FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Azaharim the wolf-wizard, Lord of the Seventh Magic, was bored. He'd been wandering through Ashkel's seedy side streets, sticking his muzzle into taverns, hoping to cozen a free drink. And why not? He was Azaharim, confidante to Machuragh's greatest rulers! Except Empress Saharia, because she knew how to swing a 'ceremonial' mace.

Alas, only a single drunken sod recognized him, and he couldn't even pronounce the elder mage's name. Kept calling him Alhazred or some rot. Well, someone got hit with a Blister Hex, although it wasn't much cure for lax tongues. But it made Azaharim laugh, which is the main thing.

"Bloody ankle-biting whippersnappers." Azaharim slammed his staff's butt against flagstone. "No respect, even after all these years."

Cursing the invisibilities, Azaharim emerged from an alley into a square. Dominating it was a three-storey building, dirt-streaked windows ablaze. Detecting possible alcohol, Azaharim sauntered closer. Above the building's door snarled a stone-carved wolf's head. Ever the chauvinist, Azaharim took this as a good sign. Squaring his shoulders, he entered the building.

Light and sound crashed over him, the clink of glass, the rush of blurred conversation. Throwing back his hood, Azaharim thrust out his staff, muzzle held high. He waited for the gasps.

"Ai, close the door," shouted an oil-coiffed harridan. "You're letting the incense out."

Grumbling, Azaharim exited the tavern. That wouldn't do. Not at all. Muzzle splitting into a grin, he chuckled.

"Oh, I'll show them. Yes, indeed."

A quick shot of mystic essence, and Azaharim barrelled into the building for his second attempt at fanfare.

"Behold!" He cracked his staff against rush-carpeted floor, summoning a thunderous boom. Every lamp in the tavern guttered, throwing it into darkness. When fitful light returned, Azaharim blazed with a nimbus of crackling energy.

"I am Azaharim, mage of mages. Look upon my art, ye wretches, and despair." He stared at the tavern's gaping occupants, fighting a growing smirk. He was quite enjoying himself.

A beer mug slammed upon wood. "Right." The same oily harridan stood up from her table. "I told you, close the door. You deaf or something?"

The woman's words elicited muttering, nods of agreement.

"Yeah, you tell him!"

"Was he born in cave?"

"He is a wolf..."

"Hey, that's racist!"

Azaharim lowered his head, hackles bristling. "Listen you." He stuck a clawed finger in the rude bint's direction. "I'm really not appreciating this lip. Did your lizard brain glean nothing from my magnificent introduction? Do you know who I am?"

The woman folded her arms, leather cuirass creaking. "Know who I am? If you did, you wouldn't get all huffy with me, wolfy."

"Easy, Vrishiki," said a mangle-faced gent. "He's a mage."

"Of course I'm a bloody mage. Do none of you know who Azaharim is? Wait, what year is it? Oh never mind." Gripping his staff, Azaharim willed it to combust; the length of rune-carved steel became a rod of living flame.

Vrishiki cocked an eyebrow, unsheathing a pair of knives.

"You really are rather stupid," Azaharim said, preparing to disintegrate the harpy and any nearby lack wits. For their own good.

"No, stop, stop." From behind the bar emerged the spectre of a woman, aged skin stretched over bird bones, dress doubling as a hand cloth. "We'll have no magic here. Not after the incident with the bald lady in the red robe."

"Oh please." Vrishiki rolled her eyes. "She only took out half the ceiling."

"You sit down, young miss." The elder shuffled over, flapping arthritic limbs. "I'll not tell you twice."

"Always a spoil sport, Sara."

Vrishiki slumped into her chair; Sara turned shadowed eyes on Azaharim.

"As for you, sir. Buy a drink, or get out."

Chewing his tongue, Azaharim toyed with the prospect of inverting the hag's innards, but he already had an image problem, and geriatric slayings wouldn't improve matters.

...Or would they?

"Well?" Sara raised her brow, forehead furrowing like an over-ploughed field.

While tempted to give a huff of contempt and turn on his heel, Azaharim needed booze, badly. The flames writhing about his staff flickered out, the door slammed closed.

"Thank you kindly." Sara inclined her head. "Now, what's your pleasure?"

The tavern had yet to resume its buzz, all in attendance watched Azaharim. Muttering in dead languages, the mage rifled through his pockets. After a thorough search, he presented his findings to Sara upon his palm.

"I've got the fifth eye of Baal-Amon, a fang torn from the maw of Hierophant Atraxes, and a vial containing the last breath of Tethys, queen of the Pearl-Hued Sea." Azaharim grinned. "Oh, and a few coppers from the trans-planar city of Markaz."

Frowning, Sara prodded at Azaharim's offerings. "I suppose the red stone is pretty."

He pulled away from her. "Don't touch. Too much fondling, and you'll rip out your own eye and try to stick Baal-Amon's in its place."

"Hmm. I've never seen these coins neither. Who's the lady with the pointy headdress meant to be?"

"Never seen these-" Azaharim spluttered. "Markazian coppers are legal tender in half the Universe! They're endorsed by six of the Great Demon Houses."

Sara raised brittle shoulders. "Apologies, sir, but you can't get much for things what I don't know the worth of." Turning from him, Sara began her trek towards the bar.

"Come now." Azaharim's ears perked up. "I did restrain myself from burning your vile dive to ash, isn't that worth a free drink?"

Pausing her progress, a shudder ran through Sara. Laughter bubbled up in a corner, rippling out, till the whole tavern shook beneath raucous mirth. Through supreme will, Azaharim resisted the urge to toss out a few fireballs.

"Oh, sir." Toothless gums exposed, Sara faced him. "There's no such thing as a free drink."

"I highly doubt that."

"Tis true. Everything's got a price."

"And how much is a glass of something I won't choke to death on?"

