Catopolis

BURNING BRIGHT by Elaine Cunningham

Mhari had seen smallcats before but seldom in the wild-if indeed the city’s streets and rooftops and small scattered gardens could be so named. Other than the yellow tom the Woman had thoughtfully provided to relieve Mhari of the heat and madness of her first season, she had seen none close at hand. Yet here were three of them-small, short-legged creatures, with tails too long and heads too large for their barrel-shaped bodies-staring fixedly at her from their perches in the talltree just outside Mhari’s home habitat.

The nearest one-a gray-striped tom-thrust his nose close to the strong wire mesh. His whiskers twitched as he tasted her scent. “What are you?” he asked bluntly.

That was rude by Mhari’s standards, but she knew little of the ways of smallcats. She rose and padded across her climbing gym’s top platform to close the distance between them. “I am a Serval cat,” she said politely, turning in profile so they could see the distinctive black bars running the length of her graceful neck, the neat black spots that marked the rest of her long, tawny body. “Daughter of Jahared, a freeborn Serval, out of Ahmriel. I am of Ahmriel’s third litter, and I bear Papers, a thing the humans seem to value. My name is Mhari. And you?”

If the tom heard her question, he gave no sign. He glanced toward a gray female. “Told you so. African wild cat. Not much of a runner, but agile. Likes to swim.”

The third and largest of Mhari’s visitors switched his plumed tail in annoyance. He was rather grand, as his kind went, with long black fur that made him look plump and complacent. The white on his face and throat and belly made him resemble the Man who gave Mhari’s Woman sparkling gifts and sometimes took her away for the evening. For that reason alone, Mhari was inclined to dislike him.

“Please forgive Frank’s abrupt manner of speaking,” the tuxedo-clad tom said in a surprisingly cordial tone. “It is his way; he means no offense. I am called Smithwicks, and this is Minx.”

“Frank and I tend to take our names seriously,” observed the gray queen archly, lifting her hindquarters in a suggestive manner.

Mhari had seen minks before and could perceive no reason for the smallcat’s boast. She turned to the dapper tom. “To what do I owe this visit? It must be a matter of some importance to bring three of you to this part of the city.”

“Maybe I live around here,” Minx said defensively. “Since you’re not a male, maybe you just didn’t notice me. And, hey-like the saying goes, all cats are gray in the dark.”

The Serval did not point out the obvious fallacy in this saying, nor did she observe that the smallcats in this neighborhood, with its fine old trees and walled gardens, were elegant creatures who wore jeweled collars and were seldom seen in the company of common tomcats.

Smithwicks gave the gray female a quelling stare. “It is… complicated. A matter of some delicacy, one requiring expertise we hope you might possess-”

“We need you to go to the zoo and talk to a tiger,” Frank broke in.

A frisson of alarm rippled done Mhari’s spine. She knew that word, zoo. One of the freeborn Serval on the Arizona ranch, her birthplace, had been kept in a zoo for a time following his capture. He claimed the cats were kept in cages of metal and glass, larger perhaps than the elegant habitat Mhari’s Woman provided for her but without the privacy Mhari enjoyed. Humans passed by endlessly, noisy crowds of them, chattering and staring-but never a human a Serval could call her own.

Mhari had no use for humans in general, but she and her Woman shared a bond. There were pleasant evenings at home together, a jeweled leash and harness so that they might take lovely strolls, warm afternoons spent swimming and diving in Mhari’s stone-lined pool, car rides, weekend trips to a woodland cottage or a seaside house. The Woman talked to her in English and Italian, and Mhari responded in Domestic and Serval. The Woman was highly intelligent; at times, she almost seemed to grasp Mhari’s responses. What Mhari had was not freedom, not exactly, but it was not an unpleasant life.

In the zoo, there was only captivity.

“The greatcats can’t talk to you?” she said hesitantly.

“Can’t or won’t,” said Frank. “It’s much the same thing.”

Smithwick narrowed his eyes at the striped tom. “In brief, here is the problem: we cats have been tracking a human, a killer.”

