Private The Slups Safety is a Seller's Market

[Aloysius 'Ishy' Kite]

((Continued from here!))

They left behind the frying pan, and two sets of echoing pawsteps - one set heavy, plodding and unhurried, the other fitful and scampering. A friendless, injured, and promisingly wealthy rat over the weasel’s shoulder gave a parting, piteous groan, and then they were gone.

The early morning traffic was muted compared to the usual rush, Ishy thought. The sky was growing lighter, it was looking to be a sunny, blue day. The kind that lifted your spirits, so he recalled the cliche. The weasel’s long tail swayed a bit - not truly in happiness (no dead whales to be seen), but something more like the contentedness a beast could feel while working a job that’s going smoothly.

The gilders and loose teeth in Ishy’s pocket clicked together as he walked, to remind him of his success. He was on a roll now, and Beating Day was only starting. Ishy had heard a corny line once about laughing all the way to the bank. He was not a laughing sort of jack, nor would he be passing any of the day’s pickings through a MinoComm-monitored account, but he understood the spirit of the phrase as it currently applied to himself.

They were an odd sight, returning to the ambulance wagon. Paw-in-grasping-paw, the taller of the two was a lanky fox, who clung to the stockier long-tailed weasel, white in his winter fur and dressed as a salty seafarer. Both had more than one ear-piercing, though the fox’s blacktips were pinned back against his head, while the weasel seemed indifferent to either his partner’s fear or his patient’s pain. Neither seemed appropriately armed for Beating Day, one with a harpoon slung on his back, the other with nothing at all.

The rat was fully unconscious, Ishy noted, as he sat the rat down, then laid him on his side so his long pink tail wouldn’t get squashed under him. The rat's snores were a relief - he had seemed like a talker as well as a crier, and too many questions and emotional outbursts tended to wear Ishy out.

“I have an arrangement with this rat… who is an unfortunate victim of circumstance like yourself,” Ishy began, his words slow and halting. He hadn’t prepared a script for this exact contingency, as he’d assumed all his marks would be injured first. The fox was shaken for the moment, Ishy surmised, but this latest mark might get his wits back once he out of immediate danger.

“However, his condition is non-life threatening… erm, which is more than I might be able to say for you, should you have to wait for me to complete my delivery,” Ishy went on, remembering to focus the fox’s attention solely on his own wellbeing. The smuggler-turned-paramedic preferred the quality of self-serving behaviour both for himself and others, it made predicting other beasts a smidge easier. Altruism and sentimentality, on the other paw, had ruined more than one good scheme of the weasel’s devising.

Ishy paused again, allowing both of them to listen to the rising cacophony of pained wails and predatory snarls that echoed through the Slups, followed by the wet-sack-of-sand thumps and the fallen-coconut cracks of clubs meeting flesh and bone.

“I am a progressive, modern-thinking jack,” Ishy recited, his confidence growing as he cut-and-paste his pre-prepared sales patter to fit the situation. “This rat may be a gentlebeast, but I do not believe his social status, earned only by birthright, should put his safety and wellbeing before yours.”

Ishy’s left paw was still being treated like the fox’s comfort stuffed-toy (despite its rather calloused pawpads), so he came in closer to squeeze the todd’s shoulder with his right paw. At this distance between the two beasts, the scent of L’Air pour Monsieur Kite would have been unmistakable. Ishy’s custom-made perfume masked nasty scents like sweat, but its own musky odor was the kind that lingered long after it passed.

“If you’ve coin, or standing with a reputable bank, then Kite’s Prioritie Ambulance Service will make you today’s priority,” Ishy offered. “We can do your shopping. Take you home. Sort out any trouble with your neighbours. I also cook and do other domestic things. In this fascinating age of social mobility, the services of Aloysius Kite are open to the highest conscious bidder. You need only name your desire.”

The only thing missing from Ishy’s pitch was a salesbeast’s smile. Yet the weasel's expression remained a hungry, hunter’s stare.

@Ruffano Quickwhistle

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano did not remember leaving the alley so much as realizing, belatedly, that he was no longer in it.

The noise fell away first. The shouting, the wet thuds, the sharp cracks that had sent his hackles spiking all bled into a distant, indistinct roar behind them. The street they emerged onto felt strangely subdued by comparison, the early morning light creeping in pale bands across stone and shuttered windows. Somewhere nearby, a missertross gull cried, obnoxiously cheerful. Ruffano’s chest was still tight, his breath shallow, but the immediate sense of being hunted had eased, replaced by the dull aftershock of it all.