"Coin or kind?"

Azaharim's tail flicked. "Kind?"

"I'm always looking to liven the place up." Sara spread gnarled fingers. "Any good at storytelling?"

Poised to tell the old bat where to stick her tavern, a thought struck Azaharim. Muzzle curling into a sly grin, he chuckled.

"Yesss, as a matter of fact, I'm a most accomplished storyteller."

"In that case-"

Shoving past Sara in a sweep of robes, Azaharim leapt onto a central table, kicking aside half-empty ale mugs.

"Gather round friends; gather round, as I recount the life of the greatest mage to ever walk the face of Machuragh!"

"We can't hear you in the back."

Ducking to avoid a low-hanging incense bowl, Azaharim squinted at the heckler. His laughter was muted by a sudden, inhuman howl, and the tavern took a collective breath.

Sara tutted. "That's gonna be fun to clean."

"Splendid." Azaharim smoothed down his robes. "Now if there aren't any further interruptions..."

"Um, excuse me?" A wide-eyed man stared up at him. "Would you mind choosing another table? Just, we were in the middle of a birthday celebration."

"Hmm." Azaharim cocked his head to the side. "No."

"Right, that's perfectly fine." The table's former occupants shifted away in their seats, chair legs shrieking.

Audience suitably captive, Azaharim cleared his throat.

"Our tale begins many centuries ago, at the empire's dawn." He raised his hand, tracing an unseen horizon. "There, a child was born, containing the spark of magic."

The tavern expelled a groan.

Ears falling, Azaharim growled. "What now?"

"Magic's boring," said Vrishiki, cross-legged on her chair.

"Yeah, it's too simple."

"And messy," added Sara.

"You have got to be joking." Azaharim's eyes narrowed. "All good stories need to feature magic. Those are the rules."

"I never understand stories with magic in them," lamented one fellow. "All them fancy words."

"Yeah, tis like being in school."

"Oh come off it, Rakat. You're not even literate."

"But I've heard things...terrible things."

"Plus there's spirits, and the Ether, and planes made entirely of spinach soup. It's not natural I tell you." The doomsayer began mumbling, fingering a set of prayer beads.

This last statement ignited a tempest of conversation. The tavern's patrons shouted to be heard, listing magic's many horrors, citing rumours overheard in the Grand Bazaar, undoubtedly Machuragh's supreme source of news. It might not be truth, but it's what the truth should be.

Grasping his temples, Azaharim strove to massage away growing rage. If this kept up, Sara's grog shop would undergo a redecorating effort.

"Enough." A gout of flame burst from Azaharim's staff, scattering embers over his squealing audience.

"You poor, deprived fools are clearly uneducated as to the wonders of magic. Let me elucidate." Snapping his fingers, Azaharim dimmed the tavern's light to a mere suggestion. Shadows shifted, lengthened, gathered around the mage till only his eyes were distinct.

"I have seen mountain-tall towers, forged of dead gods' bones. Alien skies blazing a million space-born colours." He thrust a fist ceiling-wards. "Seas of razor-edged obsidian, shimmering with the promise of utter negation."

"What's 'negation' mean?"

"Right, you're scheduled for an imploding."

"He's got a point though," said Vrishiki. "None of this means anything to us. Know any stories about thieves?"

Excited babble followed Vrishiki's suggestion.

"Malar Shade-Born! She filched ink from the Book of Midnight, and became the very darkness."

"Bah, that's nothing. Raith of the Way stole a single day from the life of everyone in Machuragh. That's how he lived 400 years."

Sara chuckled. "But can any compare to our own, dear Renard?"

A pause, as the tavern considered this.

"Tell us of Renard!"

"Yes, tell us."

Teeth-grit, Azaharim gripped his staff till his knuckles ached. Bloody Renard! Oh, forget the mage who can recount every inch of the Astral Wastes, a glorified pick-pocket is far more interesting. The ruddy fox could only count to twenty when barefoot, and this mangy mob was in conniptions at his name's mention. Sparks flared along Azaharim's staff.

"You want to know of Renard?"

"Yes! Renard!" They chanted, arms flailing in ecstasy. "Re-nard, Re-nard, Re-nard."

Azaharim's muzzle fell open, tongue poised to curse the tavern into oblivion. His eyes widened.

"Renard? Yes, I have a few of his stories, some never before heard. Would you like to hear one?"

A great cry rose up in reply. Azaharim near gagged on second-hand beer fumes.

"Then let me speak," Azaharim began, forcing back a smile. "Of our empire's greatest thief."

***

Renard sauntered along the Guildhall's corridors, heels clicking, tail streaming behind him. He caught his reflection in each passing window, making minute adjustments to his hat, its feathers, the tasselled scarf trailing over his shoulders. His vulpine ears flicked back, forth, alert for admirers. If any came upon him, he wanted to be ready to strike a pose, maybe wink, toss out a quip. He'd spent the morning rehearsing roguish raconteur; he had a list of wry one-liners stuffed in his coat. None could be more prepared.

Drawing to a halt, Renard gave the towering door a once-over. Nice carving: sinuous dragons entwined about mist-shrouded mountains. He inspected the wood. Mahogany, glazed. Pity the thing was so big, it'd fetch a pretty penny at the Grand Bazaar.

Mourning this missed opportunity, he tapped out a sea shanty.

"Enter."

Renard swept into the room. A desk dominated it, piled high with papers, leather-bound-ledgers, scroll cases. The desk's owner peered out veiled windows, at the market gathering below.

"You're late," he said, turning towards Renard.

The man was huge, a tiger, a mountain of striped fur draped in embroidered silk. Ears falling, he crooked a talon.

"Sit."

Renard flopped into a free chair, tail rasping upon leather. He leaned back, propping his heels on the desk.

"How's it going, Grim?"

