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Timotay in Trouble.

Gods, it was tough being apprenticed to such a sour, moth-eaten, old-curmudgeon! Timotay was apprenticed to "Brixis & Mordir-Ring: Printers."

"More like 'Brixis is murdering printers,' " thought Timotay, wending his way through the crowds, every single furrson of them busy on their way to work.

Master Brixis had likely never murdered anyone, except through overworking them til they died.

Now Master Mordir-Ring, on the other hand, was a great Master to apprentice to, especially for a dragon. He had an even temper, didn't play favorites, and was sometimes very generous. Not often, for sure, but when he was generous it was very good for all the workers.

Sure and Now, Timotay was apprenticed to the other Master. Mordir-Ring's partner, Great Print-Master Brixis, that was a hardship that must be borne with fortitude. Fortitude and hope were all he had at the moment. This was what Timotay had brought to bear against Mr. Brixis, this was the shining adamant Aegis shielding his heart from "That mangy, flea-bitten, pervy, old-curmudgeon," Timotay thought to himself, "Why is Master Brixis such a creepy old pervert?"

The "It was tough being apprenticed," was a bit of an understatement, but Timotay was in a good mood and he felt up to even being generous. He knew that good things would happen, maybe soon! Well, he hoped so, either way he did have it figured out. He'd just wait and give a little nudge -- the pieces would fall into place. His hope was adamant against any problems, his position was secure, firm, and rising.

Mr. Brixis was muttering about a new shipment of parchment and maybe some paper from France,... that is what had been overheard. And that meant that there was a firm and sure contract for a special printing, and who but Timotay could do the best job for such a valuable contract? Of all the apprentices none were good enough to compete against him for that honor?

The immediate future was looking like an exciting job and maybe better pay. And in his mind that raised questions, like; "How many pages would the book have? Hmmmm, maybe they would want multiple copies? Oh! And what kind of binding would it get?" His hopes got him more excited!

If the cover got leaf gold, Mr. Brixis said that Tim could watch the journeymen get their instruction in the application of gold. Sure, he would be allowed to make notes and to look down on the instruction from up in the gallery that ran around the building, watch from high above the work-floor. He would be able to hear everything! But there was a problem, he would not be able to see everything from the gallery. Being nearsighted meant that he could get the registration spot on every time, but it also meant that watching from the gallery, some small things would be a bit blurry. Sure, but still - he'd be able to see most of what was done, and being able to hear everything was going to be a great leg up toward, ... Toward what?

Why, toward being a Journeyman! And at that, the hope that rose his heart, rose further again, things were going very well! "Mr. Brixis was almost ready to make him a Journeyman," he concluded, and that made the young fox smile. He was, it was true, he was Lead Apprentice, and as such probably next to be elevated to Journeyman, ... at least this hope was what made the job good. Maybe he was not Mr. Brixis' favorite, but he certainly was the best type-setter of all the apprentices; that was clear and generally acknowledged. Timotay having acquitted himself so spectacularly on the last print-job it surely meant that this special printing would involve himself! He smiled and put some bounce in his step. Today was starting off very well.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Tim rubbed his chin absently, trying to figure the political angles while bouncing up the steps to the workshop. Someone was going to make money and Tim was making his plans to get his share of it. "Ooops! Sorry, I beg your pardon, Good Gentle," Tim said nearly colliding with a patron coming out of the door. He stepped backwards and bowed low, allowing a handsome lion to pass by, saying, "Sorry," again.

Tim could not help notice how the lion was dressed. Dear Greenman! That outfit must cost more than two years salary, ...maybe three! Such boots! That shiny fabric must be what silk is. Tim had never seen silk, but what else might shine like that in the morning sun! Silk! Who could afford that? How odd! The printers couldn't have customers, yet, he hadn't yet heard the Third Bells ring. He couldn't be late, not yet. Oh! If he was early maybe the door would still be locked, catch it quick! He leapt to the top step in a single bound and caught the closing door just before the latch caught. Quick as a fox he slipped in, closing the door gently behind him. Perhaps he'd just seen an early appointment. Hmmmm.... Maybe the new contract! He smiled again, pleased.

