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?"

 

[Aloysius 'Ishy' Kite]

Even Ishy’s ordinarily placid expression changed, as Kite’s Prioritie Ambulance Service trundled into Market Circle. Big Val had been his guiding landmark on the journey, but for a moment the weasel questioned whether or not he had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in the Bully Harbour Tip instead.

The market was in complete chaos. Stalls were overturned and used as cover in an ongoing melee. A few enterprising individuals had picked up a stall and started using it as a battering ram, a strategy that fell neatly within the ‘bludgeoning weapons only’ rule of Beating Day. Kits scampered underpaw, collecting unbroken bottles of whale milk and unsquashed fruit as the adults fought. Every merchant’s well-nursed grudge was being settled today by fist, Whack-Bat club, or sturdy piece of kitchen equipment.

There was a gaggle of young, well-dressed foxes in waistcoats and high collars, waving red flags off a barricade of wagons and debris. They were singing, Ishy was certain from their muzzle movements, though the din of combat was drowning them out. The strangest part was he swore the clan of wildcats trying to storm the barricade was singing back with just as much gusto. A rat in a painter’s smock and beret was furiously sketching out another vignette playing out before him - A vixen twirling a baton with ease from one paw to the other as she cracked skull after skull of a seemingly endless onslaught of identically dressed stoats in dark suits. A hastily painted board propped up against the rat’s easel offered commission prices for commemorative paintings of the battle, and promised to include the commissioner’s likeness in the position of the victor.

Ishy’s eyes had gone so wide he actually looked fully awake for once. His pretensions to being a paramedic did not quite extend to a battlefield of this magnitude - perhaps he could come back for the fallen losers later when it had all been settled. As he stood dumbfounded at the edge of the fracas, a pair of brawling ferrets tumbled into a table, launching a dozen eggs catapult-style from the other end. The eggs arced gracefully in the air, and splattered into shards and goo at the long-tailed weasel’s boots.

“I uh…” Ishy began, then faltered. He had no script for this. He had intended to avoid the market today, it was too open a space for his liking, and a favourite haunt of the Fogeys. Without somebeast else’s articulation to leech off, the weasel stuttered and burbled like a fresh-caught guppy flopping on the pier, his muzzle opening and closing, his tongue licking around his lips nervously. “Um… uh… we… er…”

Even as he failed to express anything remotely reassuring, Ishy’s brain was hard at work doing what it did far better under pressure - working on a new plan. Chances were any open market or store in town would look like this. Eggs. Of course it had to be eggs on Beating Day. He had promised to help Ruffano - for the purposes of extorting the fox, but it was a promise nonetheless. If no legitimate place of business would be reliably selling eggs today, then he would simply have to try the illegitimate ones.

The weasel whaler stood a moment longer, then without warning, gripped the handles of the wagon and made for an abrupt U-turn into oncoming traffic. Said oncoming traffic, a rail-thin pine marten charging screaming into the square with a rolling pin, slammed straight into the wagon with a yelp of pain, flipped up over it in an impressive aerial somersault, and planted his face hard into the cobblestones on the other side, loose teeth clattering everywhere in mock applause. Ishy quickly rushed to the pine marten’s side to evaluate his net worth.

He wrinkled his snout, his lip curling. The marten dressed in a shabby coat, and reeked of marten musk and Ishy’s least-favourite odor - stale alcohol. He might have rifled through the marten’s pockets for loose gilders, except that Ruffano was watching. It was out of the question to play the long con on such a pungent creature, Ishy could barely stand a few seconds of the stench before retching. The weasel all but jumped back to the wagon, and began hauling his charges away from the scene. The marten lay in the street, groaning and motionless.

“He uh…” Ishy searched for some plausible excuse for his behaviour. “He um… had a tattoo. Gang affiliation. We can’t uh… touch gang members. Liability issues. Red tape. You know?”

Ishy gritted his teeth as he hunched his shoulders and pulled the wagon, not looking back. He knew the way he spoke was a scattershot of vaguely-connected words and phrases, but he could do no better by himself. It frustrated him when even he could hear how unconvincing he was. Better move on and draw Ruffano’s focus back to what was important. Eggs!

“I uh, know a place we can make a dea- er, a purchase,” Ishy said. “It’s a little further but… probably safer. The owner won’t put up with brawling.”

Because the owner is part of a gang, and will kill anyone interfering with the merchandise, Ishy added silently. As a smuggler, he knew a few discreet warehouses, places that were open for business at all hours, and where any funny business about legalised beatings would be met with a stiletto in the neck. Places that were safe by virtue of being guarded by some of the toughest scum that Bully Harbour could offer.

Seans.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano had braced himself for commotion.

He had not braced himself for spectacle.

The wagon trundled to the edge of Market Circle, and the world seemed to split open, spilling forth Hell's Gates itself in a flood of disarray and ruin. Stalls lay overturned and splintered like a forest after a windstorm. Barrels rolled loose across cobbles slick with trampled fruit and spilled meadowcreme. Fine ceramic pots, once glazed and lovingly shaped, lay shattered into pale crescents beneath boots that scarcely noticed them. A merchant’s awning had collapsed into the melee, its once-proud fabric now serving as a makeshift shield between two snarling rivals.

