FSE

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Chapter 2

My eyes take their sweet time in adjusting to the change in light down here. The few places where sunshine penetrates the planking above, it shines onto empty hammocks, strung in a messy array, like laundry strings across an alley. The ships ribs, like those of a fish, seem to divvy the sleeping areas into somewhat uniform rows. Along what would've been the spine of such a fish, there runs a narrow walkway. Crates and chests of all sizes frame this walkway. At either end of it, there's a doorway, one with a sturdy door, and another one with curtains across. Strong scents of food seem to come from through those curtains, so I head over there first.

I won't lie. I'm nervous about all of this. Excited, but also very worried that this will be taken away from me. I can't help but fidgeting with the carvings on my box, where years of scratch marks have almost erased the intricate images. The sandalwood has retained its fragrance, if I stick my snout all the way inside it. Despite years of breathing the thick, scented and smoky night air in the brothel, I can smell it clearly.

This box comes from that dark, obscure before-time. Before I woke up a slave. I wish I had kept a count of the years. Perhaps it is the key to unlocking that part of me, to help me understand why I'm here. Understanding one's life is a luxury few slaves can afford. But well. Maybe I can offer the thought some space in my mind now. If the stranger's promise is a lie, I will still have come further today than I've done the past however many years, and I might need some time to reflect. Right as I'm about to pull the curtain aside, I hear someone clearing their throat behind me. I startle clean off my feet, letting out an unintimidating squeak.

"Oh dear!" a strange voice exclaims. I hear the skittering of feet near my head, and feel someone pulling me back to my feet by my free arm. "I'm so sorry I startled you, I didn't mean to!"

I quickly press the box to my chest and turn to face the strange new voice, ears down. He's got attentive, green eyes and long, expressive whiskers. His small round ears are perked confrontationally towards me, and on his muzzle, there's a fragile smile. One of the Mustelidae family, from what I can tell at a quick glance, though I'm too distracted with his stunning white coat to focus properly.

"You didn't startle me, sir," I tell him quickly. "I just... I must've bumped into something, that's all. It was my fault. I'm sorry, sir, don't mind me."

My words all clutter on my tongue while he looks me up and down. A weasel, I believe, with perhaps the most stunning coat of fur I've ever seen. Even when it's patchy with darker coloured tufts which are clearly recently shed. Even when is stained with what looks to be cooking oil here and there, it's a white so bright that it almost makes my jaw drop.

"Well, you're no sailor, are you?" the weasel says with a careful smile. "No sea legs, eh? Perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself? Are you a guest, or a new deck paw perhaps?"

"Introduce myself?" I blurt out. But, realising he's not here to reprimand me, I hurry to add, "sorry, sir. My name is Kieran. I'm to find the mess boy, and present myself as his assistant."

"Are you now?" The weasel asks. There's a moment of silence. "You like my coat, I see?"

I hurry to look away, but I've not been subtle enough.

"The winter coat has just come in," he tells me. "I rather like it like this, in fact. Do you think it suits me?"

"Y-you have... a wonderful coat, sir," I tell him politely. "It suits you very well."

"Thank you, Kieran," he replies. "You have a most wonderful coat too. It's very shiny and smooth, and smells very pleasant, too. Are you sure you're even a fox?"

"I am indeed. You are very kind, sir." I bow to him. "I don't suppose it is you to whom I must address myself?"

"You would suppose correctly," the weasel says, then he laughs. "My name is Kit, I'm the cook. Not the mess boy. The cook, remember that. I'm nobody's "boy". And while you're at it, you can unstick that broom handle you've got up there. None of that "to whom I must address myself" drivel. Just speak plainly. I'm not due that eloquence."

I lower my ears. "Naturally, sir. I am sorry if I caused any offense."

"And I'm no sir, either. Do I look like a hound to you? I'm a weasel. I'm the cook. I'm Kit. Those are the things you may call me. Not boy, not sir, nor any other obeisance. And get those ears back up where they belong. They look better when they're standing straight." Kit smiles. "My kitchen, my rules. Understood?"

"Yes, of course, S- I mean Kit." Caught off-balance, I force my ears upright against pretty much every muscle and instinct in my body. "What is it you would like me to do?"

"As for that," Kit strokes his chin in contemplation. "I haven't the slightest clue. I've never had an assistant before. But how about you step into my office, where we can discuss more freely."

Kit's "office" is apparently the kitchen he spoke of; a corner of a tight compartment at the very back of the ship, where a small iron stove stands bolted to the floor. Next to the small stove stands a work bench. Under that, several jars with writing on them, smelling faintly of spices; pepper and cumin mostly. On the walls, dried herbs hang from tied bundles, again adding to the mix of smells I notice but cannot distinguish.

