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The Gallant Endeavour Tym Greene June 2012-March 2013

I was home, that day, when Hubert returned from the morning patrol. Though I had at first tried to make light of it, I knew I had to tell him the truth.

"The smithy is closed," I finally said, laying down the sheet I had been trying to fold. "The manufakturen--the new ones--they say they're making us craftsmen obsolete."

"But I thought," protested my beloved, removing his cap, "they could only do cheap rough work--cast iron stoves and pans?"

"The old ones, yes." I paused, reflecting. The steam-driven, workerless manufakturen had been heralded as the harbingers of a new era of wealth and plenty. That future was harder to see now that the rhetoric had faded. "But these new ones...I've heard they use difference engines to run, now."

"Surely they cannot--"

"Reproduce the work of a master craftsman? Hubert, the flask I gave you three years ago?" It had been a birthday present, chased silver, with entwined wheat stalks, surrounding his favourite Psalm. It had taken me four days to make. He pulled it out of his uniform's breast pocket. I could hear the slosh of the brandy he kept, "to warm blood and cool nerves."

"You know I cherish it, Tobias."

"They can do work like that--I've seen it--and faster, and the same every time." I pounded the sheet for emphasis, hurting my knuckles on the table underneath. I tried not to wince. "So I have no job. I've been replaced by automatons and cogs."

He must have seen my shoulders slump, for he put his arm around them (despite being almost half a meter shorter than me). "Darling, it will be alright. You're a skilled man, and by far the best silver smith I've ever seen."

"Thank you," I said, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "That means a lot."

We undressed after that. It had been too long since we had had time together like this, utterly at leisure for the evening, and we made the most of it. I fairly carried my little police fox to our bed, where I ran my fingers over his body as though for the first time.

But when I dipped down to lip at his shaft, he pushed me over, protesting: "No. Not yet." He crawled over beside me, hot breath on my sheath.

He coaxed me out, seeming to marvel at my size as he always did--though I'm hardly well-endowed, especially for a horse. It is a fact of which I am grateful, as it makes me a more convenient mouthful. I reached down, gripping his ears like an automobile's yoke, and wondered if the other officers knew, or cared, what their colleague did at night. I had considered inviting one or two over for dinner. Perhaps more than dinner. I had never had the courage to ask Hubert, though.

Once he had me up and hard, he pushed me over again. When I turned to look, I was presented with a rare sight: Hubert, on all fours, tail lifted invitingly. Cupping my fingers around his soft cream-colored sac, I asked, "are you sure?"

"Quite sure, Tobias. I want to make you feel better."

It did not. Lying in bed, a quarter of an hour later, both of us were thoroughly spent. He was resting, muzzy in post-orgasmic satiety, while I watched the foamy sweat drying on my belly. It had been nice, but couldn't have lasted forever. It couldn't last at all. I had twelve marks in my pocket, wherever my trousers had ended up. Twelve marks of severance pay for a decade's work. Barely two days' wages. It would not last.

---

I did not see much of him after that. Not knowing how long it would take to find other employment, Hubert had spoken to his captain the very next day, and started pulling double shifts immediately.

"We're very lucky," he said before falling asleep that night. "Johan--the wolf on the night shift, you remember? He was chasing down a thief, a gypsy hare, and got bitten in the struggle. As it turns out, the hare had rabies, so now Johan does too. He's in the hospital now, and I was able to take his shift." He yawned, and I watched his tongue curling up as it always did, revealing immaculate white teeth. Then, when he rolled over and let me wrap my arms around him, he added: "I feel sorry for his wife and pups, though. The whole department is praying for them. We should too."

Despite the additional hours, however, money was still tight: it would be at least two weeks before Hubert would receive a single pfennig for the extra hours he was working. So I sat on our bed, listening to my stomach rumbling. There was no food in the house, nor money to buy it with. A few days of even the most frugal living had whittled away at the twelve marks, and it would be as many days before Hubert got his wages.

And so I sat. I had scoured our flat and found almost nothing of value. We had not been in the habit of accumulating possessions, nor would our small suite of rooms have had the space for valuable trinkets. I knew what I had to do, but that did not make it any easier. It was this, or starve. I almost preferred the latter.

I had to pawn my tools and the small ingot of silver I had kept, just in case. Like every craftsman of my generation, and all those who had come before, my tools were my own--no matter where I worked, or for whom. They were as much mine as the knowledge in my head and the experience in my muscles.

And then I thought of Hubert. I could already see the toll eighteen hour days were taking on him. The thought of his limp whiskers and lank fur--more brown than russet now, from dust and sweat and lack of care--was enough to stand me up and walk me to my box.

Crafted by a cabinetmaker in exchange for a set of elaborate drawer pulls, it was to be a showcase of my skill. Silver plaques, engraved by me, proclaimed:

-- Tobias of Gartenau -- -- Master Silver Smith -- apprenticed under Georges LeNotre

The box had other inset plaques, displaying figures, patterns, monograms, and popular sayings. My eye fell on one in particular: "It's often darkest before the dawn." I had chased the Egyptian-style letters, strong and sturdy, beneath a sun, bursting through clouds; it was my family's particular charge. I held my box and remembered the planning I had put into it, thinking that by placing the symbol of my family at the front, above the clasp, they would overlook my actions and bring me luck. It did not seem to be working.

Within the box were, nested in purple velvet niches, all the tools of my trade. Several had been made by my father, or his father, but most were of my own design and manufacture. I shut the lid. It had to be done.

I put on a clean shirt, a thin black tie, and my new apron. Thirty marks I won't see again, I thought bitterly; I should not have bought it, especially not with how slow work had been getting. And four days later the smithy had closed. But I had to look my best, trustworthy, professional. I even went so far as to give my hooves a buffing, before closing the latch on my box, lifting it by its strap, and locking our door as I headed downstairs.

The Belgian-run confectionaire which rented the on the ground floor of our building smelled as delicious as it always did. And, as always, I was severely tempted to purchase even a single piece of sea salt dark chocolate or fruited truffle to nibble while I walked. That day, however, I did not even allow myself the luxury of a glance through the plate glass windows, or a sniff at the open door.

I marched stalwartly onward, eschewing hansom and omnibus alike. The former because I could hardly afford the two-mark ride (no matter how handsome the drayman pulling it might be), and the latter because I could not justify patronizing--no matter how paltry the sum--the sort of steam-powered automaton that had stolen my livelihood. I walked, therefore, halfway across Gartenau, thankful for the mild March chill that kept the snowdrifts crisp but did not promise more.

The city seemed as lively as ever, but as I walked I could see the differences. Fewer draymen were in evidence, for a start, the horses who had moved the traffic of the city with the strength of their backs. There were more beggars too, and more men standing idly by, looking hungry as jackals.

I crossed Huf Straße and left the more prosperous commercial district for seedier environs. My destination would not be in the "proper" part of town. The idlers had changed, now wearing--men and women alike--fancier garments. Though on a second glance, I noticed that the clothes were old, dowdy pieces in last year's fashion, re-cut to reveal what was legal to reveal, and accentuate what must remain covered. A too-lean fox saw my gaze and sidled up to me. He gave me a winning smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"I could use a strong man right now. You look plenty strong, handsome." He glanced--too obviously--at the front of my apron. "And I bet you could use a light little 'snack,'" he struck a sultry pose, "to sate your appetites and not fill you up too much. Only two marks for half an hour."

"No." I turned away, barely managing to toss a "no, thank you" over my shoulder as I rounded the corner. The kit could hardly have been over fifteen, and yet he was selling himself on the streets. Hubert had told me about such children: abandoned or sold by families who didn't care, they sold themselves again and again, as often as possible. Then they gave most of that black money to pimps and procuresses, who provided only the bare essentials in return.

Apart from a few thin-stretched charity organizations, there was no help for them. That's what Hubert had said, at least.

A few more streets and I was beneath the three gold-ish balls of Josef Issacson's shop. The polar bear looked up at me as the door dingled open. "Hello," he said in a thick Nordic accent. "Can I help you?"

"Yes..." I hesitated, glancing around the shop, seeing boxes and crates and canvas rolls lining the shelves, along with gleaming brass musical instruments dangling from the ceiling. "I was told that you deal in tradesmen's tools?"

"Yes, I do. What do you have for me?"

"This is only temporary, you understand. Just for two weeks, maybe three."

"Of course. It always is." His voice was deep, his tones rough, "What do you have?"