He settled in opposite Renard, glaring. "It's Lord Grimnir."

Renard waved a hand. "I'm not a fan of formality."

Grimnir's muzzle curled into a snarl.

"Your feet."

"Yes?"

"Are on my desk."

"I know."

"So put them down!"

"They are."

"On my desk!"

"Yes?"

Grimnir steepled his fingers, peered at Renard over the tips.

"You do this on purpose, don't you? But I'm not letting it affect me. Why?" The tiger leaned across his desk, scattering paper. "Spite. You won't win. Do you hear me? You. Wont. Win." A slammed fist punctuated this vow, sending an accounts tome leaping into the air and onto the floor. Fox and tiger stared at the book.

"Would you like me to get that?"

"No, Renard, no." Grimnir spiralled his index finger inches from Renard's muzzle. "Sit down, keep your mouth shut and above all, don't touch anything."

"I thought the vase was a reproduction!"

Fangs exposed, Grimnir snatched up a navigation chart and savaged it in his maw. Growls and grunts filled the room; Grimnir was obscured by a flurry of tattered paper. A fragment fluttered onto Renard's lap. 'Here be dragons', proclaimed the scrap.

Giving a final howl, Grimnir spat a wad of masticated map over Renard's head. Sated, the tiger slumped his shoulders, panting.

"Better?"

Grimnir nodded.

"You've got chart in your fur."

Eyes lidded, Grimnir sighed. "Let's get this over with."

"I like your robe. The colour suits you."

"Let the record show, you were not my first choice."

"What?" Renard whipped his heels off Grimnir's desk, acquainting several ledgers with gravity. "You better be joking." He sat ram-rod straight, glaring from under his brim.

"No, Renard. You were my sixth choice."

"Sixth, sixth!" Renard waved his hands. "How's that even possible?"

"Bashir 'Fairy Features' Kubaisi took an unscheduled tour of Audairiakh Bay. Until we discover where he washed up, you are, I shudder to say, our only hope."

"Fairy Features? The guy who triggered the Great Saffron Crash? Him?"

"He wasn't my first choice either. But between Kubaisi and you, well, your performance is suspect."

Sniffing, Renard grasped his scarf's edge, tossing it around his neck. "How dare you? After all I've sacrificed for the Guild of Navigators, you rank me lower than that...that..." Words failing, Renard settled on scrunching up a stray contract and lobbing it at Grimnir's head.

The tiger erupted to his feet, hunched over like a furry troglodyte; seething rage dialling up the room's temperature. Renard tugged on his collar.

"This is your last chance, fox. One more irritation." His index finger unfurled. "One more! And I'm cutting you loose."

"But, but..." Renard's whiskers trembled. "How am I going to fund my alcoholism?"

"Yes." Grimnir collapsed into his chair, arms crossed, smirking. "Think about that."

"Fine." Renard's ears fell. "We'll skip the banter. What do you want from me?"

Grimnir looked heavenwards. "So many things. Less lip, more discipline." Grimnir ticked off failings on his fingers. "Self-restraint, no urge to manhandle delicate, very expensive items. A constitution actually capable of taking hard liquor. Oh, and an elderly monk's libido."

"Hey." Renard glanced at the floor. "I only groped you once."

"I don't know why I get up in the morning." Muzzle down-cast, Grimnir tapped talons upon his desk. "Listen, let's reduce the possibility of an imminent aneurism and get this malarkey over with. Your task is as follows: Go to a villa in Diamond Park and retrieve a young lady."

Renard grew more erect. "Young lady, eh? Is she hot?"

Grimnir exhaled heavily. "No. She's hideous. By Imperial decree, she's only permitted to leave her home with a sack over her head."

"Ah well." Renard shrugged, then shot Grimnir a hooded glance. "Is she...you know." He made a great show of fondling invisible bosoms. If there were any guards in sight, Renard would've been arrested for enjoying himself too much.

"Oh do stop that." Grimnir waved at him. "You're drooling over a trade agreement. The girl is off limits: Physically, mentally and spiritually. Don't look at her. Don't even think about her."

"That seems like an unnecessary handicap."

"I'm serious, Renard. You are to locate the girl, accompany her to a safe location, and no more. Understood?"

"Not really. Details would be nice."

"Fine." Grimnir's tail lashed. "She's the daughter of a prominent Guild member. She's being held hostage by the Ancient League of Spicers, who are threatening her demise, unless we agree to reduce our stake in the chive market, which, as you know, is one of our main income sources."

Renard blinked. "Um, actually, I didn't know that. How's does that even work?"

"Far too complicated. Suffice is to say, we are refusing to budge, but we can't leave the girl to her fate, either. Thus, we're hiring you to simplify matters."

"Aren't you worried the Spicers will retaliate?"

"Undoubtedly. Make it look like the girl escaped on her own, that'll confuse the bastards."

"Please." Renard rolled his eyes. "I doubt some spoilt merchant-princess can escape from a paper bag."

"I wouldn't be so hasty to judge." A smile threatened to overtake Grimnir's muzzle. "Zaynab is quite resourceful."

"Zaynab, huh? At least her name's pretty."

***

Renard made his way to Diamond Park as the sun slid beneath the horizon. Heat hung heavy in the air, Renard longed for a fan, wondered why he insisted on wearing a coat in the middle of summer. Yes, appearances remained important, but hyperthermia was also a consideration.

Ducking down a side street, Renard caught sight of his intended address: A sprawling, white-walled villa. Two guards flanked the arched entrance. Little obstacle, although Renard didn't quite have the energy for a daring swordfight. Instead, he slipped past the sun-stupefied men, headed for the villa's rear. There he found an old woman chatting to a rag-picker, scrap filled basket balanced on her head.