"Take a seat," Kit instructs me, gesturing to a small square table propped up against the rearmost wall of the ship, where a solitary stool sits ready for me. I hesitate, as it would be extremely unfitting for me to take a seat at all, especially the only proper one in the kitchen. I have spent my life serving on my feet. I don't mind standing. But then again, he did say his kitchen, his rules.

Slowly, I seat myself, and the weasel sits down opposite from me, on a small cot which has been strung from the ceiling with chains.

"First and foremost." Kit clears his throat. "That collar. It's rather a lot to take in, if you'll let me speak plainly. Fascinating, like most of your fashion. Like that sash you have bound around your hips, for instance. I like that. But I guess I'm not quite convinced by your choice of neckwear."

The curious statement startles me, and I'm unsure how to answer him.

"Fashion? This here?" I manage to stutter out while fingering my collar. "Sorry if I'm being presumptuous, but are you familiar with the customs of Nawesh?"

"I'm completely new here," the weasel tells me, "I saw some of them in town too, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Care to explain why you're wearing it? Is it cultural?"

"It's a... it's... uh... a slave collar."

"A slave... what?" The weasel's shock unsettles me even more. "Last I'd heard it was made illegal to own slaves nearly fifty years ago. Are you sure?"

"Am I sure?" I ask incredulously, before my instinct takes over again "Sorry sir, I didn't mean-"

"I told you, my name is Kit. Now, explain yourself, fox. This is important."

"Sorry, Kit," I hurry to say. "I'm not sure how. I don't know how it is in Castellania, but here, it's quite common. It's probably a matter of different laws."

"Different laws?"

For lack of a better response, I nod. There's a long silence between us, but I can't work out why. I've not said anything wrong, far as I can tell. Kit seems to have a discussion inside his own head, to which I'm not likely to be privy.

"Bloody oath," he mutters finally, with barely concealed contempt. "Just when I thought there was one redeeming quality to this hellhole of an empire."

"What?"

"Castellania. The bloody cheek of them..."

"Y-you speak Castellanian, though," I tell him. "In fact, I can tell from your accent that you were born there. You should probably not speak ill of your home."

"Hang them. Hang every last one of them." Kit grumbles regardless of my concerns. I feel very uncomfortable with his free tongue. It's just the sort of thing that'll start a fight. Like on a ship full of sailors. Sailors always itch to start something or other.

"T-they're not so bad," I say feebly. "No worse than any others, I guess. And they do pay well."

Nobody ever paid me, of course. But one has to give them credit where credit is due. One has to, or else.

"Not the sailors," Kit sighs. "Not the workers or commoners. They are just people. But the dogs in power. His Majesty... to hell with everyone who has a paw in this. And to think I thought... I never once suspected... And I almost... never mind." Kit shakes his head, but in his expression, I can tell that this subject troubles him.

Maybe it's something cultural? I've never had a long and earnest conversation with anyone from that empire, but the customs of these Castellanians have always been a bit quirky to me. They put water in their wine, and almost no spices in their foods. No sweet leaf in their tobacco either, because apparently, they like the smell of the bitter leaf. They've got a strange relationship to scents. Often as not, sailors would order me to remove the incense from the rooms they took so that they could smell the prostitutes for real too. That's probably what comes of having canine rulers. I dare to open my muzzle to ask the first question I have on my mind.

"Will it take long?" I ask him. "I mean... pardon me... but how long will we be gone for?"

"Gone?"

"From here," I clarify. "How long until we return?"

"Never, I should hope," Kit mutters with something of a pained tone. "We're not really allowed to trade here, since we're not trading under a Castellanian flag. But since we're transporting some kind of dignitary, and because Krish apparently hails from these parts, we're allowed to dock for a while."

With another heavy sigh, Kit leans back against the wall, almost lying flat on his bed and looking up at the roof planks above.

"I was excited to see this place. But now I can't wait to get away. Captain tells me that dignitary fellow is expected back today, so I suppose we'll be leaving soon. You came from topside, what's going on up there?"

"Dalmatian," I say, chewing on the word for a bit. "I believe this... Dalmatian... dignitary is my new... My owner. In a sense."

"Your owner? A dalmatian? An actual spotted one?" Kit looks at me with marked suspicion. "I find that difficult to believe."

"Yes," I tell him meekly, because I too find it hard to make heads or tails of the situation I'm in. "But that is how things stand, right now."

"Alright, let's leave that as a maybe, then. I'm sure it's more complicated than that. I know my dalmatians, and trust me when I say it sounds farfetched. No offense."

"None taken, Kit," I tell him. I lower my shoulders slightly. Kit's got a gentle way of speaking which helps me relax.

"Well, since you're going to help out here, what is it you normally do?" Kit asks, "as a slave, I mean. What is it you were enslaved for... Sorry if that's rude, I don't mean it like that."

