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  A cry came from the desert. It crossed the huge silence like an arrow, and was gone. Male or female? Susan could not tell. She ran across sand that did not fall as she had expected but seemed as flat as a low-tide beach, and came to the final climb. The jungle stood there, silent, at the top of a wall white as sugar. It seemed almost straight up and down and taller by several times than the ones she had climbed already. She started up, and slid back, and knew she had no strength for it. But she tried again, and made several metres, digging her fingers in the moving surface. Far away, black creepers hung like strands of hair on a forehead. If she could reach one – but she fell, and rolled like a log to the bottom. Her eyes were blind with sand and her mouth gritty. She squatted hamster-like at the foot of the wall and waited for whatever was to happen. After a little time her eyes were clear. She wiped them and looked across the sand-flat at the dunes. Slarda stood halfway across, watching her.

  Slarda!

  Susan thought of Steen first. Tears burned in her eyes and slid on her cheeks. She was glad that he had died his own man. Then she was terrified for herself, and tried to stand, but her knees gave way.

  Slarda came another ten steps forward. Her lips were drawn back in a grin, her teeth gleamed like porcelain. She held up something, rattled it – Steen’s belt and empty water flask – and threw it aside. She took her crossbow from her back and with two fingers shaped like tongs plucked a short arrow from her pouch.

  If only she’d say something, say a word, Susan thought. She could not move. She sat at the foot of the sandhill, leaning her back on it, palms flat, calves burning on the sand, and waited for Slarda to take aim. Grains from high on the hill ran in little rivers by her face. She tried to wet her mouth. She closed her eyes.

  When she opened them Slarda had her bow armed. But something about her was wrong. She had sunk into a fighting crouch. She was looking not at Susan but up at the jungle. Slowly she took two steps back.

  Susan turned painfully. She did not care much what she saw. It could be no help, whatever it was.

  The sand climbed almost straight, as smooth as marble. Jungle frothed across the top of it. A huge red flower bloomed on the green. She blinked and looked again. Not a flower. Jaws and shoulders jutting like a painted figurehead. White teeth winking. Eyes like jewels.

  Bloodcat!

  Chapter Six

  Thief

  ‘Cat,’ Slarda said, ‘take the girl.’ Her voice came hoarsely over the sand. ‘Cat, noble cat, we are hunters, you and I. We understand each other. She was mine. But I surrender her. I give her to you. Take the girl.’

  The Bloodcat made no sign of having heard. It opened its jaws wide and yawned and the bones of its mouth made a creaking sound.

  ‘Cat,’ Slarda said, ‘she is tender. She is sweet. But I am tough. No meal for you, King of Cats.’

  She was pleading for her life. But she made no sign of panic. She remained in her fighting crouch, with her bow ready. Her eyes, unblinking, watched the cat. Susan watched it too, thinking how much less terrible it was than Slarda. It was not twisted, it would not kill her for its own pleasure. And it would do as it wanted. She felt like telling Slarda to stop wasting her time. This cat would choose one of them, or both. And that would be that.

  It placed one paw over the lip of sand, testing it. Then it stepped out and slid down, forelegs stiff and tail like a snake. It was so bright on the sand Susan shielded her eyes. She heard the wooden slap of Slarda’s bow. The cat twisted, almost lazily, shifting its line, and kept on sliding. The bolt pocked the sand and slid down too, a stocky poisonous dart with a needle tip. Sand buried it at the foot of the slope.

  Susan watched the cat. It stepped out on the flat and stretched itself like a house cat at a fire. Again it yawned and its jaws creaked. It seemed lazy, bored, but its tail gave it away, whipping stiffly from side to side. Still it seemed to pay no attention to Slarda; and Susan gave her no attention either. She heard the frantic jacking of her bow as she reloaded. Slarda was a movement at the corner of her eye. The cat filled the rest. It stopped its yawning and turned to face her. She saw those eyes again, that she had seen in nightmares – hot and yellow, pupils in a flame-point. They seemed to cut into her like knives, penetrate to where heart throbbed and lungs pumped. She seemed to have no secrets from the cat, it saw into her brain to where the secret of her life was kept.

  ‘Cat,’ Susan whispered, ‘don’t. Please.’

