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One Hundred and Fifty Years Ago

As a clement summer evening spread its warmth over the city, Hugo De Lyle was found strolling into the Skin District of Sulia.

The soft breeze carried the unusual mix of aromas one always found in the Skin District. Cloying perfumes mingling with spices and unwashed fur, all overlaid with the unmistakable scents of lust.

He smiled softly to himself, nodding to a couple of passing gentlemen he recognized from the club. They nodded back politely, but warily kept their distance. Hugo fancied their respect and distrust for him was almost so palpable as to be tasted on the wind. And indeed, it was with good reason. Hugo De Lyle was a lion to be reckoned with.

His sneering attention was diverted quite suddenly when he saw a gentleman come storming out of a nearby side-alley. The figure in the lead, an older, graying hare whom he did not recognize, was bristling with anger and indignation, and struck the ground most firmly with his cane whenever he took a step. He dismissed the two younger flunkies trailing behind him as servants, or perhaps worse in his own opinion, family. Hugo De Lyle had little time for his own family ? indeed, there were rumors that he had slain his own sire to increase his own position and standing. With a sudden motion, the elder hare turned on the spot to address whatever ills had befallen him in that murky street, and shook his paw furiously.

'I promise you, sir, that you shall never sell that feckless, impertinent creature! You will be stuck with that red-furred hellion until the end of your days! Good-day!' He snapped, marching off, his entourage straggling after him like dandelion seeds caught in a wayward breeze. Hugo raised an eyebrow.

'How intriguing...' he murmured, snapping his digits imperiously at Tara to follow him as he veered to the left to see what had so vexed the old gentleman. Tara had been a slave of his for a couple of months now, and her fur, once a soft and shiny hazel, was now obviously neglected and was beginning to loose it's once vibrant colour. The fire that had once burned so fiercely in her eyes had all been extinguished in those two months. Perhaps, he mused, she had provided him with all the entertainment she could supply and had thereby come to the end of her use. He was often told by his few peers that he was far too harsh with his slaves, that he used them up and exhausted them too quickly. But he could always afford new slaves, and oh! How he relished the absolute power over another person that owning slaves brought.

'Really, Cally, can't you kindly behave properly for the five minutes it would take to sell you?' A weary voice asked plaintively. The voice that answered was young, female, defiant, and dripping with venomous sarcasm from every syllable.

'Sorry to inconvenience you, greytail, but I see absolutely no reason to be meek and submissive to either those who would sell me into slavery or to those that would buy me.'

'As if I have the slightest chance of selling you! You are rude in the extreme to creatures of great standing when you yourself have no standing at all. Every owner you've had has returned you to me within a fortnight, and I'm the worse for it every time it occurs since I have invariably spent a good portion of your price already and must remunerate the difference out of my own pocket.'

This could be nothing less than the very disturbance he had sought, thought the lion, taking in the scene before him.

The male that had spoken was a relatively young grey squirrel with a harried expression on his face as he leant against the wall. He had attempted to dress in the manner befitting a gentleman, but Hugo's keen eyes picked up the signs others might have missed ? his jacket was crumpled, his hat was dusty and at a ridiculous angle. His cravat was quite out of fashion and he could smell the cheap alcohol emanating from him at even this distance. In an oblique way, Hugo approved. He liked doing business with desperate souls ? they capitulated cheaply. The 'gentleman' was clearly a common wretch, if not a gentleman fallen on hard times. But the other one...Despite his usual air of disaffected uninterest, Hugo felt his pulse rise in a tingle of interest. The young woman he had heard was a squirrel as well ? but where the first was ash-grey with the clothes of a gentleman and the bearing of a cur, she was a deep and blazing autumnal red, with the clothes of a street-urchin but all the bearing of a duchess. She regarded him coolly through green eyes as hard as emeralds, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he felt the waves of pure, unfettered hatred in that clear, focused gaze. A Red Squirrel...

Hugo had been well educated as a cub at the insistence of his father, no doubt hoping to distract his son from the traditional family method of inheritance of planting a knife between the shoulder blades. It hadn't worked, but he now recalled learning of the long-standing grudge between the two breeds.

