FSE

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Chapter 1

My vision shakes. Directly in front of my snout, I can see the puddle of what was my breakfast earlier, soaking into the yellow sands. The blood. Oh, Gods, the smell of it is everywhere. But I'm still alive. My limbs shake, I can barely keep myself on my knees and elbows.

Some yards away, A strange dog whom I arrived with presides over another puddle of blood. He sheathes a long, thin blade, after having wiped it clean. He's spotless. Well. I can't see any blood on him, at least. The taste of bitter bile floods my muzzle, and I shake from the spasms as I heave up what little I have left in my stomach.

"Kieran, was it?" the stranger calls to me. "Please come along. We have some hours left before daylight yet. We must hurry. Vieni!"

My ears perk, turning only briefly in the direction of the sound before I climb to my knees, then my feet. I wipe the sick from my muzzle with my forearm, and hurry to follow him.

He looks like nothing else I've ever seen. Trailing behind him is a long, slender tail, spotted like spatters of blackened lamp oil on a white bedsheet. His feet are slender and sure, and his sinewy and long-fingered paw rests on the hilt of his sheathed sword. A thick, blue and gold trimmed rainy season cloak of the local fashion hides most of his other features. But underneath, I spot the lines of a military type coat. Is he with the colonial army? Surely not. They wear red coats, not blue. I suppose that makes the two of us equally curious.

I'm a black fox. A rarity in my own right. But that rarity is my burden, because I'm also a slave. For as long as I can remember, I've served wine in a pillow house. In time, my owner, she only goes by Matron, desired me to become a... intimate servant. Well, alright. A whore. She wanted to sell me to a special kind of pillow house on the other side of town, as she didn't wish to compete with them. I'd become some exotic rarity, for sure, had it not been for Matron's unwillingness to part with me for less than she figured I was worth. That unwillingness wore particularly thin tonight.

I have been sold to this stranger. For what purpose, I don't know, but I have a feeling I'm not heading towards the fate Matron had intended. She didn't know him. He didn't tell her what his business was. None of the girls had ever seen him before, or even seen anyone like him. So that excludes every pillow house and inn in all of Nawesh, likely as not. Maybe he's not a purveyor of those services? But if he is, and the worst comes to worse... well... They say slaves don't have any freedom, but there's one choice nobody can take from me. I don't want to be a whore, and as long as I can draw breath, I don't intend to become one.

The strange, black-spotted hound I'm following carries himself differently from any brothel owner I've ever seen. He has more pride in himself. Through the narrow streets of Nawesh's dock district, he strides determined and straight. He's not drunk, but at the same time, he's not particularly observant of what I do as I trail him. At several occasions, I allow my ears to perk with curiosity at my surroundings, but he doesn't reprimand me. It's like he doesn't even care that I'm meant to be subservient. I'm too terrified to find out if he really does.

"Now, be so good as to not run off anywhere," the stranger calls over his shoulder. "We still have much to do before the sun rises, and I think it's in your best interest if you remain close." He issues his command as if remarking on something of only a passing interest. He's not stern. There's just the slightest stiffness to his voice, which might be a symptom of his strangely flowery accent. I don't have a good way of explaining how I feel, but I'll admit this much; I'm curious where this is going. Good or bad, I just want to know, just in case. Almost anything is better than what I had, so why not go along?

And besides, it's not like I can escape a welded copper collar such as mine. It was hammered closed around my neck when it was still warm, so there's no way I can remove it on my own. Even if I could, there is an ugly scar underneath it, where the warm metal has singed my skin. Copper, the lowest denomination of coin, which is my trade, I suppose. It's markings and metal serve as a constant reminder of exactly what I am, and where I belong. I've tried to grow my fur out to cover it, and to offer some comfort against its rough edges, but to no avail. There is nowhere I can run in a day or a week where my collar isn't recognized.

"Sir?" I ask cautiously, when the silence has grown too oppressive for even me to stand. "I've not received any orders yet. How may I be of service?"

The stranger doesn't so much as turn his head towards me, nor flick his ears. They're floppy and hang close to his head, and I can't discern what he's thinking from how they move around.

"Not here. Not now." The stranger looks around very subtly. "If you would be so kind, I would like you to observe what I do, do what I ask, and say nothing to anyone."

"Yes, sir," I tell him meekly, but again he doesn't turn to make sure I tip my ears back or bow as I receive what I'm not even sure is a command. That's not to say I don't do that of course, because it's a habit I've never once broken unpunished. But I'm also terribly confused, and not a little bit intrigued. Whatever it is he wants of me, it sounds more important than pouring wine, counting coins, or warming his bed.

We wander all over the city, doing tidbits and tasks all through the night. The coppery scent of blood is still stuck in my nose. Red spots dance around in front of my eyes like rose petals caught on the wind, and I'm afraid the remainder of the night turns into a mush as I try to make sense of what's happening.