Ruffano inhaled sharply.

“Oh… the waste of it,” he murmured, watching a basket of pears burst beneath a flailing club. “The labor, the care, the vittles… all reduced to pulp.”

And yet, through the carnage came song.

He turned, ears lifting despite himself. A cluster of well-dressed foxes stood defiantly atop a barricade of wagons, red flags whipping in the air above them. Their muzzles moved in rhythm, voices clearly raised in something coordinated and rehearsed, if the rhythm of their shoulders and the swell of their chests meant anything. Across from them, a surge of wildcats pushed forward, and even they seemed to answer in kind, their own throats shaping words lost beneath the din.

Even the painter rat worked on, charcoal flashing over canvas as a vixen twirled her baton through skull after skull with almost balletic precision.

Ruffano’s brow knit, then softened.

“They’re singing,” he breathed. “In the midst of this… they’re still singing.”

His gaze lingered on the painter.

“Even catastrophe insists on becoming art,” he added wistfully. “Every moment, no matter how violent, demands to be remembered beautifully.”

He turned to Ishy for validation on his thoughts, but instead caught the weasel’s stutter as he seemed at a complete loss for words. His once steady cadence had fractured. Words tangled. The wagon paused awkwardly at the edge of the fray. Ishy’s muzzle opened and closed as if hunting for a line that would not come.

Ruffano’s expression shifted at once in recognition, memories of forgotten lines and the crushing exposure of the stage when delivery falters.

He leaned slightly forward in the cart.

“Mr. Kite,” he said gently, voice warm and steady, “breathe.”

He offered a reassuring smile.

“The script’s gone, so we make a new one. Improvise.”

He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.

“You’re a clever jack. Pivot with grace and say what feels natural. The audience will never know what was meant to happen.”

And that was when the pine marten chose that precise moment to hurl himself screaming into their path.

The impact jolted the wagon violently. Ruffano grabbed the side rail as the wooden frame lurched, his heart leaping into his throat. He peered over the edge just as the marten’s limbs tangled and his body flipped unceremoniously over the cart.

Ruffano blinked... Then his nose caught up, and his face twisted at once.

“Vulpus’s saggy left ear,” he hissed, recoiling as the scent wafted upward. “Must these unkempt, odorous offenders conduct their business within breathing distance of civilized beasts?”

He fanned a paw discreetly before his muzzle.

“I could smell him from here, I assure you. A public service, if you ask me.”

When Ishy mentioned gang affiliation and liability, Ruffano nodded briskly.

“Quite right. Red tape and all that. Leave the poor wretch to whatever fragrant destiny awaits him.”

Another commotion nearby then sent a dozen eggs arcing skyward like artillery shells.

Ruffano watched, transfixed, as breakfast described a graceful parabola before exploding in yolk against the cobbles near Ishy’s boots.

He stared at the splatter.

“Ah.”

He let out a slow exhale.

“Perhaps eggs were… ambitious to strive for on this day.”

He leaned back in the wagon, folding one leg over the other with composed resignation.

“If I emerge from this day with all my teeth and an empty stomach, I may be forced to consider it a triumph.”

But when Ishy announced he knew a place—somewhere further, somewhere safer—Ruffano’s ears lifted again.

“Oh?”

Interest brightened his tone.

“The dockside?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I rather prefer that sort of commerce, if I’m honest. My steward often has us shop near the warehouses. They are quieter exchanges. Much more intimate, and they don't ask nearly as many questions”

He shifted slightly in the cart, warming to the thought.

“It always feels a touch underhanded,” he added lightly, “though I could never quite lay a paw as to why.”

He paused for a brief moment as he watched a tubby rat get launched from a second story window as he crushed an awning beneath him and laying waste to what remaining cheese was left on the already ravaged stand. The rat, recovering quickly from his daze, immediately began chowing down on a half-smeared round of soft white cheese before the shop owner bopped him on the back of his head with a splintered cheeseboard, laying him out for good.

“I once attempted to offload a few casks of phosphorescent dye down there. The Ministry banned it, you know... something about being too convincing in the paranormal department.”

He waved a dismissive paw.

“Technically illegal, of course. But one mustn’t be rigid about such things.”

His eyes gleamed faintly at the memory.

“But as I was awaiting the purchasing party, I became quite certain I was about to be devoured by a demon and skewered by a ghost pirate as divine punishment for my wickedness.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Turned out they were perfectly pleasant. We ended the evening at the Bilge in the Bucket, of all places.”

A soft laugh escaped him.

“Even the monsters at the docks are friendlier than they first appear!”

He relaxed fully now, the chaos of the market receding behind them as the wagon rolled onward.

“You’ll find I’m quite adaptable, Ishy,” he said casually, the name slipping free without ceremony. “Breakfast or no breakfast.”

He settled back against the wooden slats, gaze drifting toward whatever shadowed turn awaited them next, entirely unaware of how closely comfort and consequence had begun to sit beside him in the cart.