The Purging Of Ruen E-Book

Thomas Corfield

• Herausgeber: Panda Books Australia
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 526

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

In which Oscar battles a misguided echelon of authoritative animals to save a beautiful city from certain destruction.

Das E-Book The Purging Of Ruen wird angeboten von Panda Books Australia und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
cats;humor;secret agent;Mediterranean;cat sleuth;animal civilization;cozy

Leseprobe

THE VELVET PAW OF ASQUITH NOVELS

THE PURGING OF RUEN

THOMAS CORFIELD

Panda Books Australia

“About as gripping as a used band-aid.”

—Jefer Meries, Laborious Tasker.

“Once in a lifetime comes a book that changes the world. This is not it.”

—Ustapha Mahalong, Frequently Inverted.

“These books have plots so thin that I actually broke one.”

—David Micheal Milan, Nineteenth Century Industrialist.

VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM

Licence Notes

____________________

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Written in Australian English.

Thank you for purchasing this ebook. If you didn’t, and it’s pirated, then a pox upon you. I don’t do this for fun, you know. This is work. And it’s quite hard too. Especially some of the spelling. This book must not be reproduced, copied or distributed, nor can it be printed out to write shopping lists on. If you enjoyed this book, please return to ThomasCorfield.com to discover further books. If you didn’t enjoy it, then I suggest you re-read it paying closer attention.

Consider visiting velvetpawofasquith.com for music, dancing and much merriment.

Copyright Thomas Corfield.

Contents

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Title Page

licence

Excerpt

Important Note

The Morigan Trilogy

Cinematic Audiobooks

Opening Chapter

From the Next Book

About the Publisher

About the Author

Other Titles

Don’t miss out!

Excerpt

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AT an intersection, two police officers watched an official saloon hurtle past, grateful it didn’t stop to berate them. After their disastrous mismanagement of Hotel d’Ruen, they worried that any attempts at apology would only draw attention to it and result in the sort of chastisement that ironically warrants apology. One of them wandered into the street to wave after it, forcing a car to screech to a stop behind him. After some hooting, the officer turned and waved the vehicle past. It did so, but not before the driver uttered the sort of expletives that ought to have him taken in for questioning.

The officers returned to the pavement. They could manage standing on pavements, because it required little competency. With paws clasped behind them, they stood and peered at things suspiciously. Traffic lights, for example. And pigeons. And pedestrians.

One of which was taken aside for questioning.

“What’s that?” an officer asked, pointing at the animal’s shopping.

The animal glanced at his bag. “It’s my shopping.”

“Shopping? I don’t believe you. What sort of shopping is it?”

“Well, food, mostly.”

“Food?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean by food.”

“Food. You know, the stuff one eats when hungry.”

“And you can prove that, can you?”

“What, that I’m hungry?”

“No, that it’s shopping.”

“I expect so, yes.”

The officers glanced at each other, impressed, considering they struggled to prove anything. “And how do you propose doing so?” the other asked.

“Well, I could open the bag.”

The officers frowned.

“I could open the bag,” the animal said, “and you could see my shopping. As a means of verification, it ought to work quite well.”

The police nodded as enlightenment dawned, and one jotted the strategy down in a notebook.

“You didn’t steal it, did you?” the second asked.

“What?”

“The bag. It’s not stolen by any chance?”

“No. It’s mine.”

“So that bag definitely wasn’t lying around on the pavement all by itself?”

“No!”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No. It’s my bag with my shopping. Do you want to see the receipt as well?”

“Receipt?”

“Yes. To prove it’s not stolen.”

The officers glanced at each other, before one asked, “So how does that work then?”

From Chapter 37

Important Note

____________________

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels are international jet-setting adventures with large casts of characters. As examples of New Fable genre fiction, they do not have individual protagonists and antagonists, but instead have character couples known as protagona and antagona.

These character couples afford greater immersion into the books’ expansive cinematic atmosphere through carefully constructed shifts in character point-of-view. It is hoped that this cultivates greater vibrancy and depth to the books’ cinematic ludicrousness.

Get ready for the Morigan Trilogy!

____________________

More cats and dogs and high adventure and romance and espionage and food fights and hotels and explosions and car chases!

Darker, fluffier, and much more dangerous.

Cinematic Audiobooks

____________________

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels are available as award-winning audiobooks, with lush orchestrations and immersive cinematics. Find them at all good online retailers, and some less reputable ones.

DEDICATION

____________________

For

Oliver and Jeremy, Tabitha and Natalie.

1

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“Courage; a modesty born from fear,

and any animal who boasts of bravery,

knows the meaning of neither.”

– the Loud Purr of Asquith.

AT the top of a parapet, an old cat kicked at a door, ground her teeth and glared at a dog struggling up the stairs behind her.

“Door!” she hissed when he arrived.

The dog stumbled past and fumbled with its handle, apologising when the thing refused to cooperate. Beyond it, wind screamed through gaps and wrenched the flame of torch in his paw, which he shoved into hers to afford better grip on the door.

The Pyjami’s impatience boiled at being forced to hold the flames. “It’s a door!” she hissed. “It is not particularly complicated!”

“I know, but it’s difficult because it’s rusty and my paws are all shaky—”

“Did I ask for excuses?”

“No, but I thought it prudent—”

“You are lucky I do not remove your paws and staple them to this thing.” She waved the torch in irritation. “Just consider yourself fortunate that I don’t have a stapler.”

“I do, honestly. It’s just that after all those stairs I’m rather puffed, you see, and this fluffing door—”

“I’m not puffed.”

“No, of course you’re not,” he muttered, fiddling with the handle, and having no intention of pointing out that he’d been forced to hurry across several floors of castle while she’d merely waited on one bit lower down.

He’d been forced to hurry because the animal who was supposed to meet the Pyjami had required a toilet urgently. Dire need of latrine befell many within the castle because the place stank beyond remark. So dreadful was its smell that the castle’s latrines were the most sought after rooms in it, primarily because they smelt better than the rest of the place. The castle didn’t smell of mouldy, dank stone, but had a stench of manure that physically clawed. Its assault wasn’t limited to sense of smell either, but battered all five in a manner best described as selfish. It was a reek so thick that it was akin to breathing cheese. A stink so debilitating, that whiskers shrivelled and fur moulted. As a result, the dog was desperate for the door to open, but the Pyjami’s irritation hindered efforts as much as the wind pushing against it. The Pyjami wasn’t interested in excuses and growled at the dog that if he didn’t hurry up and open the thing, she’d do something to him that wouldn’t require a stapler.

