when he woke it was not quite dark, and a faint gray dawn came into the cell.

the jester was snoring. somewhere dax thought he heard a rat. his muscles tensed, and he found himself on his feet by instinct—the idea of a rat was surprisingly attractive and he was hungry again. the noise stopped. he remembered that he had been having a dream—a strange nightmare of chasing after mallison and catching him, and tearing him ... with his claws and teeth.

a rusty bell started ringing somewhere in the castle.

the jester snorted, sat up and looked out of the narrow window. then he lit the candle and said his prayers, kneeling on his bed. dax stretched, and the old man cleaned his teeth with a splinter and took a draught from the ale pot. it had a sour stench, but dax found that he no longer minded—there were so many conflicting smells around, the most interesting of which had been the rat. a new, more immediately hopeful one, was of cooking that drifted up from below. it seemed that these people ate meat for their breakfast. and they liked it early.

"come along, tybalt," the jester said, putting on his headdress, and went to the door. dax slipped through quickly so as not to get his tail caught as the jester closed it. they went down the winding stairs again.

at the bottom they came upon another cat—a big red tom—who on catching sight of dax fluffed his tail and laid back his ears, spitting. dax had a momentary impulse to see if communication was possible with him, but the big cat yowled and fled down the hallway.

"ah, tybalt," the old man said. "jesters and cats! even their own kind spits at them!" as they got to the kitchen dax saw the two hounds that had growled at him the night before. he was glad that they were now leashed and in the charge of a boy in a short woolen surcoat.

but when they saw dax the boy was unable to hold them back, and they jerked their leashes from his hand and came running and barking. dax was terrified. he bolted ahead of them along the vaulted corridor and into the great hall, but came face to face with another brace of hounds whose ears pricked up at the sound. dax without any conscious thought dodged sideways and ran up the tapestry on the wall.

his sharp claws had good foothold on the tough canvas backing. but at the top he almost lost his grip, and scarcely managed to get over onto the musicians' gallery from which the tapestry hung. he crouched there, trembling, while the din below increased. he could hear men shouting at the dogs, and the jester's voice calling him. he mewed loudly for help.

after a while he heard the old man's footsteps on the wooden ladder. he was picked up and comforted, but he was so dizzy with fear that he could hardly see. the jester seemed to think he was calm, and put him on his shoulder and went down the ladder again. the hounds had been taken away. but dax stayed where he was with his eyes shut, holding on tight.

"well, trice!" dax opened his eyes and saw the lord of the manor glowering at the jester, and then at him. so trice was the jester's name. an odd one. the earl stood with his hands on his hips and seemed irritated rather than angry. "what's this i hear? the cat runs at my hounds and tries to scratch!"

"oh, no, sir," trice said. "it was the other way! they ran at him! tybalt has never scratched!"

"scratched or no, i wish you'd give him to one of the villagers," the earl said. "i don't want the hounds upset, and lady godwina doesn't like cats. besides, he'll ruin the tapestry."

"but, my lord, he catches the rats! and he's my ... friend."

"the dogs catch the rats," the earl said shortly. "give him away."

"well, my lord, the mice...."

"the red tom gets them."

the old man put up a hand to dax protectively. "but, noble lord, what would i do without my pet?" dax glanced at the tired face next his and saw tears in the eyes, but he had a determined look. "if he cannot stay, i ... i must go, too!"

the earl opened his eyes at this, but he smiled. "i see you are loyal, old trice," he said. "i hope you are as loyal to me!"

the earl turned away. trice put dax on the floor and started back towards the kitchens.

