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'Wrowwwl. . .'
Greebo leapt.
Cats are like witches. They don't fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There's no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won't know they've lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There's no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure.
Cats do not, of course, rationalize this far. They just like to send someone limping off minus a tail and a few square inches of fur.
Greebo's technique was unscientific and wouldn't have stood a chance against any decent swordsmanship, but on his side was the fact that it is almost impossible to develop decent swordsmanship when you seem to have run into a food mixer that is biting your ear off.
The witches watched with interest.
'I think we can leave him now,' said Nanny. 'I think he's having fun.'
They hurried towards the hall.
The orchestra was in the middle of a complicated number when the lead violinist happened to glance towards the door, and then dropped his bow. The cellist turned to see what had caused this, followed his colleague's fixed stare, and in a moment of confusion tried to play his instrument backwards.
In a succession of squeaks and flats, the orchestra stopped playing. The dancers continued for a while out of sheer momentum, and then stopped and milled about in confusion. And then, one by one, they too looked up.
Saturday stood at the top of the steps.
In the silence came the drumming, making the music that had gone before seem as insignificant as the cluttering of crickets. This was the real blood music; every other music that had ever been written was merely a pitiful attempt to sing along.
It poured into the room, and with it came the heat and the warm, vegetable smell of the swamp. There was a suggestion of alligator in the air - not the presence of them, but the promise.
The drumming grew louder. There were complex counter-rhythms, much more felt than heard.
Saturday brushed a speck of dust off the shoulder of his ancient coat, and reached out an arm.
The tall hat appeared in his hand.
He reached out his other hand.
The black cane with the silver top whirred out of the empty air and was snatched up triumphantly.
He put the hat on his head. He twirled the cane.
The drums rolled. Except that . . . maybe it wasn't drums now, maybe it was a beat in the floor itself, or in the walls, or in the air. It was fast and hot and people in the hall found their feet moving of their own accord, because the drumming seemed to reach the toes via the hindbrain without ever passing near the ears.
Saturday's feet moved too. They beat out their own staccato rhythms on the marble floor.
He danced down the steps.
He whirled. He leapt. The tails of his coat whipped through the air. And then he landed at the foot of the step, his feet striking the ground like the thud of doom.
And only now was there a stirring.
There was a croak from the Prince.
'It can't be him! He's deadl Guards! Kill him!'
He looked around madly at the guards by the stairs.
The guard captain went pale.
'I, uh, again? I mean, I don't think . . .' he began.
'Do it now!'