The conversation proved uninteresting. Renard caught snippets: "Never seen the like before - Kayleth still hasn't woken up." Lord knows what that was about. Tiresome, really. Peasants and there simple minds. To pass the time, Renard experimented with his oeuvre. Should he unbutton his coat, or not? Unbuttoned, he affected the look of a salacious rogue, ready to ravish unattended maidens. But buttoned possessed it's charm. A gentleman of leisure, blade at his hip, in search of the right person to...loosen him up. Yes, that could work.

He'd settled on a style when the rag-picker bade farewell to her friend. The old woman turned, poised to enter the villa. Adjusting his hat, Renard struck.

"Madam, a moment, if you would!"

"Eh?" Facing him, the woman frowned. Renard drew to a halt, fighting a grimace. The dear old baggage was a prime example of human resilience. After decades of scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots and dodging over-friendly masters, all that remained of the woman was bone, gristle and jowl. Still, she was a lady. Renard squinted. Well, in the most technical sense. The sack passing for her dress left things open to interpretation.

"Oi." She snapped fleshless fingers before Renard's muzzle. "What're you gawking at, matey? I'll have no silliness, sweet spirits I won't."

Focusing on a spot above the woman's head, Renard swept off his hat, bowing low. His nose wrinkled, catching his scent. With a bit more cultivation, he could pass it off as a biological weapon.

"Madam, I apologize for offending you, but I crave a moment's indulgence."

The woman worked her jaw, mottled gums squelching.

"You ain't selling something, are ye?"

"No, but if your beauty could be bottled, I'd be the world's richest merchant."

"Oh, I see." She stuck fisted hands on narrow hips. "You're with them funny ones, over at that temple. I've told you sods a thousand times, I'm not joining no Enlightened Brethren of the Ancient Devourer. I don't care if my immortal soul'll get rent to tatters upon the Bladed Time-Wheel, or what have you. I ain't got 200 crowns for the admittance fee, and even if I did, I wouldn't fork it over to some cult where the most dreadful things go on. Young ladies prancing about in their altogether, lads doing whassaname with he-goats, it's not right. In my day, we got through a church service without flinging off our under-necessities, and that's the God's honest truth." Rant concluded, she took a sharp breath and waggled her finger at Renard's nose, tutting. He hadn't registered much of what the woman said, but he now possessed a burning need to visit a certain temple.

"Be that as it may, sweet lady..." Judging by the stone-hard line passing for the woman's mouth, words had run their course. Before she could launch into another tirade, Renard took a deep breath and snatched her arm.

"Ai! Now see here - oh!"

Renard kissed a trail upon the woman's dry skin, lips smacking. He gave a few sighs of contentment, muzzle growing more forceful in its ministrations. Reaching the woman's shoulder, he paused, not wanting to escalate matters; he settled on an ecstatic moan, looked at the woman under lidded eyes.

Knuckles cracked over his snout. Whining, he staggered back, clutching his pain's source.

"Now see here, good sir." The woman reared up, sudden gust sending her hair writhing. "We'll have none of that, thank you kindly."

Renard glared at her from between splayed fingers. "You awful hag, I was doing you a favour."

She unleashed a witch-queen cackle. "Ha! You're late to the party, sonny. Matias the butcher's boy tries a similar trick every Thursday, and I tell 'em where to shove his nonsense. Still." She fluttered her lashes. "The daft thing keeps trying."

Muzzle unhinging, Renard gaped. "You have men, actual living, breathing men, after your crumpet?"

The woman snorted. "Don't act so surprised, boyo. Sure, some fellas drool after pretty young bits with too much blush. But I," Her sagging bosom heaved. "Have experience."

"Please, don't give my imagination material."

"Hmph. No need to be rude. Now off with you, the house is a frightful mess, and some of us have jobs, unlike you lazy young'uns."

She turned to go, lamenting the world's youthful stupidity. While Renard had hoped to avoid exertion, the Universe wanted a show. Sighing, he flexed his limbs, and pounced.

A few shrieked curses later, Renard had sliced up the hag's outer dress, keeping his eyes averted, and tied her up. Gagging her with some scrap, he left her lying in the gutter. Under shade, of course, he wasn't a monster. Shooting the thrashing woman a salute, Renard waltzed into the villa, whistling a bawdy tavern favourite.

After a bit of sniffing, he found himself in a kitchen. Shelves rose around him, groaning beneath boxes of chilli, jars of ginger and...other stuff. Renard didn't know much about cooking. Drying herbs hung from ceiling hooks, beneath them squatted a long table, laden with half-finished culinary marvels. At the table's head sat a broad, bearded man, rubbing his hands together.

"At last," he said, staring down at a curry-filled bowl. Renard announced his presence by leaping onto the table, sending several eggs to their doom. Beardy gasped, standing up so fast his chair went skittering back.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I," Renard doffed his hat. "Am Machuragh's greatest thief."

"Malar? Thought she was a gal."

"No, not her."

The man blinked. "Raith of the Way?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, oh!" He began clicking his fingers. "Him, the one who robbed the College of the Art last year. You know. Tall fellow. What was he called? Forget my own head next."

"Renard, you dolt. I'm Renard, far-famed rogue and thief of hearts."

Taking a step back, the man looked Renard over. "Ah right, thought you'd be," he waved his hands. "You know, more."

"I suppose you're in charge of finances then."

He tilted his head, frowning. "And how do you steal hearts? Isn't that messy?"

"You know what, I think I'll skip the banter and proceed to the merciless beating."

"Aw, do you have to? I've had a rotten day, and was really looking forward to a decent meal."

Ignoring his opponent's cries for quarter, Renard sprang forward, curled into a ball and landed behind the man.

"Oh, that was awfully impressive."

Renard's sword flashed, slicing a rough approximation of the letter 'R' into the man's shirt. Or maybe an 8. He was still practicing.