After another curse and a serious shove, the latch shifted. The door slammed inwards and cold night blew them back toward the stairwell. With a growl, the Pyjami thrust the beaten torch back into the dog’s paws and strode from the parapet into fresh air, of which she took several relieved breaths. Around her, castle towers struck high at a night sky, their slurry of black sand glistening beneath starlight. Upon battlements, wind surged in howl around lichen-crusted stone, which had been gnawed soft and porous by countless wheels of season.

When the wind fell, she said to the dog, “When that wretched animal in the latrines decides to avail himself, then return for me—but not before warning him that should he do the same upon my next visit, I shall do something to him that shall render his current indisposition to be something he’ll aspire to.”

“Right Should I also tell him the stapler thing?”

“What?”

“The thing about the staples—the thing you said about my paws and the stapler. Should I say that to him? It might hurry him up. It certainly hurried me up.”

She turned to glare. “Are you showing insolence?”

He waved his snuffed torch to assure that he wasn’t. “Not at all! I just thought it might be helpful.”

“Helpful?”

“Yes. You know, encouraging.”

“I suggest you leave at once, dog,” she hissed, “before I tear you apart and leave you in dire need of staples!”

After an awkward bow, the dog did so, though struggled to close the door despite the fiasco in opening it. In the end, he gave up and left the thing banging in the wind, which howled around its new-found orifice.

Built when Ruen’s shores were maraudered by barbarians, the castle teetered upon a massive, jagged line of blackened cliff high above a thundering sea. Having lain quiet for centuries, it had slept a reprieve well-deserved after years of resistance. And although times of valour had long since passed, its stance warned that, should the need arise, it would readily awaken to defend this beautiful edge of world.

Compared to times past, however, the world was now different.

Boundaries agreed.

Disputes few.

All knew times of quarrel had been regaled to history.

All knew, that is, except one.

Curling lips across fangs yellow with age, the Pyjami snarled. She knew that quarrels had not resolved, so much as evolved. An enemy remained. No longer across the sea, but within this land itself.

Her land.

She pulled her coat tighter. It was a beautiful night, scented with sea, carpentered wood and freshly powdered stone. When gusts lessened, remnants of day became apparent: grasses and cooked earth, fragrances lost when wind again rose in howl. When the dog returned, so did stench, which tainted night like sudden death at a dinner party. She snarled again, furious at having to tolerate such incompetence. All animals needed to know their place, and his place was so far beneath her that he belonged in the dungeons, with flaky bits of straw and gruel far harder than the bowl it might reside in. The dog cleared his throat and hoiked up some phlegm which he spat from battlements. Watching its blobs sail away, he gave his sinuses another noisy spring-clean and readied to expectorate a second time. When the Pyjami glared at him, he insisted that the castle’s stench was responsible—or at least tried to, in as much as his mouthful allowed. When she warned that should he continue, he’d expectorate teeth along with it, he swallowed instead.

She took a final deep breath, strode past him and returned to the fetid warmth of castle.

“Can we leave it open?” the dog asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

“What?”

“The door,” he said, indicating it. “Can we leave it open a bit to let some of the stench out? Also, I’m not certain how easy it’s going to be to close again, considering how strong the wind is. It’s blown out most of the torches in the stairwell. I tripped on my way down and nearly snapped my tail off. I don’t mind re-lighting them, you understand, as I quite enjoy setting fire to things.”

“I think you are forgetting why you’re here,” she growled.

“Isn’t it because I like setting fire to things?”

“Being here isn’t reprieve, dog. It is punishment. Do you understand?”

The dog nodded, battling to close the door while holding a smouldering torch the Pyjami refused to. Wind screamed, furious at being cornered, until the door was latched.

They descended the stairwell upon narrow blocks of stone and emerged on a walkway high above the castle’s courtyard. Although wind was less, the noise was far greater; hammering and sawing, nailing and clanging reverberated through the place in a poorly orchestrated construction symphony’s fourth movement. When a tool fell and clattered through scaffolding, the Pyjami growled, enduring the indignation of a queen forced to tolerate lackeys. Those responsible for the noise laboured not out of loyalty to her, but for the freedom she promised once their work was complete. When another tool fell, she deliberated over granting them anything of the sort. Although far from any queen, she was convinced her pedigree would show royalty, were it traced back far enough. Certainly blue-blood would explain her determination to rid this land of the wretched animals rotting it.

They strode beneath scaffolding toward the castle’s keep. Inside, they descended more blocks of stone until arriving at a long corridor. While she strode its length, the dog struggled in her wake, trying to determine which smelt worse: the corridor’s stench of rancid manure, or her stench of pungent mothballs. In the end, he gave up and breathed through his mouth. Because this was even noisier than his throat-clearing, she turned to glower again, so he stopped and let his eyes water instead.

At the corridor’s far end, a large guard dog armed with a sharpened broom handle sat by a door. When the Pyjami approached, he stopped digging at mortar with the pointy end and leapt to attention. Beneath her glare, he also fumbled with the door’s lock. The stench made his eyes water too, and he didn’t fare much better than his colleague. Eventually, after managing, he pushed the door open and stood aside. The Pyjami strode past him with a sneer, followed by the dog, who’d resorted to feeling his way with paws outstretched. The room beyond held a stink of thick rotting, and those waiting within it retched and gagged.

It was cold too, and the Pyjami pulled her coat tighter.

She strode toward a well-polished table and glared at the animals behind it. “Well?” she said, as though they were responsible. “Your reasons for refusing to meet me must have been considerably more serious than my wrath at the fact!”

A little dog pushed at glasses that slid down his nose. “I fear it was rather dire, yes,” he said, “and I hope you might find something resembling forgiveness for such atrocious insult.”

“You can hope all you like, dog, but you shall get nothing from me unless it’s earnt.”

The dog tried a bow. “But of course. Please forgive me for suggesting as much. I can assure you that we have been working very hard to appease you.”

“That sounds like begging to me,” she said. “You are not begging are you, dog?”

“Not at all. I can assure you the only begging I’ve done recently was five minutes ago on the toilet.”