I placed my own box on the counter and spun it to face him. "My work," I said, tapping the metal insets. At his nod, I opened it, revealing the racks and trays of implements. Lifting them out, I arranged them on the counter, then pulled the silver ingot from its hidden compartment. I placed this with the rest, and watched as Issacson surveyed my offering, scratching his chin with a massive hand, and muttering to himself in his native tongue.

"I give you...fifty. You buy back before three weeks with seventy-five. Do you agree?" He held out his hand, gold rings glinting amid white fur and black pads. His thick dark claws were ominous.

Now it was my turn to calculate. Fifty marks would keep us for three weeks, especially as frugally as we had been living of late. The box--though priceless to me--was probably worth two hundred and fifty, maybe three hundred marks. Fifty marks was an insult, but we would barely be able to afford the seventy-five to buy it back. I had no choice. I shook his hand and watched as he filled out the ticket. I would have three weeks. If I couldn't buy it back by then, I would never be able to.

Going home, I wanted so much to surprise Hubert with a fancy meal, or even a few chocolates. I resisted the temptation, and only bought what meager food we would need in the coming week: a loaf of bread (day-old at half the price), a sausage, two cabbages, and three pounds of raw oats. I couldn't help but buy a single rose with the few pfennigs I had in my apron pocket.

I would make a stew as my grandmother had done in lean times. A quarter of a cabbage, added each day, as thin a slice of sausage as you could manage, and water and oats enough to keep it going. A low fire under the pot, and any scraps you could find to add in, and you had a meal that would keep a family alive. Just barely alive.

So, once home, I started the stew to simmering, tidied up our rooms, and place the rose and remaining marks on the table. Hubert would be home soon.

He was flabbergasted, especially when I told him how I had gotten it. The next few weeks went well enough, so much so that we still had almost ten marks left when Hubert and I began to get his extra wages, so I was able to buy back my box from Issacson with several days to spare. The extra money that Hubert was bringing home did help--indeed, if we hadn't been saving up to buy back my box, we would have been back to much the same level of income we had had when i had been employed.

I hated it. Hubert was either working or sleeping, which left me alone all day, brooding and waiting for him to come home and collapse. Sex had been out of the question for days now: Hubert was bone-weary, and i was in no state for courting of any sort.

A deep melancholy had begun to creep over me since that first day when I woke up and realized that I did not need to don my apron and trot the few streets to the foundry. Not even the successful return of my box from the claws of Issacson could cheer my gloom.

I did quite a lot of sitting, those first few weeks. Sitting at home, staring at the wall; sitting in the straße, envying the people, bustling about on their own business; sitting on the front steps of my old smithy, which had lain vacant since that fateful day. A sore rump and sour stomach were the only fruits of my vigils--with one exception.

On a sonntag after all but the most zealous churches had let their flocks out upon the world, I was sitting on a park bench, head-in-hands.

"Mama, why is that man crying?" asked a soft voice on the path before me. I half-considered raising my head to protest, but couldn't muster the strength even for that. So I sat, slumped over as they discussed me.

"These are hard times, little Maj. We're lucky your father invested so well."

"Is that why we thank God in church for the manny-"

"Manufakturen," the child's mother corrected. "Yes, and that is why we are going to the dressmaker's now. You're growing so big."

"Mama," she said after a moment's thought, "I'm gonna give him my toffee-money. Would God like that?"

I realized then that my cap had fallen off, and was lying upside-down in the dust between my hooves, like a busker's bowl. Even as I watched, a tiny white-gloved hand appeared, and dropped three pfennings into it.

"I think he just might," the mother was saying. "You're such a good calf, Maj. What would you say if--after the dressmaker's--I bought you some toffee, as a reward for being so generous?"

"Oh, Mama!"

I looked up, watching the fat-bustled cow and her well-fed, well-bred offspring as they walked down the path. I wanted to leap up, to shout and fling their charity in their faces. The ache in my hands made me glance down: I had been gripping the boards of the bench so heavily that my hooves had splintered the wood.

I was not normally a violent man, and not one to show so obviously the strength of my breed and profession. It terrified me, seeing those depressions in the wood.

No one seemed to be watching, so I bent, picked up my cap (ignoring the clink of the coins), and strolled out of the park as nonchalantly as I could. The coins jingled like Judas' purse as I walked.

---

Eventually the ache in my hocks brought me back to myself. A yellow fog had begun to settle over the streets, colored by the gas lamps still used in the seedier parts of the city.

My face felt cold and I realized, on examining my reflection in a storefront window, that I was weeping. Judging by the silvery tracks drawn through the hair on my cheeks, I had been for some time.

With a heavy sigh, I slumped against the window, dragging a sleeve across my face and making the coins in my cap jingle.

A chill ran through me, though from the fog or the thoughts that plagued me then, I knew not. Seeing the sign hanging above me, I made a decision: I deserved something. Something--I justified to myself--to warm my bones.

I stepped into the liquor shop, glancing up at the arranged bottles of spirits. In addition to the "toffee-money," I also had a few hellers in my pocket--money from a lunch I hadn't had the stomach to buy.

I had just enough to get a bottle of the cheapest schnapps, its harsh taste masked somewhat by peppermint oil. The otter behind the counter had huffed through his bushy whiskers as I placed the bottle and money before him. Clearly he made the same assumption about me that the calf in the park had. I didn't care. Not one whit.

So I took my alcohol and left the store, taking a good long draft as soon as I was back on the street. The schnapps stung my mouth, and burned its cold fire all the way down my throat. I coughed and spluttered, thankful that the thick fog would mask me from the few other people on the street: I felt like a colt, taking his first drink from his father's stein.

The second sip went down easier. I was no great drinker ordinarily, but already I felt better, like how I had felt after a long shift at the forge, when I was finally able to set down my hammer for the day.

As I walked and drank, I suddenly felt so good that I could hardly keep from prancing down the street, singing as I went:

For I'm called Little Buttercup--dear Little Buttercup, Though I could never tell why, But still I'm called Buttercup--poor Little Buttercup, Sweet Little Buttercup I!

I've treacle and toffee, I've tea and I've coffee, Soft tommy and succulent chops; I've chickens and ponies, and pretty polonies, and excellent peppermint schnapps!

---

I woke with a start, to see the wood of our table swaying in front of my muzzle. I managed to swallow down the bile that suddenly crowded the back of my throat, and looked up into Hubert's eyes. I couldn't place his expression, so I opened my mouth to ask, and belched right in his face.

"Oh God," I whispered, clutching my muzzle in both hands, feeling suddenly very green.

Hubert, meanwhile, was spluttering, waving his cap at the air in front of him. "What is wrong with you, Tobias?"

I stared at him, feeling the whickering laugh bubbling up from somewhere in my belly. I slapped the table and guffawed, despite my still-queasy stomach: "Y-your face! Th' look on your face..." I devolved into helpless, breathless laughter then, slumping back onto the table. My cheek slid into a pool of my own drool, which only drove me further into hilarity.

"Stop it!" Hubert was shouting at me, his voice unusually brittle. "Tobias...Tobias you're drunk. Please stop it."

I managed to reign myself in, digging my hooftips into my palm to help shake off the wool clouding my head. "Huber'...wha' time 's it?" I slurred, my tongue feeling thick.

"It's nearly five. In the morning." He yawned, despite his frustration. "I just finished my second shift, and had hoped to find you in bed still...and here you are, drunk, muddy, and drooling. Tobias, what happened to the horse I fell in love with?"

I slouched back in my chair at that. Arrayed before me was the proof of his accusation: the smeared puddle of slobber, the empty bottle of schnapps, and two other bottles. I realized with horror that I had also drunk the medicinal alcohol we kept for emergencies, and drained the ornate vial of elderflower liqueur that Hubert had been saving. Small wonder that my stomach felt inside-out.

"Oh, Hubert," I sniffed, feeling my eyes sting. "I-I'm sorry. I...I-"

He slumped into the chair across from me, eyes hidden by the paw massaging the bridge of his narrow, aristocratic snout. "You what?" He sounded as tired as he looked. "What have you been doing all day? Our neighbors, downstairs, said that you had been dancing through the streets, singing some stupid barroom song. That's not like you; that's not like you at all."

I could remember the singing, the silly, frivolous lyrics; the lilting tune; could feel my hooves tapping out threes and fours, even then. It wouldn't do to tell him why...to burden him with the pain I felt. So I tried to change the subject. "It was from HMS Pinafore," I protested quietly. "You remember, when they had translated it into German, and we went to see it at the National Theatre..."

"That was five years ago."

I sat up straight, feeling the disappointment pouring from his down-cast face, and tried to ignore the headache and the tears tickling my chin. "It won't happen again."

