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Chapter 3

Kit appears on deck some time later, in a faded maroon shirt which hugs his form closely. His coat shimmers wonderfully in the bright sunlight out here and sets off his green eyes very nicely. I keep an eye on him until he notices me, smiles, and heads over to look out towards the great infinite ocean alongside me.

"I guessed right, didn't I? First time sailing?"

"Y-yes. This is amazing," I exclaim, my courtesy has no means to withstand my excitement. "It's... it's beyond words! I'm actually on a real sailing ship. On the ocean!"

"Remember this feeling, fox." Kit gives me a curiously enigmatic smile. "You'll need to have some happy memories to fall back on. Your first passage is always the hardest."

"What do you mean, hardest?"

"You will definitely become sea sick." Kit laughs hollowly. "First timers always are. You'll be praying for land, mark my words."

"I've never been sick before," I counter, with just a sliver of pride.

"There's a first time for everything, fox," The weasel tells me. "This is not any kind of sickness. It attacks anyone who is new to the sea, regardless of constitution. Which means you."

I don't let his words worry me. I've never suffered from any of the poxes or fevers which some sailors brought with them. Some said I was sturdy and resilient, while others claimed I was probably half Castellanian myself.

"Oh, might as well introduce you to the navigator," Kit tells me, waving at a ferret with a vest over his ragged white shirt and a cloth tied over his head, making him look like he doesn't have ears. "He's the least shit guy on board. Hey! Zeeke. Over here!"

"Kit," Zeeke replies, but that's most of what I can gather. His accent is impenetrable. "Listen t'this. I've got a bet on who's goin' t'get the shits from yer cookin' first. Any insider info?"

"Fuck you, Zeeke." Kit punches him in the arm, laughing. This isn't the pillow house anymore, I have to remind myself. This is a different world. Kit receives a punch on his shoulder in return, before he spits back, "Watch it or I'll shit in your stew."

"If y'think that's what's required t' improve it," Zeeke returns immediately, offering an overemphasized shrug and draping a wide grin on his white and brown muzzle. "M'money is on t'slave. Ain't built any scar tissue down there yet."

The ferret guffaws, and nudges Kit with his elbow. For an instant, a different expression flashes over Kit's features but Zeeke ignores it, instead grasping my paw before I can even question whether or not I should be offended. "I'm Zeeke by the way, I'm t'navigator here, so if you have any questions 'bout t'journey, you come t'me. Ain't nobody can get'er home quicker."

My fist aches from the ferret's fierce grasp. "I'm Kit's assistant," I respond as politely as I can, "Kieran. Is Dalmatia your home?"

"T'sea is my home," Zeeke says reverently. "Ain't never been on land since I was a young kit, and I don't see why I should either. One of these days, though, Kit's cookin's gonna force m'paw, I'm sure."

"However have you managed to go so long without?"

"It ain't always been easy, fox. Land has some virtues, ain't gonna lie. Can't get my bone jumped on the ship and I ain't got the imagination, or inclination, t' do anything 'bout it like some guys onboard."

There's that grin I recognize so well. A mere flash of it, before it is again replaced with mirth and mischief. A joke, I presume, meant to throw me off balance. But neither Kit nor I return his smile.

"Zeeke," Kit says warningly. "He's my assistant, and my responsibility. Go visit a proper brothel and get those filthy thoughts out of your head."

"Can only do that in Campagnia," Zeeke complains, "where they have that offshore jumphouse. You remember the one? The one on stilts on the sand bank? Man, the dalmatians have some crazy ideas."

"I'm sure the captain will call on Campagina as well if you ask nicely."

"I don't give two shits for what the captain thinks, I- Hey, that'd be a trick. Two cooks cause twice the shits. I'm changing the odds around!"

Kit sighs. "You really ought not to get on the bad side of the cook. Or indeed, cooks. What if Kieran here isn't as kindly disposed to you as I am?"

"This one?" the ferret chuckles. "Scrawny."

"For now," Kit shoots in quickly. "Just you wait til' he's made the passage. You'll eat those words, I bet."

I find it strange how this weasel sticks up for me so readily, when I hardly know him. Personally, I can withstand a thousand times worse than what this harmless ferret slings my way.

"What's the worst that can happen, eh?" Zeeke laughs uproariously. "It won't get any worse than another half a year of your stew, no matter what the slave does to it!"

"His name is Kieran," Kit mutters, clearly bothered.

"It's okay, Kit, don't worry about it." I mumble quietly. "I've heard worse."

"Hey, fox," Zeeke says suddenly, "what say you we have a friendly wager. Care to wager against? I bet you'll be leakin' something or other from your backside before we round the horn."

Kit gives Zeeke a stiff look at that comment.

"Heck," Zeeke continues, "you're so small and scrawny, like Kit, actually, I bet you'll have a sore arse before we pass-"

"Shut your muzzle, Zeeke," Kit snaps suddenly.