"Hey, now see here-"

Steel met steel, Renard pressed close, staring into his foe's blood-shot eyes.

"Cheer up, friend. Afterwards, you can tell everyone you were defeated by Machuragh's greatest thief."

"Who, Malar? Cor, wouldn't that be something, eh?"

Muzzle twisting, Renard snarled. On a more fearsome beast, say a wolf, such an expression would've inspired dread. For his part, Renard splattered saliva over his nemesis' beard.

"Yuck."

"Sorry." Renard wiped his chin.

And they danced, swords blurs of silver motion, hacking, slashing, breaking open pots of_very_ hot spices. Obscured in a cloud of angry red, Beardy unleashed an almighty sneeze, near unbalancing.

"Stop, stop."

Pausing, Renard cocked his hip. "Oh what now?"

"This bloody spice." Beardy knuckled at tearful eyes. "It's gone everywhere." Coughing, he shook ground chili from his hair. "Ugh, I can't see. Ye gods, I'm blind." He started flailing, knocking a vase of chives from its perch. "Uh...what did I do?"

"Probably got yourself fired."

Springing over pottery shards, Renard lunged at the man, sword point aimed at where he believed the heart was. Closer to the spleen, but it's the thought that counts.

A parry sent his blow wide. Dodging the counter-attack, Renard jumped onto the table.

"Hah, I can do that."

A creak of joints, and Beardy joined him. Their combined weight made the wood groan. Renard knocked aside a flurry, side-stepped a low scythe and executed a backflip, landing on the floor. He bowed.

Face flushed, eyes streaming, Beardy huffed. "Yeah, well watch this."

And Renard watched. And gasped. And winced. When the dust cleared, he went to investigate. Beardy had attempted a complex series of...things. A professional dancer might've described it as 'an en pointe_beginning, evolving to a _fouette, culminating in a grand jete.' Renard summarised it as 'ouch.'

Luckily, an onion barrel had broken Beardy's fall. There wasn't much left of the barrel, or indeed, the onions. Renard wondered if many recipes called for onion paste. If so, Beardy had a bright future ahead of him. If he woke up.

Renard took a moment to admire his handiwork. He'd reimagined the kitchen as a study in carnage. Many-coloured spice patterned the room, like a poet's mind had exploded. And there, following a cosmic rule known only to the gods of comedy, sat Beardy's erstwhile curry, unharmed. Tongue snaking over his muzzle, Renard settled down for a lunchbreak.

Despite much lip-smacking and cries of 'oh my, now this is the good stuff', Beardy offered no retort. A careful observation confirmed he was breathing, so Renard concluded he was just a sore loser. Very sore. Judging by his neck's angle, he'd need a chiropractor.

Shrugging, Renard wiped off his hands, continuing on. Well-fed, he was in excellent shape for a bout of damsel extraction. He hoped Zaynab wasn't too grateful though. There'd been an awful lot of garlic in that curry. He stifled a belch.

Renard wandered through a lounge, confusion growing. Couches were overturned; chair fragments littered the snarled carpet. Some unlucky sod was in the midst of tea when it'd ended up on the...ceiling, apparently.

Letting out a low whistle, Renard plucked a whisker. He'd heard of 'disorderly houses', but always assumed that was a euphemism for brothels. How disappointing. He kicked at a punctured cushion when his ears pricked up. A cupboard was shivering.

"No, no, no!" Renard thrust a quivering finger at the accursed thing. "I'm not dealing with demon-possessed furniture again. It took me weeks to get the gunk out of my fur last time. So you just pack it in and take yourself back to the Abyss, my man...or woman. Or transcendent being of light."

The cupboard creaked, door inching open. "Is she gone?"

Renard went for his sword. "Who?"

"That monster," it hissed. "The one who did this."

"I'm sorry; I'm not really in the habit of talking to furniture." Renard's eyes darted aside. "When I'm sober."

"It's not her; doesn't sound like her, no, definitely not." The cupboard no longer registered Renard's presence. It launched into a monologue, which Renard didn't catch, as he was too busy picking through the lounge's wreck looking for something to steal.

"Not her!" Unleashing a hellish cry, the cupboard doors burst wide, revealing a man. Renard didn't get much time to examine the fellow before he fled from sight, arms waving in joyous abandon.

After a thorough chin scratching, Renard decided the whole incident was far too silly, and discarded it from his mind. Which, considering how cramped it was in there, worked out perfectly.

Right, the girl. Reviewing his facts, Renard knew distressed damsels were kept in the highest spot, to better sing at birds and attract passing princes. While he searched for stairs, Renard pondered this. What if the prince had bad eyes, and couldn't make the damsel out from so far away? When he finally killed the fairy godmother, ate Granny and made love to the dragon[1], what if the promised princess was less than lovely? But then people in those stories had pretty unusual taste. Who knew so many young ladies of breeding had a thing for frogs? Renard spent such care on his grooming, when apparently princesses would pucker up for some slimy green skin. It just wasn't fair.

He paused his ascent. Mysterious red stains covered the walls. Sniffing, he frowned. Tomato sauce. How odd. The stairs terminated in a long corridor, and Renard resolved to wrap things up quick as he could. He kicked open doors, peered under beds. Nothing. Half way down the corridor, a faint pressure pressed against his ears. Swirling sigils blazed to life, forming a circle upon tiles. Cursing his carelessness, Renard leapt back, muscles primed for a fight. A column of purple light exploded from the circle, within rose a towering figure, a lion-headed man, pearl-skinned, tail writhing, end alight with blue flame.

"Rakshasa," Renard said, recognizing the spirit.

It came to rest before him, bowed, gold-braided mane clinking. Renard executed a genuflection, twirling his hat.

"A pleasure, oh magnificent one."

The rakshasa regarded him, eyes orbs of blue. They narrowed.

