FSE

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Dalmatia at night is a sight to behold. Provided you've got my night eyes, that is. If not, all you can see is torchlight, flickering like an upside down starfield. Moving amongst it, small dots of light move set paths. Guards with torches. One with a poleaxe, another with a rifle. Two and two. A few more dim lights, pointing where their carriers walk. These are lamp lighters, night-foxes or others whose industry is performed after nightfall, who needs lanterns which they can put down whenever they go to work.

From the top of a tall, clay tiled roof, I can see the whole district. The harbour of Dalmatia is usually a very busy place, but at nights, it quiets down. The ships in the bay, sails furled, rock gently in a barely noticeable breeze from the Medimare. The breeze carries with it the scents of the fish markets at the seaside, and the subtle tangs of rare fruits and spices onboard the big traders moored in Dalmatia's artificial bay. His Grace's arsenals, located on the constructed breakwater which hem the bay in, fill the rest of the air with wood smoke, treacle and sawdust; an ever-present aroma that is as much part of this city as it's cobblestone streets. The timber warehouses have shut their doors, and the only sounds are the distant noises of inns and bars, and those newly opened coffee houses, or kavoto?jas where the rich go to philosophise, and where I am not allowed inside.

Not that I'm particularly fond of coffee. But it still stings a bit when people bring my species into the mix, in things where it really ought not to be an issue. I have to pester people to provide me the same service that comes unspoken to others. Now, I know foxes have a reputation. I know some of my kind have a rather strong smell, that canines may find unpleasant. But we're not all like that. However, the politicians of Dalmatia haven't quite come around to my way of thinking yet.

I slip down from my perch, and let my feet slide down the stone-tile roof until I reach the end, where I leap off. I land on my feet on a roof some fifteen feet further down, gripping my sword sheath so that it won't clatter. Then, softly, I make my way towards the edge of the roof. Between Via Pelicano and Candlemaker's Avenue, near the outlet to a small plaza, I spot two close-set doors on a wall. The building the wall belongs to is one of the row-houses I've been climbing so long, they feel like part of the terrain. Old as the hills, these pale, painted stone houses make up the bulk of Dalmatian real-estate, and from their ground floors, any business imaginable is advertised with wood plaques, overhead signs, and canvas banners with painted lettering. The first sign belonging to the address I've been directed towards is a family sigil, uninteresting to me. The other is a seal of office. The harbourmaster. The third one is a bunch of writing, which I'm not even going to attempt at, but it has the right colours and shapes that I recognize it for what I'm looking for. From memory, it should say something like Treviano and Iadanza Shipping-Brokering and Insurance. From what I've understood, they sell promises that your ship won't go down. Quite how they can promise that, I don't know. Of course, I wouldn't be called out to their premises if their business was legal.

There're only three things which aren't legal business here in Dalmatia. There's actually a lot more nuance than that, but there are only three things that carry with them the terminal sentence. The businesses of poppies, slaves, and anything created by slaves. Break these rules, and you'll have one of my colleagues on your doorstep. If you're very unlucky, you might meet me. Quite a few of the recent trade ships Dalmatia has launched have been bought by old Castellanian navy men, who have come from that empire to ours for the lucrative work and agreeable tax rates we offer. But some of these have brought their bad habits along from their old employers, who lay no restrictions on their trade. It is my job, among many, to remind them everyone how things are done here.

The streets below aren't exactly crowded, but I remain on my perch, waiting, eyes fixed on the little, unlit lantern hanging over the insurance office's door.

His Grace, my employer, the Duke of Dalmatia prefers greyhounds amongst his agents. Gods know why. They're nimble, sure, and often prone to intelligence, though it's my experience that their emotional and mental walls aren't always built on firm foundations. Not to mention that all the ones I've had the displeasure of meeting are arrogant sods. But I've learned to keep an eye out for these breeds and recognize the differences within them. So, when a grey, or as they prefer, blue greyhound passes underneath, I recognize him as the man I'm looking for.

