THE VELVET PAW OF ASQUITH NOVELS

THE PURGING OF RUEN

THOMAS CORFIELD

Panda Books Australia Sydney — New York — Tokyo — Berlin

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels Book 1, The Purging Of Ruen

First published in Australia by Panda Books Australia in 2016 Copyright (c) Thomas Corfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Corfield, Thomas

Purging Of Ruen, the ISBN 978-0-9945306-3-9

1.Corfield, Thomas – Humour – Adventure 2. New Fable

Panda Books Australia Limited Level 29, Chifley Tower, 2 Chifley Square, Sydney NSW 2000 pandabooksaustralia.com Text design by Stephen Guest, Highway 37 Cover design by Manfred Holland Typeset by Letter Spaced Perpetua 10 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Written in Australian English. If you enjoyed this book, please visit velvetpawofasquith.com to discover further Dooven Books. If you didn’t enjoy it, then consider re-reading it, paying closer attention.

Cinematic Audiobook editions of the Dooven Books are available from Scribl.com, Audible.com, iTunes and all online audiobook retailers.

Copyright 2016 Thomas Corfield.

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Certificate of Achievement: www.velvetpawofasquith.com/quiz

The other Velvet Paw of Asquith novels: www.velvetpawofasquith.com/bookshop

DOOVENISM

The Velvet Paw of Asquith novels, aka the Dooven Books, are complemented with additional media to enhance the reader’s experience. Visit VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM to learn more about these additional components of the Dooven Books:

IMPORTANT NOTE

This publication contains references to characters, events and places from other books in the series.

This publication contains 3 intentional typographical errors. Readers astute enough to identify them are eligible to receive a delightful ‘Certificate of Astuteness’ and a paw-written letter of congratulation from Oscar Teabag-Dooven.

Moreover, readers who post a review of this book anywhere—even on their fridge—whether favourable or otherwise (the review, not their fridge), will receive a ‘Certificate of Indebtedness’ for doing so.

These two certificates, along with the one received upon successful completion of the book’s quiz, add up to a veritable swathe of credentials which would improve the appearance of any wall, providing it would look good draped in certificates.

Submit your finding(s) at VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM. Alternatively, don’t.

“Good writing can only take you so far. These books take you considerably further, and then leave you behind.”

—Daniella Dragosi, Unimpressed.

“I recall finding my divorce papers a more compelling read.” —Russell Piorre, Divorced.

“These books have plots so thin that I actually broke one.”

—David Micheal Milan, Nineteenth Century Industrialist.

For

Oliver and Jeremy, Tabitha and Natalie

The Velvet Paw Of Asquith Novels

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1

_________________

“Courage; a modesty born from fear,

and any animal who boasts of bravery,

knows the meaning of neither.”

– The Loud Purr of Asquith.

T the top of the parapet, the old cat kicked at the door, ground her teeth and glared at the dog struggling up the stairs behind her. “Door!” she hissed when he arrived.

The dog stumbled past her and fumbled with its handle, apologising when the thing refused to cooperate. Beyond it, wind screamed through gaps and wrenched the flaming torch in his paw, which he shoved into hers to afford better grip on the door.

The Pyjami’s impatience boiled at being forced to hold the flames. “It’s a door!” she hissed. “It is not particularly complicated!”

“I know, but it’s difficult because it’s rusty and my paws are all shaky—”

“Did I ask for excuses?” “No, but I thought it prudent—” “You are lucky I do not remove your paws and staple them to this

thing.” She waved the torch in irritation. “Just consider yourself fortunate that I don’t have a stapler.”

“I do, honestly. It’s just that after all those stairs I’m rather puffed, you see, and this blasted door—”

“I’m not puffed.” “No, of course you’re not,” the dog muttered, fiddling with the

handle, having no intention of pointing out that he’d been forced to hurry across several floors of castle, while she’d just waited on one bit lower down.

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He’d been forced to hurry because the animal who was supposed to meet the Pyjami had required a toilet urgently. Dire need of latrine befell many within the castle, because the place stank beyond remark. So dreadful was its smell that the castle’s latrines were the most sought after rooms in it, primarily because they smelt better than the rest of the place. The castle didn’t just smell of mouldy, dank stone, but had a stench that physically clawed. Nor was it limited to sense of smell alone, and instead assaulted all five in a manner that can only be described as selfish. It was a reek so thick that it was akin to breathing cheese. A stink so debilitating, that whiskers shrivelled and died. As a result, the dog was desperate for the door to open, but having the Pyjami fume behind him wasn’t helping. He cursed, realising it wasn’t the door that was stuck, but the wind outside ramming against it. The Pyjami wasn’t interested in such detail, however, and growled that if he didn’t hurry up and open the thing, she’d do something to him that wouldn’t require a stapler.