"Oh not again. This wasn't in my bloody contract. I just dealt with a troublesome mortal, and now another crawls from the woodwork." The rakshasa squatted, drawing level with Renard. "You're not the same one, are you? No, too furry. Right, I'll be frank, I'm tired. If you turn around and walk away, I'll pretend I didn't see you."

Renard considered this. The spirit's biceps were wider than his waist; frankly, he could do without that, thank you very much.

"I appreciate the offer, great spirit, truly, but I need to check the rooms behind you."

The rakshasa glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, that's a bit tricky. I'm meant to prevent anyone going in there, on pain of unusual death." He shrugged. "Sorry, friend."

"No, no, I understand." Renard patted the spirit's arm. Much wider than his waist. Oh my.

Grinning, the rakshasa revealed shark-sharp fangs. "So you'll leave? It'd help me out. Say, if you're ever in Markaz, we should get a drink together, I'd certainly owe you one."

Why did the Universe insist on inconveniencing him? Renard resisted the urge to shake his fists at the ceiling.

"Look." He peered at his shuffling feet. "I really, really, don't want to get on your bad side. But I've got a contract, too."

Chest rumbling, the rakshasa nodded. "So that's how it is," he said, rising to his full fox-shaming height. "Bloody mortals, ungrateful sods the lot of you." He began to pace, toe claws clicking on tile, tail lashing. "I swear, in the old days, a tomb robber would've wept for a reprieve like that. But oh no, now it's all about me, me, me. I'm an honest spirit, trying to do an honest job. I don't_like_ decapitating trespassers and wearing their entrails. But it's the service any mage worth his staff expects."

He gestured now, claws scouring walls, spitting sparks as he ranted. "Can you imagine what the other rakshasa would say if I told them I nearly let you walk away? I'd be a bloody laughing stock. But dammit, I thought you deserved a chance. Plus, my back's killing me, spinning those scimitars around, these muscles aren't for show, you know. But why do they insist on the unnecessary backflips, it's a style they say, but it's so ostentatious, and no one's impressed by it anymore. Now its tentacles and mind-melting cosmic horror. Well I'm sorry, but I don't go in for that rot. Janatastanis carved my likeness into temple halls thousands of years ago, and I'm not changing a winning formula now, no sir."

Renard tried to slip past the spirit while he paused for effect. A foot caught him in the gut. He landed on his tail, stunned.

The rakshasa walked over, clicked his tongue. "Typical. Don't even have the patience to listen." A second pair of arms unfurled from the spirit. "I must confess a lie, though." Light flashed, four flaming scimitars appeared in the spirit's hands. "I actually do enjoy wearing my opponents' entrails. A lot."

Renard rolled aside. A deep scar marked the place he'd been lying. Springing to his feet, he retreated.

"Um, I don't suppose the original offer still stands?"

In reply, a blade swept over his head.

"Stay still. I'm in no mood for acrobatics."

Dodging between slashes, Renard ducked under a blow aimed at his neck, stabbing the rakshasa's knee.

"Do stop that."

Renard raised his arm, ready for a second strike, and realized his sword-tip was missing.

"Ah." He glanced at the rakshasa's unmarred skin. "Bother."

"Not even prepared for a real battle." The spirit tutted. "How disappointing."

A scimitar drove into the floor, hairsbreadth from Renard's foot. He turned to flee.

"Oh no you don't." Wrenching his blade free in a spray of tile, the rakshasa crouched low and bounded into the air, blades flashing.

"Eeek!" Renard threw himself right, shoulder slamming into the wall. The rakshasa crashed to earth beside him, shaking dust from the ceiling.

"Bugger." The spirit tugged at his scimitars, embedded in the floor. "Some help?"

Weaving between tile-sheathed blades, Renard came to face the rakshasa, grinning.

"I don't see what's so funny about-"

Renard stabbed the spirit through his third eye.

He sighed. "I hate my job." Form wavering, he dissolved into a flurry of blue motes, swept away on an unfelt breeze.

Returning his sword to its sheath, Renard smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself. Then, remembering the spirit was only inconvenienced; he gave a 'yip' and hastened down the corridor. Trying a door, he frowned to find it unlocked. Ah, well. Pushing forward, he emerged into a dim-lit room. Dusk's light bled through a curtained window, shadowing a sheeted lump on the bed.

Zaynab, at last. Renard was unsurprised to find the girl lounging about, even while he fought a desperate battle for her honour. Or chastity. Something. But the chance of a spoilt noble developing initiative was akin to him having an actual thought.

...Wait.

Shrugging, he approached her. He undertook a quick pre-rescue checklist. Doffing his hat, he slicked back his head fur. Next, he cupped his hand, breathed into it, and concluded he'd only talk to Zaynab downwind. After sticking his muzzle under his arm, he resolved to never again wear so much clothing during summer. All that exertion had left its mark. Ugh. Still, the hat made up for a lot, in his informed opinion.

"Fear not, sweet maiden," he said, tearing away the sheet. "Rescue is at hand. Oh"

A girl stared up at him, wrists and ankles bound, mouth gagged with a pair of garish socks.

"Um, I hope I'm not interrupting something."

The girl began squirming, howling muffled indignities, 'elp ee ew bashted', that sort of thing. Renard was most put out, and would've left in a huff, but he had a reputation to maintain.

"One moment, dear lady."

It took a bit longer, in fact. Whoever tied the knots was a most devious individual. Following much squeaking and yipping (courtesy of Renard), the last bond loosened, and the girl tore out her gag.

"You could've done that first."

"Ah, but I was saving the best for last." Renard moved in for a kiss. The damsel shoved his muzzle aside.

"We'll have none of that, thank you. What took you so long, anyway?"