This puzzled Mhari. Humans were predators and could not be faulted for following their nature. Still, there were ways and ways. She often sprawled on the white settee beside the Woman, listening to the talking box. The Woman was fond of something called

Law and Order. It was a wonder to Mhari that humans survived at all, so endlessly and inventively did they kill one another.

“The humans police their own, do they not?”

“Not if they’re just killing cats,” Minx said spitefully, “unless, of course, the cat has

Papers. Or unless we cats make them care.” She met Mhari’s eyes with a challenging stare. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? I mean, your daddy being ‘freeborn’ and all…”

“That will do, Minx,” Smithwicks snapped. “We followed this human as far as the zoo and saw him throw a gun into the moat by the tiger habitat. Perhaps the tiger will have noticed something about the man that may help us find him. If not, Frank’s human is a police detective; he can discover what human handled the gun. Again, your expertise is required-we need you to retrieve it from the moat.”

“I see,” she mused. Thanks to the talking box, she knew this to be true. “Because you are tame cats-”

“Domesticated, not tame,” broke in Frank. “No cat is ever tame.”

Mhari twitched her whiskers agreeably. “As domesticated cats, you endeavor to help Frank’s policeman?”

The smallcats exchanged glances. Mhari scented a subtle change in their mood-a note that was both primal and familiar.

“You wish to find this human yourselves,” she said, surprised and impressed. “I did not know smallcats hunted as a pride. It is not the Serval’s usual way, but my sire told me that from time to time the freeborn would band together to bring down larger prey.”

“We would be honored if you would join us in that, as well,” said Smithwicks. “This human must be stopped, and soon.”

The notion of hunting humans made Mhari profoundly uneasy, but the smallcats were right: A rogue had to be stopped, whether he walked on two legs or four. “I would help you if I could, but how would I get to this zoo?”

Three furred heads turned toward the house. Three smallcats sent out a silent, summoning yowl. The light in the Woman’s bedroom flicked on, and in moments she stood on the patio, looking about in puzzlement.

Minx continued to talk to the Woman, but her voice was somehow different-quieter, more compelling. The Woman’s night robe swirled around her legs as she hurried to the gate of Mhari’s habitat. She unlocked it, added kibble to the already-full dish, and left. For the first time since Mhari had come to live in the city, the Woman neglected to lock the gate.

Moments passed as the Serval sat in stunned silence, not entirely sure she could credit her eyes and ears. Suddenly the gray queen’s snide comments made a little sense: apparently the smallcats really could “make” humans do their bidding.

A wave of envy arose from some dark place and emerged as a soft snarl. How was it that a flea-bitten stray would command Mhari’s Woman, when she, a Serval cat born to a line that had kept company with Italian nobility, could speak unheard?

She would have demanded answers, but the smallcats had already quit the tree. Mhari climbed down from her perch and skirted her pool. She waited by the gate until the Woman’s lights winked out, then nosed it open and edged gingerly into the garden. The Woman’s personal garden was small-most of the property had been enclosed for Mhari’s use-but beyond it lay the city.

The smallcats were already padding down the cobble-stoned drive, obviously expecting Mhari to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, she did. In a few loping strides, she pulled up beside Smithwicks and adjusted her pace to his.

“What if we’re seen?” she ventured, gazing out into the well-lit street. “I am not inconspicuous.”

Minx’s snort was loud enough to dislodge a hairball. “No worries. With those long skinny legs and that tiny head, you’ll just be taken for a stray greyhound. There’s a few of them around-the dog track turns out losers to fend for themselves.”

“Shut up, Minx,” hissed Smithwicks. “If we need to scatter, Mhari, just climb a tree. We’ll find you.”

“Not if I find her first.”

Mhari whirled toward the speaker. Sitting on the high stone fence was the largest smallcat she had ever seen. His long, tawny coat made his weight difficult to judge, but Mhari would put him at over twenty-five pounds-only five or ten pounds lighter than she. A handsome creature, too, with a long white ruff that was almost leonine and a pleasantly deep rumble to his voice. There was nothing pleasant about his manner, however, from the turned-back ears to the lashing tail fluffed to impossible size.