After a final curse, the latch shifted. The door slammed inwards, blasting them with cold night and pushing them back down the stairwell. With a sneer, the Pyjami thrust the beaten torch back into the animal’s paws and strode into fresh air, of which she took several relieved breaths. Beside her, castle towers struck high at the night sky in a slurry of black sand, glistening beneath starlight. Upon battlements, wind surged in howl around lichen-crusted stone, gnawed soft and porous by countless wheels of seasons.

When the wind fell, she said to the dog, “Should that wretched animal in the latrines decide to make himself available, then return for me. But not before warning him that should he make himself unavailable upon my next visit, I shall do something to him that will render his current indisposition something he’ll aspire to.”

“Shall I tell him the stapler thing?” “What?” “The thing about the staples—the thing you said about my paws and

the stapler. Should I say that to him? It might hurry him up. It certainly hurried me up.”

She turned to him and glared. “Are you showing insolence?” He waved his snuffed torch to assure he wasn’t. “Not at all! I just

thought it might be helpful.” “Helpful?” “Yes. You know, encouraging.” “I suggest you leave at once, dog,” she hissed, “before I tear you apart

and leave you in dire need of staples!” With an awkward bow, the dog did so, struggling to close the door

despite the fiasco in opening it. In the end, he gave up and left the thing banging in the wind, which screamed around a new-found orifice.

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Built when Ruen’s shores were marauded by barbarians, the castle teetered upon a massive, jagged line of blackened cliff high above a thundering sea. Having lain quiet for centuries, it had slept a reprieve well-deserved after years of resistance. And although times of valour had long since passed, its stance warned all that, should the need arise, it would readily awaken to defend this most beautiful edge of world.

But compared to times past, the world was now different. Boundaries agreed. Disputes few. All knew times of quarrel were no more. All knew, that is, except one. Curling her lips across fangs yellow with age, the Pyjami snarled.

She knew such quarrels had not resolved, so much as evolved. An enemy remained. No longer across the sea, but within this land itself.

Her land. She pulled her coat tighter. It was a beautiful night, scented with sea,

carpentered wood and freshly powdered stone. When gusts lessened, remnants of day became apparent: grasses and cooked earth, fragrances lost when wind again rose in howl. When the dog returned, so did stench, which tainted night like sudden death at a dinner party. She snarled, furious at having to tolerate such incompetence. All animals needed to know their place, and his place was so far beneath her that he belonged in the dungeons, with flaky bits of straw and gruel far harder than the bowl it might reside in. The dog cleared his throat and hoiked up some phlegm which he spat from the battlements. Watching its blobs sail away, he gave his sinuses another noisy spring-clean and readied to expectorate a second time. When the Pyjami glared at him, he insisted that the castle’s stench was responsible—or at least tried to, in as much as his mouthful allowed. When she warned that should he continue, he’d expectorate teeth along with it, he swallowed reluctantly instead.

Striding past him, she returned to the fetid warmth of castle. “Can we leave it open?” the dog asked, dabbing his mouth with a

napkin. “What?” “The door,” he said, indicating it. “Can we leave it open a bit to let

some of the stench out? Also, I’m not certain how easy it’s going to be to close it again, considering how strong the wind is—especially since it’s blown out most of the torches in the stairwell. Not that I mind re-lighting them, you understand, as I quite enjoy setting fire to things.”

“I think you are forgetting why you’re here,” she growled. “Isn’t it because I like setting fire to things?” “This isn’t a reprieve, dog. This is punishment. Do you understand?”

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The dog nodded, battling to close the door while holding a smouldering torch the Pyjami refused to. Wind screamed, furious at being cornered, until the door was latched.

They descended the stairwell’s narrow blocks of stone to emerge on a walkway high above the castle’s courtyard. Although wind was less, the noise was far greater; hammering and sawing, nailing and clanging reverberated in a poorly orchestrated construction symphony’s fourth movement. When a tool fell and clattered through scaffolding, the Pyjami growled, feeling the indignation of a queen forced to tolerate lackeys. Those responsible laboured not out of loyalty to her, but for the promise of freedom once their work was complete. When another tool fell, she deliberated over granting them anything of the sort. Although far from a queen, she was convinced her pedigree would show royalty, were it traced back far enough. Certainly blue-blood would explain her determination to rid this land of the wretched animals rotting it.