Stung by her rejection, but untouched by shame, Renard rallied for a second assault. "Dear lady." He raised his hat brim. "I arrive precisely when I need to."

Her mouth fell open. "What? You mean after I got smacked over the head with a chamber pot, tied up like a pig for slaughter and gagged with my own socks? And I'm intensely regretting how lax I was on laundry days."

Renard paused to consider this development. He paused so long the girl began waving her hand before his eyes, speaking in a loud, slow voice.

"So what you're saying," he said, vision refocusing. "Is you weren't expecting this?"

"Course not, silly. I make the beds and sometimes remember to dust under them."

"Your name isn't Zaynab?"

The girl bristled. "It most certainly is not. And don't go confusing me with that...that...hussy. To think I felt sorry for her."

Struggling to process this, Renard swooned, collapsing upon the bed, and his muzzle didn't even coincidently end up in the young lady's cleavage. Yes, he was that shaken.

"Huh, so I suppose you don't work here, eh? If you came looking for that awful gorgon, she's long gone. Life's cruel."

With this parting wisdom, the girl brushed off her dress and marched from the room, nose in the air. There's nothing like victimhood to inspire a solid dose of entitlement.

Renard lay there, staring at ceiling cracks, unblinking. Zaynab rescued herself. He put on his second best coat, trimmed his hat feathers, for nothing. He'd gone to the trouble of preparing a whole post-rescue excursion: Taking Zaynab to the rough part of town, showing her a whole new world, maybe save her from some thugs in time for a moonlit duet. Bugger. He'd have to tell One-Eye Arog to call the whole thing off. And they'd had a bloody brilliant script, with lots of 'muhahahas' and 'I have you now, me prettys', and just when things were most grim, Zaynab incapacitated by a wrist-hold, Renard would swoop in, toss out a bon mot and then-

Oh what's the point? Zaynab would probably have broken half of Arog's bones before he could launch into his villainous monologue. It's not like the man was a real thug anyway, only an understudy at Saucy Sally's Playhouse. Bloody Zaynab and her initiative. She'd ruined everything, everything! Sniffling, Renard pummelled the mattress, summoning a dust storm. It's not bloody fair. Machuragh's greatest thief didn't do anti-climaxes!

Renard was on the cusp of launching into a lament, when barked orders and booted feet pricked at his ears. Slipping off the bed, he peered into the corridor. A pair of red-faced guards came charging down it, panting to keep pace with a skeletal old broad. Oh dear.

"There he is." The hag stabbed a finger towards him. "That's the codger who trussed me up."

The guards halted, trying not to wheeze. Grinning, Renard sauntered over, tail twirling.

"Now, now. This is simply a misunderstanding."

"Quiet." The ancient one snapped straight, every tendon vibrating with some inner power, straining to break free. Renard backed away.

"Not one more word from you, my lad. By my oath you made a mess of the kitchen, my kitchen. Poor Shams said you ate his lunch."

"Oh good, he woke up. Bloody hell but he has a thick skull."

Unamused, the woman's eyes blazed. She clicked her fingers. "You boys, do your job and give this fox a good hiding."

Boots scuffed at the floor. "But, he got past the rakshasa, and you saw how big he was."

"Bah, spirits are all show. Fine, if you're too craven to do what must be done..."

And her hand shot out, unsheathing a guard's sword. Before Renard could grin she was upon him, ululating.

"Take that, and that."

He ducked beneath a blow, and watched feathers float to the floor.

"My hat." His whiskers trembled. "You've ruined my hat."

"Hah, and you ruined my dress."

"You're wearing three!"

"And I should be wearing four."

Drawing his own blade, he parried a blow, the shuddering force numbing his arm.

"This isn't right." He danced around a slash. "You're so old."

"Only as old as you feel, boyo. And I feel great."

The guards watched the fight with interest, nodding at the old woman's style, passing money back and forth.

Glancing aside, Renard spotted a window.

"Not today, matey."

Gnarled fingers fastened around his scarf, tugged.

"Agh, le'go." Renard gagged, wrenching at the haute couture noose.

The old woman cackled, tightening her grip. She raised her sword.

Resigned to cruel fate, Renard spun on his toes, unwinding his scarf. Free, he sucked down air and ran, leaping at the nearest window.

"No!"

He slammed his shoulder into the wooden lattice, shattering it. In a cloud of splinters he fell to the ground below, one hand keeping his hat in place, landing in a crouch. Most men would've broken both legs, but the Universe found Renard's antics amusing, so he was only dazed.

"Damn you, fox!" The old woman leaned out the broken window, shaking sword and scarf. Renard offered her a bow, doffing his hat. Then, remembering what she'd done to his feathers, he graced her with a less polite gesture and scampered away, waiting till he was half-way down the street before collapsing into a ball of sweaty, exhausted fur. He really needed to reconsider the coat.

***

Zaynab proved simple to find, everyone in Emperor's Ascent knew her name, pointing Renard in her direction before genuflecting and muttering prayers. Undeterred, Renard strolled towards the indicated house, wearing his best coat and newly-feathered hat. His near-strangulation had left him traumatized though, so he'd given the scarf a skip.

Outside a grand villa, Renard flagged down an important-looking fellow and asked to see Zaynab. After a thorough eyeballing, the man agreed, marching off. Renard found some shade, set his hat at an angle and settled in for a wait. His mind drifted, fixed on Zaynab. A formidable woman, no doubt, Renard pictured an armour-clad amazon, sunlit hair billowing about her, bosom heaving with righteous fury. How exactly an armour-clad bosom heaved, Renard wasn't sure, but his imagination seemed to manage, so that was all right.

A cleared throat made his eyes snap open. Someone loomed over him. He sprang to his feet so fast he forgot to sleaze.

A girl in a sleeveless tunic, muscled arms brown and sweat-stippled. Henna-stained braids fanned over her shoulders. She caught Renard's roving gaze and planted fisted hands on her hips.