The ferret maintains his wicked smile. Kit stares at him, uncommonly fierce for someone of his stature. I'm prepared for the inevitable, keeping my eyes peeled for the slightest sign of aggression on the ferret's body language. But nothing arises. Eventually Zeeke heads off, his smile still plastered on his muzzle.

"He's going t'find out eventually," the ferret calls out. "Better just get it over with, I say."

"Don't listen to him," Kit mutters. The insides of his little round ears have gone bright pink, and I can tell he's flushed under his thin face fur, too. "He's usually pretty cool. But sometimes he talks about things he has no clues about."

"What is he talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Did he bother you?" I ask. "I'm not sure I followed the conversation very well-"

"No, no" Kit deflects, then hurries to add. "It's private. I mean, it's nothing."

Just then, a raspy voice cracks like a whip over the heads of all the sailors on deck.

"You two!" The voice makes me freeze momentarily, my ears fold down, my tail tucks between my legs. "All paws on deck means only men, not boys. Your places are in the mess. Get below while we're setting the course!"

"If you take that tone with him again," Kit answers, turning slowly towards the source of the voice. "I won't spit in your stew tonight."

Krish, the tiger and owner of the voice, comes over to us slowly with a grumpy expression on his muzzle. This is exactly what it feels like whenever a beating is imminent. I find myself hoping there is someone on the ship who can set a bone or mend a broken jaw, because I might have to call on them very soon.

"What did you say?" Krish replies with an ominous, low growl.

"You better speak with more courtesy, he is our guest on board, and he deserves to be treated-"

The tiger cuts Kit off with a brusk snort of derision, his eyes momentarily land on my collar before turning back to Kit.

"You watch your muzzle. Judging on how you use it when you're not throwing out insults, I don't suppose you need any of those teeth. I'll gladly remove them for you."

"You want to repeat that?" Kit growls right back and puffs up his chest as if he means to fight the tiger. I swear for a moment I see the muscles in Krish's shoulders tense. But without warning, something changes in that tiger's fierce eyes. For a heartbeat, they travel from Kit, to some point towards the aft of the ship. I glance in the same direction, but can only see the captain and the cold-eyed spotted dog.

"Run along before I change my mind," Krish growls, "and decide the floorboards need a scrubbing. With both of your tails."

Thankfully, Kit eventually lowers his shoulders and does as instructed. I have to hurry after him, unsure what just happened.

###

Seating himself by the table in the mess, Kit pulls out some ink and a pen from his personal belongings, and starts scratching letters on some scraps of paper. With flowing motions of his wrist, he forms unbroken snakes, with curls and loops, and scant dots and crosses all around. All gathered, they're pleasant to look at, like the ornamentation of fine silk clothes. But that doesn't change the fact that it's all meaningless to me. I've never been allowed to linger and look at someone else's writing though, so, for fear of overindulgence, I decide to break the silence.

"Do you always argue so much with the others?"

"I wasn't arguing. I just didn't like the way they spoke to you, so I told them."

"I'm only asking," I continue, "and forgive me if I'm being rude, but it seemed like a markedly bad idea. They were bigger than us, both of them. They might have hurt you if you wore out their patience."

"Honestly," Kit says, looking up from his writing suddenly. "I didn't expect Krish to back down. Zeeke is easy. He's entirely motivated by his own stomach. But Krish... I never saw him buckle like that."

"I saw the captain looking our way."

"I don't think that's the reason," Kit bites his lip and flicks his ears. "Krish does things his own way. Doesn't like to listen to the captain, really."

"But I don't understand what purpose it served to insult the tiger."

"I said, I didn't like Krish's tone," Kit says, with a shrug. "I mean that. Didn't seem very courteous of him, and you're new here and all. You deserve better."

"Courteous?" I smile uncertainly.

"Yeah." Kit doesn't even hint at joking. His paws doesn't leave the paper he's writing on, and after a while, his eyes lower to his task too, as if the proclamation he just made was no more important than some offhand information. It wasn't just nothing, however. Its easily one of the most gallant, kind and thoughtful gestures I have ever been afforded.

"What is that you're writing?" I ask, in the hopes that whatever it is will bring my head back from the clouds. "Is it important? Should I deliver it to someone?"

"Hardly important... well... to anyone but me I guess," Kit mumbles. "Come closer, I'll show you."

I splay my ears apologetically, as I've learned to whenever there's a task I'm unable to perform. "I'm sorry, Kit. I can't read."

"There's no shame in being unable to read," Kit glances at me briefly before continuing to write. "Half the men aboard can't read. Doesn't mean you can't understand what is written if I read it to you, does it?"

"I better not, sir-"

"I'm not called sir," Kit says sternly. "These are poems. I talk about what I find beautiful and how I feel about it. One has to do something to ease the strain of this life. And you have a lot of strain in you, Kieran. Too courteous, too timid. You need to relax. So, if I ask kindly, would you please join me?"

