FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Three: A Friendly Contract

(The day was as foggy as any day in winter is known to be. As predators, we were the lucky ones even when we could not even afford firewood. Even at this time, I stole. We had enough blankets to keep us warm at night. However, there was something else. I had my eyes on the storage of one of those vendors. While the dealer was busy with a patron wearing rags, I hurried to the storage, crouching as I did so, and I opened the door slowly, listening for the possible creak--which didn't sound--and hurried in. I was right about the storage having coals, for the furnace to keep the place warm, and this store and its living space were owned by a deer.

(I lifted two lumps of coal from the sack against the wall, expecting that he wouldn't miss them. After that, I opened the door again--only to see the grown stag waiting right there. He commented, "Yeh're not s-posed t-be back 'ere, Miss." I bolted right past him and out the door, before he could see what exactly I took.

(I tossed the two coals in the fireplace in my house, among charred wood that crumbled partially from those coals landing. Shortly after, I heard Clement speak, "What were yer up ta today?" I just scoffed and headed to my area, which was my bed, and opened my beaded bag--putting the coals in there would've been made too obvious--and pulled out a book that I still tried to read. I still tried sounding out the words, and spoke lowly, not wanting to make any kind of contact with Clement. Even when my mother came home after working a longer shift, I was trying to complete my homework. I knew how to read and write at this time, but not well enough. My mother spoke, "Anything important happened today?"

(I spoke up, "I feel I haven't enough time t-learn to read words."

(My mother offered, "You can always ask fer 'elp. What page d-you need t-be on by now?" I was afraid to tell her. This was one of those peaceful moments. It was something to keep my mind off the cold that I couldn't endure. Concerned about the possible answer, I heard my mother approach me, and I whispered in her ear, "My class is on chapter seven; I still 'ave trouble with chapter three." After dinner, she would get me caught up by a little. The night before, I was stuck on chapter two. It was a night when I would forget how poor we were, and make me a lot less stupid.)

How hungry I was after getting off the train back to the wealthiest borough. I was eager with getting a good piece of meat picked for dinner. As usual, I get the suspicious looks from others in the tavern that I choose. I forgo the ale and settle for water, regardless of what the others say about water even in this borough. I don't stay in the tavern for long, so I can check on the room that I still rented.

When I enter room fourteen of that inn, I see that the only change is that the furniture was dusted. I check my suitcase to know that it had remained untouched. There are no new prints on the clips. "Good", I think. Even still, I choose not to wear what I normally wear with my mask. I look around, checking that the standard cleaning is done.

As I think that I deserve it, I hang up my suit and stow the undergarments while water runs in the tub, and I wait until the water is at the level that I prefer. I sigh as the warm water embraces my body, both soothing and stimulating the muscles. Using the soap bar that's compliments of the house, I lather my body, to get that odour and grime out of my pelt. I work very slowly in lathering, to let the cleanser sink in, and when I coat my entire pelt in the soap, I rub repeatedly to get both the grime and soap out of my pelt, and when all that is done, I just lay in the tub, my head leaning past the rim and my muzzle pointed to the ceiling, also taking in the atmosphere lit only by oil lanterns. This is one of many moments such as this when I am reminded the difference like night and day, having grown up poor as most of the population. Only when robbing those that deserve to be without that money, I could have this: a good meal and a moment to feel fresh.

I don't keep the normal pyjamas: instead I keep a simple gown that I sleep in, without the corset. I go to sleep this night, feeling a longing for more than just the satisfaction of killing or crippling a criminal, or liberating slaves or overworked and underpaid employees.

By the hour of twelve the following day, I head out of the inn, having displayed affection to my dear friend the raven. He already knows where I want to go, and he plans to perch at the rooftop of it, watching the aristos clash with the petty thieves. I take the usual route to that destination: one of the biggest pubs of Knightsedge: Queen o' Clubs.

I sense that in proximity of that pub, there would be others waiting to ambush, whether it's someone working for one of Lucky Jack's rivals or some common mugger, I intend to show no mercy. Before long, I do encounter interference. I just have to scoff at it, hearing someone run at me from behind. I move my handbag to my right hand, so I can time the mugger--

And I turn around swiftly, delivering a hook to the side of his face. It's a Shepard, clad in a ragged business suit, and a little thin for his breed. I advise, "I've no time for some brawl. Walk away whilst you can." Of course, the Shephard doesn't heed the advice. He charges at me, and I end up kicking him where it hurts, though it's not my original aim. It disorients him long enough for me to just turn away from him and proceed with my route.