"One of the guardsman said there was a sweaty pimp out here who wanted to see me."

"Madam!" Renard reared up, and wished he'd worn his heeled boots. "I am no gentleman of ill-repute." He jabbed a thumb into his chest. "I am a professional."

She sniffed. "You're certainly sweaty."

"Yes, alright, alright." Rubbing his scruff, Renard glanced aside. "It's all this bloody fur; I bathe twice a day, really."

The girl whirled cloth-free arms. "You could try wearing less."

"Impractical clothing is sort of my thing."

"Ah." She nodded. Renard waited for further elucidation, but the silence only lengthened.

"Um, are you Zaynab?"

"I am."

"Oh."

"Did I demolish any of your property?"

"No, nothing except my pride."

"Is that so?" She stuck out her bottom lip. "Sorry."

Restraint proved impossible. "I was meant to rescue you! How did you do it, get past the rakshasa, the thick-skulled guards and that horrible old hag?"

Zaynab's forehead furrowed with thought. "Ah, right, that place in Diamond Park. Yeah, I've had better. The servants weren't very clever."

"Do you know what trouble I went to? I lost my scarf! Couldn't you have sent word you'd done everything yourself?"

"I didn't realize anyone would come after me. I thought by now the Guild of Navigators knew I had things covered."

"Eh?"

"I was kidnapped for the first time when I was nine." Zaynab turned her head up, towards the sun. "I spent three days locked in an attic, hiding under a bed and crying. So by the third time, I thought, bugger this and decided I'd make a fuss. With knives. It's very therapeutic."

"You never needed my help?"

"Nothing personal. My family knows to expect me back. I think my father looks forward to my hostage stints; you should've seen what I did to the library during practice today."

Renard clenched his fists, growling. "Bloody Grimnir, no wonder he choose me. The stripy bastard knew. I suppose I was just there to confuse matters."

"If it makes you feel any better, no one ever believes some spoilt noble could escape on her own. By tonight, I bet you'll have all the credit."

Renard waved a limp wrist. "It's not the same."

Lips struggling into a smile, Zaynab patted his shoulder. "There, there. Why don't you come inside for some lemon mint and tell me how you got past the rakshasa."

Though tempted, Renard felt the call of other duties. Namely, a surprise visit to a certain tiger.

"I'm afraid I must be off, my dear. But I'm glad to see you unharmed." He looked her over. "In better shape than me, actually."

"Ah, alright." Relief softened Zaynab's features. "At least tell me your name, oh would-be saviour."

Grinning, Renard prepared to unseat his hat and launch into his credentials.

"My name, sweet nightingale, is...unimportant."

And he blew her a kiss, spun on his heel and dashed from sight, leaving Zaynab to make her own legend.

***

"And then Zaynab retired for lunch, promptly forgetting the sweaty little fox." Azaharim flourished his hand. "The end."

Thunderous applause followed, tavern patrons leapt to their feet, whistling and howling, some wiped tear-filled eyes. Gawping, Azaharim slammed his staff on his improvised stage. "Stop," he cried. "Stop this at once!"

All fell silent, stone-still, breath stopped.

"You're acting ridiculous; don't tell me you enjoyed that story."

A cacophony exploded in response.

"Rubbish, utter stuff and nonsense. I expose Renard for the preening imbecile he is, and you're all pleased? Unless," Azaharim's muzzle split into a hungry lupine grin. "You detest Renard, too?"

"Re-nard," they chanted. "Re-nard, Re-nard." Several frothed at the mouth.

"Enough, you're all bloody mad." Azaharim's eyes narrowed. "But there's one final revelation."

A dozen rumps shifted to seat edges.

"Do you know who that story was truly about?" Azaharim pointed at his growing smile. "Me."

"Booo."

"You're not even a fox."

"Is there anymore? What happens to Renard next?"

"Oh I don't know." The mage's tail sagged. "He gets run over by an onion cart. Who bloody cares?"

"Re-nard, Re-nard, Re-nard."

"Bugger off." Sighing, Azaharim hopped off his table. Around him, conversations flowered, patrons recreated favourite scenes, retold second-hand jokes, savouring the story, adding, subtracting, shattering it into a thousand scintillating shards. Azaharim looked on this development with disgust. How dare they? He'd shaped the story, spun its threads into a tapestry showing Renard at his worst, and the fools were blind to it. They'd missed the point entirely. Well, he didn't need to take this abuse, no sir.

Fingers tugged his sleeve. Wheeling on this new annoyance, Azaharim came to face Sara.

"Here." She pressed a condensation-streaked mug to him. "Our best ale, have as much as you want."

"Oh, thank you." Taking a sip, Azaharim decided he'd spare the tavern; at least while he remained sober.

"You did an excellent job." Arms folded, Sara observed her domain. "Never seen it so...wholesome before. People chatting, laughing, not a straight-razor in sight. I tell you, sir, this time of night, we'd usually have three stabbings, five brainings and a bar fight in progress. I'd say that's worth a free drink. Don't know what you did, sir." She winked at him. "It's almost magic."

Swirling his ale, Azaharim met Sara's eyes. "Have _you_ever heard of the wolf-wizard?"

She nodded. "Course, my dear granny told me all the old tales. And I'll be truthful, sir. I always preferred them over the Renard ones. Too flash for my taste. Youth, eh?"

"Do you know how Azaharim escaped from the lair of Vivesexia, Mistress of Violent Emasculation?"

"No, sir, can't say I do."

Wrapping an arm around Sara's shoulder, Azaharim smiled. "Then let's take a seat."

---

[1]Renard's mother inflicted some unusual fairy tales on the impressionable young lad. It explains most of his terrible life choices. As usual, it's safe to blame the parents.