Only then did he notice that he was still gripping the weasel’s paw.

He startled faintly at the realization, ears twitching, but did not let go at once. His gaze had snagged instead on the third presence at the wagon. The rat lay slumped, bloodied, but breathing. Thank the fates, still breathing. Ruffano’s expression softened immediately, distress cutting through the lingering fear.

“Oh...” he murmured, stepping half a pace closer despite himself. “The poor dear… is he…?”

He caught himself, glancing back up at Ishy, visibly mortified at the thought that he might be intruding on something important.

“I’m so sorry,” he added quickly, words tumbling back into their proper lanes now that terror was loosening its grip. “I don’t mean to complicate matters at all. Truly. If he’s your patient, please... I can keep out of the way. I’m quite content to come along quietly, if that’s easier.”

It was only then, standing so close, that another sensation threaded its way through the chaos in his head. The scent. Rich, familiar, and unmistakable. Ambergris beneath musk, balanced and intentional, the sort of perfume Ruffano had known all his life drifting through dressing rooms and orchestra pits, clinging to velvet curtains and powdered wigs. His shoulders eased by a fraction, posture straightening as recognition anchored him.

“Thank you,” he said, more steadily now, meeting Ishy’s gaze again. “For pulling me out of there. I… I don’t believe I properly commended you as of yet.”

His eyes flicked back down the street then, and his ears drooped as something else dawned on him. His paw patted at empty air where the weight of cast iron should have been.

“Oh Gates above... my frying pan!” he lamented, genuine grief in the words. “My mother’s, no less. It’s been on stage nearly as often as I have. Played a teapot once. A murder weapon twice. I suppose…” He winced, then forced a small, resigned breath. “…I suppose it’s better lost than risking life and limb to retrieve it...”

He shook his head, as if physically setting the thought aside, and refocused.

“This is all highly irregular,” Ruffano went on, tone slipping back into something more composed, more himself. “My steward is away at sea, you see. Ordinarily I’m not left to my own devices on days like this. He's the sensible beast making sure I don’t wander into… well.” He gestured vaguely back toward the Slups. “All of that.”

He hesitated as Ishy continued speaking, brow knitting as the offer took shape. Shopping. Transport. Protection. Domestic arrangements. The words slid neatly into a familiar mental framework, relief blooming across his face as understanding clicked into place.

“Oh,” he said, warmth flooding his voice. “You’re another one of those Life Coaches! How reassuring.”

He smiled then, a little sheepish, a little grateful.

“I should say at once that I already have one that is Ministry-assigned, so I’m not seeking a full replacement,” Ruffano explained earnestly. “But goodness, temporary assistance would be a blessing. It’s an important job you do. The wilds of Bully Harbor are far more raw and harrowing than anything I’ve ever seen portrayed on stage, and I’ve played Plugg Firetail many a time.”

At that, he finally released Ishy’s paw, smoothing his vest out of habit and offering a small, courteous bow of his head.

“Ruffano Quickwhistle,” he introduced himself, voice carrying the easy polish of long practice. “And I am very glad to have met you this morning.”

He glanced once more at the wagon, the rat, the quiet street, trusting without reservation that he had, at last, found the right pair of paws to place himself in.

 

[Aloysius 'Ishy' Kite]

Up to now, Ishy had made few assumptions as to what Ruffano’s occupation was. The fox was clean and well-kept. Or at least, his tail was sufficiently fluffy, which was the only criteria Ishy was sure he could judge a fox’s health on. The stranger’s clothes had no visible fraying or holes, which was the extent of Ishy’s competence when it came to judging fashion. The whaler’s best guess for the fox’s job had been something like ‘land based, not physically strenuous’.

As it happened, Ishy enjoyed the theatre. That is, he enjoyed theatre that he only need half-pay attention to, since its plot, characters and themes were so obvious. Comedies with stock characters like the mischievous ferret Harlequin and the avaricious pine marten Pantaleon were Ishy’s favourite. The actors wore grotesquely exaggerated masks so the audience would instantly know who was who, and the motivations were never more complicated than money, power, or the attention of a jill.

Such comedies were free of frustrating nuances and open interpretations. They appealed to Ishy’s worldview of life as a struggle of the lowly to attain status and pleasure. It didn’t really matter if everybeast was laughing or chatting or chewing on popcorn too loud around him, because the actors bellowed every line at full blast, and every punch or slap was exaggerated by a loud whack of a slapstick. It was also a form of entertainment that kept the audience an inconvenient distance from too much alcohol, and its accompanying repulsive smell.