The greyhound doesn't notice me, but I can tell he catches my fox scent. He looks around the streets automatically, then, when he can't see me or anyone else, he gives a general all clear sign in the form of a raised thumb.

I slip down from the roof, and quietly tap down on a balcony railing, where the light of Treviano and Iadanza's lantern can lap at my paws.

"Fox," the greyhound says, as formal a greeting as I can expect. "Mr. Raine. Eugene Raine. I expected someone else."

"I am the one you get," I respond. "Have you returned here for leisure or work?"

"What leisure can one find here? Only the pleasure of cleaning up?"

"Someone's got to do the dirty work."

That's the code at least, so I can trust him.

"The name's Kieran," I tell him.

"Let's go then, Fox."

His lips draw back in a smile, scanning the streets before he slips his coat aside with a flamboyant gesture. The light of the broken lantern above glints off of a cavalry sabre, adorned with a red ruby set in gold which blends into the ornamentation that runs the length of the blade. He's got a thick shirt and vest on to keep the cold night out, and his jacket is much too large for what I assume is a wiry, slightly pudgy nobleman's frame. They're all nobles, these so-called_Coltellinos_ I'm forced to babysit.

I'm not particularly big, myself, but that's just because I can't put on any weight. Because I work too hard, and eat too infrequently. My lover always chides me for not taking care of my body. But it's served me well, and it's resilient and easy to move about. And though it's got its fair share of scars, and two replaced canines in my upper jaw, I rather think it's fetching. My lover, Kit, agrees with this, bless him. He loves my black fur, too, and the strength of my legs, and the reach of my arms, to put it politely.

I let go of the balcony railing, and touch down beside Eugene. With considerably less flourish, I show him the ring I carry on my left paw, an identical ruby to his, as a means of verifying my identity. One can never be too safe these days.

With his uniform, expensive shoes and juvenile sense of panache, he stands out here in a way even I couldn't do, and it seems he enjoys it, too.

"Were you followed?" he asks me.

"What a simple-minded question," I answer him. "You didn't even know where I was."

He cuffs me. "No lip, fox. I'm in charge."

"Curse you, hound," I mutter, straightening the fur on my head. "No, of course I wasn't followed. Did anyone follow you?"

"Where ever I go, I keep an entourage of willing women at my heels."

I shake my head. "And are you followed right now?"

"Am I followed?" he says, self-satisfaction thick in his voice. "The great Eugene Raine, esquire-"

"Is not your real name."

"-The one with a thousand faces? He who could be a banker, or a tanner, or farmer of the fields, sowing his seed in countless furrows-"

"I'll take that as a no?"

"Let me finish, fox," he says unperturbed. "-The greatest infiltrator of all... followed in his own home town? Was I followed? Who are you to question my skills? Who are you to-"

"If you shut up now, I'll buy you a drink when we're done," I grumble, aware that I have drawn the short straw on this mission by a long shot. It's not like I wasn't given a briefing of who to expect. I was told this Eugene Raine comes with something of a reputation attached. I'm just staggered His Grace hasn't weeded it out yet.

"Keep your meagre charity," Eugene says, rather too loud for my liking. "I know your kind has it tough."

"I can afford wine," I say. "Let's just get this over with, alright?"

Mr. Raine, restraining himself several degrees, positions himself in front of the insurance company's front doors, looking in all his regalia like someone demoted a field marshal to guard duty. I step behind him, and go to work on the lock. A single barrel affair, which suggest to me that we'll not find anything valuable in here.

"You brought all the tools?" I ask. "I haven't got much more than the conventional ones. So if you want information from someone, there's only so much I can do."

"I raided his Grace's storerooms," he responds, pulling out something that looks like a broad set of augers, after they've made rough and rusty love to a sanatorium head brace.

"Gods, what is that thing?"

"A convincer."

"Let's hope they talk," I mumble, letting my good ear perk as I hear the satisfying clack of the door lock. "What do you use it for?"