"You haven't answered my question. I thought you were going to look for a new position. I thought you said you were one of the best silver smiths in the city, that it would be a matter of days....Look, I'm exhausted. I've been on patrol for the past 16 hours. I need to sleep."

I was only too glad to follow him to the bedroom, to help him peel off his uniform, to massage some of the knots from his shoulders. But once we were in bed, he rolled over, presenting his lean backside. His tail was tucked tight over his rump, closing me off as readily as a locked door or a trundle board. I was not forgiven.

---

I woke the next day to a cold and empty bed.

Ever-punctual, ever-disciplined, he had arisen, washed, dressed, and left. And I had slumbered through it all, sleeping off my hangover like some ancient hedonist. Judging by the angle of the light streaming through our small bedroom's little windows, it must be almost supper time: I had wasted the whole day!

Knowing that I only had an hour, maybe two, before the shops and businesses started closing up for the day--the respectable ones, anyways--I threw myself out of bed. The currying brush ripped at the snarls in my hide, but it couldn't be helped; no one would hire me if I looked like I had slept on a doorstep.

So I brushed out the tangles and dried mud, donned my un-used apron, and carried my box downstairs. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by déjà vu and had to forcibly remind myself that I was not going back to Issacson's pawn shop.

I will admit, the thought was tempting: I could sell my box--for scrap metal if necessary--and get a job as a drayman. Then I could work hard, just like Hubert, come home every day sore, exhausted. Maybe then he would forgive me. There would always be work for draymen, pulling carts, carriages, trolleys.... And then I stepped out onto the street.

There were beggars now, even here in our respectable neighborhood. They were cleaner, I noticed, than those you'd find in other parts of the city, and lacked the obvious signs of desperation. Most of them were horses too, thick-muscled men with the tree-trunk legs and barrel chests (and cannonball rumps straining their breeches) that came from a lifetime of pulling other people through the streets. Any one of them was easily twice my size, despite my own arduous occupation.

As I watched, the draymen turned as one to watch something appearing up the street. At the same time a rattling, hissing, rumble became audible. Soon an automaton-driven omnibus drove down the street, its posted fare now half the price it would have been just a month ago. Even I could have afforded to use it.

No. My masochistic fantasy was just that--a fantasy. If the manly specimens of horseflesh loitering across the street from our flat couldn't obtain work in their own professions, there was no way I could even hope to. Besides, I would not have been happy as a drayman. Already my hands itched for a hammer, a chisel, a tricky bit of engraving to work out.

With a start, I realized the answer: the newspapers! I hadn't bought one in years, but I knew that someone had to do all that engraving. It would be a hard, detail-oriented job, but I wouldn't shirk from a little work. How could I, when I had been without it for more than a month.

Even as I ran down the street, that thought threatened to bring me to a halt. It really had been only two months. The fact that already I had grown used to sleeping a few hours extra every morning--and puttering around the house naked--did not bear thinking about further. I had once been better than this. If I ever wanted to return to a normal, productive life, I would need to be.

I had by now reached the offices of das Signalhorn, the city's main newspaper. Even from the straße I could hear the rumble of their great presses churning out the day's last edition. The building itself was uninspired; the only ornament on the dull gray-green walls was a series of plaster swags under the roof line, making the edifice look like a spoiled, halffrosted, wedding cake. Still, I needed a job--and my old forge's structure had been no great thing of beauty either--so I stepped up to the door.

The entry hall was as drab as the exterior, with a staircase spiraling up out of the middle of the space, under which huddled the receptionist's desk. Doors and uncomfortable-looking chairs were situated about the perimeter.

"Tradesman's entrance is around the back," came a bored voice from the stairwell. ?"Excuse me?" I looked up and saw a pretty but sour-faced young lady--a deer--descending the stairs. She was clutching a sheaf of papers to her starched shirtwaist as she repeated herself, speaking slowly.

"The tradesman's entrance is in the rear, sir."

"Oh." I had nearly forgotten what I was wearing: at first glance I would look like an average laborer and not the craftsman I prided myself on being. "No, Ma'am-"

"Miss," she corrected, not looking up from her papers.

"My apologies. I only meant, Miss, that I was here to obtain a position as engraver," I added, lifting my box for emphasis.

The doe looked at me thoughtfully, then swiveled in her chair to face a bank of disks mounted under the staircase's sweeping spiral. She selected one and pulled it out from amongst its brethren. She flipped the end open and put it to her lips, speaking into the tube briefly.

Replacing the tube, she turned to me. "I doubt we have any positions, but our publisher, Herr Drucker, said he would see you--if he has time. Sit there." She gestured with a dainty hand at the chairs ringing the entry hall.

And so I waited, trying not to fidget. Though she made a fine front of ignoring my presence, I could tell that she was still watching me. Twice while I waited our eyes met. Both times, I was the one who looked away first.

As I sat, I could feel a snarl in the hide on my left hip, catching on the waist of my trousers. It was all I could do to keep from scratching, to try and untangle it. The nagging tug of it nearly drove me to distraction: in that silent room, empty of any noise apart from the doe's papers and frosty glances, it was all I had to focus on.

After an interminable wait--which, given the lateness of the hour, was probably only fifteen minutes or so--a soft whistling broke the silence. The receptionist swiveled in her chair again, and withdrew the same speaking tube, uncovering the end and causing the whistling to cease. She lifted the tube to her ear.

Nodding, she replaced the tube, put the whistle-generating cover back in place, and turned to me. "Herr Drucker will see you now. You will have five minutes. Do not waste his time."

I leapt to my hooves, sighing with relief, but came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. "Excuse me, Miss, but which room am I to go to?"

She looked at me as though genuinely surprised at my question. "It's the door at the top, with his name on it."

I mounted the stairs, and sure enough there was a door right at the top, imposing and dark, with gilt letters spelling out the publisher's name. I knocked and a cheerful voice bellowed out: "Come in!"

Sitting behind an equally impressive desk--with chased silver corner caps, I noticed--was a burly brown bear, thicker by far than the rangy Issacson. His red velvet waistcoat strained as he leaned forward and extended his arm. His sleeves were pushed all the way up, above his biceps. As I shook his paw, I could feel my back starting to lather up in the heat of his windowless office; it was also, I realized, well-insulated from the bedlam of the presses.

"Well, lad, what can I do for you? Genevieve says you want a job, graven-ing our images, eh?" He chuckled at his own pun.

"Yes sir," I laughed along with him.

"We would need good craftsmanship, and fast results. Do you have any references, examples of your work?"

In answer, I smiled proudly and lifted my box up onto the green baize atop his desk. It felt good to see the eyes widen behind his pince-nez spectacles.

"That's very fine, lad, and all with photogravure?" He asked as he examined it.

I hadn't heard the word before, but didn't like the sound of it. Trying to keep my ears from canting back, I replied: "No, sir. Those were all sketched and etched by hand, by me," I added, just in case.

"Ah." That one syllable told me I would have no luck there that night. "And you've no experience with photogravure?"

"No, sir. I don't even know what it is."

"I barely do myself," he admitted, laughing bitterly, trying to lighten my growing dread. "The engraver uses photography and acid to etch an image on a printing plate. No chisels, no shavings, just science. We even have a little automaton that does most of the work for us.

"I'm sorry lad, but you've come a decade too late. I can't think of a single printer in town who still engraves by hand."

He stood, my box looking so small between his massive paws. "Thank you for your time, Herr Drucker. I'm sorry..."

"I'm sorry too, son. These are hard times, for all of us. Good luck with your hunt--I hope you find employment soon."

The sincerity in his gruff voice nearly made me lose my fragile composure. "Thank you, sir." I managed to croak as I slipped out of his office. I descended the stairs and was through the door without even a glance at Miss Genevieve, lest I see the smug smirk I was expecting.

---

I didn't notice until I got home: the publisher's claws had left grooves and scratches in the plates on either side of the box. I wanted to weep. I knew I could fix it, but only partly, and at risk of damaging the surrounding linework. No, it was better to leave it...or start over.

I crumpled to the floor then, knowing that it was hopeless. I had no job in metalworking. Without a job, I had no access to a forge; without a forge, I couldn't re-make the plates on my box. And without re-making the plates, I couldn't get a job. The claw marks would have to remain.

It was late by then--I hadn't exactly been running back home--too late to try anywhere else that night. There was nothing for it but to sleep and try again in the morning, but not on the floor. I stood, stiffly: my body ached as it hadn't since father had last beaten me for "being a willful colt."