When the Grey Squirrels immigrated to the country several centuries ago, they had immediately embroiled themselves in a vicious turf-war with their smaller native relatives. It had eventually been quashed, but not before the beleaguered Reds had been all but wiped out. It was now rare indeed to see one ? indeed, this fiery specimen was the first Hugo had ever seen. His father, he recalled, had once attempted to collect a family he had heard of, for his father had many of the same interests as his son, but nothing had ever come of it as far as he knew. He had to possess her.

He cleared his throat.

'Sounds like you're having a spot of bother with that slave of yours, old boy.' He drawled nonchalantly. The grey squirrel visibly started, his tail straight as a roman road as he looked up at the lion.

'Oh, hello sir! I do beg your pardon, I quite failed to see you there. Arlen Bailey at your service.' He said quickly, recovering from his initial surprise, extending his paw to shake the lion's hand. Hugo declined to take it, looking disdainfully at the off-colour fingerless glove.

'Hmm. Indeed. As I was saying, you seem to be having some troubles with your...companion there.' Hugo murmured, indicating the Squirrelmaid with his walking cane. Arlen nodded miserably.

'Indeed I am, good sir. She's absolutely intolerable.' Quick as a flash, Arlen tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead.

'You don't have such a thing as a pinch of snuff about you, do you sir?' He wheedled. 'I hardly like to start the day without a pinch of snuff, but this creature's been rather a drain on my coffers.'

'Only because you keep putting the proceeds of my sale up your nose.' Muttered the Squirrelmaid darkly, and Hugo noticed the heavy chain between her paws, and more curiously, the heavy iron bar between her back-paws. Arlen half-turned and raised his hand as if to strike her, but thought the better of it and sighed mournfully.

'She's right of course, loathe as I am to admit it. It is so deucedly expensive to be a gentleman, I find. So many frivolities one has to keep up with, so many fashions.'

Hugo was coming to like this creature less and less, but resigned himself, for the moment, to civility. Now was not the time to let his anger come between himself and such a rare prize, so he restrained himself to an uncompassionate nod.

'Between you and me, sir, I doubt I shall ever be rid of her. Every time I think I might have managed it, she's always returned to me and I must invariably refund her price.' The grey said, quite wrapped up in his own misery.

'And why do they return her, do you think?'

'Oh, that is easy enough to understand, sir. She's surly and truculent, rebellious and insolent, and no amount of beating seems to change her inclination to be so.'

As he spoke, the Squirrelmaid lifted her head defiantly, looking blackly at the pair of them. And sure enough, Hugo could see the telltale signs of bruises fading under fur ? he'd inflicted them enough himself to recognise them. A pity that he would not be the first, he thought.

'Ah. A challenge.' He smiled, revealing his sharp incisors. Arlen looked at them warily ? old habits died hard, even after centuries of Civilisation, and the Lion was, he knew, at his physical peak and more than a little intimidating. Hugo clicked his cane down on the floor, and on cue, Tara shuffled forwards to give her master his coin-purse. It was a nuisance to hold it himself as it quite ruined the lining of his suit, and it was perfectly safe with Tara ? she knew full well what he'd do to her should she allow anything to happen to it.

'I enjoy a challenge, Mr Bailey, and your red-furred possession here has a certain...fire about her.' The slave in question sprang to her feet as nimbly as she could with her legs restrained by the thick iron cuffs, her eyes blazing with indignation.

'Possession? Possession? I am no-one's possession! I was born free and so shall I live and die!' She spat, her tail bristling angrily.

Quick as a flash, Hugo moved. As he surged forward his hand gripped around her throat and he slammed her back against the wall, her feet dangling off the floor. They remained in that silent tableau for perhaps a minute or so, the squirrel beating futilely at his hand and fighting for breath as his eyes roamed more thoroughly over the slave. She was slight of figure beneath her tattered grey dress, but where most slaves had a leanness to them that spoke of infrequent or inadequate nourishment, her body was trim and lithe in a way that suggested a natural acrobatic tendency ? but he'd heard that about grey squirrels and had no reason to assume differently about their rarer cousins. Her breasts were unfortunately slight; in keeping with her body type, he supposed, but his tastes normally ran larger. His eyes ran leisurely down her dress, taking in her tail, almost as long again as her waist to her head ? it was thickly furred and voluminous. It seemed almost extravagant compared to his own ? indeed, to the tails of most of the people he knew. He may have wished there was more to this slight waif, but he found that he coveted that luxurious looking tail. The shape of her legs was plainly evident through her dress, but that did not phase him as it might have more honest, upstanding gentlemen. Hugo was, after all, a man of the world. Or at least, the seedy underworld of society, and a well-turned ankle no longer turned his head. Once again, his eyes were drawn down to that curious ankle bar that dragged at her legs. He turned his head back to Arlen, who looked nervous ? probably because he was handling the merchandise without having paid for it. These small-time slavers were all the same.

