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Tonight, my luck finally pays out.

Kicking me while Fido looks on is clearly not enough for Marcel to get his rocks off. He opens the door to my cell some hours after when I'd normally have been fed, no lantern, no knife, no nothing. Just a set of heavy boots, thick gloves, and a vicious smile.

I let him kick me once, rolling around on the floor and laying down facing away from him. He doesn't like that. He likes to see me in pain. In the time it takes him to cross the room, I rip my belt from my trousers. It's not your average belt, I'm pleased to say. It's a thin leather affair, folded twice, made from a broader piece. The leather alone might have been enough to do the deed, but I don't want to take the risk of being found out, should he let too much noise. I rip at my seemingly inconspicuous buckle, and it comes loose from the belt, trailing a tin metal wire, at the other end of which there's a small, metal bar, wide enough for me to hook a couple of fingers around.

Because the cell is dark, and Marcel's sight relies on the light of the open door, he doesn't see what I'm doing before it's too late for him. I sidestep his next kick, and hook my arms around his neck, straining at the edge of my chain. But I manage to get the thin metal wire over his head, and from there, it's simply a matter of procedure, I'm afraid. Poor Marcel the sadist never stood a chance.

He coughs out a few syllables, but as the metal wire digs in and his lungs fill with blood, they come out soundless. With a dull thud, he sinks down to the ground, lifeless.

Well, you can't say he didn't have it coming, come on.

The smell of blood brings me back to who I really am. I shed the skin of the poor prisoner and wipe my paws on Marcel's waistcoat before grabbing his keyring to unlock my chains. I hesitate about taking his knife, because though I prefer a good fight over whatever this kind of death is, it is necessary that I'm not discovered. But I do take it, just in case I won't find my belongings. I take his belt, too because my trousers are falling down, and I'm not so dead to morals that I'll strut around naked when I do my murdering. Besides, he owes me a new belt. I've not been worked over like this for quite some time, I've earned it.

I limp slowly outside, locking the door behind me and making sure no trails of blood follow me. If I'm lucky, nobody will check on my cell before my next feeding time. Padding down the dark corridor, I follow the only sound in this cellar, the sound of someone snoring. It's clearly not a dungeon. The only thing my cell had going for it was the sturdy wooden door. There are no other doors like it anywhere here. No bars, no grates, no sluices. The corridor outside my cell smells considerably cleaner, which is usually not the case with most prisons. No corpse stench either. So either it's a slow day, or they only keep one prisoner. Well. Kept.

At the end of the corridor, there's an archway, beyond which I find Fido, the source of the snoring.

Now.

Fido doesn't deserve to die. He did nothing, and didn't even want to take part in the beatings. Furthermore, he was the one who brought me food. However, when it all comes down to it, my garotte has already wrapped around his neck, and the rest of the argument is academic. I'm not much for schools, personally. But well. It's me or him at this point. Unfortunately, the garotte is a messy way to go about this, so I can't hide the body. But I'd rather kill this way than strangling them by paw, as this is less... let's just say that I don't forget any of these things, alright.

My body aches with the strain, but I have to work out what's going on. I have to figure out where I am, how I get out, and how to kill whoever thinks they can lay a paw on an agent of the crown. And where are my things? I don't care much about my cape, or my sword, or other tools, or my clothes. But I'd dearly like my ring back, and my necklace and bracelet. I scratch at my neck. I've carried a slave collar there for so long, that strip of skin is just a long scar where fur won't grow. And yet, the skin is surprisingly supple and sensitive. For the last four years, after I got rid of that hideous collar, I've carried a light silver necklace. It's so finely wrought that it is almost weightless, like a soft summer breeze tickling my neck, reminding me of Kit's gentle kisses, his whiskers, his soft fur. It is as much of a chain as the one I just escaped, but it keeps me tethered to the good things in life, to the light and love, and whatever else that he and I share. In short, I'd really, really like to find it.

I quickly find my way out of the cellar, and up a stone stairway, steep and narrow. It takes me to another interminable corridor, much the same as the one downstairs, at the edge of which, there's a large door. I test the handle, and find it yielding. Carefully, I nudge it open, keeping my garotte wrapped around my left wrist. The room beyond seems empty. The lamps dotted on the nearby walls are all out. There's an utter silence resting here. It's dark. It's night. I carefully slip through the doors and close them behind me. The room I find myself in has something of an entrance hall quality to it, with a stairway leading up to two different wings. Portraits are dotted around the walls, and the occasional hunting trophy as well. It's clearly a nobleman's house.