They strode beneath scaffolding toward the castle’s keep. Inside, they descended more flagstones until arriving at a long corridor. While the Pyjami strode its length, the dog struggled in her wake, trying to determine which smelt worse: the corridor’s stench of rancid manure, or her stench of pungent mothballs. In the end, he gave up and breathed through his mouth. But because this was even noisier than his throat-clearing, she glowered again, so he stopped and let his eyes water instead.

At the corridor’s far end, a large guard dog armed with a sharpened broom handle sat by a door. When the Pyjami approached, he stopped digging at mortar with the pointy end and leapt to attention. Beneath her stare, he fumbled with the door’s lock. But because his eyes watered dreadfully, he didn’t fare much better than the other dog earlier. Eventually, the door was pushed open and he stood aside. With a sneer, the Pyjami strode past him, followed by the dog with eyes so bleary, his paws were outstretched to compensate. The room beyond held a stink of thick rotting, and those waiting within it retched and gagged.

It was cold too, and the Pyjami pulled her coat closer. She strode toward a well-polished table and glared at those behind

it. “Well?” she sneered, as though they were responsible. “Your reasons for refusing to meet me upon arrival must have been considerably more dire than my wrath at the fact!”

A small dog pushed at glasses that slid down his nose. “I fear it was rather dire, yes,” he said, “and I hope you might find something resembling forgiveness for such atrocious insult.”

“You can hope all you like, dog, but you shall get nothing from me unless it’s earnt.”

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The dog tried a bow. “But of course. Please forgive me for suggesting as much. I can assure you that we have been working very hard to appease you.”

“That sounds like begging to me,” she said. “You are not begging are you, dog?”

“Not at all. I can assure you the only begging I’ve done recently was five minutes ago on the toilet.”

She fixed him with a harder glare. “I suggest you cease this babbling and get on with it. I have already been kept waiting and it seems you intend to have me continue.”

The small dog pushed at glasses again and glanced at the table. It was polished to a shine so absurd that its use as something to put things on was almost untenable. Nevertheless, upon it resided some drawing paper, a pencil and a set-square.

“What you have asked of us has been done and is ready to be tested,” he said. “But I fear that the entirety of your proposal is quite impossible to manifest.”

When her glare hardened into the sort of thing that could bring down scaffolding, he turned to his colleagues for support—all of which found the ceiling most intriguing. Left to fend for himself, the dog pushed at glasses again.

“One flagstone is not too difficult to make collapsible,” he said, “but to make the whole floor collapsible is quite impossible. There is simply no way—”

“Do you know upon what we stand?” she hissed. Neither the dog, nor his colleagues dared move. “This fortress was hewn from solid rock by paw alone, from an age

when necessity defied the impossible!” There was silence, other than a nervous swallow which squelched. “Are you telling me that despite the centuries since, you are unable

to create anything similar?” Another nervous squelch was followed by, “It is not a question of

competing with past techniques, the Pyjami, but rather of basic engineering principles.” He indicated the drawings upon the table. “We have already discussed the extensive studies you requested, which show the castle’s foundations reside upon a hollowed-out cliff. And although it appears this resulted from lava flows once upon a time, it does not mean we can set up the castle flagstones to collapse at the throw of a lever.”

The Pyjami thinned her mouth. She wanted her flagstones to collapse. It wasn’t imperative to the success of the construction banging away in the courtyard, but would be an excellent insurance policy for it. Taking a step toward him, she asked, “And why not, pray?”

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After another swallow, he said, “Because if you collapse even one portion of castle floor, the entire keep might be rendered unstable and compromise everything you’ve been working towards.”

“Well, here’s a suggestion, little animal: perhaps you could arrange it so that only part of the floor collapses?”

The little dog glanced at his colleagues, who shrugged, still staring at the ceiling. “It may be possible,” he said. “But only in one corridor—and it would be a matter of selective flagstones. Ones that weren’t structural.”

She leant closer. “See? It doesn’t take a great deal of initiative to initiate initiative, does it?”

After another squelch, he shook his head. Initiative or not, none would dare implement anything without her approval first—and only then after congratulating her on it.

“There,” she purred. “Now, perhaps you would be good enough to show me the one flagstone that you have managed to destabilise?”