A deep sigh racked my body then. He had been a good father, and I missed him greatly. As I lumbered into the bedroom, I couldn't help but wonder if I would have even been in this predicament, were he still alive. Then wishful imagining was quashed by cold rationality. His small family-run smithy would have been forced to close, surely as any other foundry unable to afford the latest automata.

I would probably be even worse off then: I wouldn't have met Hubert.

As I stripped down, my fingers brushed against my sheath, the smooth grey velvet of its skin warm in the chill air of our flat. I had by then lost track of how long it had been since I last touched myself, let alone enjoyed any carnality. It couldn't have been since the night I came home from my job for the last time.

When I realized that the hair on my hip was still tangled, the frustration and self-pity finally overwhelmed me. Laying in bed, I began to weep.

---

I had a very strange dream that night, strange too in that I can still remember most of it. I was lying on a bed, naked, waiting for something. A door opened that I hadn't seen, and Hubert walked in. I knew it was him, even though he was a vague shape, built more like my father. As I watched, the Hubert-horse approached me, stroking his member.

He stepped into the light, and I could see that he held neither a fox's cock nor a horse's, but rather a sharp burin. The hands that held it, stroked it--making it flop as though it were flesh and blood--were also cold and hard, the grasping metal fingers I had seen in images of the manufakturen. The creature before me was no man, but a living automaton. And yet I opened myself to it, welcoming it into my body, sliding that chisel up under my tail.

I woke to find Hubert--the real Hubert--nestled behind me, like spoons. His member was tucked up between my buttocks. I loved him more than I ever had before. Grinding my hips backwards against his elicited a happy grown and a stiffening of his cock. I would, I realized with a new sense of determination, be better: a better man, a better boyfriend.

I must have dozed off again, because the next time my eyes opened, the ceiling and far wall were bright with the morning light coming in from behind me, warming the sheets where Hubert had been. As I shifted, I could feel that my rump was sticky, starting to crust over: the smell of fox, always noticeable in our flat, was now quite potent.

I sighed wistfully, wishing I could have been awake to help him, or at least to watch him. I loved watching his tail twitch and toes curl. I'd always envied his toes, and loved the way they would playfully grip my fingers when I rubbed his paws after a long day's patrol. I hadn't done that in what seemed like years.

I wrapped my arms around his pillow, holding it as tightly as I wished I could hold him. Our lives had changed drastically, and neither of us had noticed it. The degradation had begun, I realized then, long before my smithy had closed.

Perhaps that was why neither of us had seen it: it was too slow, gradual, insidious. As we struggled to compete against the burgeoning manufakturen, my brother smiths and I had had to turn out more pieces, in the same time and for the same pay--that is, until the orders had stopped coming in.

Hubert, I realized, must have had it harder. His shifts and patrols had grown longer, as had the paperwork he rarely complained about. He rarely complained about anything, and I had for the most part ignored the strain he tried to leave at the police station. Metal--especially silver--behaves the way you expect it to. No matter how bad things may have been outside, in one's own smithy a burin of this shape, hammered in this direction with so much force will always make that cut. Not so with people.

Every day, on my short walk to and from my forge, I had noticed--and ignored--the changing mien of the city around me. He was forced to confront it, every day. Vagrants and farmers, who came here to find work, now without hope or scruples. Workingmen, like me, laid off, angry and idle, causing trouble out of sheer mischievousness. And then there were those who had fallen so far, who were so desperate to survive, that they had sold all they had, including themselves.

Hubert had to interact with them all, now moreso than ever. Thinking of his sacrifice, I clutched the pillow harder, feeling my eyes sting. Then I heard one of the seams pop. I gasped, and released my grip: the pillow was caved in at the middle, leaking a few broken feathers onto my thigh. At that moment, I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh at the dumb absurdity of it--had I just been deflowered by a rooster?--or to cry in frustration at another failure.

Instead I rose, fetched my small sewing box, and repaired the pillow. I may not have been much of a hausfrau, but my mother had taught me enough to be a little self-sufficient.

Today will be different, I thought. Today, I will go and get a job. I didn't know that I was wrong: I wouldn't get any work that day, nor for the two days after.

That first night, as I massaged my sore hocks, I thought back over the day's results. I had started by going to the finest silversmiths in town--more than half of which had already closed. Most of the rest were letting their workers go. But those few I had been able to secure an interview with had all seemed to be saying the same thing: while my box was an "impressive catalogue" of the techniques I had at my disposal, they wanted something more...tangible. They wanted to see what my work looked like on an actual object, something that could be sold to a customer.

This had discouraged me, and--even as I shook hands and thanked them for their time--I was wondering where I could possibly find one of my pieces. Back in those days, all the work we did was commissioned, so every spoon and plaque and flask I had made was owned by someone, or melted back down into ingots. I tried not to think of that. The only record of which customer had ordered which piece would have been...

And then I realized: not every item was lost to the whims of commerce. Three years before, I had hammered, formed, and engraved a flask. I had then given it to my fox.

Once home, I collected pen, ink, and a scrap of paper. Writing in the elaborate script that was now my normal handwriting--the result of a lifetime of decorating honorary plaques and commemorative chalices--I penned a brief note, asking him if I could borrow the flask. I made no mention of the brandy it contained, now the only alcohol we possessed, in the hope that he wouldn't think to object.

I placed the note on his bedside table, where he was sure to see it. Every night (or morning now, thanks to his double shift) before climbing into bed, he would wind his father's watch and place it there. I couldn't help but smile, as I climbed into bed myself, thinking of how dependable he always was.

---

The next morning, the note was gone. In its place, gleaming in the light of dawn, was the flask. It was, I noticed as I slipped it into my apron pocket, still full.

The flask did not help, however. As I cast my search farther and farther afield, few of the city's old smithies had remained in business. Gone it seemed were the days when Gartenau was famous for its silver--just as was Wessexshire for its wool, or Neuchâtel its timepieces. One such venerable foundry had survived by turning itself to producing piecework for the manufakturen. It was mind-numbing labor, churning out the same parts for hours on end, for long days and low pay. Still, I stood in line for the better part of a day in a desultory drizzle, trying to get even that job.

As I waited, I looked at the men around me: my competitors, I realized. They tended towards burliness; even working in silver requires a certain degree of strength. While I recognized a few, some even from my old job, most were strangers. We were silent, the rain and the knowledge that we could not all be hired keeping every man in a stoical silence.

Behind me was a massive bull. By his build and the rusty stains on his apron, I could tell that he had been an iron-worker. He had wished me luck good-naturedly--a sentiment I returned in kind--as he took his place behind me. The accent of his resonant contrabass voice was not of the city. I wanted to ask him why he had left the farmlands; they surely must still have had need of blacksmiths, of horseshoes?

As I thought that, I glanced down, tapping my hoof in a puddle. I had heard rumors that they were developing farming automatons too. I snorted derisively: it would never happen. Why, the image of a farmer in harness, plowing his own fields, was practically a national icon.

My snort startled the man in front of me, who turned around. Hardly a man: the colt likely had yet to reach his second decade, and had probably been an apprentice. Seeing the scared eyes and flared nostrils I couldn't help but pity the lad. Apprenticeship was supposed to be a time of security in a tradesman's life, where he could focus solely on learning his craft, when his only worry should have been pleasing his master. But when not even your master has work....

Before I could say anything, though, there was a ripple in the line of applicants, and a reedy voice rose above the patter of the rain: "Attention please, gentlemen."

Peering to one side, I could see that a fox in a cravat and an olive-green suit had stepped through the smithy's door. He held up both paws, a slash of white shirt cuff revealed below each dark-furred wrist.

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry. All available positions have been filled. We appreciate your time."

Not waiting to hear anything more, the colt whipped around in front of me. As he started to run down the street, I thought I saw tears glinting in his sunken eyes. It was probably just the rain.

The rest of the men disappeared almost as quickly: there was no sense standing in line and probably catching consumption for a job that didn't exist. And a bad job at that. I freely admit, a part of me was relieved that I was not one of the "lucky few." It seemed a soul-killing place, and I knew I could do better. Or could have done, a few years ago. Now everything was uncertain.

That was the closest I came to employment for a while. I even tried going back to some of the first smithies I had tried, but they refused to give me a second chance. One even had me "escorted" off the premises by a pot-bellied Alsatian guard.

After that, I nearly gave up on finding employment in my trade. It seemed that all of winter had swept in that week, blowing dead leaves into sodden piles that glistened with frost each morning. It was hard to resist taking a draft from the flask, just to bring a little warmth back to my bones. But with each step, as I felt it jostle and slosh in my apron pocket, I reminded myself of the look that had contorted Hubert's face that night. I could not disappoint him again.

