
"That Union of Trades in their towers of polished stone look down you,” rasped a breathless Mearaithe, his lungs now becoming accustomed to the odour of the sewers. “No matter your trade, whether forging steel for the Queen’s army or toiling in the fields of Ekrinaya or slinking in the night like an assassin, the union cares not for your welfare but for their vanity projects and power over you.” Mearaithe took a sip of possibly stolen whisky, considered its texture, and emptied the glass. “My friends, we will become a mafia and we will terrorize those in power, and we will take that power!” his voice rising to a crescendo, “And we will take this city of Veraku!”
The farmer from Ekrinaya rode night and day from the scene of the watchmaker’s demise. Those words… “taken” and “Veraku” haunted his mind. Somewhere in that soul-beaten city was the artifact and someone with the initials “JF” knew where it was. The farmer clutched his breast pocket and felt the know sheathed flint knife that had sliced the watchmaker’s gut open. He needed to recover stolen goods and clear his name. The farmer would begin at the Union of Trades.
Dressed completely in a reflective metal, the figure considered the drawing carefully. Each feature of the sketch became imprinted in his mind. He read the words slowly. ‘Ekrinaya farmer wanted for murder. 1000 gold coins reward. By order of the Magistrate. Sponsor ~ Union of Trades.’ Satisfied, the figure returned to the night and breathed one word, “Fedaloup.”
The farmer had a different word when he saw his face sketched onto parchment and nailed to the wall of a non-descript building. His plan to lodge in the Hotel du Larcarne, amongst the fine people of the Union of Trades would need revising.
Night had crept around him, and most trades were shuttering. Rain had begun to fall but he took one glance up the tree-line boulevard towards the polished towers. He sighed, took the sketch, and turned away into the depths of the old city amongst the beggars who, for a few silver coins, would become his eyes and ears.
In Ekrinaya the goose sounded alarm as another watchman arrived, his armour clearly defined the importance of rank. His underling emerged from the farmhouse. “We found this sir,” The captain reviewed the medals and a commendation from the battle of Ragezhine. ‘Not just a farmer then…’
The inn was comfortable enough, owned by a robust woman with an interesting array of metals in here mouth where teeth should have been. As much as she was rambunctious, she also knew that talking to the wrong people about a patron of her establishment, especially one wanted for a serious crime evidenced by the sketch the same man had shown her. Discretion was not her middle name, but she seriously considered changing it.
Her middle name was Mabel.
Charlotte Mabel Sanquiner…
Ms.
Mearaithe wasn’t known for religion – unless the gods drank whisky, but staring into that hidden face – his own reflected in polished metal he couldn’t help but wonder about the gods. The armour handed him a parchment. A sketch of someone from Ekrinaya – a murderer and a useful bounty. Mearaithe was conflicted. Gold coins were useful, but from the enemy? And someone with knowledge of sharp-pointy-things could be useful. He gazed back at the figure. It simply said, “Fedaloup.”
Mearaithe turned the thoughts over in his mind in the days that followed. The city was a large place – large enough to conceal numerous people wanted by the authorities – his brigand of cats included. They owned the sewers, so clearly this farmer wasn’t there. He had to be above ground.
He called for Janna Steel; an enigmatic woman, whose oft-wore cloak merged her into the shadows from where she saw and heard everything. She studied the parchment and purred softly and in the same moment stopped herself. “There’s talk of silver in the streets, of eyes watching. There’s talk of someone searching for a maker of knives.”
Mearaithe nodded and gave her a look. “You know what to do.”
Someone who wanted to become completely anonymous didn’t spend silver on acquiring the same eyes and ears in her employment. ‘And that’s why loopholes were created’ thought Pseki Grunda, a third-generation beggar from the old city. Life wasn’t always kind, and he hated the rains as much as he hated the heat, but since being given a piece of silver by a mysterious stranger one night, Pseki had briefly changed to a more positive outlook on life. The sharp blade now piercing the first layer of grime on his neck had brought him back to reality very quickly. “Very good Pseki. Now which tavern is our mutual friend residing?” The woman’s voice was smooth and calming although her gaze had given Pseki the sense that truth was better than any attempt at being clever. He mumbled something and Janna let the thought slip across her mind. “I was never here.”