  She heard the slap of Slarda’s bow again. The cat seemed to give no muscular movement, it sprang stiff-legged, it levitated, and the bolt whined under it, a yellow wasp, and struck the sand with a kapok sound. The cat had twisted in its jump. Now it faced Slarda. It began to step carelessly towards her. It was strolling. Susan leaned forward, she whispered, ‘Cat.’ For now she saw the marks on its side, the four raked scars running from shoulder to hip, pink and sore and tender in the hair. And saw the mark worn by a collar on its neck. This was him, this was the one. It was the cat the High Priest had kept, and ordered to kill her. The cat Ben had fought, and clawed on its side. And she had taken its collar off and sent it home. And here it was, in its jungle, on its sands – hunting Slarda. She watched. She knew the woman had no chance. She felt sorry for her and wanted to save her, but telling her to run would serve no purpose.

  ‘Cat,’ she whispered, ‘please don’t kill her.’

  ‘Cat,’ she called.

  It made no sign, but kept its lazy walk towards the woman. Slarda had reloaded. Thirty metres of sand separated her from the animal. She began a rearward creeping. If she was afraid she did not show it. Her eyes never blinked. She was a savage creature too. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. The closer she let the cat come the better her chance. Her shot had to strike and had to kill.

  The cat advanced. Ten body-lengths away it stopped. Its tail grew rigid, its back arched. Its ears were flattened on its head. Stiff-legged, almost clumsy, it turned side-on, inviting Slarda to shoot. She shook her head and took a half step back. No, she would not shoot, not yet. ‘Closer, red one. I’ll have your skin.’ Her whisper came to Susan across the sand. The cat seemed to dance then, came in closer, stiff-legged still, head angled low. Again it offered its side to Slarda. And now the woman acted: in one movement aimed and shot. It was her chance, the best she would have. The speed of the bolt must beat the cat.

  Somehow Susan was there, she was in the Bloodcat’s mind, and knew it beat the woman not the bolt. Its spring began at pressure, not release – so it was gone before the bolt was launched, Slarda shot at nothing. Yet she was clever, and allowed for the movement; shot high, and the bolt came close. Its feathers brushed the Bloodcat’s belly at the peak of its jump. Then the cat was down, and running: four, five steps, then a bound. It came at Slarda high, dropping at her, and Slarda, in a crouch, knife in hand, reached up to slash the animal’s belly. She hoped to disembowel it. But in that upward look her throat was bared. It was enough. The cat flicked with a back leg, with claw unsheathed like a gutting knife, and cut her throat. Slarda fell, and rolled over once, and beat her shins on the sand. She lay dead. It was very simple, very quick. The cat turned from its landing place. It walked to her, and sniffed, and sat down and licked its back paw clean.

  ‘Slarda,’ Susan whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Slarda.’ She closed her eyes. She was so tired, so worn out in her feelings, that she was not able to move or think. She did not even open her eyes again. She felt the cat coming close. She felt it sitting in front of her, looking, waiting. She had no idea what it would do, and did not care. Then it seemed to her she slept a while. When she opened her eyes the cat was there, resting too. Slarda’s body sprawled indistinct on the sand. A narrow shadow pressed at the foot of the dune. Susan’s face and torso lay in it, but her legs were burning in the sun. She looked at the cat. She did not think it would be wise to move. ‘Cat,’ she whispered. It opened its eyes and looked at her. They seemed cooler, and the pupils, though shrinking in the light, were blunt at the tips.

 
; ‘Cat,’ she said, ‘I’m getting up.’

  It watched her while she stood, then it stood too.

  ‘Cat, if you’re going to kill me, do it now.’

  The animal twitched its tail, but gave no sign.

  She said, ‘Do you remember the arena? And Ben? And me taking off your collar?’

  The cat looked bored. It yawned again. It seemed fond of yawning, this cat. She knew she was not getting through to it. ‘Cat, how do I talk to you? Why aren’t I scared? Are you my friend?’ She took a step towards it. That made it act. It stiffened, showed a flash of tooth under its lip. ‘No, not yet. Not friends.’