So it was with some hesitation that I approached a pawn shop--not Issacson's--one sleety morning. I snuck in the shop door, the bell too cold to do more than clatter disconsolately, and tried not to drip on the displays. Despite my attempts to control it, my body spasmed as a clump of frozen rain slipped from the brim of my father's old wool hat and past my up-turned collar.

Through it all, the matronly nanny goat behind the counter stared at me. I didn't meet her eerie yellow eyes as I stepped closer. I had never felt comfortable around caprans, probably because of their race's pungent smell, and the inscrutable way their horizontal pupils seemed to stare right through you. I squared my shoulders, however, and tried for my best smile. "Good morning, madam."

"Good morning," she replied with that chilly false warmth I had been experiencing from shopkeepers and merchants for a while: the tension between scorn at my increasingly-desperate appearance and the need for customers of any sort. These were, it seemed, hard times for all of us. I pawned the flask, getting barely a fifth of its worth. Imagine my anxiety as she turned it around, inspecting its every surface, with the click of her hooves and the slosh of the brandy the only sounds above the background hiss of the sleeting rain.

It was a desperate move, I knew, but I hadn't eaten since the day before, and it would be another three days before Hubert got paid. We both needed food--and he never would need to know that I had pawned the flask. I don't know which would have disappointed him more: finding out that I had pawned it, or finding out that I had drunk it dry instead.

---

With food in my belly and enough coin in my pocket for several days' provisions, things didn't feel quite so bleak. Even the weather had lightened to a gentle, snow-like mist--cold, but not so insidious. The temperature had the added benefit of keeping down any offensive odors. My search for employment had by that point led me beyond the well-off areas of town, through the respectable trade districts, and even up to the grubby half-slums that had sprung up beside the massive fortresses of the manufakturen. There was no work to be had there, either, not for someone without the small size and nimble fingers of a pup. I had reached the docks by then, where strong backs had always been welcomed.

It was also where the effluvium of the city emptied--like the rest of Gartenau's products--into the Salzach River, to be carried eventually out to sea. As I swallowed the last bite of my wurstemmel I stopped and watched the river swirling against the wooden bridge's pier below me. A glint of light had caught my eye: the gleaming scales of a fish head. It had gotten caught with a half-burned doll--a fox in a once-blue skirt--in the same slow eddy. I watched, tasting the dry roll and oily sausage I had just eaten, as they danced a slow minuet.

Before I knew it, I had grabbed the wood of the railing with booth hands and was bellowing into the fog-shrouded night air. It had been a primal, bestial, wordless yell. I knew my eyes must have been wild and my nostrils flared. Returning to myself, I glanced hurriedly about: I was alone on the bridge, and nothing moved on the banks on either side of the ice-clogged stream, one of the Salzach's tributaries. My ears flicked beneath my hat. I could still hear faint echoes of my shout bouncing back from the unseen walls around me.

I took a breath, feeling my heart thumping in my quivering chest. I had to lean forward against the rail again, catching my breath, the eddy below me now mercifully empty.

But, once I could think again, I wondered at my lack of control. It hadn't been the fish head, nor the doll, nor the frozen yellowish foam floating between them. There was nothing in that swirling morass to have touched off such a powder keg within me.

I moved to push myself off of the railing where I had been leaning, suddenly grinning at a random thought: my grandmother would have said that my outburst had been caused by too much yellow bile. I certainly felt choleric, with the stress of my current jobless position. And then I heard the pop.

At first, I thought that it was a gunshot, off in the night, and my mind flashed with the vision of Hubert besieged by ruffians with pistols. But when another pop--this time the definite sound of wood splintering--rang out, directly below me, I knew what was really happening. Weakened by age, and wear, and weather, and now by my own weight, the wooden bridge's railing was giving out.

My stomach lurched and I again tasted my cheap dinner. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of the dim lamplight glinting off the corner of my box--I'd set it down to look over the railing, I realized with a sense of relief. Then I hit the water, almost flat on my back. I couldn't tell you which was worse: the hard smack that drove the air from my lungs, or the cold water that kept me from drawing breath anew.

It almost felt like I was outside myself, watching as my body floated, for an instant, and then sank. My cap stayed on the surface, and my apron fluttered up as I drifted under. Even from such a great distance, I could feel the water tightening cold bands around my body's chest.

And then my eyes flew open: above me floated bubbles barely discernible in the underwater darkness, faint glimmers sparking off their edges. No longer was I a detached viewer of my body's demise. I had to fight.

Hooves are no good for swimming. My father had once taken the family to Lake Wolfgang for a summer holiday, one rare prosperous year. He had shown me then how to fill my belly with air--his chest and gut swelling out as he demonstrated, taking long deep breaths--to keep afloat, while he flailed his arms and legs around, providing more splash than motion. My father was only graceful when there was hot metal before him. We tended to stay in the shallows, pushing off the bottom, gliding around slowly. A practice that is utterly useless when one is drowning.

Then something brushed against my shoe. I could feel the clink of metal on stone through water and bone: I had touched the tributary's bottom. I could sense it dragging across both hooves now, the current pulling me out to the river itself. If I didn't surface before then, I'd be done for, if not sooner. Already my lungs burned and I had to fight to keep my lips sealed against the icy water pressing in.

I let the current push me down, squatting with both hooves hovering above the rocky bottom, and then leapt. Or tried to: with all of my clothes dragging in the water and my strength flagging, the best I could manage was a weak push upwards. It was enough, though, and soon I felt the cold air on my fingers.

I slammed my hands down on the surface, managing to pull my head out of the water. The air crackled in my lungs, stinging and biting and welcome. I sucked down big gulps, feeling myself growing buoyant, despite my sodden clothes. Frosty wind slipped under my plastered-down mane, making my scalp prickle with the chill. My father's cap was gone.

So too was the bridge. I had been carried further towards the Salzach, and was even then floating closer to the tributary's mouth. I struck out, flapping my arms, trying to swim towards the nearer bank. As I approached, I could see a staircase notched into the stone wall holding back the embankment. I managed to snag the bottom step with the tip of my fingers--for a second I thought I'd slip on the iced algae coating the granite, but I managed to heft myself up onto the slick surface. I huddled there, one leg still dragging in the water. The fear of death was fading, and I realized just how cold it actually was.

By the time I had made my way back to the bridge, I was shivering uncontrollably. My clothes were stiff with frost, and my ears were beginning to go numb at the tips. My box was still sitting where I had left it. As I brushed the splinters of railing off the top of it, I said a prayer of thanks, as best as I could through my chattering teeth. The walk from the river steps back to the bridge had been a frozen hell of gnawing worry--not only the fear that I wouldn't be able to find the bridge at all, but also that I would find the bridge empty.

Soaked, shivering, and weakened with relief and the knowledge that I had almost drowned, I hefted my box and started to work my way back to our flat. I rounded a corner and was pushed back by a sudden gust of wind, squinting to keep gritty snowflakes from blinding me.

Barely thinking by that point, I saw the glow of a red lantern a few buildings ahead of me. Sanctuary. It seemed like a blizzard was swirling around me, forcing me to lean forward to make any headway.

After what seemed an eternity of struggling, I had finally reached the ruby-lit doorway. Slumping against the leeward doorpost, I knocked frantically on the enameled wood as snow began to pile up around my hooves.

---

Smooth muslin sheets were tangled around my legs when next I opened my eyes. I was staring up at a white-washed ceiling with thick beams spanning its length, and was completely nude under the sheets and counterpane.

I tried to sit up, but a strong paw held me back. "You almost died on my doorstep," said a throaty baritone that emanated from a massive dirndl-covered bosom, which hove into view above me. "I have no wish for a frozen tradesman to scare off customers."

I rankled at that slight, and opened my mouth to speak, when the same paw descended to clamp--gently, but inflexible--around my muzzle.

"Hush."

Once I stopped trying to speak, the paw withdrew, allowing me to turn to the side and view my benefactor. Sitting beside me was a St. Bernhardshund, easily ten or twenty centimeters taller than I, had we both been standing. Her thick winter dirndl of rich red wool emphasized her ample figure, with gold embroidery catching the firelight. Her apron, I noticed, was knotted on her right side, indicating that she was married, but no band adorned her finger--metallurgists pay attention to such things.

I did not see anyone else in my limited field of vision, but around me were the sounds of a crackling fireplace, the storm beating on the shuttered casement, and the rustle of a large household hushed by the weather. "Who are you?" I asked.