She fixed him with a harder glare. “I suggest you cease your babbling and get on with it. I have already been kept waiting and it seems you intend to have me continue.”

The dog nodded and fiddled with some paper and pens on the table, which was polished to such an extent that using it to put things on was almost untenable. “What you have asked of us has been done and is ready to be tested,” he said. “But I fear that the entirety of your proposal is quite impossible to manifest.”

When her glare hardened into the sort of thing that could bring down scaffolding, he turned to his colleagues for support—all of whom found the ceiling most intriguing. Left to fend for himself, the dog pushed at glasses again.

“One flagstone is not too difficult to make collapsible,” he said, “but to make the whole floor collapse is quite impossible. There is simply no way—”

“Do you know upon what we stand?” she hissed.

Neither the dog, nor his colleagues, dared move.

“This fortress was hewn from solid rock by paw alone, from an age when necessity defied the impossible!”

There was silence, other than a nervous swallow which squelched.

“Are you telling me that despite the centuries since, you are unable to create anything similar?”

Another nervous squelch was followed by, “It is not a question of competing with past techniques, the Pyjami, but rather of basic engineering principles.” He indicated the papers upon the table, which were covered in drawings and dried tears. “As you’ll recall, we have already discussed the extensive studies you requested, which show the castle’s foundations reside upon a hollowed-out cliff. And although it appears this resulted from lava flows once upon a time, it does not mean we can make the castle flagstones collapse at the throw of a lever.”

The Pyjami thinned her mouth. She wanted flagstones to collapse. Although an inability to wasn’t imperative to the success of the construction banging away in the courtyard, it would be an excellent insurance policy for it. Taking a step toward him, she asked, “And why not, pray?”

After another swallow, he said, “Because if you collapse even one portion of castle floor, this entire keep would be rendered unstable and compromise everything you’ve been working towards.”

“Well, here’s a suggestion, little animal: perhaps you could arrange for only part of the floor to collapse?”

The little dog glanced at his colleagues, who shrugged while still staring at the ceiling. “It may be possible,” he said. “But only in one corridor—and it would require careful selection of flagstones. Ones that weren’t structural.”

She leant closer. “See? It doesn’t take a great deal of initiative to initiate initiative, does it?”

After another squelch, he shook his head. Initiative or not, none would dare implement anything without her approval first—and only then after congratulating her upon it.

“There,” she purred. “Now, perhaps you would be good enough to show me the one flagstone that you have managed to destabilise?”

The little dog nodded while his colleagues gathered papers and things from the table. He hesitated, not knowing whether she expected to leave first—which resulted in a frantic hiss of debate among his colleagues. When he stepped toward the door, the Pyjami did the same, which had the former flinch and the latter growl. In an attempt at remedy, he pretended to give way, before realising the door remained closed, which he begged his colleagues to rectify before his gesture went from awkward to downright punishable. Their pantomime left the Pyjami marching to the door and bashing upon it. When it opened, she barrelled past the guard, growling obscenities about staples, which she vowed to use on them collectively to integrate them into the scaffolding arrangements outside.

In a large and imposing hall, the entourage fanned out into rehearsed positions. At its centre was an vast table surrounded by a legion of chairs. A huge fire roared in a hearth and bathed everything in bronze, Its warmth had sautéed the castle’s stench into a humid haze of fetid cabbage water, which the Pyjami did her best not to breathe. Beside the fireplace, a collection of levers protruded from the wall, and toward them the little dog hurried.

“Obviously these will look much nicer when finished,” he said, giving them a quick buff. “I’ll organise a nice cloth to drape over them. Probably patterned. And this surface will be rendered with plaster to blend in with the stone around it. I’ll try and get it stippled too, so it looks authentic. I’m thinking of using a fork.”

The Pyjami raised her whiskers indifferently.

“As instructed,” he continued, “these already house the mechanisms for the constructions outside, and also for the collapsing floor, if it’s deemed necessary.”

Her indifference flared into a glower.

“Sorry,” he said, “when it’s deemed necessary.” He nodded at a colleague waiting beside a large door on the hall’s far side, which was opened to reveal a corridor beyond.

“Through there, of course, is where guests will arrive from,” the little dog continued, before indicating the entrance they’d arrived by. “With that room becoming the kitchen, if you will.”

The Pyjami rolled her eyes. “Of such details I am aware,” she growled, “for ‘twas after all, my design.”

Pushing at glasses, the little dog apologised, realising he’d better get to the point before she stabbed him with one. He nodded at his colleague, who pushed a large block of stone into the corridor, before hurrying back to the others.

Choosing a lever, the little dog said, “Because of the disinfectant brewing elsewhere, might I suggest you cover your nose, the Pyjami, because what lies beneath, as you can imagine, is not at all pleasant.”

She did so, As did everyone else. When the lever was pulled, a muffled clanking sounded beneath the floor. In the corridor, dust puffed from beneath the block as mechanism shifted further. A thud shuddered through the hall when a flagstone collapsed, leaving the block of stone to plummet from view. From the space left behind, a green fog appeared and rose from hidden depths to billow across the floor. Intrigued, the animals peered at it, before the flagstone clacked back into place.

With a smile, the Pyjami said, “Excellent. That is exactly what I want. And now you shall do the same with as many—”

She stopped when noticing the swirls of fog creep upon those watching, one of whom changed colour to such an extent that he appeared to change breed. Paws flew to his mouth in an attempt at staunching a sudden eruption of sick, which failed and sprayed an explosion of vomit between his paws.

By the levers, the little dog began hyperventilating, and stared at the fog as though clinically allergic to it. “Get out!” he screamed, taking his own advice. “Get out now!”

As the fog rolled across the hall, its green lessened into a murky hue. Others scurried with him, sick squirting between their paws also, and splattering across the floor in a dubious work of modernist art. Unaccustomed to being given orders, the Pyjami watched their antics with astonishment, particularly when they slipped through their art to render it even more dubious. When the fumes reached her, however, she gagged also, and ploughed after them to escape the most pungent stink of fetid cabbage and caustic manure imaginable.

