Free The Aeronaut's Windlass by Jim Butcher Page B

“that I advise a declaration of war immediately—without restriction. We will be better served by immediate aggression than by too much caution. Let us hunt and destroy them before they have a chance to nest.”
    “I will tell him your words,” Mirl said. She twitched a careless whisker. “He will not heed them.”
    Rowl ignored that last remark with the disdain it richly deserved.
    Mirl sat beside him and watched the humans flopping about. “I have seen such a thing before.”
    “This fight-teaching?” Rowl asked, his tone dubious.
    “In the Temple of the Way, in Habble Landing,” Mirl said.
    “What were you doing all the way down there?” Rowl asked.
    “My duty as a Whisker,” Mirl replied loftily. “They did something resembling this, only there were more of them and they wore different kinds of clothing.”
    “Did they look this foolish?”
    Mirl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Many did. But others seemed less foolish.”
    “In what way?”
    “They moved less poorly. Not so well as a cat, of course.”
    “Of course,” Rowl said.
    “But they were much less clumsy than most humans.” She used a paw to comb the fur of one ear. “Perhaps it works.” They both watched Littlemouse take a particularly hard fall. “Eventually.”
    “They are rather slow, humans,” Rowl mused. “Do you really think it has potential?”
    “She hardly need be much less clumsy to make another human look so,” Mirl said. “Whom is she to fight?”
    “A young male. He aimed words of pain at Wordkeeper. In reply, Littlemouse slapped his ears with her words. Now they plan to fight.”
    “They plan to fight?” Mirl said, mystified. “Why does she not go find him in his sleep and fight him then?”
    Rowl yawned. “I have no idea. But he will not find her in her sleep. If he tries, I will rip out his eyes.”
    “Sensible,” Mirl said. “Though a human is no easy prey. Not even for the mighty Rowl.”
    “A proper Whisker should not make so much noise,” Rowl growled.
    Mirl rose and bowed her head in a mirror of the human gesture. “Yes, mighty Rowl.”
    Rowl fetched her a swift rap on the nose (though not with his claws extended), but Mirl avoided it with lazy grace, her eyes dancing with laughter. She sauntered off, flicking her tail mockingly. “You are almost as handsome as you think you are, you know.”
    “You are too quick and too clever for your own good,” Rowl replied calmly. “Keep your wits about you in the tunnels. I would prefer it if you did not go missing.”
    “Don’t make a foolish mistake that gets you killed while protecting your human,” she replied.
    “Will I see you again soon?”
    “Perhaps,” Mirl said. “It depends on my mood.”
    Then she glided back into the dark the way she had come.
    Rowl watched her go, the insufferable female. He stared after her for a moment, his tail lashing thoughtfully. Insubordinate—but quick. And beautiful. And never, ever boring.
    Perhaps he would compose a song for her.
    *   *   *
    O nce “fighting” practice was over, things that mattered could be done. Rowl took his customary place in Littlemouse’s arms and accompanied her to breakfast in the marketplace.
    The marketplace was a sea of stalls and small buildings set in the center of the habble, surrounding the Spire Lord’s manor. About a quarter of the stalls were made of spirestone, originally placed there by someone the humans called the Builders. The remainder were made mostly of brick, their doors and vending windows now covered with hide stretched over frames. Some of the more well-to-do shops used wood from the jungle-covered surface, painstakingly transported up miles of Spire.
    Littlemouse carried him toward the stall that smelled the best and was one of the few that were occupied this early in the day. Human Benedict seemed to know the owners of the stall personally, for they greeted him by name each morning. It was probably due to his hunger—the half-soul’s body burned