A hearty laugh was her response. "No, I imagine you wouldn't know me," she glanced over at where my apron and clothes were dripping by the fire. "There is no way you could have afforded our...wares."

That pause set my mane on edge. I had a growing suspicion, especially when she leaned forward and a gold pendant of St. Nicholas swung out from between her breasts.

"My name is Frau Hübsch, and you are now a guest of the Gallant Endeavour."

I had to stifle a gasp. The bed in which I had slept (after God knows how many other men and women) belonged to one of the most infamous houses of ill repute in all of Austria. I stuttered, trying to cover my sudden disgust. "T-thank you for saving my life, Ma'am."

"It's what any good Christian would have done," she said unironically as she fingered her pendant, with its engraved image of the patron saint of prostitutes. Changing the subject, she mentioned that I now owed her the going rate for one night's use of a room--less any "companionship fee," naturally. A year ago, it would have amounted to a day's wages: a steep price, but manageable, and certainly more than I would have elected to spend, given the choice.

Now, however, the amount would be ruinous. Perhaps, if I pooled our remaining funds, and if we could do without food for a few days, perhaps then I would have enough. Or I could try and barter her down to an amount I could actually afford, unlikely as that might be. "I can't pay that much, Ma'am. I don't wish to seem ungrateful, but perhaps we could come to some kind of agreement?" It is hard to bargain effectively while one is lying naked in a bed that is not one's own.

"I'm sure you can find the funds--you wouldn't want it to be put about town that you had an outstanding debt here, of all places. You must have a relative you could borrow such a small sum from discreetly, or perhaps an advance on your wages..."

I wanted to pull the bedclothes over my head, hiding like a child would. Instead, I turned to face her. "I have no wages. I was out looking for work when I...fell in the river, and then got caught by the storm. I have no way to pay you back--not in the amount you require, anyway."

She sat back, a hand to her white-furred chin. I watched as her gaze drifted from me, to my clothes, and finally to my box, sitting in a corner, just within my own sight. "I'd imagine I could take that and sell it for scrap. I don't know why you were lugging it around like that. You know, I had to pry it out of your fingers when we brought you in-"

I could stand no more of it. I flung back the bedclothes and sat up, full of indignant admonishments. But the sudden rise left me light-headed, and I swooned back onto the pillows. "Please, don't," I managed weakly. "If I lose my box, I'll have lost any chance at being hired. It's the only proof of my work that I have left."

"Oh, you did that?" I could see her eyes gleaming with new interest, as her tongue flicked daintily out to dampen her nose. "You must be fairly well-read to have known those emblems and quotations--I even had to look a few of them up myself. Pity I've no use for a pewtersmith..." I resisted the urge to correct her. "Still, I'm afraid our prices are inflexible. We have college deans and high-ranking members of the clergy among our clientele, and they get no special treatment...when it comes to their bill, at least. I run a respectable business."

I almost laughed aloud at that despite my predicament; respectable, indeed. "Please, Frau Hübsch, I beg you to reconsider--would you beggar me after having saved my life? I am grateful, but I need to consider my own livelihood. I'm willing to do whatever is necessary; perhaps we can come to an agreement? Every month, I could pay you..." I checked my headlong rush when I realized that I might as well have been speaking to myself. The St. Bernard procuress was sitting, chin in hand, looking up and down my exposed body. I felt like nothing so much as a carcass in a butcher's shop. Thinking back on it, I'm certain that some part of me knew what was to come.

"Are you familiar with mythology--Anglo-Saxon, not that Greek stuff--Wodanaz and Wurdiz, the dwergaz and albaz? It's all very much in vogue nowadays. I noticed that you had a Mjollnir on that box of yours."

There was, of course, no such thing as a mythical hammer engraved on my box. I suspected she had mistook an anchor (intended to represent strength and constancy) for Thor's hammer. I did not have any opportunity to correct her, intent as she was on her own train of reasoning.

"It could work," she was saying. Suddenly, she focused full on me. "You said you would do anything to pay your debt, so long as you did not endanger your...career. Is that right?" I nodded. "Excellent. Now, rest up, we can start tomorrow with your training; it won't take long."

Flustered, I finally caught up (if only partially) with the torrent of her words. "But I can't stay here, Hubert must surely be worried."

"Who is Hubert?"

"He's my beau," I said softly, uncertain how she would react. I had of course heard stories of the Gallant Endeavour's "wares," but Frau Hübsch seemed a woman of strong opinions.

"You prefer the company of other men, do you? No interest in a pretty filly, or an experienced mare, eh?" I shook my head, not a little surprised by her forwardness. "Well, that's not so bad as all that. And, in bed, with your Hubert, are you the husband or the wife?"

I stared at her hungrily leering visage, which had the odd effect of transforming her matronly figure and traditional dress into something downright lewd. In that moment, she reminded me of the lusty barmaid I had seen once, smirking out of a book of racy woodcuts. I was so taken aback, in fact, that I answered candidly. "He usually mounts me, because I am too big for his liking."

"So I can imagine," She said, eyes fastened on my very limp sheath as she licked her chops. "Good. Men pay more for rarities. And we will make you quite rare indeed." She bade me rest, then.

---

I slept but fitfully, my troubled mind not eased by the storm's continued bluster. I had at first tried persuading Frau Hübsch to let me write Hubert a letter, so he would not worry to find our home empty. Pulling aside the thick brocade curtains, she had gestured out at the storm: no one would be out in weather like that; even the police would have hunkered down in some safe warm place. He had slept at the station on nights like this before.

And still I worried.

I woke when Frau Hübsch once more threw open the curtains, this time flooding the room with the bright white light one only finds on a morning after the city has been draped with an unsullied blanket of snow. It hurt my eyes.

"Ah, good," she exclaimed. "I see you are up already." Following her gaze, I glanced down, and immediately blanched. My rebellious member--despite the worries that had kept me tossing for most of the night--had latched onto some thread of a dream to hoist itself up to a moderate stiffness, presenting my benefactress with the view of a miniature mountain of bedclothes. She approached the bed, a gleam in her dark brown eyes making her look for all the world like a mountaineer preparing for the climb. I tried to back away, but fetched up against the sturdy headboard. Kneeling on the bed beside me, she flung the covers aside.

"Madam, please-" I tried to protest, but her soft hand on my flesh stalled all thought. This was not the firm clinical grip of my doctor, nor the half-afraid, half-worshipful caress of Hubert. These were the hands of an expert, knowing just where to touch, pull, or stroke to elicit the desired response. I was in the hands of a master of flesh, just as I was a master of sliver. I swelled to my full length: a respectable thirty centimeters of velvet grey, with just the odd pink splotch on shaft and head to add variety.

As the whole length unfurled, she proceeded to inspect every part, hefting my testes, examining my sheath. I found myself unable to resist her ministrations, not even when she lifted one of my legs (as though it weighed no more than a feather bolster) to prod beneath my tail. I will admit freely that it felt, on the whole, good.

And then the hands withdrew and my leg was allowed to fall back onto the bed. "Well," she commented, straightening her rumpled dirndl, "you seem healthy and responsive. Yes, you should do well."

Of course, I was still rather flabbergasted by my sudden arousal, and the just-as-sudden halt--especially so soon upon waking--so it took me a minute to retain control of my faculties. I could see that she had brought in a shaggy bundle, which lay on the stool she had been sitting on the night before. "I still don't understand what you expect of me."

"I'm offering to hire you; you were practically begging me for a job last night. Of course, we may need you to do the odd bit of heavy lifting--we tend to rearrange the furniture often, and you are stronger than any of the other boys."

"But what," I interrupted, "will I be doing?" I knew, well enough, what was going on; but still I could not let myself think the thought. "Am I to be some kind of porter?"

"No," she explained with exaggerated patience. "I am hiring you to be a paid companion, a consort, a prostitute. Honestly, I thought you were intelligent."

"But, madam, I...I have no experience! You can't force me to sell myself--"

Her anger was as frightening as it was swift. In a flash, her teeth were bared and her claws were digging into my shoulders as she pulled me to face her. "Look here, boy, it seems your body is the only thing you're willing to sell, and I am doing you a favor, hiring you like this. If I'd wanted a strong brute, I could have had my pick from hundreds of draymen. But I don't want an idiot in my employ. So you had best wise up, boy, and take what you're given." She released her grip, and I fell back onto the bed.

Her composure regained, she smiled, revealing far too many teeth. "So, Tobias, have I made myself clear?" I nodded, shaking worse than I had after my dunking in the river. "Good. Now that we've come to an understanding, we can proceed."