2

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IN the late afternoon sun, the city of Ruen glittered like a crystal chandelier of staggering proportions, not unlike the colossal chandelier within the Palace of Par-Beguine. Being a city and not a light fixture, Ruen is far larger and has more restaurants. The analogy is appropriate, however, because both are dreadfully expensive. Famous for its population of ostentatious and wealthy retirees, Ruen lies cradled between towering black mountains and a sea of exquisite turquoise. Although renowned for its charm, the city does not owe its allure to location alone. Its venerable heritage had been cultivated by a group of elderly residents known as the Ruling Council of Ruen. The council’s influence was omnipotent, with a membership so exclusive that at one stage even its councillors were uncertain whether they belonged. The residents of Ruen accepted the Ruling Council’s despotism readily. Not only had it ensured Ruen’s traditions remained intact, but it had also rendered the city completely free of crime.

Along Ruen’s streets rattled a taxi, within which rattled a cat. Oscar Teabag-Dooven had been in numerous taxis, but had never been in one rattling through a city as fabled as Ruen. He stared eagerly at all the bits he passed, most of which looked very nice, and the bits that didn’t he was certain would during other times of the day. Although he was thrilled to be in Ruen, he was equally thrilled to be in a taxi, because it meant his flight from Asquith had not ended in a plunging fireball. He loathed aeroplanes, especially when they were not on the ground, which was a state they had an irritating habit of aspiring to. Fortunately, his flight had been relatively straightforward. Except for the going-up and coming-down bits, which he could easily have done without. He wasn’t keen on the bit in between either, which was far longer and too wobbly. It wasn’t just aeroplanes that left him uncomfortable, he disliked airports too. They were noisy and chaotic places of limbo, not helped by everyone in them being obsessed with leaving. This, he was certain, did little for airports’ confidence and presumably contributed to passengers’ eagerness to be elsewhere. Airports had, therefore, a peculiar irony in being gateways to exotic destinations on one paw, while harbouring miserable sods on the other. This was why, Oscar had decided, airport cafeterias sold hot-fin so revolting, that he was distracted from the misery of the former by the disgusting taste of the latter.

Slowing through a particularly beautiful part of the city, the taxi negotiated narrow lanes, before turning onto a boulevard that ran along Ruen’s foreshore. When it pulled up outside the splendid edifice of Hotel d’Ruen, Oscar was delighted, not least because it was the destination he’d asked for after seconding the taxi. A little dog in a hotel waistcoat trotted down its steps and introduced himself as Percival, before offering to help with suitcases. After dragging them from the taxi, he struggled to drag them back up the steps, considering they were almost as large as he.

Leaving him to manage, Oscar turned to watch afternoon settle into evening across the harbour. The air was cool and heady with sea, and he took a deep breath of it, before taking several more when realising how much there was to go around. In the distance, headlands teetered in that strange fragility that dusk affords. Upon them perched old mansions, nestled among groves of conifers as though each held the other in place. Fishing trawlers rounded their cliffs and chugged into the harbour with seagulls squawking around them, apparently demanding some sort of refund. With the sun setting behind the city, the sky burnt soft pink toward the horizon, which left him so thrilled to be in the place that he had to sit down and take several more breaths of its splendid air.

Being in Ruen was one thing.

Knowing why was quite another.

The Loud Purr of Asquith had been uncharacteristically reticent in assigning him, which left Oscar worrying that this curiosa involved dangers so enormous that the Catacombs decided not to burden him with their detail. Nevertheless, it didn’t alter the fact that he’d arrived with no immediate need to do anything other than unpack and order a mug of superbly brewed hot-fin. If the evening remained this pleasant, he’d consider taking a stroll along the foreshore and perhaps dabble in some imagist verse.

He turned to follow his suitcases, which were closer than he’d expected.

They lay at the bottom of the steps, having fallen during Percival’s struggle. The little dog was having a second attempt, until one burst and littered its contents across the pavement. With assurances this was standard customer service, and that there was nothing to worry about unless you were a suitcase, Percival began repacking it in the vaguest sense of the word imaginable.

Hotel d’Ruen was tall, grand and old. Ornate columns supported a stone awning over its steps, up which Percival again struggled with suitcases. Sea and salt had blistered its plaster, which had cracked in an appealing manner, and such disrepair, along with a palpable seaside contentment, softened the hotel’s austerity into a genial embrace. Upon hillside behind it, Ruen’s buildings climbed around narrow lanes as though woven upon a loom. With the mountains silhouetted against the sun’s fading rays, the city sparkled in defiance of any Earthly dictated hour—rather like the defiance Oscar’s suitcases were showing to Percival, though with less twinkling and more bursting. Regardless of the dangerous inherent in having been sent here, Oscar was, nevertheless, grateful to have been. Unlike his suitcases, which continued refusing cooperation in any conventional sense. Being in Ruen made a nice change from foiling dangerous villains. His most recent curiosa had him thwarting the antics of a particularly villainous cat named the Tremblees, who was Aide d’camp at the palace of Par Beguine, and not the sort of animal one might invite around for a mug of hot-fin and a bun. While his tussle with the Tremblees had been successful, it had also been traumatic, and resulted in Oscar having had both his ears torn off. Being his first curiosa, to return from it without ears said a great deal about how difficult it had been, and left the Catacombs insisting he have a holiday. He had taken time off, albeit in his living room, and with curtains drawn and lights out. It had taken some time for the Loud Purr to convince him that others would see his new-found earlessness as evidence of courage, rather than disfigurement. Oscar, however, remained doubtful, even when the Loud Purr promised that any animal suggesting otherwise would have the fact pointed out via a punch in the face. Nevertheless, he was grateful to have been left with enough limbs to enable arriving in Ruen at all, and he was relieved to trot up the steps of its most prestigious hotel on two of them—though not nearly as glad as Percival when he helped heave suitcases with his remaining ones.

In the foyer, Percival insisted he could drag the suitcases toward a reception desk on his own. Oscar followed, realising the hotel’s interior was as impressive as its exterior, though with more expensive wallpaper and less cracked plaster. It had a shiny floor too, and some large plants in pots, which were also surprisingly shiny. There were some paintings in shiny frames, upon which lights shone, and even the patrons milling about the place did so with the sort of shine that left him keen to find a cloth and buff them.

Oscar liked shiny things. It generally meant they worked well, and Hotel d’Ruen was very shiny indeed.

