Lord Arey, Lord-Governor of Arey Province, was not having a good day. Upon rising he had discovered that his gout was much worse, so much so that he could barely hobble to the small window in his chamber. After hurriedly bathing and dressing (assisted by his various attendants) he had then joined his wife and daughters for breakfast, thinking that at least filling his grumbling belly would cheer him up. However he soon found that the loud protests of his joints and rumbling stomach was well and truly drowned out by the voice of his wife.

" Thomas, oh have you seen the windows in the new wing here-"

"Yes Hortentia I rather think them drafty, you know my joints-"

"yes but Thomas dear, they are so much the recent fashion, you know Lady Penburn was just telling me she had hers redone, and I'd so much rather have the peaked arches and if we lived in something a little grander and less common we could have them done too but-"

"Dear you know we don't have the money for-"

"Anything but the most expensive pheasants on your table! At least your sizeable gut can attest to that. And not even hunted by your own hunting party, since you don't even hunt!"

And there it was – his most vulnerable points in one brief sentence. His younger self would have scratched his (now balding) head for a suitable come-back, but years of these kinds of ripostes had innured him, he thought sourly. He merely sent a glare to his eldest daughter – who was smirking, while the younger two did their best to look suitably unaware – and raised his glass to take a sip of cider. If his wife wanted to pretend she could've married someone richer, he let her; the mere fact that she had settled for his title spoke for itself.

From that (in hindsight not unexpected) sour beginning, his day had gotten steadily worse. He had nearly tripped on one of those detestable castle terriers, and torn his best coat in the process. He had seen a group of nobles from d'Yer and bowed his greeting, only to have them continue right past and pointedly ignore him.

And now here he was, in Lord Coutre's (significantly more sumptuous) apartments, being forced into an agreement he didn't like. He'd been bullied and belittled enough he decided; enough was enough.

"Now listen here, Coutre, I've had enough of your games. An alliance is one thing, but an alliance against the King? And all to ensure your daughter marries him? Now this is going too far."

"Protesting now, are we Tommy?" Lord-Governor Bairdly smirked as he leaned against the archway between the sitting room and the darkened library. The morning light fell on his handsome face and fine figure, arms crossed and one brown eyebrow raised. "You didn't raise a squeak when we petitioned the King for lower provincial taxes, or fewer men required to join the Sacoridian guard each year, so that our three combined militias would then number enough to be a threat to the King."

Lord Arey huffed where he sat in the comfy armchair, raising a cloud of dust upon which he choked for a second before answering.

"Yes but Alaistair, that was… Different. We were standing up for our interests, our people. But this? This only benefits Coutre here, who wants his daughter to be queen, and wants us to sign to our silence on a piece of paper, and what do we get out of it? Nothing, ruddy nothing."

Lord-Governor Coutre shifted slightly where he stood in front of the window, his halo of thinning blonde hair contrasting with his icy blue eyes. He took a deceptively casual step towards Lord Arey, somehow reminding the older man of one of the golden jungle cats from Huradesh.

"Nothing, Thomas? No, you will get free passage for your merchants across the north-western corner of Coutre province, which will prevent them from spending an extra week crossing the Wingsong Mountains at the northern pass."

"But they have been travelling that route for -"

"As long as anyone can remember, yes I know." An ugly look crossed Lord Coutre's face. "Until yesterday, when a score of brigands just happened to take up position at the southern pass near Blaxland, who are under orders to kill every man, woman or child who doesn't have enough coin to buy passage. Unless they are told otherwise by, well, me."

Lord Bairdley's smirk grew wider in the silence that followed, and he stood upright to properly enjoy the sight of Lord Arey deflating like a balloon.

"Edouard, please –"

"Thomas, you will agree to this alliance, and you will sign this paper declaring your secrecy in this matter, for the sake of your people. Once my daughter is safely married, and I have the King's ear, you may do as you like," he finished, managing to look merely bored.

None of the three men noticed a streak of white against the wall, which faded in and out of the shadows. Upon nearing the table which stood to the side of the room, the pale cat kept nimbly onto one of the chairs that surrounded it.

The noblemen continued their discussion, unheeding.

"Coutre, are you sure this paper will keep his mouth closed," said Alistair Bairdley, now giving the crumpled form of Lord Arey a doubtful look.

At that moment, the Lord in question made a faint noise – sort of a cross between a shriek and a snort – upon seeing a white cat climb casually from a chair onto the table, pick its way amongst the various sheets of parchment that littered the surface, take one of the pieces of paper carefully in its mouth, before turning around and leaping off silently the way it came.

"The… The paper…"

"Will be signed by you, yes Thomas. Isn't that right," returned Lord Coutre smirking, unaware of what had just taken place.

"Y- yes of course, Lord Coutre," stuttered Lord Arey, managing to smile a little at the thought that he knew something that the others didn't, even if, of course, there was nothing a mere cat could possibly do to help his predicament.


As a Black Shield, Fastion prided himself that nothing could surprise him. Not rogue assassins, or threats to the King, not cantankerous noblemen or wayward magical happenings; nothing could shake his cool granite façade and ever-ready alertness. But he had to admit, the sight of a large white cat trotting straight past his post and butting it's head at the door of the king's study had him rubbing his eyes and wondering if he was imagining things. Not that he doubted such creatures existed; he knew from talking to the tomb weapons that at least one such cat frequented the catacombs there, and had also heard rumours that a white cat had at one time taken up residence in Sir Karigan's room. No, it was the casual way the cat carried a piece of parchment in its mouth, and now stood in front of the oak door with a stern and slightly reproachful demeanor, exactly as the King's castellan had done just that afternoon. Only, the castellan had two hands, and therefore carried the piece of paper in one of them, and - the cat wasn't wearing spectacles.

Willis, on the other side of the corridor and slightly further down, moved closer to see what Fastion was frowning at. "Cat got your tongue, Fastion?" he asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye. Fastion was saved from replying by the creature in question, who, having given up on looking meaningfully between Fastion and the door, yowled loudly (or, as loudly as possible with a piece of paper between his teeth) and began winding his way around the legs of the two weapons in an apparent attempt to herd them closer to the door.

"What the –" spluttered Willis. "Fastion, is this beast some friend of yours?" The cat, apparently taking umbrage at being termed thus, swished his fluffy tail angrily at the weapon, who cursed and bent down to brush at the white hairs now covering his black trousers, somehow nearly stepped on said cat, stumbled, and fell on his backside.

Fastion laughed, actually laughed, at the sight of his fellow weapon sprawled on the floor, and after a moment Willis began to laugh too. The cat, however, appeared less than amused, and after fixing them both with a glare, formed a new plan.

By the time Willis had stood and dusted himself down (again), the white cat had managed to scale the large suit of armour standing some distance from the door, wobbled precariously on top of the helm, and leapt from there to the top of a plinth by the study door. Unfortunately in the process of launching himself off, the suit of armour was destabilised; it trembled, wobbled, and fell to the floor in many pieces with a great crashing and clanging.

The cat gave it only a momentary glance from atop the plinth with the regal bust of Queen Isen, and just as he launched himself spectacularly towards the knob of the study door, the door suddenly swung open, and an exclamation of "What's all this –" was cut short as the white cat sailed through the air, landing with a muffled thump and a scrunching of parchment, right into the arms of the king himself.


A/N: Ghost Kitty to the rescue! Please review if you enjoyed this :)