The next day, again he tried to be early, and again was rewarded by catching the door as the rich lion came out of the door before the start of commerce. He moved quickly to the first rack on the workroom floor and started sorting type; minding the Ps and Bs from the Ds and Qs in the case. Hearing the boards above him creak, he ventured a, 'Hallo?' upwards.

"Ah, ah! Hallo, young Timotay," shouted Mr. Mordir-Ring. Tim scanned the gallery and saw Mr. Mordir-Ring holding a large sheaf of papers, peering over the gallery railing at him. "You are here earlier than just prompt, again! So! Well, good, good! Good morning and well met to you. Hard at work already!" Mordir-Ring grinned and sketched a wave 'Bye' in the air, then went back to- going wherever he was going before being interrupted.

Tim looked back at the pile of type to be sorted, and noticed a half empty type stick, clearly someone had been interrupted while breaking down a block of type, or setting up a block of type, because as he read the type backwards, it was clearly two lines of --wo- woah, ... two lines of a highly pornographic passage.

Printing pornography was a quick death sentence! What with books so very expensive and the penalties for porn so very severe, no printer in his right mind would Dare to print a book with a passage like that in it. Quickly pouring the type out, scrambling the letters, making the sentences illegible, he continued sorting the spilled type. No sooner had he turned back to the task, than the bells rang "Third" and the others came in, Journeymen and then apprentices all in a clump, all fighting to be in place first. Tim had beaten them all. He felt quite smug. His heart at peace.

Except for those two lines of type, which seemed seared into his mind, and suggesting such rude and randy ideas, ideas he'd never heard of, never even dared thought of; he was often forced to adjust his britches during the day.

Being naturally an early riser has many perks; early to the bakery means that you get your pick, and nothing is sold out, yet. The bosses see you are eager, and you look good to prospective employers. It was not a seven-day later that Tim, being early, caught sight of a lion -well dressed- coming out of the printer's. Again he caught the door, and slipped inside, almost certainly the first at work. Someone had left their finished printing unshelved. There, on the front work bench was a stack of books, already wrapped in their sacks and sealed, and being early to work, he carried the stack up to the gallery and started shelving them with others sealed with the same colored tags. Hearing voices, then the slam of the front door alerted Tim that others had arrived.

He was about to 'Hallo' but stopped when he heard one of the Journeymen say, "With the key, you idiot, ... And if you blab, I -Will Kill- You. You know why I have no choice, in that! Right?" Tim sidled silently and peered over the railing. It was the two Journeymen, the huge tiger, Bragge, and the stout badger, Stolle, the lordling wannabes. Like Tim, they also were from meager backgrounds, but they had huge aspirations far above their stations, so that of anyone, that they were involved in mischief was no surprise.

There was some indistinct muttering, and then; "O.K., then look at this plate. There was a silence, then, "And if that doesn't get you hard, check this plate."

"Greenman's Hairy Balls, you guys are skirting the death penalty," Stolle muttered, "Cern's Antlers, is that? ... is that? ... unnnh, Oh! That is totally kinky. Damn, I'd love to do that and -- Cern's shiny pointy antlers, I've never seen anything that hot in my LIFE!!" Stolle shouted. "Can I hold it?"

"Sshhhhhh! Shut up! What if that fox is here, already," said Bragge?

Stolle countered, "Oh, Tim? He can keep a secret."

"With your life?"

"Oh, shit, this really is death penalty stuff, sure to get us hung. Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't look any better with my neck stretched out like a goose, would I," chuckled Stolle?

It's nothing to joke about, you idiot, it's your LIFE!"

"Yeah, okay, okay, you are not exaggerating. They'd kill us, sure," Stolle said, lowering his voice.

"Well, Brixis probably would, the King would for a certainty. If you still want in, I'll show you the text later, I bound them into their covers last night, they should be, uhn, right, .. here," Bragge muttered, pointed to the empty space where the books had been.

At this point Tim pulled back. He couldn't move now. He had to wait. HAD to wait, until others arrived. He certainly couldn't go downstairs yet, couldn't let them know he was up in the gallery, that he had heard them, had seen they had plates. Couldn't let on he knew. He'd just pretend that he was a late arrival, and hope and pray they fell for that. And a mere five minutes later the bells rang, and in came the others.