The reception desk was even shinier than the floor, and he admired some shiny pens upon it, before realising that neither his suitcases, nor the animal bursting them, were anywhere to be seen. There was a bell upon it, and because it was even shinier than the desk, he pinged it enthusiastically. When Percival rose into view, it was in a manner suggesting he’d been doing something dubious behind it. Frowning, Oscar peered over desk to see that a second suitcase had burst, while the third had lost its handle. All three had been lashed together with masses of sticky-tape in a frantic attempt at rectifying the situation. He stared at them, and then Percival, who asked whether he’d like a room. Oscar suggested it was probably unnecessary, considering he no longer had anything resembling luggage to put in one. While Percival assured him that sticky-tape was far better than hinges and handles, he reached for an appointment book and began leafing through its pages. With a sigh, Oscar waited and reflected on the previous morning.

3

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A day earlier, Oscar had been summoned to the Catacombs of Asquith.

“I think I’m about to be expelled,” he said, drumming his paws on the reception desk.

The receptionist looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“I think,” said Oscar, “that I’ve been summoned here to be expelled.”

“Expelled?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “What in fluff makes you think that, Mister Dooven?”

“Well, the last five weeks, for a start.”

“But you’ve been on holiday for four of them.”

“I sat in my living room with the blinds drawn.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a holiday.”

“Well, it was, considering the week prior to it.”

“I certainly don’t think you’re about to be expelled, Mister Dooven. The notion’s quite ridiculous.”

“Then why do I feel as though I want to bring up my breakfast?”

“Was it a particularly bad breakfast, perhaps?”

“I haven’t had any breakfast,” he said. “That’s the problem. I couldn’t eat a thing on account of concerns about being expelled.”

“Well, maybe you should have breakfast,” the receptionist said. “I can have some buns sent up if you like. The Loud Purr hasn’t arrived yet, and you might be waiting for some time.”

“No thank you,” said Oscar. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“What about a hot-fin?”

“No. I fear I’d vomit it all over his carpet.”

“I could ask them to include a bucket?”

“It’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think it’s best if my stomach remains just as bereft of hope as the rest of me.”

She frowned again. “I must say, Mister Dooven, your concern is surprising. I would have thought you’d be encouraged to be summoned to the Lair under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“The ones revolving around you having just saved the world.”

Oscar looked at his paws. “Oh, that. Yes. Well, the problem is, I think I broke most of it in the process.”

She leant forward and smiled. “Mister Dooven, the Loud Purr has summoned you to the Lair for reasons far from expulsion, I am quite certain.”

“Then why do I feel like vomiting?”

“I wouldn’t worry, the Loud Purr has that effect. He can be most intimidating.”

Oscar stared at the desk and wished he was back in bed with the blinds drawn.

“Are you certain there’s nothing I can get you, Mister Dooven?”

“I might have that bucket, after all,” he said.

When the receptionist reached for a telephone, he left the desk to wait for the bucket and the Loud Purr in the Lair. He pushed through large bronze doors and stood in the high room of the Catacombs. It was circular, lined with oak panelling and draped in burgundy curtains. At its centre was a broad desk upon which resided two telephones; one brown and one an assertive red. Behind the desk waited a high-backed chair, beyond which was a tall, narrow window with velvet drapes drawn. He ran a paw over the chair’s leather, wondering whether he’d dare sit in it.

If he were about to be expelled, it hardly mattered.

He sat.

The chair swivelled, and he played his paws across the Loud Purr’s desk, revelling in a rush of authority. “Did I ask you to speak?” he growled at an empty chair opposite. “I am the Loud Purr, and you will speak only when spoken to—and only then when I tell you what to say—”

When the Lair’s doors opened, he swore and threw himself from furniture, inadvertently taking a telephone with him. It clattered to the floor in a peal of strangled rings. While the Loud Purr approached, he fought to untangle himself from its cord. Unable to, he leapt to attention instead, which had the thing unravel and clatter to the floor.

The Loud Purr shuffled past, his brow furrowed in thought. The cat was large and battle-hardened, his days of curiosa having long since passed. Notoriously clinical in assigning Velvet Paws, he was revered by all and cowed to none. At his desk, he sat authoritatively and glared, leaving Oscar to hope he’d forgotten how many telephones used to be upon it. He stopped hoping when the cat looked at the broken one on the floor.

Oscar glanced at it. “Are you looking for this, perhaps, Your Great Amazingliness?” he said, winding it up via its cord—which then broke. “I think I might have tripped over it when I was nowhere near your desk. I’m certain it still works.”

A bell fell off.

“Although it might need mending.”

The Loud Purr stared at him and then the telephone. Oscar put the pieces back on the desk, arranging them to mimic the one still intact. It didn’t, the two instead resembling a dreadful before-and-after scene.

After staring at both for a time, the Loud Purr told him to sit. He did so, and tucked his tail in beside him, a bit like a seatbelt.

“Did you have a nice rest, Pantaloons?” the Loud Purr said.

“I spent most of it in my living room, Your Great Loudness,” Oscar said. “It seemed prudent under the circumstances, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

The Loud Purr humphed. “Tell me, Pantaloons, have you ever been to the city of Ruen?”

“Well, I’ve heard of it. I believe it’s on the coast, south of Milos. Apparently it’s renowned for having no crime. But I’ve never visited, on account of having never been anywhere before a month ago.”

“It’s a place for those wealthy and retired, Pantaloons. Quite stunning. Very posh.” He stood, wandered to the window and moved its drapes aside. “Perhaps you ought to visit the place,” he said, peering at the view. “Particularly if you’ve spent the past month indoors?”

Oscar was about to say something, but didn’t. The Loud Purr’s questions tended to be rhetorical: if he wanted answers, he gave them. A silence followed, the cat remained staring from the window as though waiting for one.

“Your Immense Rumbliness, was there a question-mark at the end of that?”

“A small one, possibly.”

“I see. Though I assume it remains rhetorical?”

The Loud Purr turned to him. “Spending a month indoors is not much of a holiday, Pantaloons.”

“I wasn’t in a very holiday-like mood.”

There was a humph. “I’m under the impression Ruen is particularly nice at this time of year. It has boats, apparently. And its hotels are excellent.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy them very much.”

“You could always wear a hat.”

“I don’t like hats. They make me look peculiar.”

When the Loud Purr said nothing, Oscar realised the comment was ridiculousness, and covered the holes where his ears once stood. Six weeks on, it still felt wrong; all bumpy and gristly amidst his beautiful crowning fur.