When I am out in public with an eyepatch, others think that I am more vulnerable. A predator to prey on the weak is like a dual-edged sword: there is honour in crippling or killing the weakest member of a group, but others attack a weak animal because it makes them feel better. If a grown man attacks someone much smaller and much weaker, he is a coward. There is only so much that authorities and the leaders can do. All because of oppressive bosses, everyone suffers, and there are but two choices, one of them being smarter than the other.

Apart from tripping other bullies and muggers along the way, I make it to the pub without hassle. Upon entering, I see many tables occupied, gangsters and mercenaries being most of the lunch crowd. I approach the red fox waiting next to the bar, and he states, "Jack told me yeh'd come back." This time, I shove him aside, and head in the narrow hall without looking back, but I know that he almost loses his balance and he pushes a barstool over while saving his own jaw from being fractured.

I turn the knob to know that the door is not locked, and push it open, seeing that Jack is at his desk, just reading nonchalantly whilst eating a sandwich--ham and olive from the smell of it. His nonchalance switches to something I do not always see from him. As I rely on my force to close the door--which it does--Jack puts down his open book and stands up quickly. On this day, over his white shirt, he sports a grey vest and dull-yellow tie. As Jack searches the drawers of his desk, he speaks, "I din' expect yeh t-come back so soon. When yeh told me yeh were out on business, I thought it would take up much more time." I hold off on replying to him as Jack gets out the pages that he plans to show me. I head to his desk and wait for him. I am tempted to take the untouched half of his sandwich as I haven't yet eaten lunch, but this is more important.

I tell him, "I assume you ran the names."

"Of course not", Jack replies sarcastically. "Yeh jus' came t-say 'hello' like any friend, Death." He switches his tone to serious, continuing, "Yeh've no idea who yer targets are."

"You're right", I respond calmly. "I know only what they've done."

He scoffs, "But not enough of it."

"So, what did you get of those names?"

"The one to stand out is Giffard Lowell. A wolf." I scowl at that name. That name is to stand out to me. "If yeh know what he's done, yeh should know that he's a trafficker, a racketeer, and murderer. He controls the most dangerous crime clan in all of Symphon, a clan that's been a business for generations." We both pause at that. He admits, "Okay, that last part might be an exaggeration, but it _is_a family business, and only decades ago it became crime-based. It's how all businesses these days work. D-yeh know how bloody hard it is to get food on the table when yer wages be worth not even shit fer the many hours of each day?"

I admit, "All too well, Jack, but I fail to see how this wolf scares you."

"In this profession, Death, I'm a well-known rival of his. Of his many grudges, he despises me fer stealing opium of his and convincing a few of his young fighters to join me cause."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

He jests, though angrily, "He kin breathe fire an' break glass with just a whisper." Jack then sighs in the form of a blow before he continues, "Giffard is seen often with 'is right-hand man, a badger named Lieven, who's from Fleisung, discharged from the military over a terrible fight that crippled his colleagues. There are many rumours about Giffard, and one of those, which is confirmed, is that if any word of him gets 'is attention fer the wrong reason, he orders to have those speculating said rumours crippled or brutally killed. His drug cartel expands all over Highcond, and no doubt all of Symphon. In addition, he funds brothels, corrupting the owners and kidnaps young females to be forced to sell themselves to strangers." That brings me back to a terrible memory, but back at the oasis, when I opened one of my mother's letters telling where she was really from, what "family curse" we had, and I wanted to believe it was fictional.

"Are yeh listening?" Jack asks. That's when I realise that I'm clenching so hard that it's unsettling to the arctic fox.

I loosen and speak, "Sorry. I think I missed what yeh said about the brothels."

"Yes, Giffard funds many brothels, preferably in the poor parts of Highcond, a few that 'ave bin in business fer a while, but mostly those that he leaves to women, whom 'e manipulates into making greedy. Those brothels are among the many to be part of his cartel. In fact, the owners rely on temptation into getting their slaves addicted, to disable them. And when yeh're poor, yeh've nothin' t-lose. Seeing as the brothel that yeh destroyed was funded by Giffard, and y-want his connections, yeh must be mad if yeh plan t-piss him off and think yeh kin live ta tell the tale."

I commented, "Death is unfair, but it is sane."

"Makes whatever mission yeh give yerself sound no less like suicide." Another long pause follows, before Jack states, "Seein' as yeh're so certain, I've a few targets that kin lead yeh t-yer goal, but that leads t-yer side of the deal."

"I haven't forgotten, Jack. What favour have you in mind?"

"Someone be right ta think that capturing a smuggler group of mine would piss me off. Over a week ago, the men I hired ta smuggle me guns out to Tympark, I was told by an informant, disappeared, the ship still being idle at Port Morwen. Find me smugglers and escort them to the ship so they may complete their mission." He adds as a jest, "Yeh don' be mad fer doin' that."