The small dog nodded while his colleagues gathered papers from the table. He hesitated, not knowing if the Pyjami expected to leave first—which resulted in a frantic hiss of debate with his colleagues. When he stepped toward the door, the Pyjami did the same, which had the former flinch and the latter growl. In an attempt at remedy, he pretended to be giving way, before realising the door wasn’t open—something he begged his colleagues to rectify before his gesture went from awkward to downright punishable. Such pantomime left the Pyjami marching to the door and bashing upon it. When it opened, she barrelled past the guard, growling obscenities about staples, which she vowed to use on them collectively as part of the scaffolding arrangements outside.

In a hall large and imposing, the entourage fanned out into rehearsed positions. At its centre was an enormous table surrounded by chairs. A huge fire roared in a hearth, bathing everything in bronze, and although the hall was warm, the place still stank beyond remark. Beside the fireplace, a collection of levers protruded from the wall, and toward them the small dog hurried.

“Obviously these will look much nicer when finished,” he said, giving them a quick buff. “I’ll organise a nice cloth to drape over them. Probably patterned. And this surface will be rendered with plaster to blend in with the stone around it. I’ll try and get it stippled too, so it looks like stone. I’m thinking of using a fork.”

The Pyjami raised her whiskers indifferently. “As instructed,” he continued, “these already house the mechanisms

for the constructions outside, and also for the collapsing floor, if it’s deemed necessary.”

Her indifference flared into a glower.

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“Sorry,” he said, “when it’s deemed necessary.” He nodded at a colleague beside a large door on the hall’s far side, and it was opened to reveal a corridor. “Through there, of course, is where guests will arrive from.” Indicating the entrance they’d used, he added, “With that room becoming the kitchen, if you will.”

The Pyjami rolled her eyes. “Of such details I am aware,” she growled, “for ‘twas after all, my design.”

Pushing at glasses, the small dog apologised, realising he’d better get to the point before she stabbed him with one. He nodded again at his colleague, who dragged a large block of stone onto a flagstone in the middle of the corridor, before hurrying back to the others.

Choosing a lever, the small dog said, “Because of the disinfectant brewing elsewhere, might I suggest you cover your nose, the Pyjami, because what lies beneath, as you can imagine, is not at all pleasant.”

She did so, as did others. When the lever was pulled, a muffled clanking could be heard beneath the floor. In the corridor, dust puffed from beneath the block as mechanism shifted further. There was a thud when the flagstone collapsed, and the block plummeted from view. From hidden depths, a green fog arose in the space afforded, billowing through the floor in creeping clouds of tendril. Curious, the animals peered at it, before the flagstone clacked back into place.

With a smile, the Pyjami said, “Excellent. That is exactly what I want. And now you shall do the same with as many—”

But she stopped, watching the swirls of fog creep upon the animal closest, who changed colour to such an extent that he appeared to change breed. Paws flew to his mouth in an attempt to staunch an eruption of sick, which failed, leaving an explosion of vomit to squirt between his paws.

By the levers, the small dog began hyperventilating, and stared at the fog as though clinically allergic to it. “Get out!” he screamed, taking his own advice. “Get out now!”

The fog rolled into the hall, its green lessening into a murky hue. Others scurried with him, sick squirting between their paws also, and splattering across the floor in a dubious work of modernist art. Unaccustomed to being given orders, the Pyjami watched their antics curiously, particularly when they slipped through their art to render it even more dubious. When the fumes reached her, however, she gagged also, and ploughed after the others to escape the most pungent stink of fetid cabbage and caustic manure imaginable.

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2

____________________ N the late afternoon sun, the city of Ruen glittered like a crystal chandelier of staggering proportions, not unlike the colossal chandelier within the Palace of Par-Beguine. Being a city and not a light fixture, Ruen is far larger and has more restaurants. But the

analogy is appropriate, because both are dreadfully expensive. Famous for its population of ostentatious and wealthy retirees, Ruen lay cradled between towering black mountains and a sea of exquisite turquoise. Although renowned for its charm, the city did not owe its allure to location alone. Its venerable heritage had been cultivated by a group of elderly residents known as the Ruling Council of Ruen. The council’s influence was omnipotent, with a membership so exclusive that at one stage even its councillors were uncertain if they belonged. The residents of Ruen accepted the Ruling Council’s despotism readily. Not only had it ensured Ruen’s traditions remained untainted, but had also rendered the city to be completely free of crime.