“Their absence doesn’t look that bad, Pantaloons.”

Removing his paws, Oscar said nothing. The Loud Purr might consider loss of ears an acceptable sacrifice on curiosa, but he didn’t. He had no ears, and a cat can’t be taken seriously if it has no ears. Moreover, he needed them and missed them. Both of them.

“Have you been to the Catacomb’s Workshop lately, Pantaloons? They can do quite remarkable things. Indeed, I believe Flap-Sploon has a bionic paw now. It’s made of wood, apparently, with some string and quite a lot of sticky-tape. He can’t get it wet, though. Or use it to touch anything. Nor can he wave it, for that matter. Or go out when it’s windy.” He thought for a moment. “And actually, it doesn’t even look much like a paw.”

“I haven’t, no.”

The Loud Purr humphed, suggesting it was probably just as well.

“My ears still work, Your Enormous Purriness,” Oscar said. “They just look, well, smaller.”

The Loud Purr peered at him. “You can hardly tell, actually. Your fur hides things rather well.” He moved his paws up and down in a descriptive manner. “Perhaps you could spike your fur over the gaps and make it look pointy.”

It was a ridiculous suggestion, but Oscar tried a smile.

“Still, we digress. Tell me, Pantaloons, how many Velvet Paws are there?”

Oscar shrugged. “Twenty?”

“And who has been the newest recruit?”

“Well, me, I believe, Your Big Loudness.”

The Loud Purr nodded. “And they are all fine Velvet Paws,” he said, “and perform curiosa brilliantly. Indeed, they leave the Velvet Paws of Asquith to be entirely revered—although we’re covert, of course, so no creature knows we exist.”

“Well, quite.”

“Though were they to, we would be revered utterly. That none know of us is testament to the fact, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“So the reverence to which I refer is an extrapolation most educated.”

“Most educated, indeed.”

Oscar shifted uncomfortably; the Loud Purr’s emphasis on his colleagues’ brilliance only highlighted his lack of anything similar. Moreover, criticism seemed particularly unfair considering he’d recently saved the world. After a month of recuperation, he still didn’t know how he’d managed. It had something to do with pamphlets, as he recalled, and chandeliers—and some massive piles of firewood, though how they were related continued to elude him. The Catacombs decided that having ears ripped off is equivalent to a very nasty knock to the head, so lack of recollection was understandable. One thing he was convinced of, however, was that his success had little to do with being a Velvet Paw and everything to do with luck—rather like how he’d managed to become one. He’d failed his training three times, having only passed Theatrical Role-Playing, Extensible Sleeping Skills and Interpretive Paw-Painting. He’d failed not through incompetence, but indignation; Velvet Paw training had been too loud, brash and competitive for his liking. There’d been too much emphasis on instinct, and not enough on intuition. It had involved a lot of shouting and not enough choir practice. There’d been too much fighting and not enough painting. Moreover, he didn’t like crawling through muddy ditches, or pitching tents in pouring rain. He didn’t like abseiling down cliffs when there was a perfectly good path to enable getting up it in the first place. He detested the hours of packing his collapsible field-survival tummy in the dark when it seemed prudent to bring a small torch. He didn’t like the teachers’ bullying, nor the bullying of his fellow students, all of them teasing him for writing imagist poetry during Covert Night Manoeuvre Training.

With paws behind his back, the Loud Purr reverted to a more familiar role of lecturer. “The Velvet Paws of Asquith are all clinicians,” he said. “They are sharp of method, taut of whisker and merciless in pursuit of curiosa. You, Pantaloons, are a quite different animal.”

“Well, that’s putting it mildly.”

“You demonstrate greater ability as a Velvet Paw than most.”

Oscar stared, blinked and swallowed in that order. “Greater ability?” he said. “Don’t you mean no ability?”

“You have talent, Pantaloons, regardless of your conviction otherwise.”

“Don’t you mean no talent?”

“It is rare for the Catacombs to have the fortune of an animal such as you in its ranks.”

“Misfortune?”

“No. Fortune.”

“But that sounds like a good thing.”

“It is a good thing.”

A pause. “And who are we talking about, again?”

“You, Pantaloons.”

Oscar stared at him, wondering whether he should return to the receptionist and ask whether he had the right appointment.

“The Catacombs need animals like you.”

“Like me?” Oscar scoffed. “What as? Coasters?”

“No. As Velvet Paws.”

“What, so you’re not expelling me, Your Diesel-Poweredliness?”

“Expelling you? Of course not! What in fluff gave you that idea?”

Oscar re-tucked his tail into the chair, as its fluffiness often made it spring from wherever it had been inserted. “It’s true I am not the same as the other Velvet Paws,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t get along with them. I don’t like them very much. They’re quite mean at times.”

“You don’t need to like them, Pantaloons. They’re colleagues, not friends. For fluff’s sake, this isn’t school, it’s the real world, and it’s considerably more complicated than most animals can fathom.” He shifted in his chair. “To be quite honest, I’ve found that being friendly only adds to such complication. Tell me, do you know why you don’t get along with them?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because I’m a bit wet?”

“No. It’s because you’re not a soldier.” He brought his paws together and relaxed back in his authoritative chair to stare authoritatively. “We have enough soldiers, Pantaloons. We have enough robots, if you will. What we need are Velvet Paws more thoughtful in the field. Velvet Paws with a gentler approach. Velvet Paws like you, Pantaloons. You are intuitive rather than logistical, and creative rather than methodical. You are innately curious rather than simply obedient.” He leant forward upon his desk. “You have talents others don’t. You have a mind that is your own and, most importantly, you have discretion which can be exercised discreetly.”

Then came words that surprised Oscar entirely.

“And that is why I need your help.”

4

____________________

“THE Dervy, please!”

The cat stormed through the house ignoring her father’s pleas.

“All I ask is that you tell me where you’re going!”

Still she ignored him, while looking for her favourite bucket. She’d only put it down a moment ago.

Her father followed with paws outstretched. “The Dervy, it’s so late! You can’t go out now! It’s ridiculous!”

To this, she whirled around and glared. “Ridiculouth?” she cried. “I’ll tell you what’th ridiculouth: my father being a meek and feeble coward! I’m thurprised I have any friendth left to go out withthince you’ve done nothing to prevent them being exthpelled from the place!”