I tell him only what I did. The pouring and cleaning, and general maintenance tasks which were only my responsibility. After all, it would be rude to interject vulgarity into the conversation. And very uncomfortable besides. I don't like thinking about those things. And of course, since Kit has been so gentle to me already, I take care to leave out the brutal treatment, the unfair work hours, the constant threat of punishment for the slightest mistake. The meagre meals, and sleeping on a straw mattress in a cold basement. The countless horrid customers I was made to serve wine to. Don't want to ruin this serene moment, in case it's the nicest memory I'll have from this experience. Kit nods when I finish speaking.

"I don't suppose you'd mind the work here," he concludes. "Helping me cook should be very easy. We only have to do it twice a day and I promise I'll divvy the work load up fairly. I would appreciate if you'd help me."

"I am to help you," I explain. "There's no question about it."

"But I'm still asking you if you want to help. I can't stand the thought of forcing you to do anything, it wouldn't be right. So what do you say?"

I wonder if it's a practiced skill, or if he's just naturally gentle like this. No matter. It feels nice, and I want to cherish that feeling for as long as I can.

"I'd rather help you than do just about anything else on this ship, Kit."

"That's all I wanted to hear," he chirps. "So long as we're all in agreement."

"So what do we do when the cooking is done?" I ask him. "Feels like there's quite a lot of time left over in the day, from the way you tell it."

"Nothing in particular." Kit shrugs. "Occasionally I do the captain's laundry. But that's no more than once every two weeks or so, and usually only if we have fresh water to spare. There really isn't that much more to it." He snaps his fingers suddenly. "However, I did insist that I take care of the crew's dishes after the meal. So there's another hour of work if you feel so inclined."

"I can do the dishes, no problem." A sense of uneasiness creeps in suddenly. Things never go this well for this long. There's always a catch, always a slumbering presence of danger. Where will it crop up? When will Karma decide that I have enjoyed enough boons?

"That's pretty much it, then," Kit concludes. "Oh, and a final thing. Personal belongings. I can put them in my ship's chest for you, no extra charge." He smiles and gestures towards the box I've placed in my lap. My heart starts beating faster again, and I swallow what feels like a lump in my throat.

"That's... very kind of you but I think I'd like to... like to hold onto this for a bit longer."

"I'd take the offer if I were you," Kit says. "The men around here might just take it from you. In Dalmatia, there is a demand for oriental goods."

"Oriental goods?" I ask, "It's just a regular box."

"It's a carved sandalwood box," Kit specifies. "Eastern in style judging from the carving, with... yep, with the scent on it still. We don't have fragrant trees like that anywhere on our continent. Some snouty dog might pay you in gold for it."

"Gold?" I mumble. "I wouldn't sell it for any price. It... it's very precious to me."

"Then I suggest putting it in my chest. It has a lock, and it is bolted to the floor, nobody can take anything from it without my key."

I study the weasel, shifting my gaze to my box. Sighing heavily, I get up from my chair and let the weasel guide me.

"It'll be safer here than in his Grace's treasury," Kit tells me in what I guess is meant to be a reassuring tone. I'll be strong.

The weasel's chest opens with a loud creak. Folded, clean clothes lie to one side, a few scattered papers with some writing on them to the other, and in the middle, about a dozen bundles of oily rags, each about the size of two clenched fists. I put my chest down among them, where the scent of oil overpowers the sandalwood in an instant.

"What are those?" I ask.

"My pension," the weasel says simply. "Don't tell anyone."

He picks up one of the bundles and unwraps it to uncover a small jar, sticky with the same oil. When he cracks the lid, the scent of cumin wafts out, quickly filling my snout.

"I've skimmed it off the top of the spice barrels for the last few years now, little enough that nobody will notice. It's worth it weight in gold."

"You stole it?"

"Technically," Kit admits, but there's not an ounce of shame in his voice. "Well, it's not like anyone's going to miss it. And anyways. I work hard here, I think I deserve a little extra. You ought to understand."

"Why would I understand?"

Kit's expression freezes for a moment, before he shakes his head.

"That's a story for another time," he tells me as he bundles the jar up again and slams the chest shut. "Would you mind running along to that spotted dog and ask him what he'd like to eat? Breakfast isn't for another three hours, but I'm going to prepare something nice for him as thanks for bringing me such a wonderful assistant."

"Oh, that's very considerate," I tell him instinctively, before the compliment sinks in properly and my ears heat with embarrassment.

"Would you like some food too?"

"M-Me?"

"Yes... when was the last time you ate?" The weasel pokes my ribs, visible even through my fuzzy coat.

"I ate yesterday morning," I explain, "but it's okay, I'll manage until whenever the next meal is, I'm sure."

"Nonsense. You'll be taking this meal as well. That's an order." Kit giggles. "Come on now, get going."