There followed a brief interlude in which she expertly quizzed me on my knowledge and experience of all things carnal. "Oils and clean hand towels are kept in the bed-side cupboards," she finished, "but you should always check before admitting a client."

She chuckled at a sudden remembrance. "He was only my second 'guest'--I was about half your age--and an archbishop too, if a bit elderly. We were less well-staffed in those days, and the previous client to use that room, an aristocratic donkey who had been feeling his oats from what I heard, had required the use of every single towel and most of the bedclothes to clean up his mess. It seems he was a bit tipsy too, and smeared things around somewhat.

"So when it came time to tidy up after my archbishop had had his way with me, there was nothing left in the room but my own costume. Though, of course, the smell of it when I returned to the foyer was so alluring that the next three gentlemen insisted on sharing my company at the same time." She smiled, almost abashedly, I thought. "Of course, I was in heat at the time. A pity, though. My archbishop died soon after: collapsed in a fit of apoplexy, right in the middle of his Aves."

She seemed lost in the midst of her reverie, and after the way she had lambasted me, I was loathe to interrupt her thoughts. But I had to ask. So, gesturing at the bundle she had brought, I inquired, "And that? Is that one of the towels?" If it was, it certainly looked well-used indeed: worn, scruffy, but at least it seemed clean.

"No, Tobias. That is to be your costume." She stood and unfurled the fabric. "I had told you my rooms were all themed. So, too, are my employees! You will be a fine Siegfried."

She had not told me about this arrangement--or if she had, it had been in the midst of one of her long-winded soliloquies. Nor had she needed to: I had heard rumors of what treats awaited those clients with bottomless purses and jaded palates. A room like a castle, where a guest could be heroic knight or rampaging dragon just as easily; a Roman banquet hall, filled with rare foods and rarer "slaves;" even a mock factory where courtesans masqueraded as the very automatons that had cost so many hard-working men their jobs.

I was to find out later that those tales were all--at one time or another--true, but that Frau Hübsch kept her rooms in an almost-constant state of flux. Her customers required and compensated her for this flexibility. I believe she also hungered after novelty herself. Perhaps that was partly why I had been hired.

She bade me dress, then, donning what turned out to be a tunic of shaggy wool, draped across one shoulder (and hemmed several inches too short in my opinion), and a pair of hempen buskins. I felt decidedly uncomfortable.

The costume was well-made, clean, and of good material, despite its intentionally-ragged appearance. And I will freely admit that the straps wrapped around my hocks felt nice. It was not the clothes themselves that unsettled me, but what they meant. That, and the occasional frosty draft between my thighs. I was in this, as surely as if I had signed a contract.

Which was the next thing she had me do. The wages were surprisingly good; Frau Hübsch, it seemed, had no cause to cheat her employees. I signed an agreement promising that I would hold secret any goings-on that I witnessed. At first I wondered what court would ever have taken the testimony of a prostitute, but soon realized my error: it was not Justice we would be called on to protect, but our clients, from scandal-mongering journalists and avaricious competitors. Most of our guests, I was to find out, operated under pseudonyms anyways.

We would work in shifts, like any other modern business--unless we were requested by special arrangement. And as I had my own flat already, I would not need to pay for room and board, a significant savings to one as desperate as I was. A part of me was actually starting to feel good about my new occupation.

She showed me what was to be my room, as well. It had been originally intended as a sort of wilderness room, with birch trunk pilasters and plaster boulders, for clients, she explained, who wanted to play at savages, or indulge in a Rousseauian ideal. A cleft anvil and wooden sword were all it took (barring a few runes painted on the rocks) to turn it into a fit setting for the Germanic mythological I was to play. Then she escorted me to the main lobby.

It was a large room in the style of a Roman temple, all white marble and gilt decoration, thanks to a judicious application of paint. Lounging about were the "boys and girls" of the afternoon shift, which I would be joining. They were a diverse assortment, their ages hard to determine--easily anywhere from 15 to 35--they were uniform in their leanness and languidity, if nothing else. Their races and costumes, however, were as wildly varied an assembly as I could have imagined.

Some only glanced up from their books and card games, but most at least graced me with wan greetings. The one vixen in the room eyed me hungrily, but it was a lithe zebra who leapt up to welcome me properly. He was dressed in a centurion's outfit, the leathern straps of his kilt falling even shorter on his thighs than did my own tunic. I gripped his outstretched hand, surprised at the tender lightness of his grip.

"Taj, help Tobias get ready," said Frau Hübsch. "The Professor will be here in an hour," and with that, she bustled through a door hidden behind a frescoed wall.

The zebra was still holding my hand, "Already have a date with the Professor, eh? She certainly isn't wasting time with you. I'm glad, too. I helped bring you in, and helped undress you. I think she's been waiting for someone to be a Siegfried: none of us could play the part."

Around the room, the other employees had returned to their diversions, with the exception of the vixen, who was fingering her purple kimono while she stared at me. Taj saw my gaze and pulled me back in the direction of what I had already begun to consider as my room. "Don't mind Elsinore. She's sick of playing 'la Japonaise'--even though she's requested more often than any of the rest of us. I think she was hoping Mother wouldn't have found a man like you and would have let her be an Amazon or Indian or somesuch."

"Who is this professor?" I asked as he pulled me through the door and into the little faux forest.

"Oh, he's a toothless old lion. I think he and Mother--Frau Hübsch, we all call her that--once had romantic entanglements. So now he gets a discounted use of the 'facilities' in exchange for his criticism of our more literary acts: like you. I heard he actually was a professor of Latin or Greek. He's very smart."

Together, we explored my room. The largest boulder turned out to be merely a façade for the bed--which was firm and sturdy--and one of the false tree trunks opened to reveal shelves of towels, bottles, and a few male implements of various sizes and races.

Holding up an equine shaft, Taj declared, "I have one just like this, mounted onto a sword hilt. You'd be surprised how many of our clients like to be 'impaled.'"

I stared at the cylinder of polished wood he held, so familiar and yet so foreign. "And I'm supposed to use that on the Professor?"

"Only if he wants you to, or if he wants to use it on you. Sometimes they just want to watch us..." he popped the end of it into his mouth, licking the carved details of the flared head with obvious relish. I glanced down, and sure enough, his Roman kilt was starting to rise with the enthusiasm of his attentions to the false shaft he held. His eyes were closed and his nostrils flared. Soon, though, he pulled the tool from his eager lips and wiped off the clinging drool. "Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin, placing it back on its shelf.

---

The Professor was punctual. I was sitting on the bed-boulder, toying with my prop sword when he entered. Potbelly and thinning mane aside, he cut a dashing figure. Switching his tail out of the way, he shut the door behind him, the lock giving a decisive click.

I stood, striking what I assumed was an heroic pose. "Hark, who goes there?" I queried, feeling not a little silly. "Be you Brunhilde or Fafnir? Come forth, that I may know if my hole-maker, my sword, shall taste blood today-" by this point the Professor had his hand to his mouth, stifling his laughter without much success.

"I'm sorry, lad. You're just so serious. Yes, the role does require a certain gravitas, but you're acting as though your life depended on it."

My pose had slumped by then. "It does."

"Oh?" He stepped closer, removing his waistcoat.

"If I don't impress you," I explained my dilemma in a fit of candidness. He was, by then, sitting on the rock-bed beside me. He placed a hand on my knee. I hadn't noticed when I sat down, but the tunic had hiked up, leaving my thighs bare and my genitals exposed. His touch was gentle--if not fatherly, then at least avuncular--and helped me to relax somewhat.

"I see," he said, slipping his other arm around my waist. His finger pads were soft (truly, the hands of a scholar) and warm against the slight chill pressing in from the storm outside. "And my earlier statement still holds. Get into the role, yes, but remember that you are meant to be an entertainer. People won't pay to be lectured at...believe me, I know. And talk to Frau Hübsch beforehand: she'll know what each john prefers. Use that to your advantage." His arms had pulled me closer, my head now resting in the crook of his neck while his hand worked its slow way up my thigh. "Work in a little sword play, a little word play; show off your assets--" A hand grabbed my arm, squeezing the bicep built up by my decades of metalworking. I flexed it, and had to smile at his gasp, the way the blunted claws dug gently under my hair, tracing the muscle. I didn't notice at first that his other hand had reached its goal and had begun caressing my sheath.

