Zorro Means Fox

The exaggerated exaggerations of a daily life.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Magic - Part 1

Sirus chuckled gaily to himself as he flicked through the papers in his hands. Each was an 'official' document, 'signed' by the Lord Imperior himself, stamped with a small wax blob holding the image of a well forged signet ring. They were papers naming Sirus as William Damasque, a wealthy noble on a diplomatic mission to the Hawk Aeries in the mountains of Niral.

The guards looked warily at Sirus as he left the council chambers. He didn't blame them. He was about medium height, with green eyes, a sharp nose and high cheeks. His eyes were constantly moving, reassessing the area. And his most prominent features marked him out as a kitsune. Two fox ears poked out of his ruffled hair, their orange, white-tipped fur in contrast to his black, unkept hair while a single fox tail swept nervously behind him. He was dressed in an imperial uniform: a close-cut black robe buttoned on the side, sweeping in the street below him. Gold trims raised the shoulders, and a single sword was fastened to his left side. The collar on the robe was high enough to brush his chin when he turned his head, a perfect imitation of this season's 'in fashion' clothing.

Yet though he was dressed as a noble or imperial agent, the guards remained wary. Sirus knew it was because he was a kitsune. Though they were not a rare sight, there was a certain amount of racism towards them. They were considered sneaky, cunning, and untrustworthy. A generalisation to be sure, but then again, Sirus had always believed in perpetuating stereotypes. Further, the guards were wary because of the power 'William Damasque' might hold with the local council. Who knew what he was doing in town besides himself.

Tail turning, Sirus flicked a gold coin from his sleeve towards the guardsmen. They blinked in surprise before dropping to the ground to fish the coin from the mud, cleaning and examining it. Probably that was a week's wages to them. To Sirus, it meant the guards would be less likely to stop him and more likely to side with him were events to turn against him in the future. He grinned at the guards happily clucking and cooing over their coin and continued his way down the street. By the position of the sun, he guessed it was late afternoon and he was heading in a northwards direction. His aim was a house in the north-eastern quadrant of Callan, but first he had to go back to the inn to change.

The streets were clearer now than an hour ago. Merchants with precious cargo who could afford to pack up did so and went home to their wives and strongboxes though Sirus wasn't sure which of the two they loved the most. Many of the town labourers had gone home, replaced by their evening-shift counterparts. To the east, the council had decreed a new bridge be built over the Kinnean River, and its construction was putting Callan into an economic boom. On the sides of the streets the beggars left, knowing they would get no more charity now that the visitors in town had returned to the inns and taverns. The homeless would head to the inns for handouts after dinner, or to the back alleys looking for prime real estate: a nice, warm place to sleep. Others would head back to the Beggar's Guild to pay tribute. They shared what little they had; communism working in practice.

Sirus ducked to the side as an inflated pig's bladder wooshed over his shoulder, kicked towards him accidentally by a child playing. Laughing, they scattered to their hideaway spots. Hoping to curry favour with them, Sirus kicked the ball back to where it came from. A young kitsune jumped out to stop it from heading too far the other direction, staring at wonder at the lone adult who had inadvertantly joined their game. The kid scooped the bladder into the air and kicked it towards his companion, a young human girl. The game it seemed was simple: the aim was to kick the bladder into the face of another player. There was enough water within the primitive ball to give it weight, though it wouldn't hurt on contact. Sirus, his child years long passed, smiled sadly in nostalgia and continued walking.

Three blocks down was the inn, The Troubled Fox. Lit up by torches within metal casings, the inn was one of the richer establishments in town. Before the heavy oak door was a stone archway flanked by ionic columns. Hanging by a chain on either end, the sign showed a comic looking fox struggling vainly to grab a grape from a vine high above it. Appropriately, The Troubled Fox catered rooms for the largest number of kitsune in town. Neko, people with similar attributes to kitsune, but cats rather than foxes, rarely visited the inn due to the rivalry between the two race's gods. But though The Troubled Fox held many kitsune, it held fewer foxfolk than it did humans, who outnumbered every other species in the city. Sirus stayed there not because he was in need of the company of his own race; he was used to being alone. No, he slept there because he needed to be unnoticed, and more importantly because it was the closest inn to the house he was to find that night.

Sirus pushed open the heavy doors and immediately his ears were met by laughter and polite talking. The inns and taverns differed in many respects, and Sirus normally preferred to stay in taverns. The raucous boasting and swearing, shouting and catcalling, were all familiar noises to him. Taverns were noisy places full of drunks, pickpockets, hardened veterans and whores. By comparison, an inn was almost like a tea party. Besides, inns didn't serve Oapos, the hallucination-inducing kiwifruit wine. Instead they only had sour wine, the 'drink of the gentleman'. Sirus didn't know how courtiers and imperial agents managed to survive on that.

He walked through the waiting chamber to the stairs, heading to the second floor, down the hall and through another side passage to his own room. There was nothing of great interest in the clean wooden hallways. Though kept meticulously clean, the inn usually held a great number of mice. Maybe the lack of cats in the establishment allowed them a certain amount of freedom. There were no rats in the inn. As far as he knew, there hadn't been a rat in Callan in over a century. He'd heard fragments of stories of the Pied Piper variety, though thankfully the townsfolk had taken warning from the previous stories and actually paid the fellow. Rats were no more and the town had managed to keep a firm hold on their children. But that was before Callan became the main merchant city where the Silk Paths from the east crossed the Kinnean River coming down from the mountains to the north. Since then it had tripled in size, and not a single rat.

Sirus had reached his room. He drew a key from inside his left sleeve, fitting it into the well oiled lock and twisting. The lock clicked and the door swung open slightly to admit the kitsune. He swept the room with his eyes, then stepped in. On the table lay his collection of weapons: a hand-sized repeater crossbow with five shots, twelve spare throwing knives that wouldn't have fit into the clothes he was wearing, a spare sword, a polearm and a scythe. Inside the cupboard he found his other clothes, a close fitting black leather outfit and a large, thick, black, hooded robe. He didn't travel light. One couldn't afford to travel light when one was a bounty hunter.

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