His paws together, her father tried to reason further. “I don’t like it when you’re angry, the Dervy. It hurts my feelings.”

She stormed over to him. “Good! Now you know how I feel! Honethtly! I cannot fathom why you don’t thtand up for yourself! And don’t tell me those horrid animalth don’t push you around because I know they do! They push everyone around!”

“The Dervy,” he said, wiping spittle from his face, “how many times must I remind you that I have no choice but do the Council’s bidding. It’s my job.”

With a groan, she turned and stormed off in search of buckets, which involved throwing cushions from sofas and checking in other buckets. “Don’t talk to me about your job!” she said. “As chief of policeth you ought to know a thing or two about juthticeth! Where’th the juthticeth in those council fartth expelling animalth who have jutht as much right to be here as they?”

“Please, the Dervy, you mustn’t talk about the Council like that. It’s very rude and I really—”

“Rude?” She stopped throwing cushions on the floor and threw them at him instead. “What’th rude is the appalling way they treat animalth such ath me! You should thtand up to them! You should fight back and tell them the way they behave is unacceptable!”

“I can’t do that, the Dervy—”

“Why not?”

“You know why!”

“Because you’re the chief of policeth? Well, conthidering crime’th pretty much non-exithtent, it suggestth you can do thomething right, tho thtart doing thomething else right! Get the fluffing Council to show thome compassion to its younger residentth before there are none of us left!”

Her father sighed. “It’s not as simple as that—”

“On the contrary! It’th very thimple!”

“The Dervy, you think it’s simple because you’re young. But the world is not black and white—”

“Those old fartththeem to think it ith!”

“But they’re the Ruling Council. They make the rules. That’s the price one pays for living in Ruen—”

“You call thith living?” She threw more cushions at him, and then a bucket when it wasn’t the one she sought. “This isn’t living! It’th tyranny! And I will keep fighting until those thtupid old fartth realithe the thame!”

“The Dervy, please see reason. It’s after midnight. You know the curfew for young—”

“You know what? You can thtick the curfew right up your bottom!” Finding her bucket, she was no less appeased, and waved it threateningly. “Unlike you, I am thtanding up for what I believe in! All you believe in ith pandering!”

“But the curfew—”

“Fluff the curfew! And anyway, what are you going to do, Father? Arretht me, as you have my friendth?”

“But we’ve been through this so many times—”

“Yeth, we have! Which makes it even more amazing that we thtill have to! You haven’t done anything to thtop those old fartth! Nothing! All you do ith pander to them and arretht my friends!”

“It’s my job, the Dervy—”

“Your job is about juthtice! Not exthpelling decent animalth who fight for it!”

Her father wilted in surrender, which left her even more irate. If he couldn’t stand up to his own daughter, there was no hope of him standing up to the Ruling Council She threw her bucket at some cushions. It landed silently, which wasn’t the dramatic punctuation she’d aimed for. Especially when she had to retrieve it.

“I cannot fathom how you have managed to get Ruen free of crime,” she said, waving the bucket again. “As far as juthtice is concerned, I doubt you can even thpell it!” Checking it was the right bucket, she turned and stormed to the front door, adding, “And don’t wait up. I’ll have breakfatht at Furballth.”

The city was quiet.

It was after midnight when she slunk through its streets. She was nimble in pace, and edged along its walls carefully, wary of shadows and what might lie within them. Police, for example, or garbage cans she might stumble over. Beneath moonlight, she darted from one pavement to another, before hurrying down laneways. She was cautious, but not afraid. Being the Police Chief’s daughter afforded a certain resilience. Pulling her coat tighter, she clutched a large, full bucket and headed for a hotel that a certain echelon of Ruen’s wealthy residents frequented: animals who cared for little other than their aged selves.

“Age should breed withdom,” she often mused to those who fought alongside her in their headquarters, a dance hall named Furballs. “It should breed toleranceth and acceptance and underthtanding. Not this appalling Martial Law againtht animalth such as ourselveth!”

Although the Dervy had an extraordinary lisp, it wasn’t as extraordinary as the rebellious things she said with it, most of which were damp and left her colleagues, known as the Ranks, cowering beneath umbrellas. As rousing as her sermons were, she didn’t allow colleagues to accompany her on forays such as this, not least because they preferred to sleep at night, rather than scarper across rooftops to graffiti dissent with buckets of manure. Their lack of enthusiasm didn’t concern her, however, and she was content to fight on their behalf. Moreover, the fewer who knew of her forays, the less likely she’d be caught—and being caught would be disastrous for the Ranks. Were they exposed, the Ruling Council would crush Furballs and expel them from Ruen altogether. For the Dervy, being arrested would be bad enough, but for her father, it would be far worse.

Stealth and resolve were not the her most celebrated traits. She was renowned for another talent that rendered her a dangerous adversary to the Ruling Council. A talent which, rather than slopping pawfuls of manure over Ruen’s brickwork in protest, she was keen to unleash as she had once before, last autumn.

She heard something.

A street away, she could hear paws upon pavement.

She sank into shadow and listened. It wouldn’t be a cantankerous resident. They’d be sleeping in their expensive beds dreaming of means to thwart her.

She heard it again.

An animal prowled.

She slunk against wall, wondering who it could be, before retracing her steps to continue via a different route,

This night, Ruen harboured a Velvet Paw of Asquith.

A rather unconventional Velvet Paw of Asquith.

One who liked composing imagist poetry.

5

____________________

IN his hotel room, Oscar remained in that strange lull a traveller finds between arriving at a destination and deciding what to do in it. He bounced on a bed, looked at some towels and stared at his broken suitcases heaped on the bed. The sticky-tape had failed shortly after leaving the foyer, which left Percival apologetic to the point of tears. In the end, Oscar dragged what was left of them by himself, concerned the lift might become his wardrobe if Percival had much more to do with them.

