Free The Aeronaut's Windlass by Jim Butcher Page A

arms, his throaty purr needing no translation. “A very good start,” he murmured.
    “Yes, Miss Lancaster,” Bridget said. “That would be fine.”

Chapter 6
    Spire Albion, Habble Morning
    R owl watched Littlemouse and her fellow humans behaving foolishly, and wondered how soon she would need him to intervene and set things right.
    Once more they had slept less than all the humans in the Spirearch’s Guard, and once more the human Gwendolyn and her half-souled cousin thought that they were preparing Littlemouse for some kind of combat, which was ridiculous. The best way to prepare for fighting was to fight. Any kitten knew that.
    Currently Benedict was having Littlemouse practice falling, which was similarly ridiculous. One didn’t practice falling. One simply landed on one’s feet. Yet over and over, Littlemouse fell from her feet to her back, sometimes alone, sometimes helped along the way by Gwendolyn or Benedict. Rowl had been suspicious of this activity at first, assuming that it would be used as an excuse for Gwendolyn to eliminate a rival female, or for Benedict to claim mating rights with Littlemouse. But over the past few days it had proven to be more foolish than nefarious, and did not seem to harm Littlemouse to any significant degree, so Rowl permitted it to continue.
    It seemed a shame to waste so much of one’s time—and to miss so much sleep—in such a fundamentally stupid activity. If they’d only asked Rowl about it, he could have explained it to them.
    Benedict began to show Littlemouse how to make him fall to the floor. What was the point of learning to do such a thing slowly, and obviously with considerable cooperation from Benedict? Did Littlemouse think that a foe would behave in such a way?
    Rowl sensed a pressure change in the air against the fur of his flank and his whiskers, and lazily tilted an ear in that direction. There was a whisper of motion, utterly inaudible to anyone but a cat, with all the commotion the humans were making to cover it, and Mirl emerged from the shadows.
    “Rowl,” said the black-furred female. Mirl was a small cat, but swift and intelligent. She was one of Maul’s Whiskers, his spies and hunters. Only a tiny ring of green was visible around her large, dark pupils, and the only way to see her in the gloom was by the dim shine of her eyes.
    “Mirl,” Rowl replied lazily.
    Mirl prowled to his side and sat, studying the humans. “What are they doing?”
    “They mean to teach Littlemouse to fight,” Rowl said.
    Mirl considered them gravely. “I see. Have they begun yet?”
    “They seem to think so,” Rowl said. “What news from my father?”
    “He sends his greetings and says that you are to do your duty or he will notch your ears.”
    Rowl flicked his tail and yawned. “I know what I am to do. Is that all?”
    Mirl twitched her ears in an amused flick, but her tone became more serious. “He says that Longthinker has confirmed the reports of the Silent Paw scouts.”
    Rowl moved his eyes to the smaller cat. “The new things in the air shafts?”
    Mirl blinked her eyes in affirmation. “So say the Shadow Tails, and the Quick Claws, and half a dozen other tribes besides them. Cats have gone missing in other habbles as well—but none have seen what took them.”
    Rowl made an irritated sound in his chest. “That seems cowardly.”
    “To me,” Mirl said, “it seems skillful.”
    “That as well. Are we then at war?”
    “Not yet,” Mirl said. “Maul says that first we must know whom we would war against.”
    “What does Longthinker say we face?”
    “Longthinker . . . is not sure.”
    Rowl looked at Mirl sharply. But he said nothing. His tail lashed back and forth restlessly. Longthinker was not cat, but he was clever, wise, and honorable. If he did not know what threat now stalked the Silent Paws and other tribes in their own home tunnels, it must be something strange indeed—or something new.
    “Please tell my father,” Rowl said,