Ishy was up before dawn, and already the day’s pickings were plentiful. Spotting a likely target in a quiet street, the long-tailed weasel hurried to the side of a young todd sprawled on the cobblestones. The fox might have been handsome, Ishy thought - pretty even, with a svelte figure and a well-brushed winter coat that was only slightly soiled by the sludge he’d fallen in. His looks had been ruined however, perhaps permanently, judging from his mashed muzzle and the purple swollen bruises around his eyes.
Ishy fished around the todd’s pockets. A purse of gilders, heavy and satisfying - Ishy estimated there were twenty coins at least, a foolish amount to be carrying when the shops would be closed for the holiday. He pocketed the purse quick. A silver pocketwatch - a few minutes slow, but of good make. Ishy recognised the clockmaker’s tell-tale style and mark. He stuffed that in his pocket just as fast.
A glint of gold caught Ishy’s eye. He scooped a gold tooth from the gutter, and into his pocket it went. The weasel looked around carefully between the cobblestones, finding a few other loose teeth - real ones. He could find a buyer for all of them. A thought occurred to Ishy. He checked one more time to make sure he was alone, then squatted close to the todd’s head. With one paw he pried the unconscious lad’s muzzle open. With the other, he reached for a tool in his pocket. He stopped when he caught sight of the fox’s remaining teeth. His lip curled in distaste. Chipped and rotten, most of them, and no more gold. Too much sugar in the todd’s diet.
Returning to the fox’s pockets, Ishy finally found his prize - what would really make the injured todd worth his time. He pulled out a nice new personalised cheque book with the fox's family coat of arms emblazoned on each slip of paper. He balanced it on the fox’s body, and took from his own pocket a trinket of his own - a
very expensive and fancy fountain pen that had an internal reservoir of ink. It was a true extravagance when most beasts wrote with quills or charcoal. Ishy wrote the cheque out to himself, for the amount of a hundred gilders - but left the cheque unsigned. Then, taking the chequebook and pen, he leaned back over the todd, and started patting the youth’s sore, bleeding face.
“Unggh… aaoooowwoowww…”
“
Oh you poor fellow,” Ishy said, knitting his brows into the most vague approximation of concern, though his voice sounded more weary than worried. “
Can you hear me?”
The todd squinted open one bleary eye, his lips drawing back in a pained snarl. “Aaaooowww… huuuur’s….”
Ishy nodded - he was a lot better at interpreting pained howls than he was the nuances of emotion. “
Yes, it seems somebeast hurt you. And robbed you. And took some of your teeth.”
“Muh 'eef?!”
“
Some of your teeth,” Ishy corrected a little snappily. He could hear yells, too close for comfort. He needed to get on with it. “
I can take you to Pyrostoat Hospital. I have a wagon I can put you on, and I’ll pull it fast, through the back alleys where you’ll be safe.”
“Oawww... ‘ank ‘oo…”
“
There is one thing preventing me from doing so right now, though,” Ishy cautioned, his muddy-green eyes cold and unsympathetic.
“…aahh… wo’?”
“
The free market,” Ishy said, holding up the cheque for the fox to see, and slipping the fountain pen into the youth’s paw.
Given the way the todd howled in agony, Ishy surmised he should have checked for broken fingers before doing that.
Once Ishy had guided the fox’s paw into a wobbly signature, the weasel was ready to move his new ‘patient’. With an over-the-shoulder sling that would have made any Bully Harbour Volunteer Firefighter proud, Ishy lifted the slight-framed fox easily, and headed for his wagon, which he’d parked nearby. The todd stared dumbly at the single-axle beast-pulled wagon, already occupied by two other finely-dressed, groaning beasts nursing their wounds. The wagon was painted white, with bold red lettering on the side. It was Ishy’s attempt at marketing, which somehow revealed more about his internal thought processes than most conversations with him would.
KITE’S PRIORITIE AMBULANCE SERVICE
We pick up injured beasts, and take them to the hospital!
Solid food and hard work had given Ishy strength and bulk enough to pull his wagon, even laden with three patients. It wasn’t long before he had dropped them off into the care of a very skeptical group of armed nurses at the hospital gates, just as he had promised. An agreement was an agreement - as far as Ishy was concerned, the signatures he had extracted from his vulnerable, desperate clients were binding. Never mind that he pocketed a nice pawful of gilders for each one - the hospital ran a kind of off-the-books bounty system on Beating Day, the fancier the victim the better. Gentlebeast patients paid more than paupers, but either was better than empty beds, as far as the hospital staff were concerned. If some Minister made a surprise inspection and saw the hospital wasn’t full, they might have their funding cut - a far worse option than incentivising beasts like Ishy.
Back on the road again, it wasn’t too long before the weasel’s ears pricked, and his long tail swished in anticipation. He heard a jill shouting for help from a nearby alley, then shouting, then a scuffle. Parking his wagon near the alley entrance, Ishy peeked around the corner. A gang of beaters piling onto one victim, though they seemed to be taking a 'Gates of a beating themselves. Above them, dangling from a stack of crates, a frightened young vixen. Ishy’s eyes narrowed, as he did the mental calculations.
If the gang won, he would have one, maybe two patients, who didn’t look very wealthy between them. Yet something was telling him that these gang members were not all true Slups roughs…
Ishy
sniffed. His nose quivered, and a deep frown of concentration wrote itself over his face. He smelled something that sent his mind reeling all the way back to a little perfume boutique in the Trenches, a place where he had regular business. Ishy happened to suffer almost intolerably from certain scents, so commissioned this boutique to make his custom perfume - L’Air pour Monsieur Kite, as the Alkamarian owner called it. It relied on precious ambergris - a material found only in the toothy whales that Ishy most liked to hunt.
The weasel’s powerful sense of smell had outdone the disguise of one of the gang of beaters. One of them was wearing an expensive, floral perfume that did not match their rough clothes. He was guessing it was the rat that seemed to be their leader - listening to the rat speak compared to the stoat, it was obvious he was trying and failing to put on a lower-class accent. Ishy surmised the rat was in fact a gentlebeast looking for some risky sport. He must have disguised himself as a common bruiser for the day, and joined up with this gang.
If Ishy entered the fray and knocked out the rat leader, he guessed the others would flee. Then, he could confirm his suspicions the rat had money, and do the whole ambulance extortion trick again. It was not a plan without risk… but Ishy didn’t work as both a whaler and a smuggler because of his love of the quiet life. Behind his bored expressions and plodding demeanour, the weasel was a born hunter.
Which he proved not a few seconds later, by bringing the blunt butt of his heavy harpoon down on the rat’s skull with a sonorous
thunk.
