Vixen Hunted

by Christopher Kincaid

  Alenut Street's crowds thinned, and the street hawkers disappeared. Little dirt or refuse littered the street, and the whitewashed buildings shined in the sunlight. A few stubborn plants splashed green here and there in window planters scattered throughout the block.

  "Here it is." Kit pointed at a wooden sign of a carved horse leaping over an intricate rose. The building glittered in the sunlight. Not a speck of dust rested on the stairway. The cleanliness of the building made Timothy feel uncomfortable. It was too close to being his mother's room.

  "It looks like you won't be able to go inside," Timothy told the lamb. "It looks too clean for your hooves."

  "Baa!"

  "I trust you will get a room with two beds?" Timothy asked Kit. He pressed the last of the silver coins into her hand. He hoped it was enough. He prayed that whatever her plan was would work.

  "Of course. I am not some dog that will sleep with its tail curled around you."

  "I don't think you will have to worry about fleas here." Timothy walked the lamb around the building to where he assumed the stable would be.

  "What about bed lice?"

  A few travel ponies watched Timothy from their stalls. He relaxed a little at the sight of a manure pile, strewn straw, and lived-in dirt. Distance muffled the noise of the festival. Thankfully the scent of the market street didn't mingle with the earthy smell of horse.

  A pocked boy with teeth too big for his face leaned on a shovel. Timothy fished out a few copper pennies from his pocket. His pocket felt far too light. "Could you look after this lamb and make sure she is fed?"

  The brown head bobbed. The coins disappeared from Timothy's outstretched hand before he felt their weight lift. "A lamb, sir? I can do that, I guess. Know horses, I do."

  "She is smarter than she looks. Just feed her and give her some straw. Now stay here, Cat."

  "Baa!" Cat ambled toward the biggest draft horse in the stable and tugged at the horse's thick coat. The horse whinnied and nipped at the lamb. Cat jumped out of the way and continued to pester. Her tail flurried happiness.

  The boy gaped at Timothy. Apparently not everyone stabled a lamb. "Yeah, she is a little odd." Timothy shrugged. "The oddest things become normal after enough time."

  The common room of the Dapple Rose wrapped Timothy with warmth. Worn wooden tables and chairs freckled the swept floor, and iron chandlers hung in regular intervals. A large stone hearth stood on one corner, a couple of overstuffed chairs flanking it. A safe distance from the fireplace sat a bookshelf.

  A bookshelf at an inn! Timothy found himself beside it. His hands caressed the worn leather covers. The Tales of Strider. Fables and Foibles of Fallown. The shelf held many treasures Timothy had only read about. It also held many old friends.

  What type of inn had its own books? The bookshelf alone was worth more than the entire building.

  "And that is my dear husband. He is a bit of a book bug, if you hadn't noticed, Mistress Melanie."

  The innkeeper stood behind a walnut desk. The woman's skin shone as dark as a good leather book binding. She wore a bright blue scarf over crow black hair and her dress of matching blue slashed with violet gave the impression of constant movement. She regarded Timothy with earth-brown eyes.

  "Not too many dressed as you two can read."

  "I've never seen a copy of Fables and Foibles of Fallown," Timothy said.

  "It was hard to find. That is sure. So why would Shefar send you two to me? He isn't one to send anyone but a certain…class to me."

  Kit drew herself up and opened her mouth.

  Timothy cut Kit off. "I noticed the covers of your books are worn. But I am sure the text is still excellent."

  Melanie laughed. "Shefar always gets a little too open during the Founder's Festival." Melanie said. "You'd think he had founded Honheim personally. Now then. Goodwill doesn't buy you a room."

  Kit laid all their coins on the desk. First a coat that could feed a family for months and close again for a room!

  Melanie slid a little more than half the coins into a purse. "I am a fool for it, but I can charge someone else double to make up for your discount. Shefar likes to tell me how his God requires generosity. I won't hear another of his sermons if I can help it." The dark woman boomed a laugh and reached under the desk and produced a key. "Room sixteen in the back of the hall. Third floor."

  Kit stuffed the remaining coins into a pocket. "Thank you!"

  "Be sure to try the honey mead. It is the festival's specialty." Melanie waved them off.