The three smallcats hissed and backed off, positioning themselves behind Mhari. She stood her ground as the big tom leaped to the ground and stalked toward her. He circled Mhari as if he desired to examine her from every angle. She thought it prudent to turn to face him. The smallcats, also prudent, retreated to the shadows of a flowering hedge.

“I heard rumors, but I didn’t believe them,” the tom said, addressing the cowering Smithwicks. He flicked a glance at Mhari. “Until now. This foolishness stops here.”

He leaped at Mhari and wrapped his front paws around her neck-a take-down maneuver she had seen smallcats use on each other. Mhari braced her front legs and tipped her head forward, accepting the sting of claws as he slid off. Too late she realized her mistake-this was the result the tom had intended. Now beneath her, he raised powerful hind legs to rake and tear.

But the tom did not know the ways of the Serval. Mhari leaped straight up, and the strike that might have opened her belly fell far short.

The tom adjusted with admirable speed. He rolled and got his feet back beneath him while Mhari was still gaining height. As she fell, she twisted in the air and swiped a pawful of claws at the retreating smallcat-a move she’d learned from watching someone called Derek Jeter on the talking box-and tore the tom’s ear to bloody ribbons.

The moment her paws touched down, she hopped to one side, neatly evading the tom’s running attack. She sped him on his way with a blow from one powerful paw. He stumbled, rolled. Before he could rise again, the three smallcats were upon him, biting and tearing.

“Enough,” Mhari snarled.

They paid her no heed. She stalked over and picked up the gray female by the scruff of the neck, like some recalcitrant kitten. She tossed Minx aside and glared at the gray’s two male companions, who’d left off their attack on the big tom to eye Mhari uncertainly.

“Next?” she said meaningfully.

Smithwicks edged away. “We came to your aid.”

“You fell on a wounded cat like jackals.”

“There is no need to take that tone,” he said reprovingly. “You do not understand all the factors at work. You do not understand the various factions and schools of thought among the city’s cats.”

“Explain, then.”

Frank muttered something about Bast in heat. His tone suggested that comparison to the Goddess was not necessarily a compliment. “We can stand here waiting for dawn and Animal Control, or we can do what needs doing.”

“Well said,” agreed Smithwicks. “Shall we?”

Somehow they managed to get to the zoo without further challenge. They scrambled up the vines draping a tall stone wall.

The scent struck Mhari like a blow. Not just the smell of animals-she’d caught that scent long before the walls of the zoo came into sight-but the lingering stench of too many humans, too much scat for so little territory, too many chemicals meant to clean away the odor of scat. But what struck her most forcefully was the scent of despair.

There were coyotes living wild near the Arizona ranch. One time an old, mangy dog ventured near the Serval’s habitat, probably drawn by the scent of food it could no longer hunt for itself. He’d been caught in an old, forgotten leg trap in the brush outside the habitat. Days had passed before the humans found and killed him. In that time, Mhari had learned of despair and hopelessness. Tonight, she had learned something almost as troubling.

“You smallcats can talk to the humans and bend them to your will,” she ventured, “but the greatcats cannot. That is why they can be kept in zoos.”

“That is true,” Smithwicks said cautiously.

“I cannot do what you do. If I am captured, I will not be able to escape.”

“Minx is very persuasive. She will get you out,” the black-and-white tom assured her. He glared at the little gray female as if daring her to contradict him. “We’ll make sure she does.”

Mhari turned toward the artificial cave in the midst of a steel and glass enclosure. Her nose told her there were lions within. “What of the others? The Great Ones?”

“What of them?” Minx snarled. Her head came up proudly. “For thousands of years, we cats have lived among humans. Our bonds with them have evolved over time. Our civilization is complex and powerful, and far beyond your primitive understanding.

Great Ones. Ha!”