At home that night, Tim started to calm down. He sat on his bed and thought about the day's events. He was scared, but not as panicked now that he reviewed the day, and saw that he had almost surely gotten away without Bragge or Stolle suspecting that they had been observed.

The very next morning as Tim was about to test the shop's door for locked or unlocked, it swung open and he fell over backwards, bowled over by the huge lion coming out of the shop. Tim fell down the steps, but scrambled back up on his feet, checking himself for injury. The lion leapt down the stairs, grabbed Timotay by the coat collar and dragged him up the steps like a doll, and into the workshop. Pushing Tim before him he strode up to Mordir-Ring and shoved Tim roughly to the floor. "You! Deal with this! This's the third time he's seen me leaving. Deal with it!"

Mordir-Ring stood over Tim, cowering on the floor. "Oh, I will have him taken care of, Laird Albert." Tim watched as Albert turned on his boot's heel and strode out the door, letting it slam behind him with a bang!

"Well, Fox Timotay," began Mordir-Ring, gently, 'You have finally come to the attention of 'A Personage.' His Lordship will certainly be interested in you now, but I will intervene and save you! Both because I like you and you are the best Apprentice, we can't let him hurt you. He owes me a favor, I'll secure your pardon tomorrow. But for right now the safest place is out of sight, no? Hmmmm, would you be agreeable to hiding in the basement? Just till the cover of night?" Tim's mind was spinning, he had no idea what was going on. He took the offer, nodding his assent. The Master started shuffling toward the offices, with Tim following in his wake. Taking a tall fat candle and lighting it, the Master moved to the side wall of the office. With a blank section of paneling in front of him, Mordir-Ring stopped to pull a ring of keys out of his waistcoat pocket. Selecting a small key he stuck it into a tiny unnoticed hole, and with the squeal of rusty metal the panel squeaked open on its hinges and opened up a dusty stairway down.

At the bottom of the stair was the dusty dark basement. Mordir-Ring stepped up to a large wooden post and set the candle into a holder with a dusty reflector. "Well not as comfortable as an inn, but for you it will be your way out. Just stay here for couple of hours, hhmmm? I'll be back for you shortly after closing. -- Hmmm, and I'll have some lunch sent down." Tim stepped up, bowed low and thanked the Master. He turned to look around to start surveying his surroundings. Lots of cobwebs, a few barrels of ink, bolts of cloth, and some old small printing presses slathered in grease gone black with age, wedged into corners, awaiting their need.

There was a sudden sharp pain in his head, and the world abandoned his senses.

Tim awoke in total pain... a ringing pain in his head, throbbing pain in his hands and feet, and aching pain in his shoulders, jaws, knees, elbows, and hips. Trying to move informed him greatly of his situation; he couldn't move his limbs. Sure he could wiggle his fingers and toes, tongue, but that was all that would move. It wasn't pitch black, a few holes in the wall? The ceiling? Something let in a little light so that he could see shapes, but there was almost nothing he could see to inform him of his location. He could be in a basement or an attic. Certainly he was bound and gagged, tied so tightly he couldn't move, or even shift around. He was bound kneeling, with his back against some huge beam or post, with his arms pulled behind the post and tied together. That's why his shoulders hurt so badly. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was too dry and gagged so tightly that he could only make a weak, "hunh, hunh," as a call for help. The pain wasn't so bad if he could get his shoulders to shift a little, but raising and lowering them was all the movement he could make. And there he knelt. With these thoughts, Tim realized that his situation was hopeless. And it was like a knife stabbing his heart; the Master wasn't going to save him, but he used Tim's good nature as a lure; Tim well and truly trapped himself. And he stayed trapped, and the hours stretched on, and the bells in the City Hall sounded, twelve, then three, then five and six, nine, then twelve again. It was only bearable because he could do nothing but bear it. His throat so dry he coughed, his joints complained when he wasn't sleeping, his pants had dried where he had peed. He needed a bathroom break, soon, or he would shit himself, and thinking of it in this way he chuckled at the graveyard bitterness of it. What did it matter, now? He mumbled a prayer to Cern, then a little later one to the Greenman. One to Pan, and then one to the goddess. He was almost timeless, in the dark, and his time was getting darker.