I'll admit it, much as I disliked him, Eugene was the brain of this operation. Or rather, he was the one who had all the information. He could've explained who this dog was, why he felt the need to capture me, and for what I'd been captured, had he come with me into the cell. I know why I'm usually captured, whenever I am. The fact that this stranger kept me alive means he's probably dealing in one or more illegal activities and he wants to know which one to shut down, and he doesn't want to have my blood on his paws, which means he thinks he can get away with it. That'll be academic rather soon, I suspect.

Since I'm not yet discovered, I take my chances at the second floor, and climb up to what I discern to be the south wing, because I can see traces of dawn in the black sky through a window in yet another corridor here. That explains why the place is so quiet. It's big enough to warrant at least half a dozen staff, but they're likely still asleep.

There are mountains on the horizon, but not much in terms of sea. Since I can't smell much more than myself, I'll have to rely on my eyes and they seem to figure I'm still somewhere within dalmatian borders, but far from the city. Hopefully less than a day's march, because I don't know how far I can walk with my broken rib. I get up close to a window, and look out, across a garden full of manicured trees and bushes. Castellanian inspired, which is an unusual style choice here. Nobles here prefer wild roses, orange trees and vineyards to grass and perfectly cropped plants. There's a few who think Dalmatia have moved too far away from whatever their God teaches, though. Apparently, their God has very strong feelings about how one keeps one's garden. Of course the philosophers in Dalmatia argue about that, too. But I know that the freedom, liberalism and, well, let's be honest, the freedom to love has made Dalmatia very loathed by Castellania. We're not at war yet, thanks to shrewd political work, but I'm told things are not looking good. And having rich nobles sympathetic to Castellania's cause within our borders does unsettle my liege enough that I'm sure I'm onto some kind of connection here.

I come around a corner, and pass what looks like a library, and then it becomes a little clearer. Instead of books, the room contains countless artefacts. Things that have been brought back from far flung places. A few tools and weapons which look tribal in design. Some gold ornaments attached to a wooden mannequin of a cheetah. And, in the middle of the room, a perfectly preserved skull. Very obviously a skull of a higher animal. Which species, I don't know. I look inside, and find more skulls, none of which I recognize on sight. And I've seen quite a few skulls. Common to most skulls presented in such a way is that their owner... that's the original owner, mind you... usually object to having them removed, and most examples are often removed in objectionable ways.

Well, aren't I one to talk?

I've learned another thing during my time in Dalmatia. Dalmatians enjoy exotic wares. They love their spices and teas, and coffee and silks, so trading in those is a safe business, if highly contested. But they strongly object to owning stolen goods. Having their ownership of something questioned is considered very shameful, and they respect and adhere to their stated morals. They aren't without fault in this, either. They have that hideous love of money and pride and inflated sense of nationhood that will bring down any man if he's not careful. They'll often let wealth guide their strategic decision making, or use wealth as an indicator of good sense. However, you can actually change their mind, if you shed light on a flaw with their logic or morals, which is one of the things I find most admirable about them.

Castellanians, on the other paw, are insatiable. They have the means, morals and ideals to lay claim to anything they can get their paws on. Because of this, they have become the largest, most respected, and by far the most mistrusted empire the world has ever seen. It's a love or hate empire, there's no middle ground. And this room, with its objectionable trinkets clearly stolen, belongs to someone who does not share this nation's ideals. If that was the least of his crimes, he'd still be watched. But there's clearly more to it than that.

The south wing contains quite a few clues, but no trace of its owner. I pad along the corridor, over to the north side, more confident now. Strength is returning to my feet and arms, and the aches and pains are, though not receding, at least manageable and well established, and won't catch me by surprise if I have to pick up my feet.

The north wing seems dedicated to sleeping quarters. I crack the door of one room, clutching the garotte tightly. On the other side, I find a modest guest room, smelling faintly of its occupants, under my own strong scent. I leave a smear of ferret blood on the door handle as I close it again. The next room smells like nothing. But the last room at the end of the corridor, the largest, definitely does.