I guess my mind wakes up to the fact that something is off when I step onto a gangplank. Everything around me, the rocking ships with their tall masts and the sound of gulls, and a dozen languages spoken all at once, feels unreal. But the faint, coppery smell lingers, even under the smell of the sea, anchoring me to the harsh reality. This is so much more real than I can comprehend.

The sailing ships at the dock have always taunted me with how close, and how distant they've always been. Returning just before the rainy season, their massive holds full of sailors and goods not only kept Nawesh vibrant and interesting, but also kept my own candle of hope lit. One day, Gods willing, I would sail off on one of those. And now I stand here, unsure what to do with myself.

"Have you ever been aboard a ship before?" the stranger asks me from over his shoulder as he heads up the gang plank.

"Once, sir," I tell him, with an uncertain lilt to my tone.

"That's more than I'd have guessed," he replies quickly. He turns to me properly, and his cold and colourless eyes fix me to my spot, unchanged from when I saw them for the first time, in the basement of the brothel.

"Your eyes tell quite a story about that time," he continues. "Care to elaborate?"

"My eyes?" I tip my ears back uneasily, lower my muzzle, and shrink up. Then self-consciously, I try to return my features to where they were, lest he thinks I'm hiding something. "One day, I looked at the sailors in the pillow house... and thought... I was sure... I was certain I could do whatever it was they did, and just as well as them. So one night... I was very young... I snuck aboard one of the ships in the bay. I wanted to hide until it sailed off, then ask for work. But the sailors discovered me and... they threw me overboard before the ship had cleared the harbour. Then they loosed shots at me as I swam to shore, and laughed at me." My ears splay despite my best effort, and my tail wraps tightly around my thighs. Realising what I've been telling him, I hurry to add, "I won't try to escape, sir, I swear on my life! I've learned."

Oh, how I'd learned. I'd lost what little dignity I thought I had. And Matron had not held back when the city watch returned me to her. I guess I've lost whatever bravery I had too, because it strikes me I've not even considered how to kill myself all night. He's so different from everything I know. I've never felt so curious before, and it's gotten a hold of me.

"I see," the stranger tells me. "Well, then you have a lot to learn. Best keep those ears perked, fox, there's a lot to take in. Be kind to follow me aboard, please."

I can tell almost immediately as I make my way onboard that this ship too is out of the ordinary. Her crew is made up of mostly rodents, both larger and smaller cats, and one or two otters for good measure. No herbivores, which is odd, but I guess it must have something to do with their diet. It's not something I've had the occasion to think much about. Stranger still is that, apart from the spotted hound, there are no dogs here, not even a measly mixer. This ship can't be Castellanian.

Before I can take in properly what I'm looking at, a rough paw shoves me forward onto the deck. I turn to find a large tiger of dark orange hue at the other end of the offending paw. His visage startles me. Startle isn't quite the apt word. Frightens me, rather. I'm not terribly fond of tigers at the best of times, but this one is easily the scariest one I've seen. He is at least two heads taller than I am, three times as broad, and likely ten times as strong. His simple white shirt stops at his thickly scarred biceps, because though it's made to fit his broad chest, it hasn't been a match for his massive arms. And when he looks at me with a fiery glare which is sharp enough to cut with, I almost get up and escape off the ship out of pure instinct. But my curiosity, and more pertinently, my collar holds me back; years of temperance and forced patience keeping me firmly in line, even now. As he brushes past me, I spot an array of gold and silver rings on his paw. Among thick, broad and intricately carved and inlaid gold rings, one stands out. It's oddly shaped; a thin and unassuming band with an inlaid, red dot, small as a claw clipping. A very pricy ruby, if I'm any judge. I'll take particular care around this one, because the more valuable a man's attire, the more respect they're owed. And this one is steeped in money.

Following that logic, the dark grey wolf who appears on deck, with a thick brush of fur on his neck, must be even more important. He bears even more jewellery than the tiger; more flagrantly. Gold rings adorn his ears, his fingers, his septum and even one of his heavy brows. His wine-coloured greatcoat is surely far too warm for this climate, especially since he's also wearing one of those strange silk scarves tied around his neck and tucked into his undershirt.

He glances at me with the same disdainful look I receive every day, but he says nothing, and begins speaking with the tiger as soon as they're both on board. I don't belong among these bejewelled men, in my ragged shirt, patched trousers, and with my copper collar for all to see.

I flick my ears down quickly, as I realise they've perked all without my input. But they perk again almost immediately again to the sound of the stranger's voice.

"Kieran, are you there?"