A loud click sounded, alerting Tim. It was still pitch dark, and with no bells sounding for a long time, it must be very late-- maybe two, or three, maybe later. That must have been the door lock, for someone was shuffling about, coming up a stairwell with a light. Tim just cowered back as far as he could, within the ropes. It might be one of the Masters, a Journeyman; it might be Stolle or worse, Bragge, it could be soldiers. There was no way of guessing and the shutters on the lamp made it impossible to see who might be behind the lamp. The voice gave it away: "Well, young Timotay, we have ourselves quite a problem tonight, don't we?"

Brixis glided over to him and looked down, moving the lantern about, looking at the ropes holding Tim. Then looming over Tim and setting the lamp down, he straightened, pulling out a huge belt knife. Tim let out a rough cry of fear, and started squirming in his bonds and gibbering nonsense into the gag.

"Oh, do shut up, Fox! Be you still! I'm not here to finish you, I'm here to save my business from those morons. You, I'm setting you, free." Shifting his grip on the knife and bending down over Tim, Brixis started making short work of the ropes. Clearly the knife was sharper than any Tim had ever seen, the ropes just fell away freeing his hands and chest first. Tim pulled his hands around in front, and instantly regretted moving them so suddenly. There was no feeling in his hands yet, but his shoulders let him know he had been bound too tightly for far too long.

"Your feet should be free now, don't move them quickly, let the blood get to them. When you are sure and steady on your feet, make your way to the office, I'll meet you there. Don't go out onto the street, it's too dangerous. Don't dawdle, there's not time for that, either."

Before long Tim still ached and still felt the pins and needles in his hands and feet, but he was steady enough to navigate the stairs. His paws made their way down the familiar stairs from the gallery, with sure steps. Yes, he wanted so badly to bolt, but only the owners knew how to operate the back door onto the alley, and the front door was surely the most dangerous. The lantern's light grew stronger as he approached the office area. The vault doors were opened wide and at a drafting table set horizontal sat Master Brixis with an open strong box - counting out stacks of gold and silver coins.

"Come over here, Timotay," began Brixis, "You know that I have always been partial to you, ... Please come here, I want to give you something." Tim knew no such thing but he did slowly step over to stand next to Mr. Brixis.

Great Master-Printer Brixis did not look at Tim, but stared at the piles of coins. "You work for your whole life, you find good people, talented people," he paused, drew in a huge breath and bit his lip. The way Brixis' face wrinkled up, Tim thought he might burst into rage or maybe burst into tears, but Brixis didn't. He took another deep breath only to sigh sadly and push two stacks of gold and silver discs toward Tim.

"You build a reputation, your own small empire, only to loose it to those you trusted. Don't trust anyone too much, keep your own close at hand. Here is one hundred, in silver, small." Brixis pushed a tall pile of silvery coins to Tim. "Put this into your pockets -- use it to pay off your small debts as you leave." He smiled sadly, "You have worked very hard for me, and, and, ... this," he said, smiling sadly at Tim, "This you earned. This is for you. This is six hundred, in gold and silver: some in small so you can buy food without drawing attention, some in large for bigger purchases, ... or if needed for a bribe," Brixis finished, pushing much larger pile of coins to Tim's place at the table. "You are the only apprentice that came under suspicion, but I know you as I know of your innocence. I know those who did this to me. And they will HANG FOR IT!" He banged his enormous fist on the table, rattling the coins and lantern. Then looked sheepish. "Sorry! Here, use this purse. Take it and leave town. I don't care where you go but you must disappear before tomorrow, when the Bells ring Start of Commerce ... I've heard they need printers in Good Honnef, and in Harmsmuth,in almost every profession. Go somewhere and settle in. Use your earnings to buy some new clothes, anything you need. The Greenman Himself knows a fox so handsome as you will have no trouble finding work, but please find some honest clean work. But be you gone, and tonight, because by the morning's fourth bells they'll all be in cells, if not already hung or beheaded. The Royals have knowledge of who is behind this and they believe me innocent. Know that this is not a game, Fox, for you have offended a Prince. Know that we are in earnest. Tonight! Or..."