  "You don't have to worry, shepherd," Kit said. "There is enough for me to go drinking."

  Carpet lined the stairs and hall. Carpeting! The pattern was nothing like Timothy had seen. Violets and reds mixed with gray greens in geometric patterns.

  Two beds filled the inn room. A subtle floral scent made the air sharp and fresh. A single desk with an oil lamp waited in a corner, and a large curtained window opened to the streets below. Timothy could see the crowds over the neighboring rooftops. The inn towered over the other buildings. Kit dropped her leather pack on one of the beds.

  "They better not have bed lice." She frowned at the crisp sheets. "Anyway, let's go!" She grabbed Timothy and hauled him out of the room. He barely had time to toss his own knapsack on the floor before Kit locked the door.

  "I want to try this honey mead! It sounds wonderful!"

  People wearing rainbow clothes crushed against Timothy as soon as they left and made their way down Alenut Street. Kit towed him past a giant wooden castle in the middle of a square as people climbed over it with hammers in hand. The day's dying light bathed the wood with fire. What did they plan to do with such an enormous thing?

  "Where can I buy honey mead?" Kit asked a bearded man. He wobbled, pointed his mug, and belched.

  Timothy gave up fighting the torrent of people and Kit's insistence. As the sun dipped lower, people gathered around the wooden castle in rings as if awaiting something. Kit stopped at a stall set off a ways from the press.

  "I will take one honey mead!" Kit slapped a coin onto the stall's counter. A balding man snatched it up and filled a cheap wooden mug from the barrel tapped behind him.

  "It smells wonderful!" Kit gulped the amber liquid. She shivered. "This is too sweet for you, shepherd."

  "I don't drink anyway." Someone had to keep a level head. Timothy leaned against the stall. A troop of musicians clambered onto the precariously incomplete castle, wrestling a strange set of drums and stringed instruments. The troop leader gazed out upon the crowd.

  "Let the honey flow!" he shouted.

  A chorus of voices echoed him. "Let the honey flow! Founder's keepers!"

  Bouncy lilting music rang out. People clapped and twirled around the wooden castle in a swirl of color. Somehow everyone avoided tripping over each other.

  "So you are new to the festival?" the bald mead seller asked.

  "Yeah," Timothy said. Kit's cheeks flushed as she nursed the mug.

  "Honheim is known all over for its honey. Founder's Day is when we celebrate the Ealo's family's founding of the city and its beehives. If it weren't for them, we would still be the small sheep village my grandpappy's grandpappy grew up in. The festival brings in all kinds."

  The swirling dance twirled faster. The musicians atop the wooden castle strummed and drummed faster.

  Kit held her head and missed putting the mug on the stall. The mug bounced against the cobblestones. Timothy snatched it up and barely grabbed Kit as she staggered.

  "What is this dancing?" Kit's words slurred and her cheeks disappeared into her hair color.

  "You are drunk already?" Timothy asked. She took a wobbled step. Timothy grabbed her arm.

  "I am not drunk! I am just woozy."

  "Sorry, lad. I gave her the smallest draught." The bald merchant shrugged.

  "It's fine. I didn't think she would get drunk that fast."

  Kit swayed into Timothy. "Where we going? I want to spend time at the fest…festival."

 
; "You are drunk and are going to bed. Seriously, I've never seen anyone get completely pickled with a few sips."

  "I said I'd have enough to drink."

  "Perhaps a sip would have been enough."

  "It was sweet. Mmm." She crushed Timothy's arm to her chest.

  A few people glanced their way, but most ignored them. Timothy guided Kit around three men who leaned on each other. One tripped, sending the entire tripod tumbling to the streets in a shower of mead, curses, and laughter.

  "My head hurts," Kit said.

  They finally worked their way out of the crowd just as a new round of dancing started. The musicians strummed an alcohol-fueled rhythm. The crowd stomped and jostled in some sort of flinging dance. People grabbed each other by one arm, twirled, and launched each other into the crowd. A gnarled, bearded man ran into a crowd of catchers, and the entire mob hit the cobblestones.

  Timothy snatched Kit by the waist and heaved her out of the way of a burly woman hurtling past.