Scrabbling to my feet, I run over to the stranger before he has to call again, and place myself beside him with my head bowed, heart beating like a storm. Even though he hasn't struck me yet, I can't very well risk it. It's the first lesson I ever learned. Never tarry so long that they consider punishing you, and if you do, never give them time enough to come up with a more elaborate punishment than a clout across the ears. Some owners, by which I mean my former one, could get very sadistic.

"Kieran, I would like to request something of you," the stranger tells me.

"Yes, sir," I respond automatically, addressing the floor planks.

"I require you to accept a position on this ship when I give it to you. In the auspices of paying for your passage naturally, as such is the norm for travellers of your rank. I would not like to invite suspicion by bringing you along as a guest. You will understand, I assure you."

"A guest? I... what kind of position?" I raise my muzzle, daring to glance at those eyes again. They're so impossibly... lifeless... and yet, they hide something momentous. I just know it. "You would like me to transfer to the captain's employ?"

"For now."

"Will the captain... be my owner?"

I instinctively raise a paw to finger the collar around my neck. I'm not sure how temporary transfers of slaves work. I only ever knew about one transaction, and that was the one involving the sailors "borrowing" the pillow house's girls for coin for a night.

"Oh," the strange dog exclaims, as if he's not noticed my collar at all. "Rest assured, nobody will own you, fox. You'll serve as a paw in the crew. I haven't access to a blacksmith to take care of your accoutrement, and the ship is leaving presently."

"Blacksmith?" I ask, despite myself. "I'm sorry, I'm-"

"In Dalmatia, we do not keep slaves. Your collar is decidedly out of fashion there, and we shall have to remedy that."

"Dalmatia? Where's that?" I ask. And surprisingly, I've not been struck yet. Never have I been allowed to ask two questions in a row. And I even forgot to add "sir". The stranger raises a solemn eyebrow, almost pitiably, as he contemplates my question.

"Dalmatia... is the capital of the Dalmatian League, a collection of city states forming a small empire. She is situated on a continent far to the west, where we will be sailing. I don't suppose you've gone to school?"

I shake my head, looking down. "Nobody has ever told me about Dalmatia, sir. I'm very sorry."

"Not surprising." The stranger shrugs. "Dalmatia is small, rich in trade rather than conquests. And she is entirely free of slaves, as one of the first nations on said continent to embrace that ideal unambiguously. I don't suppose your masters would like you knowing about that. They'd rather convince you that your lot in life is all you can expect. That is not the case, Kieran. That is not the case at all."

"S-sir, I'm not sure I'm understanding you correctly." I stop myself there. I don't dare to ask why he tells me the answers to my questions so readily; why he's allowing me all this information for free. Years of beatings conspire to convince me that I don't deserve this knowledge. I am a slave. I am to be kept in the dark so that I don't get any ideas. That's my lot in life, no matter what he says.

"Then listen," he says firmly, "I have a proposition for you, which we will discuss further once we're under way. Not here, where people might hear us. I assure you, you will want to hear about this. For your cooperation until then, I will pay you back tenfold."

The way his voice lowers at the end of his sentence makes the fur all down my back stand on end. "P-pay me?"

"I promise I will explain all of this later, fox. For now, I regretfully require your _unquestioned_obedience. I need you to play a role aboard this ship, to everyone but me. Can you do this?"

I manage to curtail my tongue before I say something truly foolish. Gods be good, what's happening to me? I almost contested his words. The stranger doesn't notice, thank the Gods, so at length, I nod to affirm that I understand what he wishes of me.

"Speaking of the captain," he says, "he's coming over now. Do not draw attention to yourself, understood?"

Bursting with questions, I still manage to hold my tongue and lower my muzzle again. Much as this situation has rattled me, one cannot banish years of discipline with but a whiff of freedom spoken so offhandedly. But that whiff sure lingers sweetly in my nose.

The captain, the striped, dark wolf with all the jewellery, ambles towards the stranger slowly. His tail hangs limply behind him, but he makes up for it with his broad, intimidating smile. A sailor's half-cocked smile, which I recognize all too well. Enigmatic and falsely endearing. Designed specifically to lure you in, make you believe that they are on your side, that they are your friend, that they understand your pain. _Of course, it's really awful that they treat you this way, fox. No, we wouldn't dream of doing this to our own. Take a seat, tell us about yourself._Then they strike, their smiles not flickering. I've seen it happen countless times to countless girls, and some of their unluckier fellow sailors too. Anything is open game when the night comes, and the rooms in the brothel are occupied, one by one. I tense up when the captain comes closer.

"Benviendo, signore_,"_the wolf exclaims, addressing the stranger in the stranger's own language, from what I can tell. "Good to see you back with us again! I feel so lonely here, with both my first mate and my finest guest gone ashore for weeks and weeks. Say, what news from the interior."

"Little and less," the stranger replies, "I have been outside of the city walls, and haven't heard much of the goings on. Have you taken the good port onboard?"