Along Ruen’s streets rattled a taxi, within which rattled a cat. And although Oscar Teabag-Dooven had been in numerous taxis, he’d never been in one rattling through a city as fabled as Ruen. He stared eagerly at all the bits he passed, most of which looked very nice, and the bits that didn’t he was certain would during other times of the day. Although he was thrilled to be in Ruen, he was equally thrilled to be in a taxi, because it meant his flight from Asquith had not ended in a plunging fireball. He loathed aeroplanes. Especially when they were not on the ground, a state they had an irritating habit of aspiring to. Fortunately, his flight had been relatively straightforward. Except for the going-up and coming-down bits, which he could easily have done without, though he wasn’t keen on the bit in between, either. It wasn’t just aeroplanes that left him uncomfortable. He disliked airports too, finding them unpleasant places of limbo, especially considering their passengers seemed obsessed with leaving. Certainly this did little for airports’ confidence and presumably contributed to passengers’ eagerness to be elsewhere. Airports had, therefore, a peculiar irony in being gateways to exotic destinations on one paw, while harbouring miserable sods on the other. This was reason

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enough, Oscar had decided, for airport cafeterias to sell hot-fin so revolting, that he was distracted from the misery of the former by the disgusting taste of the latter.

Slowing through a particularly beautiful part of the city, the taxi negotiated narrow lanes, before turning onto a boulevard that ran along Ruen’s foreshore. When it pulled up outside the splendid edifice of Hotel d’Ruen, Oscar was delighted, considering the address he’d issued to the driver when leaving the airport. A little dog in a hotel waistcoat trotted down its steps and announced himself as Percival, before offering to assist with suitcases, with which he then struggled back up the steps.

Oscar turned to watch afternoon settle into evening across the harbour. The air was cool and heady with sea, and he took a deep breath, before taking several more when realising how much there was to go around. In the distance, headlands teetered in that strange fragility dusk affords. Upon them perched old mansions, nestled amongst groves of conifers as though holding each other in place. Fishing trawlers rounded the cliffs and chugged into the harbour, seagulls squawking around them, apparently demanding some sort of refund. With sun setting behind the city, the sky’s darkening blue burnt soft pink toward the horizon, and left Oscar so thrilled to be in the place that he had to sit down and take several more breaths of its splendid air.

Being in Ruen was one thing. Knowing why was quite another. The Loud Purr of Asquith had been uncharacteristically reticent in

assigning him, which left Oscar worrying that this curiosa involved dangers so ghastly that the Catacombs did not wish to burden him with their detail. Nevertheless, it didn’t alter that he’d arrived with no immediate need to do anything other than unpack and order a mug of superbly brewed hot-fin. If the evening remained this pleasant, he’d perhaps take a stroll and dabble in some imagist verse.

He turned to follow his suitcases. They were closer than he’d expected. Having been dropped, they waited at the bottom of the steps while

Percival clambered down after them. Upon retrieval, one suitcase burst, littering its contents across the pavement, before being repacked by Percival in the vaguest sense of the word imaginable.

Hotel d’Ruen was tall, grand and old. Ornate columns supported a stone awning over its steps, up which Percival again struggled with suitcases. Sea and salt had blistered its plaster, which had cracked in a manner most appealing, and such disrepair, along with a sort of palpable seaside contentment, softened the hotel’s austerity into a genial embrace. Behind it, Ruen’s buildings climbed around narrow lanes as though woven upon a loom. With the mountains silhouetted against the

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sun’s fading rays, the city sparkled with a thousand twinkles in defiance of any Earthly dictated hour—rather like the defiance Oscar’s suitcases were showing to Percival, though with less twinkling and more bursting. Regardless of the reasons he had been sent here, Oscar was grateful to have been. Unlike his suitcases which still refused to cooperate in any conventional sense. Being in Ruen made a nice change from foiling dangerous villains. His most recent curiosa had him thwarting the antics of a particularly villainous cat named the Tremblees, who was aide d’camp at the palace of Par Beguine, and not the sort of animal one might invite around for a mug of hot-fin and a bun. While his tussle with the Tremblees had been successful, it had also been traumatic, resulting in Oscar having had both his ears torn off. Being his first curiosa, to return from it without ears said a great deal about how difficult it had been, and left the Catacombs insisting he have a holiday. He had taken time off—albeit in his living room, with the curtains drawn and the lights out. It had taken some time for the Loud Purr to convince him that others would see his new-found earlessness as evidence of courage, rather than disfigurement. But Oscar remained doubtful, even when the Loud Purr promised that any animal suggesting otherwise would have the fact pointed out via a punch in the face. Nevertheless, he was grateful to have been left with enough limbs to arrive in Ruen at all, and was glad to trot up the steps of its most prestigious hotel on two of them—though not nearly as glad as Percival when he helped heave suitcases with his remaining ones.