"As you wish, Jack", I answer contently.

Where I am headed is still in the borough of Knightsedge. Port Morwen is straight east of the city's House of Commons, that port leading into River Numo. Upon changing from my suite in the inn, I head directly to that pier, cutting through the road along the way, leading many to howl or hiss at me, calling me a "dumb bitch" or criticising my sight. Even wondering why I wear a mask does not stop them from having an outburst.

Jack has also told me where I can find his smugglers' contact, and the names of those smugglers. I sit upon a bench in a park, looking to the centred gazebo from the distance. Aware of others being near, I speak up, "In Plakrit, whiskey is a staple drink." Silence.

Just when I think that no one has an answer, I hear a female voice speak, "And you like ale better?" That makes me content. "Let us oll just agree that wine is the best." That drives the others around me away. Next to me, a red vixen, clad in a green jacket, black pants, and a white work shirt, seats herself. "Of oll the predators in Highcond, Lucky Jack sends someone dressed like an office worker."

I get straight to the point, stating stiffly, "Lucky Jack informed Lady Death that you know where his smugglers are: a raccoon named Kendra Barton, and her partners Matthew and Cyrus. I assume it was you to tell him that they never shipped out."

I sense the vixen turn her head, replying, "I am. Name's Blythe."

"Lady Death."

"I picked up on their course shortly after sending Jack the message. The smugglers were kidnapped by street gangsters." Petty lowlifes. I couldn't believe it. "They've bin 'oldin' them fer ransom, demanding money from Jack, but he told his dealers to not approach them, with or without money."

I turn to finally look at the vixen, and I inquire curiously, "How much they demanding?"

"Ten thousand quid."

I scoff, "They can't be serious. Even in the wealthiest section of the city, that price is ridiculous."

"His informants and I have confirmed that the gangsters hold the smugglers in the top floor of an apartment building. It has the grey Talbot sign facing the popular Gala Park." The not-so-clever name for Saint Alicia Acre, where many aristos are known for hosting ceremonial parties, still open to only those invited.

"You've me gratitude, Blythe. Jack won't regret this request of 'is." I then stand up, adjusting my tailcoat to conceal the belts and hilts that were visible since I sat down.

I lift a small one-horse carriage from the side of the road and whip with the reins. With that, I go along the road, but wait for others to cross when I need to, as tempted as I am to just keep the horse galloping. I still hear others shout about my driving, bumping to carriages' sides as well as startling other horses with the interruptions.

I see the park, and finding the Talbot sign is easy as it stands out among the brass making up the roof. I dismount from the carriage and head to that building. I know that going in through the front door is too obvious. I hear the caw of my raven friend and look up at the edge of the roof where he's perched. In seeing him, he seems to hint at something as he turns to face the back of the building. I dash to the other side of the street, and I see that the windows on that side of the top floor are all boarded up. I scowl at that. I focus on the raven again for something that he can tell me. He caws again, hinting at the open window on the third floor (of four). Without caring who might be watching, I proceed to climb the window frames of the first floor, and make my way up by leaps.

Upon entering the apartment through the open window, I hear a baritone male voice bark, "Whot the bloody 'ell"- I cut that dog off by grabbing his muzzle and holding a finger to mine. I look around and find the stairs, which I approach--

But I hear the clicking of a pistol and turn around to see the same dog, a Field Spaniel, pointing that pistol seem to be made of gold at me. I turn away from him again, putting my hands up. He commands, "Move away from there." I do so, and reproach, but only two steps upon him barking, "Stop." He chooses to come to me. Before he reaches under my tailcoat, I crouch and punch him in the midsection, before I draw my stiletto, and I stab him in the side of his neck. Though I might be too late too, I hold his muzzle again, and I muffle the sound of him choking. I then let go of the hilt so I can get the pistol out of his hand. I then lay him down. Whilst I am there, I check his dresser and nightstand, and I find a fair amount of money to lift. Then, I head to the stairs, going up slowly. For a wolf, I have learnt to tread lightly.

While still on the stairs, I look around, seeing that the apartment is bare. Scratch marks decorate almost all the wooden planks making up the walls. Only mattresses and a dresser take up the floors, and there are staples for manacles and chains, where the three smugglers are, which I can tell as one bound is a grey raccoon. The weasels holding these smugglers are dressed the same as the dog that I just killed to keep him from killing me. There are five weasels, all of them clad in a burgundy jacket and black slacks. All of them pacing about. I hear one speak, "Why can't we jus' kill 'em? It's bin a bloody week!"