“What Minx meant to say,” said Smithwicks, “was that we honor the Ancestors. They have a place in our hearts and our history. But they are not part of our civilization.”

“And there’s no place for them in the city,” put in Frank.

Except for the zoo.

Suddenly Mhari wanted nothing more than to be done with this. She leaped down from the wall and trotted across the road toward the long, sterile pool surrounding the tiger’s habitat. A foolish thing, since tigers could swim nearly as well as she, and it had little to do with the things that truly kept the great striped cat imprisoned, but no doubt it made the visiting humans feel more secure.

The Serval leaped the low fence and paced along the edge of the moat, looking for a glint of metal under the water. A low rumble, the feline version of a politely cleared throat, drew her attention to the dappled shadows beneath a tree. The tiger sprawled there, watching her with strangely dull, incurious eyes.

“Greetings, little sister,” he said. “How is it that you run free?”

His language fell strangely upon Mhari’s ears, but it was close enough to the Serval speech for her to follow. “A gun was thrown into this pool. I have come to retrieve it.”

“What do you want with such a thing?”

“The man who threw it away has been killing smallcats. They wish to stop him. The gun will help them find him.”

The tiger considered this in silence. “Did the smallcats free you? Is that why you do their bidding?”

Mhari was about to deny this, but found she could not. How would the tiger understand her bond with the Woman? He would see her captivity as no different from his.

She was not entirely certain he would be wrong.

A surge of water rippled through the pool, an artificial tide of some sort. Mhari closed her eyes and listened. Her large ears made subtle twitches and turns as she searched the air for some hint of her metallic prey.

There it was-a clink of metal against the metal, somewhere beneath the water. The Serval dropped into the pool and dived for the bottom.

The pool was unexpectedly deep, but the water was clear and a street lamp shone overhead like an artificial moon. Mhari could see clearly, but there was no sign of the gun. The pool’s sides were blue and green, painted in swirling stripes to resemble ripples on living water. Mhari was not troubled by color; she saw it, but she cared little about it one way or another. Her eyes were drawn first and foremost to motion. Other than the occasional push of air and water from some of the holes in the smooth wall, there was nothing to see.

She rose to the surface for air.

“Do not-” began the tiger.

Down Mhari went again, not wanting to hear what he might say. Nevertheless, she heard every word-including that which no greatcat should ever have to speak:

Please…

If water was pushed into the pool, surely there must also be a place for it to leave. The Serval paddled around the depths and watched the holes, waiting to see which pulsed with bubbles and which did not.

Yes, there it was-a round opening on the wall near the bottom, just where she’d heard the click of metal. Mhari swam toward it and reached one long, dexterous paw into the hole. She could just touch the gun, but just barely.

Twice she surfaced, and twice dived again, before she was able to ease the weapon from the drain and paw it into the sack the smallcats had hung around her neck. She rose toward the false moon and scrabbled up over the edge of the pool. The heavy sack thudded against her chest as she shook water from her coat.

“I did not mean for him to kill the smallcats,” the tiger said softly.

Mhari stilled in midshake. “You can talk with humans!”

“This human,” he admitted. “How and why, I could not say. Never before has anyone heard me, much less attempted to do as I bid them.”

So the tiger was hunting by proxy. Clever of him. Mhari wondered, briefly, what the tiger’s intended prey might be, but she decided that was none of her affair.

“Tell me of this human.”

The tiger snorted. “So you can hunt him down? No, that cannot be. I need this human.”

That, Mhari could understand. She did not know how she would fare without her Woman. The tiger had finally found a human of his own, and of course he would be solicitous of the man’s welfare.

A querulous mrowl drew her gaze to the top of the stone wall. The smallcats were waiting for her.

And beyond that wall waited a rogue killer.

“Your human is hunting cats,” Mhari said. “He is a rogue, and rogues are dangerous no matter what their kind. If you care nothing for the smallcats, consider this: You could be next. I am sorry for your loss, Great One, but this is what I must do.”

And then she was running for the wall, the tiger’s despairing roar burning in her ears.