  She tried to think what to do. Jimmy had talked to Ben in pictures – and she too had learned to show, not tell. So … Carefully, keeping it simple, she made a picture of the arena: banks of spectators, tongue of stone over the drop, the dais, the High Priest. And the cat gave a screech. It leaned at her, trembling. It had memories, that was plain. She made more pictures, in a hurry: herself unbuckling the collar, freeing the cat. And the cat running, leaping up the steps of the arena, while the priests parted frantically to let it through. And the leap from arena to cliff-top, and the jungle beckoning. That was it. She flashed it like a series of slides for the cat to see. And it saw. Somehow it saw. It relaxed. The tension went out of it. It settled more easily on its legs.

  ‘Cat,’ Susan said, ‘I set you free.’

  As if in answer, the cat closed its eyes, and opened them. It was, she saw, a sign of trust. But she could not help wondering what would happen when the animal grew hungry. Would the slide-show work?

  Her head was aching and her mouth was dry. It was not easy making these pictures. They must take a lot from her, for when she moved she seemed to have no strength. ‘Water,’ she said. ‘Cat, I need water.’ She looked at Slarda’s body, and though she did not want to see it close walked towards it. The cat gave a growl, but she made another picture: a pool of water. That quietened it. She came to Slarda’s body and was glad it was lying face down. She did not want to see the woman’s throat. She unfastened her water flask from her belt and drank from it. The water was warm, but ran down her throat sweet as honey. She drank deeply, then poured a little water in her hand and offered it to the cat. The animal turned its back. It strolled away and lay on the sand.

  Careful, Susan told herself, not too fast.

  She unstrapped Slarda’s food pouch and retrieved her knife from where it had fallen. The woman’s leather cap had fallen off and her hair was spread on the sand. Brown hair, pretty hair. What had turned Slarda into a killer? What was it in her, and the others, that allowed them to kill so easily, and enjoy it? She belted on the knife and pouch and flask. That was all she wanted. She did not want to take the woman’s blanket or her cap, though both would be useful. Then she remembered Steen. She looked into the desert and shivered. She did not want to go, but knew she must. Slarda might have wounded him, not killed him. He might be lying there, dying slowly. She had to make sure.

  ‘Cat,’ she said, ‘I’m going to find my friend. Are you coming?’ It seemed best to pretend he was safe. He padded along behind her, and although he might be waiting his time to kill she would behave as though he was friendly. She followed Slarda’s steps back into the dunes. They kept a straight line, and her own trail lay alongside, denting the sand. Then she came to a place where they had parted – or rather, where Slarda’s had joined hers again. The woman had angled across from a crowd of little conical hills. A good place for an ambush, though they’d done Steen no good. She went into them and found the sand packed harder, mixed with earth and pebbles. She lost the trail. ‘Where?’ she said to the Bloodcat. It stood behind whipping its tail. ‘Help me,’ she said. ‘You can find him.’ She made a picture of Steen lying on the sand, with his arms outflung. It galvanized the cat, made it leap into the air as though stung. It growled and advanced on her. She saw the way its joints worked under its hide, so beautifully. It made her feel clumsy; but she formed the picture again, and tried to show herself and the animal there too.

  The cat understood. It seemed to nod, and it raised its nose, sniffing the air, and started off round the nearest hill. It led her a long way, further than she thought Steen could have gone. But there he was – and just has she had shown him in her picture, arms out-stretched. It was as if she had known. She walked towards him beside the cat. He was in a little hollow, like something dead lying in a basin. She felt tears of pity for him, and of anger at the waste. Steen dead. Slarda too. There was no need, they should be alive. She knelt beside him and said, ‘Steen, I’m sorry.’ And suddenly she seemed to be speaking with a voice not her own – an O voice not an Earth voice, and words she had not thought. ‘I’ll try to stop it all, I promise you. No more killing.’ His mouth was wide in his shout of pain. His eyes stared blindly at the sun. She tried to close them but could not make the lids go all the way.

  The cat sniffed at him and turned away. It sat on the sand and yawned. It did not want Steen for food – but ants would pick him clean. Scouts had already found him. She saw them busy underneath, by the broken shaft of Slarda’s bolt. Steen would be a skeleton, dry bones in the desert. She did not see anything wrong with that, it might be an end he would have chosen. But she wanted some way of saying goodbye. So she picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle on his chest – a kind of burial. No prayers; O had had more than enough of that. She said, ‘Goodbye, Steen. Thank you for helping me. I’m glad you were your own man, not Osro’s.’ It seemed enough. She turned away and walked towards the jungle. The cat padded easily, two or three steps ahead.