"Or what?" Started Tim.

"Or if you'll spend the night with me, I'll take you in my private coach at first light of the morning, ...We could be in Harmsmuth by noon, ..." the Master offered.

"No, thank you. I'll leave tonight, in the dark-- it will be better for me."

You are right there, you handsome young fox, but traveling on paws is hard and dangerous! ... Or, for a night with me, it could be fun, and you could ride to Good Honnef in my coach. It's your choice. Oh, and I'd wait three months before contacting anyone, or telling your parents and family where you are, or they could catch some share of this trouble. I hope this goes only as far as it needs to, for only Mordir-Ring and the journeymen were involved, and only at his urging. As if they needed any prodding." Master Brixis produced another sack and scraped all the rest of the coins into it.

"My carriage is ready, out the back door. Come, it is done. If you won't overnight with me I'll have the driver take you to your quarters after he drops me off, we both have packing to do."

Tim was hesitant about getting into the coach with the Master. But Brixis was courteous. Climbing into the carriage with half a bag of gold and silver in his paw, for the first time since being thrown to the floor his heart was shielded against the pain. He was feeling it -- in his heart; hope.

Nor did the Master try any silliness with Tim on the ride to his mansion, and for the ride to Tim's lodgings the driver was courteous, if not very chatty for that hour of night. Harking to the advice of the Master, Tim packed everything he could reasonably fit into his backpack. Then quietly wending his way out, left the monies due for his room and his board for the inn's-keep_,_ all of her due plus a tip, then let himself out of the inn. Quickly he made tracks toward the only unguarded gate, the Spring Gate. It was a narrow enough passage through the wall that he had to take off his heavy backpack, now holding everything he owned. Refilling his water bottle from the spring on his way past, he thought he might have heard a moan, but then he didn't hear any more sounds and so cautiously made his way along the path outside of the city wall to the High Road.

Once upon the high road; his way dark- yet smooth and wide- stars lighting his way, he began a steady brisk walk. The solitary nature of Tim's midnight rush out of town now lead to pondering his hopes and his regrets. The one thing he had in abundance was time to think. What he didn't have in abundance was food, but he had enough. He had a full water skin, and that had to do until he had put enough time into walking that he might feel safe to refill or rest. Might his future go better had he accepted Brixis' offer? Not that the idea was so awful, but no, he couldn't have gone with Brixis; it was Brixis that would have been too awful. Yeuck! His future did not lay with an old perv like Brixis. And so back and forth went his thoughts all night long.

The Dawn came cool and clear. The sun rose to a cloudless sky, and his thoughts tumbled along with him on the empty road. He would never think so harshly about Master Brixis, but also never forgive Morder-Ring for being such a despicable, backstabbing, lying, cheating, dragon. It brought shame to the reputation of one of the most revered species on the planet. Had not dragons been the Masters' greatest triumph? Shame, it was a shame, that there were so few. Only those you could count on your fingers hatched the whole of time since the First War of Abandonment. He was right glad to be a fox; they might not rule, but they were welcomed wherever they went, as good companions, good company, good workers, and good engineers. Sure enough of them got into trouble that they had not a spotless reputation, his Uncle Uther Calthling not an excepting, but if you were in trouble- you wanted an old gray muzzled fox lawyer. And if you wanted to stay out of trouble a young bright eyed fox accountant; two professions that foxes excelled at. And that was another thing that weighed upon Tim's mind-- would he find a safe place to work once in Harmsmuth?

The warmth of the lowering afternoon sun shining on his back made him weary from walking all night. He noticed that a fine few of not-one-single-furrson crossed his path, he thought that curious. Had he seen another soul upon the road though his many hours of walking? Discovering a low opening in the road's hedges he thought better of being seen, should someone come by, slipping into the cooler woods and lowering his pack, to sit back against it, he almost napped. Hidden here he was feeling cool, shaded, safe from the road. There was almost no wild life, nothing bigger than a few insects, when the silence was broken with the jingle and chatter of a coach rolling by. It looked to have some higher noble inside, some guards accompanying seated on the coach roof; and not sparing the hides of the eight slaves pulling. "Cats!" Thought he to himself, "when someone is in a hurry, it is always the Cats." He was glad not to be seen, Brixis' warning still echoing in his mind. He opened his cache and cut a wedge of cheese for his bread, and had a small lunch, then. Content with his progress he felt safe, felt rested, but also stiff from walking; now it was time to keep moving to make the way's Inn by nightfall. He was about to step back onto the road when he caught the smell of something sour, something sweaty, only; familiar. Not wishing to spill his cards and reveal his location, he knelt down peering carefully through the hedge to the road.