"Convincing people, I presume," Eugene says, in the unmistakeable voice of someone who has no idea. I can guess its use, looking at it, but I prefer not to think about it.

I slip inside first, making sure to see that the room is empty, before holding the door open for Eugene. He strolls in with confident steps which kick up dust all around us. Dust?

"Have these offices been closed for long?" I ask.

"I don't suppose they've ever been used for their intended purpose," Eugene says. "However, there should be traces of what we're looking for in here."

As the lead of our little group, he has been furnished with most of the important details, while I've been furnished with instructions to keep him alive. Usually, that's all I need really. I don't like having too much responsibility lean on my shoulders, especially when it comes to reading things or talking to people. Those things aren't my strong suit, in fact, they're played with a completely different deck to mine. I also don't like the idea of people trying to beat information out of me, because even the best man can crack. My job is to protect that information, I don't want to risk being responsible for revealing it.

The offices of Treviano and Iadanza Shipping-Brokering and Insurance are all but abandoned. Dust everywhere, scattered pages filled with writing, and chairs and desks which haven't been sat in for years. Towards the back of the first floor, Eugene identifies a staircase leading upwards. I follow him, confident that we won't run into anyone. That's what I initially think, judging from the stale, lifeless air in here. But then, I notice that there's quite a few sets of footprints on the staircase, which were not present at the door.

I sprint up the staircase chasing the footprints. But they're free of scent. Up top, Eugene makes a turn, swirling around the banister, leaving a pawprint in the dust. Whoever left those other prints weren't half as careless as him.

"Do you have to do that?" I ask him. "Moving so... obviously? You're not making it hard for people to find us."

"I don't suppose I do," he answers with annoying confidence.

"Then why are you doing it?" I ask, half jogging behind with needlessly silent footsteps.

"I have no inclination to not do it," he responds. "I don't hide in the shadows like some coward. I'm here to do a job."

"What of the people who have been here before us?" I ask "What do you think their jobs are?"

"Insurance and shipping brokering, I believe."

"I.. I- What?" I stutter, exasperated. "Eugene, listen." I jog up ahead of him, and place myself in his path. "My orders are to keep you alive. I don't know what your orders are. Frankly, I don't care. But I'm telling you now, what you're doing is unnecessarily risky. Step lighter. Don't touch so many things. And look." I point at the footprints in the dust, which lead towards the very same door we were heading towards.

The greyhound, a whole head taller than me, glances at the door, then at the footprints. Then he scowls at me.

"You presume too much," Eugene says with a scoff. "What does your snout tell you?"

"What it tells me doesn't matter. There are many ways to hide a scent. Footprints lead into that room. Recent footprints."

"Do you suppose there are someone beyond that door?" Eugene asks, loudly. "Are you simple minded?"

I stop, jaw threatening to slack.

"What?"

"Thought so. Whoever has the intellect to mask their scent would be capable of hiding their footsteps. The obvious nature of these signs tells of their dishonesty. Its but a ruse to frighten less experienced operators away."

"Don't-"

"If you're not going to provide more useful information, then I invite you to stand to one side, and let the expert do what I came here for."

Eugene shoves me aside, and steps towards the door. Before I can gather myself and pull out my lock picks, he's rapped on the door with the hilt of his sword. When no answer comes, he simply kicks the door open. There's a force in that kick which momentarily suggests that his medals stem from real military service, Though I suspect the rusty hinges and flimsy doorframe flatters his strength.

As the door flies open, a cloud of dust is kicked up, and providence guides most of that cloud into my nose and eyes. As I cough, I hear the clack, hiss and loud explosion of a firearm, then the crashing of glass and a ricocheting ball, and then a thump. Then a voice. The voice is not Eugene's.

I rush into the room, draw my sword and look around, but my eyes are all teary from the dust. I find Eugene sprawled on the floor, a smoking hole through the double breast in his coat. Then I feel my head wrench forward, and the world goes black.

