He stopped, and Molly Grue said eagerly, “You took the child home with you, of course, and raised it as your own.” Drinn laid his hands palm up on the table.

“I chased the cats away,” he said, “and went home alone.” Molly’s face turned the color of mist. Drinn shrugged slightly. “I know the birth of a hero when I see it,” he said. “Omens and portents, snakes in the nursery. Had it not been for the cats, I might have chanced the child, but they made it so obvious, so mythological. What was I to do‌—‌knowingly harbor Hagsgate’s doom?” His lip twitched, as though a hook had set in it. “As it happens, I erred, but it was on the side of tenderness. When I returned at sunrise, the baby had vanished.”

Schmendrick was drawing pictures with his finger in a puddle of wine, and might have heard nothing at all. Drinn went on. “Naturally, no one ever admitted to leaving the child in the marketplace, and though we searched every house from cellar to dovecote, we never found it again. I might have concluded that wolves had taken the brat, or even that I had dreamed the whole encounter, cats and all‌—‌but for the fact that on the very next day a herald of King Haggard’s came riding into town, ordering us to rejoice. After thirty years of waiting, the king had a son at last.” He looked away from the look on Molly’s face. “Our foundling, incidentally, was a boy.”

Schmendrick licked the tip of his finger and looked up. “Lír,” he said thoughtfully. “Prince Lír. But there was no other way to account for his appearance?”

“Not likely,” Drinn snorted. “Any woman that would marry Haggard, even Haggard would refuse. He gave out the tale that the boy was a nephew, whom he graciously adopted on the death of his parents. But Haggard has no relatives, no family. There are those who say that he was born of an overcast, as Venus was born out of the sea. No one would give King Haggard a child to raise.”

The magician calmly held out his glass, and filled it himself when Drinn refused. “Well, he got one somewhere, and good for him. But how could he have come by your little cat-baby?”

Drinn said, “He walks in Hagsgate at night, not often, but now and then. Many of us have seen him‌—‌tall Haggard, gray as driftwood, prowling alone under an iron moon, picking up dropped coins, broken dishes, spoons, stones, handkerchiefs, rings, stepped-on apples; anything, everything, no reason to it. It was Haggard who took the child. I am as certain of it as I am certain that Prince Lír is the one who will topple the tower and sink Haggard and Hagsgate together.”

“I hope he is,” Molly broke in. “I hope Prince Lír is that baby you left to die, and I hope he drowns your town, and I hope the fish nibble you bare as corncobs—”