When I did feel it, my first instinct was to shie away, but his hand on my arm--claws no longer quite so gentle--kept me planted there, beside a lion who had started to purr. Of course, it could just as easily have been a growl, low and feral. I was afraid, then. One hears tales of prostitutes, found eviscerated and mangled, washed up on the riverbanks; and his rough tongue on my neck did not help assuage my misgivings.

I wanted desperately to protest, to push him aside and run for the door. But I knew that if I did (assuming I could even break out of his embrace) I would be done for. Probably not by the Professor himself, but just as certainly as if he ripped my throat out, then and there.

So I bit my lip and focused on the sensation of soft paw pads teasing the skin of my penis, drawing it further out. "That's what I like to see," the Professor rumbled, his voice husky. His hand gripped the base of my shaft, squeezing hard, trapping the blood there and making the skin gleam tight and dark. He held it an instant longer--and tighter--than I would have liked, then released it. "Well? I'm still dressed..." he chided.

It took me a moment to gather my wits, by which point he was starting to look impatient. So I leapt from the rock-bed and dropped to my knees before him, shuddering as my tunic's hem caught on my rigid shaft. With unsteady hands I traced along the folds of cloth at his knees, feeling the warmth of the legs beneath. As I worked my fingers up his trousers, I glanced up: the Professor's eyes were closed, and his mouth hung slack. When I reached his crotch--and the throbbing bulge thereat--his hand dropped onto my head.

"Get to it, boy. You know what to do."

I didn't, not really. But I had a fair idea of what he wanted, and I acted on that hunch. His belt flopped open to either side and a long moment of awkward fumbling resulted in his pants following suit. He wore, I was surprised to see, no drawers: laid bare was his stubby pink cock, gleaming against his creamy fur.

Tempted as I was to rush through and get things over with, I knew that my goal was to please the lion, no matter what. So I leaned in close, breathing deeply, watching his skin twitch and flutter as I exhaled, seeing the pulse in his member. The hand on my head began pushing down, so I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue. His shaft was salty, but not quite as boldly-flavored as Hubert's. As the lion's sheath met my lips, I couldn't help but think of my fox. When was the last time I had done this for him, helped him relax after a long and draining shift? Waves of guilt and regret washed over me as I bobbed on the lion's shaft.

Having had enough of this, he grabbed my ears and--steering me like a velocipede--pulled me off his cock, then directed my snout under his balls. Thankfully, he was clean. This was something I had never done before, but my lips and tongue seemed to know what they were about as I licked his hole, guided by the occasional murmur of "deeper" or "slower," and rewarded by the breathy "like that."

Of this attention too, he soon tired. He rolled to one side and stood, stepping out of his pants, but leaving his stockings and boots on, as well as his shirt. I had gotten up as well, uncertain as to what he wanted next.

My ears flicked back at his feral grin: "You liked that, didn't you, horse?" He dipped his chin to indicate my still-turgid member, pulsing under its drapery of tunic. I nodded meekly, uncertain if it were the act, or the taste, or the knowledge that I had so debased myself before (and beneath) a total stranger in a way that I never would have for Hubert. But before I could wonder any more, he leapt on me. Pulling me down to meet his face, he kissed me, with an adolescent's desperate enthusiasm. Licking the slobber from my snout, he shuddered, probably with the knowledge that he was licking his own tailhole, by proxy.

We stood there--me half-couched, him on tiptoe--for some seconds, until he gave me a push that left me sprawled on the bed, my cock swaying and exposed like a shipmast. With nimble feet and lashing tail, he stepped to the tree-trunk-cabinet--obviously well familiar with the topology of the room. He returned to the bed, his fingers already glistening with lubricant. Taking a deep breath, I prepared mentally, as I did whenever Hubert had had that same gleam in his eyes: I lifted my legs and loosed my hole, and tried to look alluring.

Imagine my surprise when the slick petrolatum-covered hand headed for my shaft instead. I couldn't contain the low moan, nor keep my hips from jerking up to meet his fist. This must have pleased him, for he bent round to kiss me again, nipping at my lips with his sharp teeth. I could taste a hint of blood when he withdrew again, but his hand upon my cock kept me from reacting as I normally might.

I licked my lips and watched as he clambered on top of me. He must have already applied the lubricant to himself, because when he straddled me and eased himself lower, my head popped right in. Unused as I was to it, the sensation of having my shaft so completely enveloped nearly made me come off then and there.

But he slapped his hand on my chest as he gritted his teeth and sank down further, and the cloying feel of petrolatum sticking to my hair brought me back to reality--for a time, at least. As in control then as he ever was that night, the Professor began to ride me like a cub on a hobby horse, leaving me to dig my fingers into the bedclothes and try not to buck him off. Soon he settled into a rhythm, pulling up so that the flared edges of my head tugged at the inside of his tailhole, then sinking down until our hips met. A sweet torment. I watched him this way for a few minutes, his screwed-shut eyes and lolling tongue, his mane and shirt all askew. It was almost pitiable, the way his paunch bounced and heaved with his panting breath, above his dripping, bobbing member.

Instead of allowing my own heat to be dampened by less than passionate thoughts, I let my mind wander. The lion atop me faded into the background somewhat as I pictured--as I usually did on my approach to climax--the men I had seen recently. The bulk of Issacson hove into view, as I imagined what he would look like unclothed; then the familiar forms of the draymen materialized, like copies of my own body, writ large. I kept myself from envisioning Hubert, however, perhaps because I didn't want to taint even the thought of him with the knowledge of how low I had sunk, or perhaps it was because I was afraid that the disapproval of his image would cause me to lose my resolve.

Instead, it was Taj whose form finally resolved before my inner eye. My cock stiffened within the lion as I remembered the zebra's lean and stripey form. He was built along the same lines of Hubert, but was younger and more energetic, where my fox was sedate. Frau Hübsch had not forbidden us from "practicing" with one another, as far as I knew. I suspected (and as it turned out, rightly so) that the little zebra would have much to teach me.

I pictured him as he had been earlier that day, a lean little centurion, likely only a hair over eighteen years old. As my eyes drifted closed, the Professor's tailhole became Taj's muzzle: licking, gripping, sucking, drawing me closer to the inevitable end.

From his perch atop me, the Professor growled, his body shuddering. He was close too, I could tell, and my own body reacted. Hips lifted to meet his. But in my mind, it was black and white hide, not tawny fur, that crouched at my groin. I recalled how eagerly (and easily) his lips had wrapped around the ersatz masculinity--how much more would he for a real man's member, and a fellow equine's as well?

And then, in my mind, those black eyes looked up at me, framed by the low hill of my belly and the silver visor of his helm. My untrained and ill-practiced body could not resist that last detail: snorting and moaning, I thrust up into the Professor, making him roar and dig his claws into my chest.

He shot his seed along my body, with a fair portion of it landing in my open mouth. I swallowed without tasting.

---

The Professor gave me what he jokingly called a passing grade, adding that "what he lacks in experience, he makes up for with his willingness to please." He added further that I would benefit from having other members of the staff instruct me in their particular specialities. And so my position at the Gallant Endeavour was made secure and official.

Given the relative lateness (a full two hours after the other members of the afternoon shift had departed), I was allowed to leave immediately after cleaning up. I donned my by-then quite dry clothes and collected my box. Seeing the ashes in the grate, however, gave me pause.

Ever since I had woken up in Frau Hübsch's bed I had been wondering what I could possibly tell Hubert. Being a policeman, there was no way he would approve of the Gallant Endeavour, let alone allow his own true love to work there. I liked it little more than he, but it had been the only position I could secure in all those months. I could not lose this job. I could not tell Hubert.

So I grabbed a hasty handful of soot and dusted it lightly on my shirt and sleeves and face before carrying my box out into the snowy white city.

As I walked, I allowed my story to crystallize in my head: I had found employ, but as a roustabout at the docks. Trapped as I had been by the storm, they had set me to shoveling coal. He would surely accept that, especially with the soot adorning my head and hands. I prayed that he wouldn't smell the sex, the scent of two men's sweat and seed. I had cleaned up as best I could, but his nose was always more adept than mine.

I stumbled on a muddy, snow-covered cobble then, and nearly dropped my box. There was quite a racket as the tools were jostled about inside. I clutched it to my chest and panted, waiting for my nerves to steady. It was then that I smelled the chocolatiers' shop: I was nearly home.

Leaping up the steps to our flat, I found the door locked, and the rooms empty and cold. I had time. Hubert wouldn't be home from his own shift for a few hours yet, and I suddenly realized just how hungry I was. As I secreted my box under our bed, I resolved to fix as good a dinner as I could for the both of us. And maybe he wouldn't see that I was lying to him.