In the foyer, Percival insisted he could drag the suitcases toward a reception desk on his own. Oscar followed, realising the hotel’s interior was as impressive as its exterior, though had less cracked plaster and more expensive wallpaper. It had a nice shiny floor too, and some large plants in pots, which were also surprisingly shiny. There were some paintings in shiny frames, upon which shiny lights shone, and even the patrons milling about the place did so with the sort of shine that left him keen to find a cloth and buff them.

Oscar like shiny things. It generally meant they worked well. And Hotel d’Ruen was very shiny indeed. The reception desk was even shinier than the floor, and he admired

some shiny pens upon it, before realising that neither his suitcases, nor the animal bursting them, were anywhere to be seen. There was a bell upon it, and it being even shinier than the desk, he pinged it enthusiastically. When Percival rose into view, it was in a manner suggesting he’d been doing something dubious behind it. Frowning, Oscar peered over desk to see that a second suitcase had burst, while the third had lost its handle. All three had been lashed together with masses

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of sticky-tape in a frantic attempt at rectifying the situation. He stared at them, and then at Percival, who asked whether he’d like a room. Oscar suggested it was probably unnecessary, considering he no longer had anything resembling luggage to put in one. While Percival assured him that sticky-tape was far better than hinges and handles, he reached for an appointment book and began leafing through its pages. With a sigh, Oscar waited and reflected on the previous morning.

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3

____________________

DAY earlier, Oscar had been summoned to the Catacombs of Asquith. “I think I’m about to be expelled,” he said, drumming his paws on the reception desk.

The receptionist looked up. “I’m sorry?” “I think,” said Oscar, “that I’ve been summoned here to be expelled.” “Expelled?” “Yes.” She frowned. “What in fluff makes you think that, Mister Dooven?” “Well, the last five weeks, for a start.” “But you’ve been on holiday for four of them.” “I sat in my living room with the blinds drawn.” “That doesn’t sound like much of a holiday.” “Well, it was, considering the week prior to it.” “I certainly don’t think you’re about to be expelled, Mister Dooven.

The notion’s quite ridiculous.” “Then why do I feel as though I want to bring up my breakfast?” “Was it a particularly bad breakfast, perhaps?” “I haven’t had any breakfast,” he said. “That’s the problem. I couldn’t

eat a thing on account of concerns about being expelled.” “Well, maybe you should have breakfast,” the receptionist said. “I can

have some buns sent up if you like. The Loud Purr hasn’t arrived yet, and you might be waiting for some time.”

“No thank you,” said Oscar. “I couldn’t eat a thing.” “What about a hot-fin?” “No. I fear I’d vomit it all over his carpet.” “I could ask them to include a bucket?” “It’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think it’s best if my stomach

remains just as bereft of hope as the rest of me.” She frowned again. “I must say, Mister Dooven, your concern is

surprising. I would have thought you’d be encouraged to be summoned to the Lair under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

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“Yes,” she said. “The ones revolving around you having just saved the world.”

Oscar looked at his paws. “Oh, that. Yes. Well, the problem is, I broke most of it in the process.”

She leant forward and smiled. “Mister Dooven, the Loud Purr has summoned you to the Lair for reasons far from expulsion, I am quite certain.”

“Then why do I feel like vomiting?” “I wouldn’t worry, the Loud Purr has that effect. He can be most

intimidating.” Oscar stared at the desk and wished he was back in bed with the

blinds drawn. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you, Mister Dooven?” “I might have that bucket, after all,” he said. When the receptionist reached for a telephone, he left the desk to

wait for the bucket and the Loud Purr in the Lair. He pushed through large bronze doors and stood in the high room of the Catacombs. It was circular, lined with oak panelling and draped in burgundy curtains. At its centre was a broad desk with two telephones; one brown and one an assertive red. Behind the desk waited a high-backed chair, beyond which was a tall, narrow window with velvet drapes drawn. He ran a paw over the chair’s leather, wondering whether he’d dare sit in it.