This is another new thing catching me off guard. I want to know what he feels and thinks about things. I find myself actually caring, and I need to understand why. How can he be so effortlessly kind to me, without even knowing me?

"If you want to tell me, I'll listen, of course. But..."

"What's the matter?" Kit asks.

"There was a time, a while back, when my former owner wanted me to learn so that I might read ledgers. But I just couldn't do it. The words didn't agree with me, I think. Maybe I'm not meant to read."

"Nonsense!" Kit exclaims, slapping his pen to the table with a sharp sound. "Not meant to read? Lord have mercy. In a perfect world, everyone would read and write to their heart's content. As it stands, this world is far from perfect, but that doesn't mean we can't try to make it better in our own way, does it? I don't require you to master reading, of course... but why not give it an attempt? We have all the time in the world for you to learn, if you want to, what do you say?"

"Maybe later," I tell him finally, though his words stick in my head. What is my ideal world, when all is said and done? Maybe, considering everything that has happened already, other things can change to? Maybe I can facilitate changes. If I can, I have to start somewhere.

"I'm quite tired, but I could listen, if you don't mind, s- I mean... Kit."

Apparently, that is quite sufficient for the weasel, who sits me down across from him, reading from his notes.

When will this strange dream end? When will I wake up on my accustomed blanket in the basement of the Manor of the Many, and start the day serving poppied wine and cleaning up after the sailors and the girls? When will I return to my painful existence, devoid of any future? Something drastic ought to happen sooner or later, to balance out this karmic blessing.

I listen for a while as he reads, looking at where his fingers are pointed on the paper. I can appreciate the simple way a letter differs from the other, and individually they make as much sense as any other symbols or pictures. Each has its own sound, its own, predesignated place in the world, its own simple, unmistakeable task. But together, they're unruly and treacherous like the proverbial army of lions. For some reason, they never remain in place, even when I focus carefully. Even when I place a finger under them, they shudder around on the paper like fighting beetles, before they take off and fly away, as if they have more important places to be.

Maybe it's just a quirk of the process of learning to understand them. Maybe I'm just the stupid one.

After some time of heroic struggle, the little oil lamp gives up the ghost, and the cabin darkens to the natural shade. Kit curses and slaps the papers with his palm, letting out a frustrated groan.

"It's okay," I say quickly. "I can still see, so long as I don't have to discern colours."

"Well, I can't," Kit sighs. "I'll have to ask the captain for more lamp oil. I should've made it last for longer than this... Just great. Great... Fucking- "

"I'm sorry, it's my fault." I hurry to add before the weasel grows more annoyed with himself. "We can do this tomorrow, or at another time. Is that alright? I'll have to check with the Dalmatian, but I think it'll be fine."

"We could do that," Kit nods. "Alright. Fun is over. There's food to be prepared."

My ears fold back with guilt as I see the weasel pack his papers and ink down into his chest again, and get to work with the food, without seeking any help from me. For want of something to do with myself, I clear my throat to ask yet another question.

"Kit?"

"What?"

"Where am I to sleep tonight?"

I've always been expected to find somewhere out of the way where I won't be noticed for a night. But I'm not sure there's such a place onboard.

"Didn't that Dalmatian give you some place in his quarters? Servants usually sleep near the people they serve for. Are you a servant of his, by chance?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. "I never thought to ask him. But I can sleep on the floor, if I could borrow a blanket. It wouldn't have to be a nice-"

"You can sleep here," Kit says, patting the mattress beside him. "The cot is large enough to be shared. If we sleep opposite each other, it'll be both warm and comfortable."

"I really don't think I should," I tell him. "The floor should suffice. I promise it'll be okay, I've slept on-"

"Come on, fox," Kit says. "It gets cold out at sea, don't you know? Even if you have a blanket. If we share the sheets, we'll both be better off."

"Thank you for your offer, Kit, but I... I really shouldn't... M-maybe I should ask the Dalmatian, as you say."

I can't very well explain to him that I know what happens when two people share a bed. I've laid awake listening to sounds of what happens for more nights than I care to remember. I've cleaned up the stains of blood and fluids from those things. I can't think of any place I want to be less, than in a bed with another male.

"I think it's best if I... I bring this food up to him now."

I struggle to keep my voice calm and steady, and to keep my tail from tucking in between my legs.

"I've shared a bed all my life," Kit tells me in what I presume is meant to be a reassuring voice. "This one is a good bed to share. It rocks with the boat so you're less likely to roll out of it, it is reasonably clean, with no fleas, and it's really nice and warm too."

"Th-thanks, Kit... but I should get going. S-sorry. Pardon me."

I head upstairs, not forgetting to bring the stranger's food along. Noon is still some moments off, but I just need some more of this fresh air. I need to remember that I'm still several good things up on my former existence. Kit is only trying to be nice. He can't know what it means.