‘Follow the cats to find the knife’ was the only other thing Ms. Sanquiner had said. The other thing had been how beautiful the woman had been, not someone you see in these parts. The farmer had wondered whether he should follow actual cats, but the sketched cat on a piece of card by his open window had allayed his mind as cats tended not to move that much. He eased himself onto the roof and looked around. In the distance he saw some cat-shape sewn onto fabric.
This strange journey eventually lead him back to tight alley streets, where he had a vague feeling of being watched from the shadows. The next cat was sketched on the back of some parchment attached to a pole. He touched it softly and – damn – it was on the back of his portrait. Shaking his head to clear his mind he became aware of footsteps. Suddenly 3 guardsmen for the night watch emerged – their lanterns close to his face and slowly… a slowly as a goose takes flight… a realization dawned upon them.
The farmer couldn’t stop the whistle being blown, but in a series of twists and turns, yelps, and bad language the farmer was able to stop the 3 guardsmen from any consideration of following him. More footsteps were approaching and then a figure emerged from those shadows and whispered: “Follow me if you want to live”.
The tunnel entrance was relatively dry. Torch flames danced on the curved walls and the farmer noticed a change underfoot. Hardground became softer and then watery. The lady motioned him to the side, where stone yet again greeted him. Water poured from above and the smell of the farm came back to him.
He became aware of whistles being blown above him and the clatter of boots on stone. He knew where he was, but not where this woman was taking him. He also knew the time to talk was not now. That time arrived several minutes later when they rounded a corner into a huge cavern with numerous other figures. The farmer reached for the flint knife as one man approached him – his arms outstretched.
“Hello. I am Mearaithe. You don’t need that here…” He gestured towards the knife. “Do you have a name?” The farmer stared and tensed a little as more figures joined the man. One was dressed in armour. “I understand you are from Ekrinaya and that the Union of Trades wants to give someone 1000 gold coins for your head. That someone is not here.” Mearaithe smiled. “What you did to the soldiers was impressive.” Janna wasn’t the only person to see that deed. “And I don’t care if you killed someone or not. May I see the knife?”
The metal figure approached him and held out a hand. It said nothing, giving the farmer time to consider the faces in the flickering light. He realised the knife wouldn’t defeat the first ‘man’ let alone the two dozen he could see. He slowly placed the knife on the outstretch hand and the figure responded with a simple “Fedaloup,” before turning to Mearaithe.
Mearaithe studied the blade and inquired why the farmer was here. The tale was told, omitting the part about the artifact. “Well, mister whoever you are, the facts are simple. The magistrate believes you killed the watchmaker, and the great union of trades has offered 1000 gold coins for your head. So, there’s zero chance they will help you. But we will. We could use a man with your skills.” Mearaithe had decided.
“A flint knife, bone handle and two letters. J and F. No one can know your real name, so maybe I should call you Mr. Flint? John Flint?” Mearaithe offered The farmer considered this and said: “Jean. Please call me Jean Flint.”
In the days that followed, Mearaithe introduced Jean Flint to his cats.
Janna he knew and they spoke often. Eventually Tirke explained the story of the Fedaloup. He’d meet others too, such as Saxo who painted banners and posters to derail the search for Jean Flint. A great comradeship was formed over whisky. Each night Mearaithe would deliver some iteration of the oppression from the union and the rise of this mafia, to which some purred or did the human version of “meow”.
One night, in the midst of this talking, thoughts turned in the farmer’s mind which suddenly snapped awake:
“You are our Mafia Cats but if we are to rule as Mearaithe wishes, then we must become stronger. We must move from these sewers and become something more. We are stronger together,” The group cheered. “We need a ship!”
“Oh, and stop with meowing. It’s annoying.”
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