Several days passed before the smallcats returned. Mhari was paddling around her pool, diving after the small, bright fish the Woman placed there from time to time. The moon shone full and high overhead. It was difficult not to think of the tiger’s brightly lit moat and the cruelty of a pool-and so much more-lying just beyond his reach.

The Serval climbed from her pool, dropping one of the koi on the stone walk to flop and twitch and die. She would eat it later. Perhaps. Her freeborn sire had taught her that no cat could be certain of a hunt-not certain of a kill and not certain of a safe return.

The smallcats paced impatiently outside the fence. “We found him,” Frank announced. “In a park between here and the zoo.”

“I am ready.”

Mhari listened carefully as the gray queen called to the Woman. It took longer this time to catch her ear and bend her will. There was a party in the house, with laughter and music and the clinking of many glasses. Even a voice as powerful as Minx’s could not easily penetrate the din.

Finally the Woman stumbled out onto the patio, laughing, her arms draped around a human male. A new male, Mhari noted with approval. It was past time for a change.

This one did not seem to fear her as the portly Man had done. He came down the path to Mhari’s gate with the Woman. He even entered the habitat, something no visitor had done before.

The Woman called to her in English and Italian. Mhari came over, dropping to her haunches several paces beyond reach-and just beyond the flagstone she had carefully prepared.

“See, she likes you,” the Woman cooed. “I told you she would. The Serval cats are very particular, and Mhari is a fine judge of character.”

Mhari sat still as the male cautiously advanced, his hand held out so that she could take his scent. No need-the stench of alcohol rolled off him in waves. She waited until he neared the flagstone, then told Minx what to do.

A piercing feline yowl rent the quiet night. The man, startled, pulled up short and stepped directly onto the stone with the tiny cave dug beneath one side. It teetered, he stumbled. Mhari darted away to hide in her rain shelter.

“At least you got to see her close up,” the Woman said, sounding disappointed. “She can be skittish. I doubt she’ll come out until morning now.”

Show him the habitat, thought Mhari.

“But since we’re here, let me show you her garden,” the Woman said. She laughed lightly. “Mhari lives better than most people!”

They walked over to the pool and found the koi, still alive. The Woman exclaimed over its suffering and toed it back into the pool.

Odd behavior, but it provided all the diversion Mhari required. She ran for the gate and slipped out into the moon-bright night.

Other cats joined them in the park. Mhari could hear them in the trees, moving more slowly and less certainly than squirrels. They crept through the underbrush, too-a dozen of them, a score. More.

The man they sought sat huddled at the base of a thick-bodied talltree, his knees drawn up against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He rocked back and forth, groaning and muttering to himself in no language Mhari could comprehend.

“This is too near the path,” said Smithwicks in a worried tone. He cast a glance toward a nearby lamp post. “And there is too much light. We must not be seen.”

“The human will not move, not even for Minx?”

“I’m good,” the gray cat said grimly, “but even I can’t reach him.”

Mhari tentatively reached out as she had heard Minx do, but she fared no better. On impulse, she reached out to the human in Serval. If he could hear tiger speech, perhaps…

She told him what to do. The smallcats did not seem to hear, much less understand.

But the human heard. He leaped to his feet, looking around wildly. He lurched toward the path, then stumbled back, shielding his eyes from the bright lamplight.

“The light?” he muttered. “Go into the light? But I’m not dead yet… am I?”

“No, move away from the light,” Mhari urged him, still speaking Serval. “Into the jungle.”

She was not certain where that word came from, but it had an electrifying effect on the man. He spun toward the wooded area, eyes narrowed, and dropped to his belly. He began crawling toward the trees, pausing once to bat away a nonexistent swarm of bugs, and twice more to cringe and throw his arms over his head.

Mhari watched him with puzzlement and something approaching pity. Clearly, this human could hear wild-speech-not perfectly, but in small twisted bits. For some reason, his quiet-ears could hear what the domestic cats could not perceive. And if his slow, tortured progress toward the woodland shadows was any indication, he heard and saw other things, too-things wilder and more fearful than a tame-born Serval cat.