"come, tybalt," he said. "or there'll be none left for us."

dax wished he were still on the shoulder, and stayed close to the jester's feet. things were not going well at all. it had become as much a problem of survival as of research and communication, but when they got to the kitchen and the hounds were nowhere about, he decided that perhaps the two problems were inter-related. after a meal of scraps he felt more secure. not seeing his master he went to look for him in the great hall.

when he got there he saw that the earl and his wife and retainers were eating boiled meat. he remembered that his tutor in middle english had said the main meal in medieval times was eaten in the morning. the four hounds were squabbling over bones that were thrown to them on the rush-covered flagstones under the trestle-board, and didn't notice him. trice was not to be seen. after a while the boy in the woolen surcoat was told to take them out. he fastened leashes to their collars and led them through a large doorway in the far wall. dax looked at the earl: he had a fairly intelligent face, and he had shown forbearance towards trice, so he thought he would make another try.

the lady godwina got up unsteadily from her chair and left the hall—on the way to the lady's solar, dax guessed; and he padded across to the earl. when he got to the foot of the high-backed chair—it looked like a detached choir-stall from a gothic church—he patted the earl's foot.

the earl looked down at him and frowned.

dax patted the foot again; three times. then he mewed three times, and repeated the patting. the earl blinked and got up, backing away. dax mewed three times again, and the earl crossed himself.

"saints preserve my soul! what have we here?"

dax turned around three times, getting his hind legs crossed and nearly falling down. "send for trice at once!" the earl shouted. "his cat tybalt has a fit! careful!" he said to a serving man who had come forward with outstretched hands. "take care you are not bitten! he is unclean!"

dax backed away and ran to the open door, and out.

there was a brilliant sun and he could see nothing at first—and when he did it was blurred, owing to the vertical shape of his contracted pupils. it was much warmer than the night before, and the leaves were brown on the trees. there was no courtyard and gateway, with drawbridge and moat beyond, as he had rather expected. instead he was on cobblestones, surrounded at intervals by small houses, with trees between them. the village was built against the castle, somewhat in the french manner, but the houses were wretched affairs of mud-daubed reeds on wooden framing: hardly better than hovels. only a few had more than one story. smoke was coming up from every chimney, and the men were evidently on their way to work in the fields. they carried crude-looking farm implements and were dressed in coarse homespun with their legs padded and cross-gartered. they were a sorry lot: blank-faced and half starved.

dax heard footsteps behind him and turned.

a young man with blond short hair and a norman nose had come out of the doorway. he looked at dax with amused curiosity, and squatted down, putting out a hand. at this proximity his eyes showed bloodshot and there was a beery smell. he said something that dax could not understand—it sounded vaguely like a kind of french, but dax had not studied medieval norman. still, it had a kindly sound. dax rubbed against the hand. this man, at least, did not share the earl's diagnosis. what was his position in the earl's household? not his son—he looked too unlike him. would he be his clerk? he had a clerkly look—what is it in a face that makes it seem scholarly? and his hands were more fit for holding a pen than a mattock or a sword.

well, give it another try.

dax wished he could make an ingratiating sound, and found he was purring. he looked around for something he could use as a signal; mewing and tapping seemed to be misunderstood. a few yards away the cobblestones gave place to dirt, and he started towards it. it might do for a blackboard. he looked back, but the clerk had not moved.

dax wondered how a cat might beckon, lacking a forefinger. he waited until he caught the young man's eye, and tried to beckon with his head but it had no results. he continued on to the patch of dirt and scratched a triangle, and to his relief the clerk got up and came to him. when he was standing over him, dax scratched two words in latin: homo sum, and looked up.

the clerk was staring with his mouth open.

good, thought dax: latin was the lingua franca of medieval europe, and went on with his scratching. humani nihil a me alienum—

there was a gasp and he looked up again. the young man had closed his eyes and had the back of his hand against his forehead. he turned and walked to the castle door, holding his head. dax sat down in disgust. a twelfth century hangover, indeed! a shadow fell across him and he turned.

three villagers: two men, and a woman in a hood were behind him. they had an expectant air, and, realizing that they were doubtless illiterate, he drew a large five-pointed star.

the effect on them was volcanic.

the woman screeched and threw her skirt over her head. the men crossed themselves and one of them turned and ran. the other slashed at dax with a bill-hook and then, shouting, "bewitched! bewitched!" he, too, ran. the bill-hook missed dax, thanks to his instinctive leap to one side, but the woman continued her noise and more people came out of the cottages, armed with farming implements and sticks. everyone was shouting and offering advice. the main thread of their discourse was: possessed! possessed! kill it! the devil incarnate!