'What's the purpose of this bar? Most slaves just have their hands shackled in the market place.'

Arlen broke into a strange smile. 'Ah, true enough, sir, true enough. But most creatures can't do this.' As he finished his sentence he launched himself into the air, paws seemingly finding grip on the wall where Hugo could have sworn none could be. He also realized, as Arlen pulled himself effortlessly up the wall, that he wasn't wearing any shoes. The tradesman pushed himself from the wall, flipping neatly over Hugo's head and landing upside down on the opposite wall of the narrow street, limbs spread-eagled. He stayed there for a moment, an exhilarated grin upon his face till his top hat slipped from his head and fell down to the ground. Arlen clicked impatiently.

'Oh, bother.' He muttered, dropping nimbly to his feet and scooping it back up. He dusted it off quickly and dropped it back between his ears. 'But I trust you see my point, sir ? We're climbers by nature. Our far distant ancestors were climbers, and even through Civilisation we have retained the trait. She wears the ankle bar to stop her escaping over the rooftops, which would make her quite difficult to sell.' He scowled, thinking. 'That is to say, more difficult to sell than she currently is.' He amended. He obviously had no idea of how much he could sell her for in the right place to the right people, Hugo mused, and resolved to take full advantage of this situation. He released the red from his grasp, and as she fell gasping to the floor, turned to Tara and took up his coin-purse.

'Well, I intend to fare rather better than her previous owners. Let us discuss the cost. I'd be willing to go as high as...thirty guineas.'

Arlen's eyes narrowed.

'Hmm, a tempting offer, sir, very generous of you indeed. But how about twenty guineas...and her?' He asked, gesturing towards the humbled and dulled Tara. 'After all, I am a slaver by trade and Cally here is currently my only stock. You are, after all, getting a new slave, and quite a bargain, if I may say so, and with your old slave, who seems rather refreshingly docile, I can get back into proper business.'

Hugo was silent for a long moment as he weighed up the bargain in his mind, his eyes flicking between the subdued Tara and the smaller slaver. It was a tempting offer, true enough, and the Lynx had quite resoundingly lost his interest. Although, he had been looking forward to terminating her...employment with some of his rather more unusual enjoyments that he didn't like to use on creatures who were frankly more useful alive. He sighed. And there again, there was always the simple option of gutting the agile trader on the spot with his vastly superior strength and just taking...What had her name been? Cally? Yes, that was it. In this secluded alleyway, who would know? Hah. In this city, there was always someone watching. Tempting as it was, within a day the quarter would know ? within a week, the whole city. The bribes he'd need to pay to keep clean in the eyes of the law would undoubtedly be more than the cost of simply paying in the first instance. And allowing this slaver to take Tara would lessen the cost even further. Hugo did not like to throw money away unnecessarily. For the moment, he would pay. And if the drunken sot had an unfortunate accident later this week in one of the seedy pubs he undoubtedly inhabited and the money ended up, by some strange coincidence, back in Hugo's pocket, well, so much the better. He smiled.

'You drive a hard bargain, Master Bailey, but I accept.' He counted out twenty Guineas, and passed them disdainfully into the slaver's greedy paws.

'I give you formal ownership of Tara Kinton, Slave.' He said formally. The coins jingled and vanished about Arlen's person in short order.

'And I give you formal ownership of Callista Whitecastle, Slave. And I wish you the best of luck, of course.'

'I'll be back within a week, Arlen.' Callista taunted, pulling herself back to her feet. She cried out and fell back to the floor as Hugo calmly struck her across the face.

