The Feline Wizard by Christopher Stasheff Page A

Philip, and let us see who clears his floor more quickly!”
    Philip turned back in time to knock the shovel out of the way with a smile, eyes glinting. “Do you dare tell me what to do, mucksweeper? I shall remind you of your place!”
    His fists came up, and the other brothers turned from their work, grinning and stepping in.
    Balkis' stomach sank as she realized the nature of the game, and a very nasty one it was—for the older brothers to goad Anthony into talking back, no matter how slightly, whereupon they felt they had the right to slap him down—and slap they did.
    Philip struck first, his fist driving at Anthony's belly. Anthony blocked the blow but didn't return it. Even so, Kemal cried, “Oho! The child thinks to strike at his elders!” and stepped in with a roundhouse swing.
    Anthony ducked under it, but Baradur caught his shoulder and spun him around, shoving him hard. Anthony staggered back; Philip caught him and held him while Baradur slammed a blow at his chin. Anthony jerked his head aside and the blow landed on Philip's shoulder. The redhead shouted in anger and shoved Anthony far enough away to swing at him with a short, vicious jab. It caught the youngest under the ribs as he was turning; he bent over, gasping. Kemal laughed and swung a blow at his head, but Anthony managed to straighten up, and the punch caught him in the chest. He stumbled back, and Baradur caught him, turned him around, and swung a blow at his chin. Somehow it landed on his shoulder, though. Anthony staggered back, tripped, and fell to the floor.
    The barn resounded with the older brothers' laughter. They untied the cows and drove them out, calling, “Clean yourself off, Anthony!”
    “You can join us when you've finished mucking out, Anthony.”
    “Aye, but stand downwind when you come!”
    Balkis' anger mounted as she realized the rules of the very unfair game—that Anthony was not allowed to fight back, but it was all right for him to avoid the blows if he could. Balkis felt certain he had faked some of those staggerings so his brothers would feel satisfied enough to leave him alone. As Lichi had said, they were rough and coarse, and Balkis suspected their father was very much like his sons—more, in fact, for they had probably learned their bullying ways by imitating him. At the very least, he had condoned it. All in all, a thoroughly unpleasant family.
    With one exception.
    * * *
    Balkis stayed hidden for a week, gradually regaining her strength through spilled milk and the brownies' petting. By day the barn was all hers to hunt mice and, as she grew stronger, rats. At night the cows, sheep, goats, and pigs kept the barn warm. At sunrise and sunset, though, the brothers and their father drove the livestock in to feed and milk.
    The father was the prototype of his sons, though not quite so tall—a redheaded, red-bearded block of muscle. He had grown heavier with age, putting on some fat, especially in the belly. His hair and beard were streaked with gray, and he bellowed his orders in a gravelly voice. If the older brothers joined in criticizing Anthony or bossing him about, their father was sure to support them; as far as he was concerned, there was a chain of command based on age, with himself at the top and Anthony at the bottom.
    So when they had finished driving the cows home for the night, it was always Anthony who did the mucking out, apparently doomed to it for life by virtue of being born last. He did the milking, too—in spite of their endless directions about how to do it right, none of the brothers seemed to want such women's work. They preferred to spend their time bullying the animals and repairing the farmstead and fences. Anthony had his share of the chill outdoor work, too, of course.
    At night, though, the cold clamped down around the farm. The animals stayed inside, and so, Balkis assumed, did the men. Assuming wasn't enough for her, of course—she was very curious, wanting to see how they fared inside