Open The Docks Disturbance At The Docks

[Soren Selsenick]

Soren’s flint grey eyes met the Ironclaw’s unflinching, looking down at the extra coins. Deep down, he was tempted. Tempted to take the money and be quiet. Gates knows, he had done such many, many times before, especially during the Civil War where he had needed to feed his family and the salaries for the Fogeys were drained to pay for the actual fighting forces. But there was a twinge of...something...deep down as he looked at the extra gilders, then broke eye contact to look at his eager cadets, who all looked up him expectantly. He still remembered when it had been an honor to be a Fogey officer, how his boy wanted to be one when he grew up, aiming for heights that Soren knew he would never reach. There was a difference between taking the money to survive back then, and taking it now. His son could understand, and perhaps did, why his father had come home with more than his salary back then. But now, in this age of peace? While his salary was not spectacular, it was adequate. If he took those gilders now, it would make him...lesser...and if his boy ever found out it would...break him.

So he did something he knew would shock at least Jeshal and the performer. He handed two of the coins back to Pomodu, letting Jeshal keep the fourth one with an obligation, took the one coin, and took out a silver 25g piece and handed it to her. A fair fine, paid down exactly to what it was worth, and little more.

“All right, Ms. Pomodu, the fine of Mr. Quickwhistle has been paid off by you. He and the eminent Jeshal here should make sure you are all right, especially with the tour fee you just paid the latter. Have fun over at the Bilge. These two seem like they know the place quite well, and should head over there immediately.”

He then turned to Jeshal, eyes hard again, as if to say:

You get to keep that golden coin, but you are going to work for it. If I find out that the big red panda is hurt in any way or if any more nonsense occurs in my district, I will not be nearly as kind.

Giving them a nod, and Jeshal a formal salute, then turned and directed his small squad of Fogeys back to the office to address the terrified local citizens that the threat had been dealt with. Then, hopefully, he could finish the remaining time on his shift, and go back to his family. He suspected the Slups Squad Captain assigned to that particular area of it was not going to have a fun time, or even possibly the Sector Commander, but he had learned long ago to stick to his role.

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu's mouth fell open in confusion as the subject of rebate came up and was bandied about. Finally, one coin was accepted and change given, with another passing into the Ironclaw's namesake. Her eyes widened as the subject of a tour came up. "Di Metalu Ahmu Jesahalu gi've me a touh?" she exclaimed, her voice positively giddy with excitement. Her poofy tail generated enough gust as it started swinging that an unfortunate passerby at the next intersection was abruptly blown over and, a continent away, a small fishing village would be subjected to an unseasonable monsoon in twelve hours time.

She bounced in place, excitement unbound, and, in a moment of glee, grabbed up the Ironclaw himself in a hug. "Danuku danuku danuku!" she exclaimed, swinging him about.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano’s chest deflated with visible relief as the chief began counting coins back into Pomodu’s palm. At last, some justice in this absurd performance. His tail swayed once, the very image of dignified vindication.

And then the coin went to Jeshal. One hundred gilders. A single coin that shone like divine favor, passed into the claws of a ghost still dusted in stage powder and streaked with theatrical blood.

Ruffano’s brow twitched. His ears flicked. And then...

“Tour guide? No no no...you said guides!” he exclaimed, the word tripping off his tongue like an insult. “Plural! Two of us!”

He flung a paw dramatically between Jeshal and himself as though introducing cast mates in a traveling tragedy.

“I’ll grant you he’s got the flair, painted like an avant-garde mural and brooding like a dinner-theater Hamlet, but I contributed too!”

He stepped forward with a flourish, gesturing at the scuffed stones beneath their feet.

“I gave tension! I sold confusion! I even played foil to your hug entrance!”

He turned to Pomodu with the kind of earnest desperation only a performer out of work, or out of wine, could deliver.

“Jeshal got a hundred gilders. I got fined seventy-five. That leaves twenty-five unspoken-for.”

His eyes glimmered.

“Surely you wouldn’t rob a humble fox of his closing applause... paid in coin, of course?”

He gave a bow so slight it barely qualified as theatrical.