  They took a new way and did not see Slarda again. It was further to the jungle than Susan had thought and she wondered if the cat knew where it was going. Perhaps it preferred to stay in the desert. In that case she would have to get away. She must reach the coast and find the Birdfolk. ‘Cat,’ she said, ‘jungle.’ She made a picture of creepers and trees. The cat growled. Did that mean yes? It did not change its course but kept straight on; and soon she saw the dark line of trees. ‘Good,’ she said, stepping faster, coming up to the animal’s side. Without thinking, she let her hand fall on its neck.

  The cat’s reaction was so swift she never knew what had happened. She felt a blow on her side that knocked the breath out of her and sent her spinning across the sand in a tangle of arms and legs. She did not know how long she lay, spitting sand, wiping it from her eyes. But when she was able to see she rose on her hands and knees and faced the cat. It crouched two metres away, eyes burning, ears flat, teeth bared in the sun. One wrong move or word and it would spring. She must say and do exactly what was right, or she would die. But even as she prepared herself, she took hope from the thought that the cat had struck with its claws still sheathed, otherwise she would be dead already.

  ‘Cat,’ she whispered, ‘I’m your friend,’ and she made the picture at the same time: the girl, herself, unbuckling the collar, freeing the cat. Again, again she made it, keeping it simple. This was a primitive animal, much more primitive and savage than Ben. It must have only a few simple thoughts, a few responses. Attack! Kill! Tear! Eat! How could friendship be one of them? She must keep reinforcing its memory of her setting it free. That was the only pathway she had into its mind.

  In a little while she stood up. ‘Now,’ she whispered, ‘we’re friends. You don’t want me touching you. But friends touch.’ She made the picture: her hand coming down to rest on its head. The cat snarled. It sank a little deeper in its crouch. ‘Stay,’ she said ‘you stay there.’ She moved several steps towards it. She held out her hand to show what she meant to do; advanced it until it was a hand-width from the cat. She let it stay there. It trembled and she told it to stop. When she moved it again the cat struck. Yet it shortened its blow, something held it back. The tip of one claw nicked Susan’s wrist, blood dripped on the sand. It was a dangerous moment. Blood might madden the cat.

  Slowly Susan withdrew her hand and pushed out the other. The cat struck again, knocked
it aside, but this time the claws were sheathed. ‘No’ she said. She brought her hand back. The cat pushed it away. ‘See, we’re touching.’ She made a picture: paw and hand. The cat seemed to think about it. It seemed to grow sulky, and moved back a step. Carefully, Susan closed the gap, brought herself back in touching range. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’ll touch your head. If you and I are friends we’ve got to touch.’ She showed him herself with her hand on his head. He drew back his lip at that, but made no move. She advanced her hand; she let her fingertips come down just above his eyes. His ears flattened, that was all, he made a spitting sound, like tearing paper. But he allowed it.

  After a while she moved her hand and cupped it on his head. Taking care not to move suddenly, she stepped round to his side and touched the mark left by the collar on his neck. She knelt and looked at the scars on his side. The cuts were tender still but they were healing. ‘Ben really got you.’ She made a picture of the Varg, and the cat made no response. He did not seem to bear Ben any malice.

  ‘Now,’ Susan said, ‘we’re friends. We can travel together. But you’ve got to have a name. I can’t call you Cat.’ She thought a while, and remembered the barn cats at home, Poorman and Beggarman. Once there had been Richman – Richman lived in the house – but he was dead. She smiled at the cat. ‘How about Thief? It seems to suit you.’

  The cat moved off and cleaned its paw. She licked her own wrist where the claw had nicked it. ‘You’re dangerous,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re on my side.’ She hoped he was. She did not think they were really friends yet, or if they were it was not a friendship she was going to count on. Something could easily tip it over – hunger could. She looked at Thief licking his claw – getting a taste of her blood – and wondered when he would be hungry next.

  ‘Come on, Thief. Let’s get moving.’ She made another picture of the jungle; and surprisingly, making her start, something came back – a picture from Thief, the first he had sent. It had no colour but was black and white, and that, she supposed, showed how primitive Bloodcats were. Ben’s pictures were in colour. But this showed jungle like an old photograph. The point of it, she saw, was that the wall of sand was low. Thief was showing an easy way in.