My head rattles as I wake, the sound of rusty hinges turning and a heavy door slamming. Feels like someone's dragging steel chains through my skull. My whole body feels heavy. I don't even attempt to move, trying anything at this stage is fruitless.

It's all par for the course.

I've been knocked out, and from experience, I'm lucky to be this sapient. It's not my first time. I've seen people knocked out, people I have knocked out, who woke up permanently damaged in the head. The fact that I have all my faculties is a good thought to have, as I open my eyes. The room spins, but I can tell I'm no longer in the dusty offices. Gone is the dusty plank floor, the desks and papers. Gone are whoever attacked us. Gone is Eugene, naturally. Because it looks, for all intents and purposes, as if I'm in some kind of prison.

Again, it's not my first time.

The smell puts me off. These are not the castle dungeons. Of course they can't be, I work for the castle, for Christ' sake. Someone would've noticed. And it doesn't smell like the mossy, peaty aroma of Prison Blackstone or the sewer-like Veritas Ward where they put the loopy ones, or any of the other prisons I've had the occasions to visit.

I'm some place I've never been.

I wish I could say more, but save for the stones in the wall, roof and floor, there's nothing to see. Not even a window or grating. It takes me a few moments to realise that there's even a door here. I'm leaning on it.

I get up, and am rewarded by the yank of a short chain attached to a collar around my neck, driven into the floor in the middle of the room. It's about three feet long, which should give you an idea of the size of the room because it still allows me leeway enough to reach every part of my cell unhindered.

And there's no bucket. Fuck, this one's going to be unpleasant.

As I mentioned, I've spent my fair share of time in jail, during various missions. And before I was a semi-regular visitor to prisons and dungeons, I was a slave in a Castellanian colony, which is also why I speak that language and not Dalmatia's, yet. I've seen worse than this. This is familiar above anything; a tiresome routine.

On one occasion, I was actually captured and put in the brig of a ship going south, down the Dalmatian coast to Helenia. That ship--they were pirates--got intercepted, and I was freed by some Castellanian third rate, whose captain had connections to people I knew. That was a two month stay, and the most unpleasant one to date. But even there, I had a bucket.

I get up, and stand as straight as I can on my short chain, while I fumble around my clothes for any of my possessions. My sword, knife and array of sharp throwing darts, they've taken from me. They've taken my ring, and my silver bracelet and chain. They've taken my spats, for some reason, and my coat and cape. But they've left me my belt. Amateurs.

The collar around my neck is fastened with a simple padlock, which would be easy to unlock, had I had my lockpick kit. It's rusted besides, looks like a crowbar might do the job. In fact, this cellar doesn't suggest to me to be part of a greater dungeon. It's a feeling you get when you've been in a lot of them, I suppose.

I can't believe they got the jump on us, whoever they are. Dumb, bloody arrogant dog. Dead, arrogant dog. And I failed in my task. But not for lack of trying.

Eugene must have been one of the remnants of the Duke's Coltellos from the old days, before this crisis with Castellania. He can't have had much training, or he'd be here now, sharing this cell with me. On second thought, I'm not so upset about it, really.

I count something like four hours out, second by second, sharpening all my claws on the stone floor as I do. Then, the door shifts and creaks, and I jerk to attention. Scrabbling towards the opposite wall, I face the door, putting on a tired expression as if I'd just woken up.

The door swings inward, and two figures blot out the sharp lantern light behind them. The light flickers as the door opens, and stings my night-adjusted eyes painfully. From the smell, I can tell that my captors are mustelids. Ferrets, to be exact. One is leaner than the other, but they're both armoured in boiled leather and steel, and they've both got short gladius-type swords strapped to their sides. Perfect for fighting in narrow hallways and tight spaces.

"Good evening, fox," one of them grunts, before throwing half a load of bread my way.

"Who are you?" I bark. "Who do you work for?"