Now that Ishy thought of it, the fox did look like he suited the theatre. He was gangly (actors always had comically proportioned bodies), his paws flailed about when he chattered, and he probably looked very funny with a mask and puffy pantaloons like some actors wore. Ishy had never seen a comedy about a frying pan, but it sounded like it had been worth the admission price.

“Yes… a Life Coach.” Ishy said, mentally filing away the phrase for later use. He had never heard of such a thing, but the fact that Ruffano already had one opened intriguing possibilities. Did he really pay somebeast to tell him how to live? Then again, the fox could simply be repeating what some other scam artist had hooked him with first. All the better that the fellow was indisposed at sea - one con would instantly recognise another. “You can call me Ishy, if it’s easier. Or Mr. Kite, if it’s more formal. I don’t mind.”

Actors, by their not-entirely-unearned common reputation, enjoyed having their egos stroked. Ishy mentally searched around a bit for something nice an actor would want to hear. He recalled a snippet from the Smelt’s opinion section (always a good place to research his own ‘scripts’), and began regurgitating it almost verbatim. “The important work of an actor is equal to that of the engineer, the soldier and the tradesbeast. He is the voice of the voiceless, the cry of the soul in a soulless and disenfranchised world."

Ishy patted the wagon and gestured in invitation. Did Ruffano want to ride? It made little difference to Ishy, and treating the fox as delicate might make Ruffano feel delicate, and thus more dependent on the weasel’s help.

“The proposal to cut the Niceties subsidies to theatres holding fewer than 300 seats is a reckless blow not just to art, not just to the profession, but to the future itself,” Ishy continued, his speech flowing easier now the words were not his own. “It will mean fewer young actors are given that crucial first chance to walk a stage, fewer costumers put thread to needle, fewer scriptwriters and directors see their humble visions receive standing ovations. Worst of all, it means we all have fewer dreams, fewer tumbles into worlds of imagination, fewer happy endings. It is a tragedy worthy of performance.”

Ishy paused, considering his next move. He had established himself as a lover of the performing arts. Now he ought to make Ruffano feel rewarded for having established such good rapport with him. “I insist, since you are an essential worker… that your needs come first. Erm, also, you deserve a discount.”

Since no price had been set, the suggestion Ruffano would be getting a discount was, on the face of it, preposterous. However, Ishy had long ago discovered that discount was almost as magic as saying abracadabra, or home time, or do you want the leftovers. Everybeast loved to think they were getting ahead in life, and after all, it was just like in the plays - it was all a struggle to end up with more than the other bloke.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano listened without interrupting, his attention fixed on Ishy with a growing intensity. The words about theater, about clarity and purpose and voices raised so they could not be ignored, settled into him like a remembered melody. His ears lifted slightly as the praise continued. When Ishy finished, Ruffano exhaled, slow and deliberate, the last tightness leaving his shoulders.

“You speak of it with more understanding than most,” he said quietly. “I’ve always believed that if a thing matters, it ought to be unmistakable.”

At the gesture toward the wagon, Ruffano hesitated only long enough to glance at the unconscious rat already laid out within. He stepped closer, careful with his footing, and seated himself without crowding the other passenger, folding his long legs in neatly and settling his tail to one side so it wouldn’t brush against unfamiliar fur.

Only once he was seated did he look back up to Ishy.

“That’s quite kind of you, Mr. Kite,” Ruffano said, and this time the gratitude was unmistakable. “I won’t pretend the timing isn’t fortuitous. Things are not dire, but one does feel the absence of steady patronage.”

“Your consideration is… most appreciated,” he added, treating the word discount as exactly what it was. A professional courtesy. Nothing more.

He paused, then allowed himself a small, rueful smile.

“There were certain decisions made by Niceties,” Ruffano continued, choosing his phrasing with care, “and a moment where conscience and decorum found themselves in conflict. I spoke my piece, and the Ministry spoke theirs, and now I find myself ousted and learning the true nature of this colorful city.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the street beyond.

“So yes,” he said warmly, “temporary assistance would be a blessing. It’s an important service you provide, even if it’s rarely acknowledged as such.”

He leaned back slightly, trusting the wagon’s construction with a small stretch as he settled into his seat. From around a blind corner, there was a scream and a crack that sounded like a wooden object smashing apart over a furry, fleshy body. Ruffano winced, and his ears drooped slightly again. With a nervous laugh, Ruffano glanced back at Ishy.

"So...Without further ado, huh?"