  "Too tight. I'm gonna be sick!" Kit wiggled against his arm.

  "Oh, sorry."

  The chaotic laughter faded as they neared the Dapple Rose. Timothy's head pounded, and his ears still rang with mead-flavored music.

  "Unhhn. Head hurts." Kit leaned most of her weight on him.

  The common room held more people than Timothy expected. A fire lazed in the hearth. A merchant dressed in wolf fur read a book in one of the plush chairs. Timothy worked toward the stairs.

  "Remember Lord Treblin? The vine says a business deal of his fell through." A woman dressed in crimson said. "People speak about some hunter he employed being in town."

  Kit toppled. Timothy managed to steady her before she dropped to the floor.

  "I am not…not a sack of potatoes, Timmy. I will stand on my own."

  "I think not." His ears stretched to listen.

  "Did the grapevine say what the deal was?" a young man with smooth cheeks and blond hair asked. "There could be money to be made."

  "A land sell or something." The crimson woman sipped a glass of wine.

  "Honey mead, I take it?" Melanie nodded at Kit. The innkeeper wore a sparkling white apron that set off her earthy skin tone.

  "Yeah. I've never seen someone get that drunk with just a few sips," Timothy said.

  "Sounds like Carlin's brew. It can be something else if you are not used to it." Melanie shifted a silver tray of tea ware she held. "If she wanted honey mead, I have the proper kind."

  "I think she's had her fill of it."

  "No more. I feel sick." Kit covered her mouth.

  "There is a chamber pot in each room. Do try not to have her make a mess for me?" Melanie wagged a finger. "My cleaning girls are a lazy bunch."

  Lazy? They could teach Evelyn about cleaning.

  "Well, off to bed with her." Melanie waved them off.

  Kit did little to make the stair climb easy. She dangled against him and threatened to send them both tumbling more than once. Why did they have to have the room on the third floor and at the end of the hall?

  He fumbled for the key in her pockets. "Where is the key, Kit?"

  "Chest…" Kit mumbled.

  He slid his hand under her cloak, trying to avoid touching anything. Where was the key?

  "Hand's cold," Kit said. "Pocket."

  His face felt hot. He fumbled for a pocket—found it!—and freed the small metal key. If he was lucky, she would not remember. Timothy doubted she would let his fumbling go without some remark.

  The door opened with a soft shtick. Timothy closed the door with a foot, shoving the leather knapsack off the bed. Kit flopped onto the sheets.

  He collapsed on the edge of the bed. "Seriously." He panted.

  A hand touched his own. Flooded meadow eyes grabbed him. "You won't leave me, will you?"

  "Leave you? You just need to sleep. Although you will likely have a pleasant headache in the morning."

  "I…I don't want to be alone."

  Timothy hesitated. "What's wrong? This isn't like you."

  "I am tired of—I am…alone."

  Timothy felt the weight of what he needed to tell her. Now was not the time. She likely would not remember in the morning anyway. He patted her hand and untied her headscarf. "I have put up with you these last several weeks, haven't I? If I were going to leave, I would have a long time ago."

  "People want my ears and tail." A tear ran down her cheek. "Or they want…they want…They don't want me as me." Her newly freed ears drooped.

  Timothy wiped a runaway tear from her cheek. "Just get some sleep. Here, let me get your shoes." His hands shook. Her vulnerability unnerved him. Kit never acted this way.

  "Better?"

  A loud snore answered.

  "And she says I snore." Timothy pulled the sheet over her.

  "It is just a matter of time until we are found again," he told himself. "What are we going do? We can't run forever."

  He knew somehow that the Inquisition would find them. No one escaped them. Was Lord Treblin still looking, after all this time? Not likely. Timothy hoped Kyle was well.

  His heart pounded the reality of the situation home. Timothy knew of only one way out. "Could I do that? Even for her? It would be different for a person than a dog. Heh. I doubt I could even if I tried."

  Kit snucked a snore. A bit of red hair and a single ear peeked from the sheets. Despite the danger, Timothy did not regret helping his little vixen. Well, he did not regret the decision often.

  "I am sure you would have some type of remark if you heard what I was thinking." He removed his boots and leaned back on the second bed. Aunt Mae was more right than Timothy wanted to admit.