The pair exchange some snatches of dialogue in dalmatian, but with a rougher accent than I'm used to hearing. I struggle to understand it, even more so than I struggle to keep up when native dalmatians speak. I catch the word "capo" in there, but the other responds to that with a very dismissive tone. So there's a boss included in the picture, at least.

"Tell me!" I demand. "Or else it'll go badly for you. Who's your boss?"

But there's two of them, and I don't expect either to feel threatened by me. The black mask on the lanky one shifts into a mischievous expression, and he hands the keys to his partner, while stepping closer to me.

"Tough guy, eh?" he rumbles, and before I can respond, he sends a kick my way that I barely avoid. The chain yanks me back however, and his next kick doesn't miss. I groan, and double over. The next kick connects right under my left shoulder, knocking me over on my back. He sends another one, straight into my nuts. I struggle for breath while the ferret laughs.

"Not so tough now?" he says, nodding to his partner. "Looks not so tough, eh?"

"I'll show you tough," I mutter. The pain makes me nauseous.

"Oh, he's got some left in him," the ferret who attacked me says.

"Come on," the other guard grumbles, "we have a game of Briškula to continue, which you're losing."

"Quiet now, Fido," the first guard grumbles. "Let me work him a bit. I haven't beaten a fox in forever, I just wanna see this one squirm a little."

"Marcel... There will be plenty of time for that. But the game is only for tonight. I won't bring my deck the next time if you're going to be like that."

The ferret who kicked me groans, but eventually follows his partner outside. They close the door behind them, leaving me less bruised than I could be, but with a loaf of bread to keep me for whenever I regain my appetite.

The next few days are much the same. A loaf of bread and some water in a small bowl. I pay for my boons with kicks to the stomach, punches, and humiliating treatment from the ferret known as Marcel. Fido, the other one, who usually holds the lantern, would rather just get back to his gambling I suspect, because he's the one who keeps pulling Marcel away from the fun he's clearly having with me.

The two always visit together. I'm going to suspect, because it's usually the case, that rumours of the rare and dangerous black fox have reached their ears as well. In Dalmatia, rumours abound like nowhere else, and there's a certain delight in the populous to theorize about what the Duke of Dalmatia does with his time, and who all the strange characters in his retinue are. A fair few of us are recognizable enough that we cannot escape these rumours, but Duke Reis thinks it prudent to let them propagate. Fear, he believes, is as good an incentive as any.

It's not very helpful right here and now, where that fear has sured up any hole in the guards' routines. But I can tell that I've spent more time in prisons than they have. I am not put off by any intimidation tactic, no matter how uncomfortable.

One day, when Marcel comes in, and he goes straight for my crotch, I roll away instead.

"Come now, ferret," I say. "All you need to do is ask, and I'll let you have my tail."

"You filthy-" He hits me across my muzzle with a heavy gloved paw. "Disgusting, black coated kuvasz."

He kicks me again.

"Kuvasz? I have a friend of that breed!" My fake laugh is as convincing as my real one, when I'm struggling for breath. "You don't like men like he does? Why, I'm sorry, sir. I was so confused. What is Fido to you, then, if not the one who holds you down every night after you're done with me?"

"š __ta je bog te posra?" he growls, clenching his fist. "Dalmatia... _ to je što je._" He kicks me in the nuts again, and my vision blurs from a mix of pain and tears.

It's working wonderfully.

Living in Dalmatia comes with a few lesser known perks. To my fellow citizens, I'm the mysterious black fox, sometimes seen in close contact with representatives of the royal family. I'm a bit scary, a person whom you really don't want in your establishment but you don't really dare keeping him out. To everyone outside that nation, however, I am what Dalmatia is to them. Liberal. Free-thinking to the point of anarchistic. Emotional. Dramatic. Godless. And very deviant in sexual matters. This can be used in my favour as a shortcut through conversations. Dalmatia is currently at the forefront of artistic and philosophical thinking, and it's the only country I know of where I can love another man and not be hanged for it. That gets on certain people's nerves, and Marcel is definitely certain people.