His room was not opulent and could be considered small. Oscar, who wasn’t keen on indulgence, appreciated it nonetheless. He liked places that were functional but nice. Anything more was unnecessary. He wandered to a window and leant upon its sill, the view being one aspect of the room that was an indulgence, though one he appreciated. On the street below, couples strolled toward the sea, which roared and hissed in evening shadow. Air was salt-laden and cold, and strings of lights, tied between old lamp posts, bobbed with the same frivolity they illuminated beneath. Laughter glanced up the building, hinting at stories he knew nothing of, and the horizon, lost in dusk, had a curve that pulled both sides of the world closer. As dusk settled into night, he felt an urge to compose some imagist verse. He refused its call, however, still puzzled as to why he’d been assigned to the place. It had been through request, rather than order, which was odd, considering the Loud Purr’s immutability in assigning Velvet Paws to curiosa.

There was a knock at the door.

He left the window to open it. In the hallway, stood a dog clutching a broken suitcase lid.

“Is this yours by any chance?” the dog asked, holding it up helpfully.

Oscar stared at it, surprised to see a lid unattached to anything. It looked naked. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said.

“It’s just that I assumed it might be, considering the trail of clothing that leads to this door.”

Oscar peered down the hallway. Articles of clothing led to the lift, and both watched a pair of pantaloons get caught in doors and go up when it went ping. With a sigh, he took the lid, admitting that the garments probably were his after all. When the dog asked whether he required help gathering them, Oscar assured him that he didn’t.

“You could call room service,” the dog suggested.

“Thank you, but perhaps not,” Oscar said, “as I suspect they’d inadvertently shred the things, sticky-tape them back together and leave them in my bath with a note.”

The dog frowned. “You take a bath with your clothes?”

“Not generally, no.”

He closed the door and looked at his suitcases, realising the broken lid was the most useful part left. Deflated, he sat beside them. The bed squeaked and a spring went ping, which he initially thought was him. The state of his suitcases was discouraging: that they suffered more upon arrival than during their journey left him concerned about what lay in store for him. He didn’t want to lose any more appendages. Or any more suitcases, for that matter. But going home meant repacking, and his suitcases were in no state to oblige, especially when the only thing holding them together was the bed.

Going home was out of the question anyway. The thought of disappointing the Loud Purr was unthinkable, which was odd considering he’d just thought it. Should he fail in this curiosa, losing further appendages would be a deserving chastisement. Moreover, if this curiosa turned out to be similar to his last, there’d be little of him left to assign to anything, other than the end of a broom handle to dust for cobwebs.

Another spring went pop, this time beneath his suitcases. While staring at them, he pondered the last line of chapter three.

That is why I need your help.

The Loud Purr had insisted that being sent to Ruen was for curiosa, yet he’d done so with plead, which was unheard of. Besides, the Catacombs had far more capable Velvet Paws to assign than he. Indeed, other than squabbling over poetry or setting up some difficult easels, Oscar couldn’t imagine what was expected of him. The only clue was the Loud Purr’s insistence on discretion. Having discretion was one thing, knowing what to do with it was another. He went to the window again and sighed. As far as competence was concerned, discretion was all he had.

“What am I to do in Ruen?” he’d asked.

“I cannot tell you that, Pantaloons, because I do not know myself.”

“Well, that makes things unnecessarily complicated.”

“Which is why I have assigned you specifically.”

“Because I’m unnecessarily complicated?”

“No. Because of your ability to be discreet.”

“What ability, Your Massive Clawiness? I’ve got no ears. How can I be discreet if I wander around without ears? I’ll look about as discreet as a gift-wrapped lump of pooh in a clumping litter tray.”

“Pantaloons, this is an official curiosa. That is all you’re required to know. You shall travel to Ruen and use your intuition discreetly. Moreover, you will tread very carefully.”

“I’ll have to if I’m in a clumping litter tray.”

The Loud Purr refused to offer more.

“Your Enormous Thunderiness,” Oscar said, “could I at least have a clue? Soldier or not, I cannot go in blind. I need some idea of what you wish from me.”

The large cat sank as though holding a weight he tired of. “Pantaloons, all I can say, is that this is personal.”

With that, there was nothing more to be said.

Night fell.

Oscar would have slept, but didn’t dare move his suitcases.

Instead, he decided to go for a walk.

After closing his door, he stood in the hotel’s hallway at an hour when sensible animals were asleep. He couldn’t, however, despite being a very sensible animal. His clothes had been removed from the hallway and presumably taken to lost property. Or a bin, considering the state they’d be in once they got there. He pressed the lift’s button. It went ping and doors opened. When he got in and they closed, he wondered what had become of his ascending pantaloons. After another ping, he was deposited in the foyer. It was deserted and appeared even shinier than when occupied. Piped music tinkled through palm fronds, and for a moment, he wished the world was no different: quiet and shiny, with piped music and fronds.

It was very late.

Or early, depending how one viewed the time of day. Or night. But because there were few animals awake at such hour to deliberate the matter, it had never been resolved in any official capacity.

He left the hotel and stood on its steps.

Besides the sea’s rumble, it was quiet.

When night arrives, tired air sleeps, and the world becomes mime without player. The day’s squabbles had dispersed and in their place a contentment arrived, which rendered the noise of curiosa oddly trivial. For Oscar, night brought poetry: imagist verse that rendered the Realm of Perhaps, to the Realm of Indeed.

He wandered down the steps to watch the view he had upon arrival. As a poet, he felt abundant, but as a Velvet Paw, he felt redundant.

Velvet Paw and Imagist Poet.

The two were immiscible.

He wandered along cobbled streets, passing three-storey abodes, their plastered stone tinged blue by starlight. On balconies, washing aired, and shutters were wide to allow rooms to do the same. Above, sky was scribed by moonlight-edged roofs and seemed oddly brighter than sun might manage during day.

Words arrived like turned treasure glinting in moonlight, from raw earth broken by the clamour of day.

Reflective steps.

Verse came and went like breath. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t write them down. To steal them with pen was predatory. To acknowledge with voice was enough.

In reflective steps I peruse your lines,

And pace your rectangular ground,

With narrow walls in shades of blue,

And cast silvered light around.

Beyond these whitewashed walls I feel,

A curious edge to me,

The deepest call of timeless shore,

I heed that sound of sea.

When he returned to the hotel, he was surprised to see an animal on the opposite pavement painting frantically on a wall. Her paws flailed between brickwork and a bucket like a pair of ladles. Her graffiti was messy and sloppy, and where application had been too liberal, lumps had splattered to the pavement. Not only did she used her bare paws, rather than brush, but the smell suggested her medium was raw sewage.

Neither of which gave her words credence.

Nor did her appalling grammar.