If he were about to be expelled, it hardly mattered. He sat. The chair swivelled, and he played his paws across the Loud Purr’s

desk, revelling in a rush of authority. “Did I ask you to speak?” he growled at an empty one opposite. “I am the Loud Purr, and you will speak only when spoken to—and only then when I’ve told you what to say—”

When the Lair’s doors opened, he cursed and threw himself from the chair, inadvertently taking a telephone with him. It clattered to the floor in a peal of strangled rings. While the Loud Purr approached, he fought to untangle himself from its cord. Unable to, he leapt to attention instead, leaving the thing to unravel and clatter to the floor.

The Loud Purr shuffled past, his brow furrowed in thought. The cat was large and battle-hardened, his days of curiosa long since passed. Notoriously clinical in assigning Velvet Paws, he was revered by all and cowed by none. At his desk, he sat authoritatively and glared, leaving Oscar to hope he’d forgotten how many telephones used to be upon it. He stopped hoping when the cat looked at the broken one on the floor.

Oscar glanced at it also. “Are you looking for this, perhaps, Your Great Amazingliness?” he said, winding it up via its cord—which then

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broke. “I think I might have tripped over it when I was nowhere near your desk. I’m certain it still works.”

A bell fell off. “Although it might need mending.” The Loud Purr stared at him and then the telephone. Oscar put the

pieces back on the desk, arranging them to resemble the one still intact. It didn’t, the two instead resembling a dreadful before-and-after scene.

After staring at both for a time, the Loud Purr told him to sit. Oscar did so, and tucked his tail in beside him, a bit like a seatbelt. “Did you have a nice rest, Pantaloons?” the Loud Purr said. “I spent most of it in my living room, Your Great Loudness,” Oscar

said. “It seemed prudent under the circumstances, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

The Loud Purr humphed. “Tell me, Pantaloons, have you ever been to the city of Ruen?”

“Well, I’ve certainly heard of it. I believe it’s on the coast, south of Milos. Apparently it’s renowned for having no crime. But I’ve never visited, on account of having never travelled anywhere before a month ago.”

“It’s a place for those wealthy and retired, Pantaloons. Quite stunning. Very posh.” He stood and wandered to the window to move its drapes aside. “Perhaps you ought to visit the place,” he said, peering at the view. “Particularly if you’ve spent the past month indoors?”

Oscar was about to say something, but didn’t. The Loud Purr’s questions tended to be rhetorical; if he wanted answers, he gave them. But the animal remained staring from the window, as though waiting for one.

“Your Immense Rumbliness, was there a question-mark at the end of that?”

“A small one, perhaps.” “I see. Though I assume it remains rhetorical?” The Loud Purr glanced at him. “Spending a month indoors is not

much of a holiday, Pantaloons.” “I wasn’t in a very holiday-like mood.” There was a humph. “I’m under the impression Ruen is particularly

nice at this time of year. It has boats, apparently. And its hotels are excellent.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy them very much.” “You could always wear a hat.” “I don’t like hats. They make me look peculiar.” When the Loud Purr said nothing, he realised the irony of such

comment, and covered the holes where his ears once stood. Six weeks

The Velvet Paw Of Asquith Novels

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on, it still felt wrong; all bumpy and gristly amidst his beautiful crowning fur.

“Their absence doesn’t look that bad, Pantaloons.” Removing his paws, Oscar said nothing. The Loud Purr might

consider loss of ears an acceptable sacrifice on curiosa. But he didn’t. He had no ears. And how can a cat be taken seriously if it has no ears? Moreover, he needed them. He missed them. Both of them.

Although he had little vanity, as a white cat with thick, triple-layered fur and a long, fluffy tail, Oscar was aware of being a beautiful animal.

Or at least he had been. “Have you been to the Catacomb’s Workshop, Pantaloons? They can

do quite remarkable things. Indeed, I believe Flap-Sploon has a bionic paw now. It’s made of wood, apparently, with some string and quite a lot of sticky-tape. He can’t get it wet, though. Or use it to touch anything. Nor can he wave it, for that matter. Or go out when it’s windy.” He thought for a moment. “And actually, it doesn’t even look much like a paw.”

“I haven’t, no.” The Loud Purr humphed, suggesting it was probably just as well. “My ears still work, Your Enormous Purriness,” Oscar said. “They

just look, well, smaller.” The Loud Purr peered at him. “You can hardly tell, actually. Your fur

hides things rather well.” He moved his paws up and down, in a descriptive manner. “Perhaps you could spike your fur over the gaps and make it look pointy.”