'You are my property now, and you will not speak unless spoken to.' He said firmly. When the tart reply he'd been expecting failed to arrive, he kneeled down, clinically checking the young woman over. Her eyes were rolled back slightly in her head, and she didn't react when he prodded her in the ribs experimentally. He was no expert, but she looked quite unconscious to him. She hadn't been prepared for the blow, and Hugo had never liked to pull his punches in his life or in his business dealings. He shrugged, and picked her up easily, slinging her over one broad shoulder, chains and all.

'Well, Mr Bailey. Thank you for doing business so agreeably with me. I'd say I hope to see you again but in truth I find you a rather despicable pretender with little honour and less moral fibre. Good day.'

For almost a minute after he had left, Tara stood, numb and uncomprehending. Arlen was watching her, his head tilted to the side, his manner puzzled. Finally, he moved towards her, fast on his feet, and she instinctually flinched and backed away. He made a soothing sound and she felt his hands on her bare upper arms.

'Shh, hush now, old girl, you're safe now. Here, take this.' Cloth wrapped around her, and warmth slowly began to spread through her body. She held it close. Real cloth! The fug of terror that had suffused her mind for the past few months wavered slightly, and she fell to her knees on the street. She heard pawsteps behind her, and a voice...

'I say, Arlen, jolly good show! Bunty and I doubled back after old George piqued his interest and I must say you played the part of a despicable, drunken slaving cur to a tee! I knew you had hidden depths but I didn't suspect you had a hidden shallows as well! I say, what-'

'Not now, Dorothea. Give me a paw, would you? Poor old Tara here's rather in shock, I fancy, and blowed if I can move her about on my todd.'

There was something different about his voice, Tara thought. She forced herself to focus, look up. His posture had subtly changed, too. Gone was the nervous rubbing of his hands, the constant impression of considering fleeing. The begging wheedle had left his voice, replaced by calm confidence. Her elbows were gently gripped from either side, and before she knew it, her arms were around the shoulders of the two young Hares she'd seen earlier ? Judging by their names they were likely both female.

'Up you come, miss, that's the ticket. Sorry if it seems like we're rushing you rather, but there is a factor of time we have to consider.' One of them said apologetically.

'On the count of three, Bunty. One, two, three! Upsy-Daisy!' With a start, Tara felt herself lifted into the air as the Hares held paws under her legs, pulling her up into a sitting position between them.

'Old George has the coach a street or so away. Let's be off, eh? No telling who may be looking.' The other Hare said, and the two of them set off at a brisk pace. Tara let her head fall down. Too much, it was all too much too fast...To her surprise, she realised that Arlen was keeping pace with them. He cheerfully tipped his battered top hat to her.

'I don't understand...' she mumbled, trying to find some sort of sense in all of this new information she was being forced to take in. 'You're not a slaver?'

'I certainly am!' He laughed. 'I have the papers to prove it, you know!' He grinned, and winked. 'But you're not a slave now, Tara!'

'But...that other Squirrel...' she began, jolting between the two Hares as they rapidly covered the distance.

'Oh, don't worry about Cally! She knows what she's doing. You mark my words, this whole bally affair will be over before the week is out!' Bunty remarked cheerfully.

A sudden certainty cut through Tara's confusion and bewilderment like a scalpel and she began to struggle.

'No! No, she doesn't know what she's getting into! He's evil! He likes to break people for fun!'

'Easy now, dear, we're trying to be covert, remember?' Arlen said, gently but firmly. Ordinarily it would have quieted her, but she had to tell them, had to warn them, had to...

'He has a monster in his cellar! A beast! If he can't break her himself he'll give her to it! She's in terrible, terrible danger!'

Her protests were muffled as the Hares bundled her into an old, discreetly faded coach and followed after her. Arlen in turn swung himself up onto the front of the box, where an older male Hare held the reigns and clicked to the horses, Uncivilised Ferals. As they moved off, Arlen swung a heavy cloak around his frame, and exchanged the top hat for a battered cap. Grey Squirrels were common enough that no-one would look twice at them. As the coach rumbled over the cobblestones, he sighed, sinking back against the cushioned board. He trusted Callista, of course he did, and he knew that her resolve was all but indominatable. But it was a complex plan. Tricky, certainly, with far too many unpredictable factors for his tastes. But she hated De Lyle. It was almost the very core of her being. He could only hope it would be enough to sustain her while they got ready...

The coach rumbled out of the Skin District, and was soon swallowed by the fog.