Another replies, "Because we want the money."

The first weasel objects, "How long bifor we lose more than we make?"

A third voice rebuts, "Don' be ridiculous. Their boss should be desperate by now."

The first weasel screeches, "What makes yeh think that?"

A fourth voice suggests, "We've not 'erd from 'im."

The second weasel says, "Would demanding more make yer 'appy?"

The fifth weasel answers, "If that'd make everyone happy, we could. If their boss wanted a rescue mission, he would've planned it by now. He must be a radge if he hasn't." That provokes me. I head to the top of the stairs--

And I leap to the first weasel in sight, tackling him to the ground, and then I draw my left Khopesh to stab in his back. I hear one shout, "Shit!" I draw my right Khopesh as I dash in the middle of the foursome. I kick the one to my left, swinging my right Khopesh upward, tearing that weasel's shirt and flesh. I dash toward the two still standing and force their arms aside as they have their pistols out but pull my Khopeshes and then slash their throats. The one bleeding profusely from his chest, I hear panting and I see him point a pistol at me, but his arm shakes. I slash sideways along his midsection. The bound raccoon I see using her legs to keep her captor pinned, but the second he shoves her off and gets up, I slash with both my blades upwards, tearing into his jacket, shirt, and flesh. I then slash downward, gashing him further. He stumbles from the pain. I tear into his midsection in a reverse scissor motion. His spine remains intact, which has kept me from cutting the slender figure in half.

The raccoon, who wears only a corset, speaks, "Did Lucky Jack send yeh?" Her partners are a lynx and a stag, whose antlers have been reduced.

As I check the pockets of the weasels' pockets for keys and money, I answer, "He did. I'm doin' this as a favour in exchange fer somethin' I want. Yeh must be Kendra."

"Aye", the raccoon answers. She then asks back, "And who're you?"

I don't answer until I've looted all five bodies, when I turn around, showing my orange eye and violet eye. "Death." I then head to the mattresses, where the smugglers are bound against the wall. I undo the manacles on Kendra first, and then free the lynx and then the deer. They, too, are in only their underpants. While they rush to the dresser, and are apparently lucky to find clothes in it, I undress the body that I almost sliced in half, and bring it a floor below, so I can get the body out the open window. Upon it landing, I call, "Fer you, dear friend."

The raccoon, now wearing a white work shirt, an open vest, and black work trousers, stares at me in place, only to brush the subject of wonder off, and I climb out the same open window, down the wall. Already, my raven friend has his beak deep in the weasel's flesh, probably ravaging the liver. I hurry to the other side of the building, where I end up meeting the trio of smugglers. I meet them along the sidewalk, stating, "You may require additional muscle for protection."

Kendra replies, "Regardless, we've an impatient pilot idle at the port." I follow the raccoon and her friends from behind, relying on my hearing for any sounds of guns clicking. They break in a sprint along the pavement, and I understand why. It's better that I don't shove others aside. I catch up with them only seconds later. When barely a metre behind the trio, I slow to a jog. As I remain a fair distance behind, I flex my ears and look around, expecting some kind of threat in the form of some kind of other gangsters aware right away of the smugglers having been sprung. Thankfully, I meet no form of trouble. Even in this wealthy section of Highcond, I expect to find a mugger, but this is not the area for some criminals to reside.

Before long, we make it to Port Morwen, and there's a distinguished steamboat with two platforms on tow, each of them occupied by containers covered by tarp. Kendra calls to her partners, "Each of you, take a raft."

A doe emerges from the side of the towboat, shouting, "It's about bloody time you're here! You owe me a lot for the wait!"

Kendra calls back, "Then start the engine."

I ask the raccoon curiously, "Plan to smuggle again after reporting to Jack?"

She asks back, "What d-you think, Death?"

As the towboat begins, I tell the raccoon, "Good luck, then." I then turn away. I close my eyes, awaiting the inevitability of any possible disaster. As I don't trust my eyes, I rely on only my hearing. Only a few seconds later, I hear the click of a gun, followed by a grunt of someone being shoved aside, and I open my eyes, seeing a rifle in the hands of a fuzzy terrier, now at the edge of the dock. I leap toward him, and tackle him to the ground. The rifle fires as I do so, but it has to be too late for him to fire. I look up at the towboat and its rafts to know that they're still connected and the smugglers are still alive. I pull out my stiletto--

And the dog uses his arms to keep me from stabbing him. I bite into his forearm, making him lose his grip, and I manage to plunge the stiletto into his jugular. As he chokes, I hold his muzzle, to muffle the sound. Upon seeing the dog go limp, I wipe my stiletto with his shirt and stand up as I sheath it. I then dash the way the boat heads, expecting more trouble for them, but I don't see it at all. I make it to the south edge of the borough, to know that the lynx and deer are untouched, none of the rafts detached. I sigh contently at that, knowing that Jack has a deal soon to be successful.