"It's prepared for your pleasure. Take some with me as we set sail."

"Va Bene!" the stranger exclaims, and glances towards the tiger, before carrying on the conversation in that strange language of his.

They speak for a while like this, probably because they don't want me to understand them. Naturally, it's not my business to understand them. But I still listen out for words I might recognize, just in case. The wolf's diction is full of growls, and guttural grumbles filling in where he is searching for the right words, while the spotted dog's voice is clear and confident. To him, this language is his born tongue, but the captain has had to learn it, that much I can tell.

"This one?" The captain suddenly asks in Castellanian, looking at me. "He looks... scrawny_._"

"Nevertheless, see to it that his paws are not idle."

"He is not fit for sailors work. Too... little."

"You will find a place for him, Captain Ajag."

The captain, Ajag, draws himself up to his full height, his gut considerably larger than his stature first gave the impression of. His eyes fix on me, uncomfortably scrutinous.

"What was your trade before you came here, fox from Nawesh?"

"I served wine at an inn," I reply hastily, amazed at how readily my voice appears. "I washed floors and lit torches and kept fires burning on cold nights and... and I cooked simple meals for the... the... the workers." The words tumble out and I can only barely stop myself from revealing details very much not pertinent to the captain's question.

"Workers? At an inn? What inn is this?" The captain chews on the words as if they are a morsel of slightly off meat. Then, without warning, he grasps my collar, drawing it near to his snout. This involves pulling me up to my full length, and then some. My feet skitter against the floorboards as I struggle to keep my airways free. Ajag grumbles as he reads my collars' markings. "I see... Workers, indeed."

"P-prostitutes, sir," I stutter, lifting myself up by his wrist in order to speak. "S-sorry, I just didn't wish to be crass."

"Manor of the Many, it says here," he continues un-phased. "There's a name I've heard before, back when I sailed with the royal trade fleet. There's an old jackal lady who owns the establishment, I believe. She had many marvellous girls, far as I can recall. She owned you, too? And you say you only served wine, is that so? Or did you serve in other ways, too?"

I have to make a conscious effort to keep my expression free of disgust.

"Sir," I tell him, straining to get the words out, "the Manor doesn't cater to those tastes. Matron's house was frequented by the men of the Castellanian navy, most of whom, and forgive me if I am mistaken in this, frown upon... upon b-boy p-prostitutes."

I know I'm not mistaken in that. But I don't have opinions about this. I'm a slave. Slaves are beaten for having opinions colour their language, and I feel awfully close to a beating now.

"Indeed," the captain says. "I'm not from that empire however. How did you come to end up at the Manor? A fit, young boy such as you, wasted on serving duties?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?"

I can feel my heart beat quicker. Every time I explain this to anyone, it sounds like defiance to them. Will he strike me for that? With his heavy, gold and jewel draped paws, he'd be liable to knock a tooth out.

"It is the honest truth, sir," I tell him. "I cannot recall how I ended up there, nor can I recall anything before that. I simply woke up one day, and there was a collar there. S-sorry sir. I would like to know, myself, I-."

The captain relents his grip on my collar, and I stumble back to the deck. Quickly, I draw back from him to the stranger's side, head bowed politely.

"Very well," he says, though his grumble says something else. "I guess it doesn't matter. And what is that you're holding?"

He points to my left paw, where I'm holding something I've been trying to hide from view.

"M-my... Sir, it's a box."

"I can see that it's a box." The captain flicks his ears with annoyance, but underneath his expression, that intimidating smile comes out again. "What is inside it?"

"I-Inside?" I can't help myself. Instinctively, I clutch the box tighter to my chest. "No-nothing... Nothing of value."

"It's the fox's luggage, leave him be Ajag," the stranger cuts in with a relaxed tone. The captain nods, and leaves the issue Silently, I thank him. His words have more strength here than my own.

The captain is one of them. He doesn't care if I live or die, I'm certain of it. The collar is all he sees. He can have my labour, he can call me whatever he thinks fitting. But he can't have this. Nobody can have this; it's all I have left.

With a shrug, he ends his line of questioning. "The fox can be the mess boy's assistant. Maybe they can teach each other a thing or two. God knows the boy could use it, the way things are going." Ajag looks down his snout at me. "The job will be its own reward, but I will pay your master forty silvers for the passage if you don't stuff up the food. My name is Captain Ajag, and you are aboard the spice runner Tamarind_of no particular creed or nation._ The tiger is my first mate Krishnananda Singh. He and I are to be afforded your utmost respect, and every order we give is to be followed as the law. Understood?"

"Y-yes, sir." I nod my head. "W-will there be anything more?"

"No. Run along." The captain points at a staircase; a square hole in the deck leading down into the belly of the ship where presumably the mess lies. A careful glance at the stranger confirms his orders. I head down into the darkness.