His voice brooks no argument, but it's the good kind of brooking no argument. And the best part of it all, Kit doesn't put me in mind of a sailor. He doesn't have that personality, or the grin, so unique to the customers I'd served. That mischievous, dangerous smile which formed when their thoughts travelled to the obscene places which the brothel would inspire. No, Kit seems decidedly decent.

Once up top, I forget my task almost immediately. The hills around me move unnaturally. People are running around all over the place. Then I feel it. It's not the land around me which moves, it's the ship. It rocks ever so subtly from side to side as the winds flirt with its half-masted sails. And nobody coming to throw me off. I'm right where I'm meant to be, on my way away from Nawesh and into the great unknown world.

The stranger, whom I still haven't had a name from, stands near the rudder, looking out across the bay we're slowly putting behind us. I climb the staircase up there silently so that I don't disturb his presumably serene moment with the tapping of my claws.

"Have you found your place in the mess?" the stranger asks as I come up to him, his cold voice only matched by his cold eyes. Or maybe they only seem cold. There's a strange kind of comfort in them, a lack of intent. No heated fury or anger like what always lingered in Matron's gaze.

"I have, sir," I answer him obediently. "The kitchens seem very pleasant. I'm very grateful. May I ask what you wish to eat for breakfast?"

"Bread and cold meat will suffice, a slip of cheese and some wine to wash it down. Never mind all that, food can wait."

I bow my head in recognition of his choice, tipping my ears back for good measure.

"Whatever it is you wish to ask," the stranger says out of the blue, "It gains nobody that you stew on whatever it is you're stewing on."

I hesitate, wondering how he'd known. Perhaps I'd let it on from the angle of my ears or tail. But, interpreting the stranger's question as an instruction, I decide to ask anyways.

"Why?"

"I'm guessing that's a 'Why me' type of question, correct?"

I nod.

"I can reveal that I want you to work for me. If it's not to your taste, I'll let you go free."

"Free?" I ask, because I can't quite believe the words I'm hearing. "You'll... free me? What do I have to do in return? What do I owe you?"

"Your ear. Only listen to what I ask when I ask it. Consider it carefully, and weigh your options. You owe me nothing more than that, nothing less."

"So, this collar-"

"Will come off once we go ashore, as I said. I can afford you that. I will also afford you an allowance for as long as you're on the ship here, to be paid out when the ship reaches shore again. Anything else?"

"No, sir, thank you sir," I manage to stammer out. There are many things else, but I can't shift my mind from what he's just told me so my response is instinctual.

The stranger looks me up and down with those cold eyes again. "My cabin is in the forecastle. Bring my food there at noon. We will talk then."

"That's four hours away still," I ponder out loud, glancing to the sun which still hangs low over the horizon to portside. "What would you like me to do in the meantime?"

"Have you not been given work by the mess boy?" the stranger asks. When I shake my head, he responds, "Acclimatise yourself to the ship then. Find your rhythm. I don't require anything from you right now."

"Finding my rhythm?"

All night, after that awful business, he had kept me busy with odd errands. Meaningless, come to think of it, unless it was meant to distract my mind. Like having me explain what the colour and shape of a vendor's particular wares were, or how his prices compared to another stall I'd visited earlier. How many windows had their shutters drawn? How many steps had there been between here and the guard houses we passed approximately ten minutes before? What was the straightest route from one shop to another, across the town? Could I take him there now? How often did the night watch restore the torches which burned along the streets, and which ones were overlooked? How many were there along the length of wall we had followed? I've grown used to strange requests and eccentricities, but this was a new one.

I scratch at the sensitive spot under my collar as I lean over the gunwale, my mind retracing my steps through that city. The city where I've presumably lived all my life, disappearing slowly like a puddle in the sun. It is too much to take in all at once. I spend a mindless hour picking out the various places I've seen and visited, contemplating how small they look now. I lived my entire life inside a blob of houses which, at this point, I can cover completely in the shade of my palm. Soon, even the pillow house grows indistinguishable from the orange-grey mass of buildings where it's nestled. In another hour or so, even that disappears. Then we round an outcropping of land, and the entire shoreline, my entire world, vanishes from view as if it was never there.

Salt spray splash against the side of the ship and the wind picks up as I catch sight of the open sea. Small droplets catch in my dark coat, smelling of seaweed and salt. But that's not so strange. The strange thing is that I can actually smell them. I can distinguish them from the other salty smells all around. Something is slowly happening to my muzzle. It has been happening over the course of the last night, but it only now that I have time to think about it. Now that they aren't filled with incense and smoke, life blows through my nostrils. Everything gains more texture, the more I breathe, the more I smell, and the world attains more realness. This is the real world I always knew was out here somewhere. I believe it's said that you can't smell in your dreams. Maybe there's something to that?