Suddenly Mhari understood why the Woman had returned the koi to the pond, to live until it died. A swift, clean death was a blessing. And sometimes, life was no blessing at all. No creature should have to endure the suffering this wild man knew.

She stepped out onto the path and called to him. “You are sick, brother, and confused, and very tired. What you have done, you did not intend. You deserve ease. If you wish, I will give it.”

The human scrambled to him feet and patted himself down with quick furtive movements, his eyes fixed upon Mhari. “Too small, too small,” he garbled. “Don’t shoot the smallcats, you fool. The big cat. The wild cat. The great cat.”

He produced a familiar-looking gun from the folds of his filthy coat and pointed it at Mhari. The weapon spat fire, and Mhari’s shoulder blazed and burned.

A wail of pain escaped her. She fell where she stood, dimly aware of the brush of fur against her flanks and the thoughtless jostle of many small bodies as the smallcats rushed past her.

They swarmed the wild man like large, deadly rats, biting and tearing. His screams were terrible, but they did not last long. The smallcats lingered on.

And then, just as quickly, they were gone.

A small, rough tongue rasped over Mhari’s face again and again. It was rather pleasant, and so was the soft thump of a furry head against her neck. Except for the pain in her shoulder, Mhari was quite content-

The pain roared back, loud and angry. She gasped, and the sudden intake of breath carried a familiar scent. A moment passed before Mhari’s groggy thoughts could focus enough to identify it: the big tom who had tried to stop this thing.

She forced her eyes open. Yes, it was the handsome cat she had fought and vanquished. If he wished to settle scores now, she could do little do stop him.

“Get up, Freckles,” the big tom urged her. “We have to move now.”

Mhari heard it then-the deep, reverberating thumps of a horse’s hooves. She had seen horses in the park during some of her walks, always ridden by a policeman.

She struggled to her feet, allowing the big tom to guide her into the bushes. He found a small hollow beneath a fallen tree and gently pushed her into it. A good choice, Mhari thought dully. Shelter. Defensible.

“The smallcats will find me,” she murmured.

The tom touched his nose to hers in an oddly comforting gesture. “Don’t you understand? The smallcats, as you call them, set you up. If I hadn’t found you, the police would have found that crazy man dead of an animal attack, a gun lying beside him and a large wild cat dead nearby. They probably wouldn’t have looked any further.”

He twitched his whiskers in frustration. “I’ve been trying to stop this. Maybe this man was a threat, but cats killing humans? Imagine the repercussions! I thought Smithwicks’s gang recruited you for muscle. I had no idea…”

The tom’s voice trailed off. He glanced over his shoulder toward the place where the wild man’s torn remains lay. “No thinking creature deserves such a death. Not even one whose thinking is somehow twisted.”

“Perhaps, especially not such a one,” Mhari said softly.

“Agreed.”

“I did not attack him. I did not tear him apart or eat his flesh.” For some reason, it seemed important for the tom to know this. “But I would have killed him had he desired a quick death.”

The male blinked, apparently surprised by her candor. “From what little I saw of the man, that would have been a kindness.”

“May I know your name?”

“Jason,” he said absently as he scanned the woodland shadows. “Listen, I think you’ll be safe here for a while. I know where you live. I’ll do what I can to get word to your human. But you have to stay here, Freckles-any human with a gun is likely to shoot at a cat your size.”

“My name is Mhari,” she said. “And I would be pleased if you would visit me from time to time.”

That made him smile, albeit a little grimly. “Let’s get you home first.”

The night passed and most of the next day, and still no one came. No smallcats, no Jason, no Woman. Weak with pain and thirst, Mhari was almost glad a small, yapping dog found her hiding place. She was almost pleased to see the grim-faced humans in their Animal Control jumpsuits and long poles with loops at the end. She was almost relieved to have the relative comfort and safety of a small metal cage. And surely no water had ever tasted so sweet. One of the humans stuck something sharp in her hip, and she slept. When she awoke the next morning, her hurts had been cleaned and wrapped. Even though they planned to kill her.