Upon turning around, I see someone I'm familiar with, having seen often at Jack's pub. It's a handsome golden leopard, clad in brown slacks, and a red tailcoat open, revealing his bare white-furred chest. He comments, "You run as if on fire." His accent is rather curious, as his voice sounds groggy and baritone.

I reply, "You followed me for a reason."

"Precisely", the leopard responds. He reaches in his inner breast pocket, and pulls out a folded parcel. I take it, to know that its contents are thick. "I was told to give those to you, knowing that the boat has departed safely."

I smile. "Well, then, if you don't mind, tell Jack that I am thankful and that he can see me off if he wishes as I will depart tomorrow. I'm staying at the Hazel and Company Inn."

"Will do", the leopard says contently, and he's on his merry way.

(Running. That's all that I've been taught to do. I did it most in the winter, picking pockets, and now that it was summer, I didn't do as much, but I still had the habit. My mother and step-father experienced the peak of brutality from their work. My step-father was given a harder time as he was turned down for a higher position at the factory where he worked, and I wondered if it was just the fact that he was a wolf. I know that because I still heard him talking to my mother. As for my mother, she worked at a factory as well, and she seemed to experience it worse. I don't know.

(When home at the end of day, I had already spent the money that I looted from others. I had long since learned to never steal from those I can't outrun. Most of that coin, I gave to other pups. Unlike other pups, I never resorted to begging. I had seen wolf pups do it, and I believed that wolves shouldn't be made the targets of humiliation. So, I kept on looting.

(I had a copy of that day's paper, and asked for my mother to teach me how to read. As I'd read only books of fiction that the school wanted me to, I would turn to the paper. My mother couldn't read perfectly, knowing the times I heard her struggle on something. So, she would get better like I would. As we waited on the usual dinner--vegetables in weak broth and a side of stale bread--she let me know what had been happening in the city.

(I asked, "So, what does it mean to impeach a council member?"

(My mother answered, "In that particular story: it means that the council holds them responsible for an action that is not toler- acceptable... There is a questioning, and if he's guilty, he loses his position. That's a part of politics."

(Concerned, I asked, "Does that mean, we can't trust the government?"

(My mother sighed, "There are good people in this world, Sweetheart, but there are also bad people, and they would do anything to get their way." That reminded me of a time I had a fit over a night a year earlier when we went hungry. She continued, "But if you want to know, I don't trust the council of the borough to do anything about the living conditions or about the crime here. We shouldn't have to always rely on those in power, either, as there are choices that we must make for ourselves." It still wouldn't be the last time I picked pockets.)

At that well-known inn of Knightsedge, I had a good sleep during my stay, and I had just enough money to cover the nights along with the use of their water. Until I am to find more loot, I am practically broke again, but that's not enough to have me in a foul mood. The second I walk out the inn's front door--

There the arctic fox stands, on the sidewalk, clad in a navy-blue tailcoat and matching slacks, and a grey vest over a white shirt and yellow necktie. I can't help but grin at how much he cares about me, and he grins back at me. He remarks, "Leavin' so soon, Death?"

"Business as usual, Jack", I reply.

Advancing, but not too close to make me uncomfortable, Jack asks, "How long d-yeh reckon yeh'll be away from Knightsedge this time?"

I answer, "Too long. But I both want and need this."

Jack speaks earnestly, "Yeh deserve t-know: almost no borough is a nice place. Knightsedge has the least known crime."

I interrupt, "I'm no stranger to crime; I'm from Tolden."

"It's still very dangerous. Subroot is home to many illnesses, as if it's the origin of them, from the common cold to the sexual-based infections. I needn't remind yer of Grauk. Ashcrown is like the start of a gangster's career. Sputure may be even worse than Tolden, being a mass graveyard fer constructs as well as the poor. I'm sure yeh read in the papers about Agnarge. An' don' get me started on Crowsridge"-

I cut him off there, stating, "I can handle myself, Jack."

The arctic fox sighs before getting our sights aligned--I'm wearing my eyepatch--and says tenderly, "Everyone needs help sometimes, Lass. Maybe even the embodiment of death." I still appreciate his concern, though I never show it.

I say sincerely, "I will come back. Mebbe I kin play Écarté with you-n yer friends?"

Jack chuckles, "I might challenge yeh to Toad in the Hole instead."

I hug him for a moment before stating, "You kin bet on that. 'Till then." With that, I turn and head to an idle carriage.