When I crack the door, a range of conflicting smells hit me right at once. At first, I smell the scent of a dog. I expected as much. Perfume too. Yes, but not for covering up their own smell, because rich and poor in this nation are equally bad at keeping themselves clean. Blood, sure. Not unlikely. I mean, he does keep a dungeon, albeit with only one cell, under his house. And gun smoke. Now, there's something I didn't expect. I haven't heard any weapon go off, but the smoke smells fresh. Carefully, I draw my knife, and push the door open with a foot, keeping clear of the doorway.

"Good of you to finally show up," a thin voice says, grating to my ears.

I hug the wall next to the doorframe, ensuring that no part of me is visible from inside the room.

"Come on, fox, I know it's you," the voice repeats, and I vaguely remember where I've heard it before. "God, you stink."

Yeah. Yeah, that makes it more familiar.

"Mr. Raine?" I whisper. "What... Is that you?"

"Surprised you remembered me after all this time, eh?" the voice says, calm as anything.

I slowly breathe out, and let my curiosity guide me as I slip inside the room. When I close the door behind me, I hear the opening of one of the room's tall windows, letting fresh air inside.

"Christ," Eugene exclaims, sitting on the bed. "They told me you were efficient with your toilette for a fox. I didn't realise they meant like this."

"Mr. Raine, I-"

"I mean, honestly, most of your kind at least know how to use a chamber pot. Just my luck to get the one fox who doesn't-"

"Eugene, shut up." I growl, levelling a finger at the greyhound. "You've got some explaining to do."

He gets to his feet, and I get a decent look at him.

I distinctly remember seeing a smoking hole in his coat, a different coat, right over his heart, right before I got knocked out. But here he stands, healthy as anything. Arrogant and distasteful as I remember him.

"What... What's going on?" I ask. I'm still clutching the knife, and for good measure and expediency, I level it at my colleague. "Explain. Why are you here? Why am I here?"

Eugene pulls out a cloth napkin and covers his snout with it.

"Ugh... Alright. We've been looking for Don Alessandro, you might have met him. Short lad, breathing difficulties. Pug."

"I've made acquaintances with him." I say. "I can guess why, too. Tell me, were you aware?"

"Of you being in this place?"

"Well, where the fuck did you think I was?" I ask, feeling annoyance growing in my throat. "They stuck me in a cell for two weeks, where were you? Where's the rescue party?"

"I am the rescue party, fox," Eugene says, as he seats himself on the bed again, leaning back against the headboard with his shoes on the mattress. "I'm not one for lengthy apologies, so just pretend that I had one for you. But I was otherwise preoccupied."

"How preoccupied?" I ask. "Let me tell you, that cell wasn't a pleasure house. I think I've broken something. If you wasted a single moment-"

"Yet, you're standing," the greyhound says. "Look at you."

The mild amusement in his voice grates my ears, until I just want to smack the smile off his muzzle.

"Why didn't you come sooner, then?"

"I was walking off a gunshot wound," the greyhound answer nonchalantly. "And-"

"About that," I say, quickly. "Eugene Raine, you are a fucking idiot. You almost got yourself killed. That'd be on my head. I thought you were dead."

I refrain from mentioning whether or not I was actually sad about it.

"Oh, my," the greyhound answers. "You don't say? I could've been dead, but I am not. And you're out of your cell all on your own. So why lay the blame on me? You were the one who got yourself put in there."

I walk up to him, and slap him across his muzzle with the back of my left paw, ferret blood spattering across his face. "Enough with the snarky comments, hound!" I yell at him, my patience hanging on a tether. "Speak plainly."

Eugene, looking genuinely shocked, seems to wake up from some daydream. He puts a paw to the spot where I hit him, and his fingers come away stained in red. When he looks me over with tilted head, as if I'm speaking a different language, something seems to resolve inside his head. Looks like he's never been properly slapped before, which I find almost impossible to believe. Then he shakes his head again, unbuttons his coat, and shows off a cuirass which, by the Gods, look to be as thick as my index finger.

"That's... that's-" I stumble over my words. Regular cuirasses aren't impervious to gunfire, but this one looks like it could stop a twelve-pounder.

"I won't say it doesn't hurt when they shoot me," the greyhound responds, his tone less grating now. "But I've kept it on for so long that I'm prone to forgetting it's there."

"Forgetting it's there?" I ask, dumbstruck. I reach out and heft one of the shoulder straps. "By the Gods, that thing must weigh over twenty-five pounds."

"More or less. It's saved my life more than I care to mention. I've grown used to it now."

"I couldn't even guess you were wearing it," I tell him. "I've never seen the like. How can you bear it? You looked like some scrawny noble."