I start egging him on more. Every time he thinks he's done with me, I spit out blood and give him a curse, a slight or another reference to the sexual preferences of me towards him, his colleague, his prospective or non-existent wife, his father and mother, and the farmyard animals they kept for good measure. It's working. He's getting frustrated. His kicks and punches are harder. But he restrains himself because, I can guess, that he's been told to keep me alive. Marcel, it seems to me, is a ferret who prides himself in his work. Clearly, he feels he's not putting in enough effort. I give him a few inches every now and then, to let him feel that he's cracking me, if only he had tried a little harder. But I always let Fido drag him out of that cell by the end, winking at them as that door shuts.

Then, one day, the ferrets are accompanied by a third individual. The thoroughly messed up facial structure tells me he's a pure-bred dog.

"Who are you?" I demand, earning myself a swift kick from Marcel.

"Mind your tongue, fox," my ferret friend growls, spitting at me.

The dog with the wonky face snickers. His snout is almost buried in folds of skin and fur, and his ears are tiny and probably rubbish. His most prominent feature, his eyes, put me in mind of one of those things at the fish market that they sometimes dredge up from the deeper parts of the medimare.

"You won't know me, fox, but I certainly know you."

I spit at his feet, blood from my split lip spattering against the sole of his neat, polished boots. The dog didn't budge.

"Enlighten me," he says, in an annoyingly steady tone. "You've come into the offices of my firm, looking for something your dead friend didn't find. What did you look for?"

"You should know better than to ask me," I answer cryptically. "Every question paints you as guilty." It's exactly the answer Marcel is looking for. His boot hits my brow, sending me reeling against the wall but not doing much in the way of damage. I can tell that he meant to aim for my snout, and nailing my head with his toe has caused him not inconsiderable pain, which I know he's blaming me for.

"I asked a pretty clear question, fox," the dog says, his voice somewhat wheezy. "You'll tell me what you were looking for, and who knows about you. I can readily guess who sent you, but I need to know what they know. If you tell me, I might let you live."

"An iron." I groan.

"An iron?"

"You know what I mean. You put coals into it, and then washer women use it."

"I know what a bloody iron is, fox. What is the meaning of your answer?"

"It was meant to be a gift."

The dog only nods to Marcel, who takes great pleasure in having his leash slackened a little more. He beats me like he's never beaten me before. But I stick it out.

"Explain yourself," he growls as he punches me, again and again, until I can only lie in a heap on the floor.

"We figured you could use it," I wheeze, "To straighten out the creases in that joke you call a face. Sir."

The dog's wide muzzle turns down in a scowl.

"Is that the best you can do, fox?"

"I'd ask your wife that, if I were in your shoes."

Marcel moves to beat me some more, but the dog stops him. I can tell that the ferret lets the joke get to him more than the dog does, and he's just itching to draw blood.

"Do you want to spend your life down here, like this?" he asks. "Do you want to spend every day in agony, eating stale leftovers and rolling in your filth, when just an utterance could release you?"

"I'm a fox," I tell him. "You know I'm not very bright."

The dog rolls his eyes.

"You'll break, eventually. You haven't found your limit yet, that's all. Marcel. Lock him up without food tonight."

The ferret grins, brandishing his keys as they exit my cell. I'll admit, that one hurts a little. Kit prefers my body not only whole, but also with a bit of padding. Padding is also nice to sleep on, and I am, in fact, not very happy with my accommodations here in that regard.

I let this run for another couple of days. The dog doesn't return. But Marcel does. He's taking this very personal, while Fido, with his lantern stand by with less and less conviction. Perhaps he's starting to realise, as Marcel certainly does, that there's no need to keep two grown guardsmen on this passive, helpless, scrawny fox. Hopefully, he realises this very soon, because I'm pissing blood, I've got a nasty cough coming in, and one of Marcel's kicks have cracked a rib. I'm not sure how much more I can take of this.