It was a ridiculous suggestion, but Oscar tried a smile. “Still, we digress. Tell me, Pantaloons, how many Velvet Paws are

there?” Oscar shrugged. “Twenty?” “And who has been the newest recruit?” “Well, me, I believe, Your Big Loudness.” The Loud Purr nodded. “And they are all fine Velvet Paws,” he said,

“and perform curiosa exceptionally brilliantly. Indeed, they leave the Velvet Paws of Asquith to be entirely revered—although we’re covert, of course, so no creature knows we exist.”

“Well, quite.” “Though were they to, we would be revered utterly. That none know

of us is testament to the fact, wouldn’t you agree?” “Of course.” “So the reverence to which I refer is an extrapolation most

educated.” “Most educated, indeed.”

The Purging Of Ruen

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Oscar shifted uncomfortably; the Loud Purr’s emphasis on his colleagues’ brilliance only highlighted his lack of anything similar. Criticism seemed most unfair considering he’d just foiled the Tremblees and saved the world. After a month of recuperation, he still didn’t know how he’d managed. It had something to do with pamphlets, as he recalled. And chandeliers. And some massive piles of firewood. But how they were related continued to elude him. According to the Catacombs, having ears ripped off is considered a very nasty knock to the head, so lack of recollection was understandable. One thing he was convinced of, however, was that his success had little to do with being a Velvet Paw and everything to do with luck—rather like his becoming a Velvet Paw in the first place. He’d failed his training three times, having only passed Theatrical Role-Playing, Extensible Sleeping Skills and Interpretive Paw-Painting. He’d failed not through incompetence, but indignation; Velvet Paw training had been too loud, brash and competitive for his liking. There’d been too much emphasis on instinct, and not enough on intuition. It had involved a lot of shouting and not enough choir practice. There’d been too much fighting and not enough painting. Moreover, he didn’t like crawling through muddy ditches, or pitching tents in pouring rain. He didn’t like abseiling down cliffs when there was a perfectly good path to enable getting up the things in the first place. He detested the hours of packing his collapsible field-survival tummy in the dark when it seemed prudent to bring a small torch. He didn’t like the teachers’ bullying, nor the bullying of his fellow students, both teasing him for writing imagist poetry during Covert Night Manoeuvre Training.

Paws behind his back, the Loud Purr reverted to a more familiar role of lecturer. “The Velvet Paws of Asquith are all clinicians,” he said. “They are sharp of method, taut of whisker and merciless in pursuit of curiosa. You, Pantaloons, are a quite different animal.”

“Well, that’s putting it mildly.” “You demonstrate greater ability as a Velvet Paw than most.” Oscar stared, blinked and swallowed in that order. “Greater ability?”

he said. “Don’t you mean no ability?” “You have talent, Pantaloons, regardless of your conviction

otherwise.” “Don’t you mean no talent?” “It is rare for the Catacombs to have the fortune of an animal such as

you in its ranks.” “Misfortune?” “No. Fortune.” “But that sounds like a good thing.” “It is.” A pause. “And who are we talking about, again?”

The Velvet Paw Of Asquith Novels

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“You, Pantaloons.” Blinking, Oscar wondered whether he should return to the

receptionist and ask whether he had the right appointment. “The Catacombs need animals like you.” “Like me?” Oscar scoffed. “What as? Coasters?” “No. As Velvet Paws.” “What, so you’re not expelling me, Your Diesel-Poweredliness?” “Expelling you? Of course not! What in fluff gave you that idea?” Oscar re-tucked his tail into the chair, as its fluffiness often made it

spring from wherever it had been inserted. “It’s true I am not the same as the other Velvet Paws,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t get along with them. I don’t like them very much. They’re quite mean at times.”

“You don’t need to like them, Pantaloons. They’re colleagues, not friends. Goodness, this isn’t school. This is the real world. And it’s considerably more complicated than most animals can fathom.” He shifted in his seat. “To be quite honest, I’ve found that being friendly only adds to such complication. Tell me, do you know why you don’t get along with them?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because I’m a bit wet?” “No. It’s because you’re not a soldier.” He brought his paws together

and relaxed back in his authoritative chair to stare authoritatively. “We have enough soldiers, Pantaloons. We have enough robots, if you will. What we need are Velvet Paws more thoughtful in the field. Velvet Paws with a gentler approach. Velvet Paws like you, Pantaloons. You are intuitive rather than logistical, and creative rather than methodical. You are innately curious rather than simply obedient.” He leant forward upon his desk. “You have talents others don’t. You have a mind that is your own and, most importantly, you have discretion which can be exercised discreetly.”

Then came words that surprised Oscar entirely. “And that is why I need your help.”