dax was hemmed in on three sides. he started back for the castle, but the big doorway was filled with onlookers, one of whom stepped forward, aiming a crossbow. there was a clank followed by a hissing in the air, and the bolt thumped into the ground next to him. the bowman cursed and began to wind up his bow with a crannikin. dax's fur stood out all over him and he made a mad dash towards a group of women who had nothing in their hands but besoms of birch twigs. it was a fortunate choice.

two or three women made abortive swats at him and the others backed away, leaving a clear path. in front of him was an open space and a tall tree.

almost before he knew it he was near its top and the whole village was milling around near its base, looking up with red angry faces.

"fire the tree!" someone shouted.

"t'won't burn. it's an elm!"

"well, i shan't climb it!"

"i won't have my tree burn!" an indignant voice yelled, but was drowned out. small children were jumping up and down in excitement, and some teen-age boys threw stones but none of them reached him. dax spat furiously. teen-agers were the same through the ages!

"cut it down, then!"

"t'will fall on my house!" (a woman's voice.)

the shouting died down, and dax hung on till his claws ached. there seemed to be a conference going on. the castle appeared to have lost interest, which relieved him; if there was to be any more crossbow shooting he stood little chance. after a short while the subject of the conference became apparent as men began arriving with bundles of dry sticks and faggots. to dax's horror these were piled about the trunk and set alight. then, as the flames began to rise, green boughs were added and a thick cloud of suffocating smoke came up.

desperately he tried to find escape. one of the elm's long branches reached out almost over the roof of one of the houses, but it meant climbing down into the heart of the choking cloud. beyond the house he suddenly caught sight of his master, trice, who waved to him beseechingly. it gave him courage. holding his breath, he began to back down the trunk until he felt the branch under him. then he twisted round and ran along it with his heart pounding. a cat has small lungs for its size and holding his breath was a torment—but at last he was free of the smoke, and he took a breath of clean air.

the roof seemed to be within reach, and the crowd had temporarily lost sight of him in the smoke.

he could hear the jester's voice, but for some reason he couldn't understand him—it sounded like gibberish. he crept out until the thinning branch began to bend and, just as shouts went up from the more observant villagers, he leapt.

he landed on the thatch—and almost lost his hold, but he was just able to scramble to the rooftree, and ran along the ridge. there was more shouting. either these ones spoke a dialect or the excitement had put middle english out of his head: he could barely understand them. something about widow aelthreda's cottage—something about a witch....

he slithered down the far side of the thatching and landed on a window box of late purple daisies. the parchment-covered window next him was open and he slipped inside just as the crowd turned the corner.

he found himself in a small, bare upstairs room, insufficiently lit by the single window, but he could easily see into the most profound shadows. under a chest in the corner was a mouse, frozen with terror. dax was still out of breath, but he crept toward it, and as it ran out along the baseboard he intercepted it. he ate it—all.

as he washed his face he wondered with diminishing nervousness what all the shouting and noise outside meant.

in a little while he heard footsteps and a woman came into the room. when she saw him she made some noises with her mouth, and dax ran to her. she picked him up and began to stroke him very pleasantly. then there were more noises from below and presently there were a lot of people in the room. the woman dropped him for some reason.

he ran under a big, low wooden thing, but a big iron thing was pushed at him. it had a sharp point, and he had to come out. this time the man with the bill-hook did not miss, but the pain lasted only for an instant.

and ... and ... he was more conscious of the sound made by the hypodermic as it fell on the floor and broke.

he looked at it with annoyance, and felt the slight prick on his arm. he got up and went to his bathroom, where he dabbed it with antiseptic. he saw that he'd better shave before going to the meeting. well, the drug hadn't worked. what a waste of time. what a pity.

perhaps a larger dose? he must experiment some more.

he started shaving.