Like the koi, Mhari would be permitted to live until she died.

Her Woman came later that day, bringing the portly Man with her. He waved important Papers and blustered on and on. Some of the things he said were sensible. All of the blood on Mhari’s fur was her own. The man had shot Mhari, but there was no evidence that she had attacked him. The Woman had insisted upon something called an autopsy, which proved that none of the wild man’s many wounds came from a Serval’s teeth or claws. There was evidence of other animals, and many of the small bites had been taken before the wild man died. And apparently there was no trace of something called “human DNA” in Mhari’s scat.

The round, loud Man talked and talked. Mhari still did not like him, but she could see that he impressed the humans at Animal Control. Mhari’s Woman signed many papers. Thick wads of money surreptitiously changed hands. Finally the Woman was allowed to open Mhari’s cage and strap her into her jeweled harness.

The Woman sat in the back seat of the car with Mhari on the way home, while the Man drove. She stroked Mhari’s coat and talked and talked, but for once Mhari did not hear. She did not hear English or Italian. She would not have heard even if the woman suddenly spoke Serval, for her own thoughts were too loud, and too troubling, for her to hear anyone else’s.

Mhari understood why the smallcats “set her up,” to use Jason’s term. They wished to protect themselves and their civilization. Perhaps they suspected that the wild man could hear the tiger. Perhaps they suspected that the wild man was doing the tiger’s bidding, acting as the wild cat’s agent in the city. And as Smithwicks had said, there was no place for the greatcats in the city.

Perhaps they thought there was no place for her in the city, either.

Perhaps they were right.

The Woman leaned down to give Mhari a careful squeeze. “I’ll be much more careful about your gate,” she said. “It just isn’t safe for a Serval to wander the city. You’ll stay in the house with me tonight.”

“No, I won’t,” Mhari said. Her Domestic was strongly accented by Serval, but perhaps the woman would understand. After all, hadn’t her ancestors kept company with Serval for hundreds of years?

The Woman sat up, smoothed a hand uncertainly over her hair. “But it’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? It would be a shame for you to stay indoors on such a night as this will be.” She laughed a little. “Perhaps I’ll stay in the habitat with you.”

“No. You won’t.”

“But of course I can’t.” She sighed and turned away to watch the city pass by.

Despite her best intentions, the Woman didn’t quite secure Mhari’s gate that night. The Serval waited until the waning moon was nearly set, then she slipped through the quiet streets to the zoo.

The tiger was still lying beneath his tree. Mhari wondered if he had bothered to move at all in the days that had passed.

“Your human is dead, Great One,” she said respectfully, “but not by my tooth or claw. I did not understand until it was too late. Forgive me.”

“And you understand now?” he asked, but in a way that suggested he had little interest in her answer.

“I think,” she said hesitantly, “you were trying to get him to free you.”

That got his attention. His ears went up, and he gathered his hind legs beneath him as if he might actually consider rising. “In a sense, yes, that is so.”

“Life will never be as you once knew it. I have wandered the city, Great One, and have learned that there is no place for us here. For the Serval, much less the greatcats, freedom is death.”

“Freedom is death,” the tiger repeated softly, “and death is freedom.”

Mhari thought this over until she understood it fully. Until she understood what she had taken from the tiger and what she must give him.

“I had kittens once,” she told him. “Savannahs, they call them. The sire was a smallcat, so they are not quite Serval. But they are beautiful kittens, lithe and lovely. They are not smallcats, not quite, but it seemed to me that the humans heard them, a little. I will bear another litter, and I will wean them to the knowledge of what must be done. In a generation, or perhaps two, my young can speak to the humans, and you will be free.”

The tiger’s yellow eyes brightened, then blazed. “Their seasons come early, these smallcats. One generation, perhaps two… It is not so very long.”

She dipped her head and then padded away to seek Jason and breed the tiger’s death. And echoing in her mind were heartfelt words-words no Great Cat should ever have to say:

Thank you.