THOMAS CORFIELD

Panda Books Australia

Sydney — New York — Tokyo — Berlin

LICENCE NOTES

Thank you for downloading this free

eBook. You are welcome to share it with

your friends, or even force it upon them if

they’re not interested. This book may be

reproduced, copied and distributed for non-

commercial purposes, or even printed out

to then write shopping lists on, provided

the book remains in its complete original

form, which implies a lot of shopping.

Consider visiting VelvetPawofAsquith.com

for music, dancing and much merriment.

Copyright 2015 Thomas Corfield

SAMPLE

“What’s that?” one officer said,

pointing at the animal’s shopping.

The animal glanced at his bag and

then the officer. “It’s my shopping.”

“Shopping? I don’t believe you. What

sort of shopping is it?”

“Well, food, mostly.”

“Food?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, food.”

“Food. You know, the sort of stuff one

eats when hungry.”

“And you can prove that, can you?”

“What, that I’m hungry?”

“No, that it’s shopping.”

“I expect so, yes.”

The two officers glanced at each

other, impressed, considering they

struggled to prove anything. “And how do

you propose doing that?” one asked.

“Well, I could open the bag for a

start.”

The officers frowned in puzzlement.

“I could open the bag,” the animal

said, “and you could see the shopping. As a

means of proof, I think it would probably

work quite well.”

The police nodded as enlightenment

dawned, and one jotted the strategy down

in his notebook.

From Chapter 37

CONTENTS

Title Page

Licence Notes

Sample

Some Relevant Links

Opening Chapter

SOME RELEVANT LINKS

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Facebook page:

http://www.facebook/doovenbooks

Connect with the author:

https://twitter.com/Doovenism

A bit about the author:

http://www.thomascorfield.com/

Music from the books:

http://www.velvetpawofasquith.com/doove

n-music

Certificate of Achievement:

http://www.velvetpawofasquith.com/quiz

The other Velvet Paw of Asquith novels:

http://www.velvetpawofasquith.com/books

hop

The Purging Of Ruen

1

1

____________________

“Courage; a modesty born from fear,

and any animal who boasts of bravery,

knows the meaning of neither.”

– The Loud Purr of Asquith.

AT 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

co-operate. Beyond it, wind screamed through

Thomas Corfield

2

gaps and wrenched the flaming torch in his paw,

which he then 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.” And 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.

He’d been forced to hurry because the animal

The Purging Of Ruen

3

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

Thomas Corfield

4

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, which

she took several relieved breaths of. Beside her,

castle towers struck high at the night sky in a

slurry of wet black sand, glistening beneath

starlight. Upon battlements, wind surged in howl

around lichen-crusted stone, gnawed soft and

porous by countless wheel of season.

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?”

The Purging Of Ruen

5

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 revelled in scream

around a new-found orifice.

Built when Ruen’s shores were maraudered

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 awake to defend this

most beautiful edge of world.

But compared to times past, the world was

now different.

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6

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, carpented 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 the

stench, which tainted the 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

The Purging Of Ruen

7

battlements. Watching its blobs sail away, he gave

his sinuses another noisy spring-clean and readied

to expectorate a second time. But 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 its 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?”

Thomas Corfield

8

“This isn’t a reprieve, dog. This is

punishment. Do you understand?”

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.

The Purging Of Ruen

9

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.

Thomas Corfield

10

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.”

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 that the only

begging I’ve done recently was five minutes ago

on the toilet.”

She fixed a harder glare upon him. “I suggest

you cease this babbling and get on with it. I have

The Purging Of Ruen

11

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 who suddenly

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

Thomas Corfield

12

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, 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,

The Purging Of Ruen

13

“And why not, pray?”

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 room 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

Thomas Corfield

14

gathered papers from the table. He hesitated then,

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 hesitate 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.

The Purging Of Ruen

15

“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.

“Sorry,” he said, “when it’s deemed

necessary.” Nodding at a colleague beside a large

door on the hall’s far side, it was opened to reveal

a corridor. “Through there, of course, is where

guests will arrive from.” And 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,

Thomas Corfield

16

realising he’d better get to the point before she

stabbed him with one. He nodded at his colleague

again, 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, because what

lies beneath, as you can imagine, is not at all

pleasant.”

The Pyjami did so, as did the 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 to 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—”

The Purging Of Ruen

17

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. The others scurried

with him, sick squirting between their paws also,

which splattered 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.

Thomas Corfield

18

2

____________________

IN 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.[1]

But 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

The Purging Of Ruen

19

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 it had also rendered the city to

harbour no crime at all.

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

Thomas Corfield

20

between either. And 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 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, which he then struggled back up the

The Purging Of Ruen

21

steps with.

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

which old mansions perched, 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.

Thomas Corfield

22

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.

Which 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

The Purging Of Ruen

23

against the 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,[2]

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. And it had taken some time for the

Loud Purr to convince him that others would see

Thomas Corfield

24

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.

The Purging Of Ruen

25

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.

Fortunately, there was a bell upon it, and 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 the it to see that a second suitcase had

burst, while the third had lost its handle. All three

had been lashed together with masses of cellotape

in a frantic attempt at rectifying the situation. He

blinked 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 cellotape 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.

_____________________

Thomas Corfield

26

1 See The World Is Badly Made

[back]

2 See The World Is Badly Made

[back]

The Purging Of Ruen

27

3

____________________

A 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 on earth 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

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28

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

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29

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?”

“Yes,” she said. “The ones revolving around

you having just saved the world.” [1]

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.

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30

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, Oscar cursed

and threw himself from the chair, inadvertently

taking a telephone with him, which clattered to the

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31

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 to 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 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

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32

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.

He 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.” The Loud

Purr stood and wandered to the tall window and

moved its drapes aside. “Perhaps you ought to visit

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33

the place,” he said, peering at the view.

“Particularly if you’ve spent the past month

indoors?”

Oscar was about to say something, but then

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.

“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

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34

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 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. And 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,

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35

apparently, with some string and quite a lot of

cellotape. 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.”

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36

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.”

But Oscar shifted uncomfortably; the Loud

Purr’s emphasis on his colleagues’ brilliance only

highlighted his lack of anything similar. And

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

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37

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

enabling to 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

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38

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.”

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39

A pause. “And who are we talking about,

again?”

“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 on earth

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

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40

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 leant 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.”

And then came words that surprised Oscar

entirely.

“And that is why I need your help.”

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41

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