Looked...

There's something about him that I only now notice. The greyhound straightens his back, wipes the blood off his face with his sleeve, undoes a few leather clasps and the rest of his buttons. With a clatter, the steel comes off.

"I never take it off," he says morosely. "But here's to our mutual trust, Kieran. I am not Eugene Raine right now."

Most greyhounds are strung together with lashings of muscle and sinew, with thin fur stretched over their frame like a drum skin. Eugene... I mean... this Greyhound isn't. He's built like a brick outhouse, thick muscles straining to escape his coat. What I had imagined was an oversized coat was, in fact, perfectly fitted. His shoulders are each as broad as my chest, his arms are thicker than my thighs. And all over, he's got scars and marks telling of a life certainly not lead by a nobleman.

In a jug on a bedside table, he dips his bloody fingers and rubs them together. The grey of his fur smudges the water, and underneath, his coat is as black as mine. He stares at his fingers for a moment. Then he softens his voice, and his tone changes considerably. His mannerism changes. His accent changes.

"Kieran," he says with a deeper, more serene voice. "I'm known not by name, but simply as the best infiltrator in our service. I can become whoever I want. But... it's not as simple as that. The people I become, they... lead lives on their own, sometimes outside of my control. I leave my real self behind, and often, that means I'm not as cooperative as I could've been. For the suffering I caused, I apologize." The grey... black greyhound bows his head. "Please don't tell his Grace about my... condition."

"Was it Eugene Rain who acted like a fool?" I ask him. "Or was it you?"

I've learned never to ask anyone's real names here, because I don't like being lied to, to begin with. So to me, he's only the Greyhound now.

"Well, that's a difficult one," The hound says, scratching his jawline. "Eugene Raine is a coward, who masks his fear with a braggard's confidence. But I retain some control of him. Let's assume I let you, my body guard, enter that room first. What would've transpired then?"

"That's irrelevant, it was my job to protect you," I respond with a little less conviction. Because had I entered that room first, I'd have been the one with a hole in me and I wouldn't have protected anyone. "I advocated caution."

"Slowly picking a lock meant whoever lay in ambush would have the chance to shoot you through that door, or line up their shots, or make their escape. I didn't want that. Eugene believed we stood a better chance if he surprised them. I realised that if they unloaded their weapons on me, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. The method was Eugene's, the reasoning was mine. You see the logic, right?"

I nod. "But you were on the floor."

"Unfortunately... the dust they kicked up..." The greyhound rubs his fingers together more, and more black fur is revealed under the fur dye. "I stumbled over a chair and I must have hit my head." He sounds ashamed, more than anything. "I suppose it looked like I was dead."

"You must have fooled them, too." I scratch my head. I wasn't prepared for this. I've got so much worked up bile, that I've stewed on for days and days. And when it all comes down to it, it's just a dumb accident thanks to a spur of the moment tactical decision which I can't even fault him for.

"When I awoke, our assailants and you were gone, and I have to track you down to this very mansion. I never knew it was outfitted to keep prisoners."

"It really wasn't," I say. "So... Where's this... Don Alessandro? You've found him?"

The greyhound looks up at me, then over to a closet. I carefully open it, and find the pug, who stood over me as I was beaten nearly senseless. He's bound and gagged, stripped of all his finery, and very unprepared for what awaits him. He whimpers as he sees me, his eyes fixing on my left paw. Whether on the blood or the garotte, I don't know.

"You or I?"

"At your leisure," he responds. "Figured you might have something to say to him."

"Well," I say, splaying my one good ear. "What is he accused of?"

"Don Alessandro has been dealing in secret with the Castellanians, trading... illegal cargo."

"I guessed," I tell him.

"And he kept a government official imprisoned for two weeks. Stole your belongings too. That's a hanging offense, if anything is, don't you think?"

I feel my good ear turn down. "I'd rather not make it personal. It's not a good way to go about this."

"True enough," the greyhound sighs, getting up from the bed and hunching down in front of the scared noble. "Paying tax in Dalmatia, and living in Dalmatia, my friend, means you have to follow our rules. You've been naughty, haven't you, Don Alessandro. What did you do?" The greyhound puts on a near perfect recreation of the pug's breathing-restricted voice, and grabs him by his jowls, forcefully moving his jaws like a puppet master. "I wanted to enjoy the crown's low tax rates, which they reward honest captains and traders with. But I wasn't honest. I decided to buy and sell slaves and their goods in Dalmatian waters, and someone told on me. And now, Kieran here is going to be upset with me."