  "But how will she react when I tell her?" He dug out the folded paper. He watched her white-tipped ear. Her small chest rose and fell beneath the coverlet.

  "Kyle was right. I am a fool."

  Chapter 11

  Sunlight streamed through the large window. Timothy slid from the bed, his back creaking.

  Timothy bent over Kit. "You look perky this morning."

  Her coverlet tangled around her, and her hair lay lank across her pillow. Her normally alert ears drooped, fur frazzled. A small pink tongue peeked through green tinged lips. "Must you yell? My head…"

  "And that is why I don't drink. Although you barely had anything."

  "Alcohol and I have a…troubled relationship."

  He put his hand on the door's handle. "I will bring you tea and a honey cake."

  "I was foolish last night. I'm…sorry." Apparently she did remember what she said.

  "Just don't drink any more honey mead, and you will be fine."

  "That isn't want I mean. I—"

  "I am not going anywhere. I am just going to get that coat you insisted on buying and some tea for your head. I'll be back in a little while."

  She fluttered a hand.

  The common room held a few well-dressed elderly patrons. They all ate some type of odd, flat round bread coated with honey. A pale-haired girl in a blue dress and apron stood behind Melanie's desk.

  "Is Melanie about?" Timothy asked.

  "She is out shopping. I'm Clarisse. What can I do for you?"

  "Those"—Timothy gestured to one of the old couple's plates—"look good. Could you hold some back for me? I have errands to run." He produced one of his few coins and placed it on the desk.

  "No need for that, Master Clarke. Food is included with your board fees."

  "Oh, well, that is for your trouble. Do you have willow tea? My…wife could use some this morning."

  "Certainly. I will be sure to have it ready when you return. The festival runs the full week. I hope she feels good enough to enjoy it."

  "Uh, thanks."

  "Perhaps Kit didn't over pay," Timothy mumbled. He walked down Alenut Street. A worker dressed in blue mopped at a pool of yellow liquid. A few other workers picked up wooden mugs and other garbage.

  The street opened to a square that stank of mead, vomit, and baking pastries, the
cold wind forcing the scents into an uncomfortable union. A few people slept on the cobblestones, and more worked at the great wooden castle that dominated the square.

  The sounds of hawkers and wordless conversation assailed his ears as he neared the market district. The now familiar clash of garish colors still made Timothy's eyes ache. The markets were filled near to bursting. People crowded around every stall and peddler rug. Timothy took a deep breath and waded in.

  "Oh, I love market days!"

  "Paul, I really want one! The jewelry is so unique!"

  "They are just stones…"

  "Get your fish here! Fresh fish!"

  "Baked meat pies! Fresh from the hearth!"

  "Did you hear? There is some sickness going around town."

  Timothy stumbled into a woman. "Oh, sorry." His head spun from the racket. The woman turned, and Timothy's vision shattered under the hazel eyes and brown hair.

  "Evelyn?"

  Without a word Evelyn shoved into the crowd, and Timothy pushed through the people after her. A wake of curses followed him. He pushed through a clearing in the crowd to see her disappear across the street. He raced across the cobblestones and wiggled through a wall of backs.

  "Can I help you, sir? Care to buy something?" a mustached stall keeper asked, hunched over the rough counter.

  Timothy gazed about the amused, perplexed, and annoyed faces. What was Evelyn doing here? Where did she go?

  "These are popular this year, sir. Your lady is sure to enjoy these unique one-of-a-kind keepsakes."

  "What? Oh. I'm not…" An assortment of necklaces, rings, earrings, and other jewelry glittered on the worn wood. Each held a polished river stone.

  "I know what you are thinking," the merchant said loudly for the benefit of the crowd. "These are only stones! Well, unlike gems, these stones are unique. There is only one of each kind. No two are alike. Gems all look the same, but these are truly rare! As unique as you are."

  "I want the blue one. Can you buy it for me, honey?" A woman dressed in fur tugged at a man with a close-cropped beard.

  "That earring is nice."

  "That one!"

  "Oh, no thanks. I was…just looking for someone." Timothy backed out of the jostling shoppers.