There upon the King's high road was a Tiger -- a tiger he knew. Bragge, pelting along on foot at a trot, and none too steady he looked. Unsteady of his gate and bare to his waist, what trousers he wore were torn. He was bruised and cut as if in a brawl. Bragge was muttering to himself; what Tim could make out of it was alternating imprecations and pleas to various deities, cursing and pleading for rescue or begging for his life. Bast and Set he'd heard of, but the mumbling was so low that he was unsure what else was said. But it wasn't polite in any company. Tim remained in his hiding spot for another half hour, to be sure he'd not be seen by the tiger before setting out. This slowed his pace, certainly, but when he met the next crossroads and entered the tavern there, it was not yet dusk.

The Tavern there was abuzz with the tale of a bloody well-beaten tiger who staggered past without stopping longer than to drink from the livestock-trough. How they roared at the telling of the sight. Such was the tavern's chatter though told with thick accents, still, he got the gist of the story.

"Not to be slow, up jumps Albrecht, and shouts at 'im, 'Here! Here! What's this? What's this--what are you about?' Poor damned tiger does not report, reply, nor respond. Asks us for nowt! But up he runs and sticks his great head -up to his shoulders- into the grubby trough-water. No! Not the well's basin for washing! It's that he's at the feral's trough! Ge-vay and 'ooffs, drinking from fee-trog! N'nen, up he jumps like he's been shot, and off he runs down the high road as if, by demons, harried!"

Tim felt much relieved and ordered a tab started for his supper and lodging. Soon most of the chatter died down to more mundane things; crops, the weather, smuggling, the King's health, the army, etc., and Tim was easier in his mind for the gentle hubbub. As he sat with his short-beer, one of the locals, a handsome wolf offering to make room at the table for him, told a joke that Tim didn't follow, about how Pilsner and piltzner sounded the same. Tim guessed that you had to be drunk to get it, but he was content just sitting with his back to the wall with the other single men on the tavern's long bench. Sipping from the mug he let the slow sound of the local chatter of no moment eddy about him like leaves in a stream.

The early morning's activities roused Tim and he made his way down, listening to the tales of yesterday's wild tiger while eating a hearty breakfast. He bought one weight bread, a half weight of cheese, a quarter weight pemmecan and settled up his tab. Dropping one small silver into the hat of a beggar across the road from the tavern, he took a deep breath. So he set off with the blessings of the beggar echoing in his ears.

Traveling alone is a two edged sword, you have the best of traveling companions with you, only his problem is that he only has you to talk to... so by necessity, it is a little lonely. Fortunately Tim walking slowly with his large backpack this day encountered more folks traveling northward, and some wished to match their pace with Tim to rest and enjoy company for a while, before setting off at their unburdened pace. They had fun stories to tell him, and lots of advice of where to stop; Boven Den, Northern Hardenburg, Small Snowing, Rosetown, and the like. 'Ware and mind the stoats around the floss' bridge over the Linen, was the best advice he got, and a ways back from the bridge, a group of local farmers bringing hay north caught up with him, and together they traveled over the bridge with trouble from neither the largest stoat nor the least weasel.

Tim was sore of leg and tender of pawpads, and opted for a massage from the large inn at Hermann Riding. If all went well, he'd be eating his lunch in Wernige Riding, and his supper in Harmsmuth proper tomorrow night, he was informed. He wished that he could afford a coach ride, but feeling the insecurity of having no idea where he would live nor whom he would meet, he couldn't afford the gamble.

The massage was wonderful, and when Tim set out the next morning, he felt much refreshed. His heart was shielded by a shining idea held close, Hope.