The pug has gone from whimpering to crying and shaking his head.

"There you go, Kieran," The greyhound concludes. "I hope that's not too personal. But just to make sure."

My suspicions are confirmed when the Greyhound shows me some letters he's dug up, describing the trading in unambiguous detail. I can tell that Don Alessandro wants to say just about anything to save his hide.

"I don't suppose one can issue two death sentences?" I ask, unwinding my garrotte from my paw.

"You seem to have issued one or two already," the greyhound nods toward my left fist, dripping on the floor. "Would you mind?"

I wish I could say that I did, like the innocent fox I was before they put that slave collar around my neck, long ago. I do mind, because I wish this job didn't have to exist to begin with. But I don't feel any kind of remorse.

When it's done, and I've wiped the blood on my paws off on his undershirt, we leave the dead pug on his belly on the floor.

"Who did you have to go through?" the greyhound asks with an air of professional curiosity.

"Two guards," I mutter simply.

"Call it two drinks on me, fox."

"Thanks, hound. Are we done here?"

"There are no more people to hunt," he says. He pulls his breastplate back on, and buttons up his jacket, and his voice stiffens. "We'll commandeer some horses in the Don's stables, I expect them ready within the hour."

"Then I'll make use of the bathroom," I tell him, shaking the blood off my paws. It comes out in spatters, soiling the fine carpet. "And the pantry. I believe I'm owed."

"Suit yourself, fox."

While I go to work, getting the shit smell out of my fur with the late Alessandro's range of oils and soaps, I hear the voices ring through the hallways of the house. Screams, confused shouts, the greyhound's calm explanations. Eventually, the commotion dies down, replaced by hurried footsteps. While I scrape my fur clean, I find a bottle of navy strength brandy, which I drink of liberally. The fiery surge of alcohol into my empty stomach does wonders for all my aches and pains, and after a while, the prospects of riding back to Dalmatia doesn't unsettle me so.

Searching around for a towel, I come across an office bordering the master bedroom, in which I find a small chest. I crack the lock of the chest with the blade of my stolen dagger, and find a familiar looking bundle. My black cape, which will do the job of towelling me, contains everything they took from me.

After I'm as dry as I'll get, I strap my sword to the stolen belt, holding up a pair of trousers I've borrowed from the late Alessandro. The old shirt and trousers go into the fireplace with the rest of the brandy, and slip my knife into the hem of my coat, which I drape over my damp fur. I put on my necklace, letting it tickle the bare skin around my neck, and then I don the bracelet, kissing it gently. Relief. A weight lifts from my shoulders, as the memory of these fineries and what they represent settle in to fight down the last two weeks. Finally, I slip on my ring of office, because what is pleasure without a little pain now and then?

Before I leave, I make sure to fill my belly in the Don's pantry. The house seems to have come alive since I traipsed through these hallways earlier. Servants and maids are rushing up and down the hallways, arms full of silverware or valuables. I find myself in agreement with them. Morals are useful only to those who can put salt on their tables every day. While I eat, I see Fido and Marcel, being dragged upstairs and outside by some goat who smells of the stable. That reminds me that I have a place to be, so I gather up some pancetta and olives, and head out to the front yard, amidst long stares from passing staff.

But none of them dare do anything.

Maybe the rumours are true, maybe they aren't. It's not in most men to chance the latter, I've come to learn. Whether or not it was they who informed on him is irrelevant. They will not be held accountable. The greyhound tells me as much on our ride back.

"If an informant knew they or their friends might be punished, then what inclination would anyone have towards coming forth?"

"I suppose you're right," I tell him, as we ride towards the ocean breeze. "I'm just glad to rid the world of another one of the bastards which makes all of this necessary."

"Alas, I'm tired of this nasty business, too, Kieran," the greyhound says. "But we do it because we believe in a better world for all."

I shrug. That too. The actual main reason was that I have no choice. My convictions won't allow me to do anything else, so long as I have the body and mind to perform this most important job. I feel the sun wash over me and dry my damp fur. It's relieving, and refreshing, and reminds me that the good in the world outweigh the bad, and adding to that good, one slave trader at a time, is a worthy way to live. It's not clean or comfortable. But someone's gotta do the dirty work.