The Best-laid Plans

[Silas Hetherton]

After a long day of pulling weeds, turning soil and planting someone else?s garden, Silas sunk onto the old gray cot the old vixen had provided. Brooms and crates had been pushed aside to make space in the room that was more a closet, but Silas was not bothered. He leaned back with a long sigh, closing his eyes and letting his sore, aching body relax.

A tune sang at the back of his memory as he entered the tiny kitchen of his small farm cottage. The setting sun bathed the room in gold. His wife stood before the open window, half humming and half singing an old lullaby as she scrubbed a kettle and rocked the hanging cradle with her tail. She swayed gently back and forth as Silas reached his paws gently about her waist, leaning his muzzle against her shoulder and adopting the same sway. He could hear her smile break the rhythm, but she quickly recovered, singing to the sleeping babe as they all rocked together:

A breeze from the north is gently blowing;
The brooks from the melt are softly flowing;
Through dark of night the moonbeams are glowing;
Rest now til the morning returnest.

Rest now, rest now, til light is returning,
The dark shall flee when daybreak is near,
Rest now, rest now, til light is returning,
A bright new beginning shall surely appear.

In a moment her warmth was swept from his paws and he woke with a start. Emptiness swathed the rat?s heart in cold and he shivered, noticing at last the chilly draft sifting in through a crack in the wall. He stood and found a rag to press against it, pinning it in place with an old broken shelf. But by the time he fell asleep again, the dream was gone. 

The next morning Silas packed his meager belongings into a sack and headed out. The vixen, grateful for his service, fed him breakfast before he left and presented him a small oat loaf for the road. He thanked her with sincerity, then turned his travel-hardened footpaws north.

Blasio Timberfell?s trail might have been ten years old when Silas began his pursuit, but the crooked merchant made such deep impressions everywhere he stayed that beasts remembered him well. Town by town, beast by beast, Silas had worked his way north, learning more and more about the creature who robbed him of everything. Blasio Timberfell?s ventures were legitimate and well-planned, manipulative and exploitative. Pesky street orphans were rounded up and sold into slavery as a service. Elderly widows were convinced to sign contracts that gave Timberfell access to their wealth and property. And further north, where the beaver started developing his own construction company, trees conveniently fell on the buildings of his competitors, while bribed townsguards shrugged at the ?natural disasters.?

Silas used the oat loaf to barter his way across a river leading to the next town. The ferrybeast cursed the bridge that Timberfell Construction had built a mile down. The crossing toll was equal to his own so beasts took the bridge rather than wait for the ferry.

?Beasts have no patience. They dunna care that it?s me livelihood. Oh no. They jist keeps feedin? the glutton,? the otter complained.

?Does he live in Drakefield?? Silas queried, peering up at the otter through squinted eyes.

?Who? Timberfell? Naw. He?s too prominent t? settle in such a small town, if?n ya catch me drift, ha ha!?

Silas grunted and forced a smile. The answer to Blasio?s whereabouts always seemed to be ?not here,? wherever he went. The plain brown rat watched the river otter push against his pole with some effort, steering them around a large snag. Once clear, the boatbeast relaxed again and continued.

?Timberfell himself sits on his fat tail up in Northvale, rakin? in gold from here t? Mossflower. They call him a woodlander, but if?n ya ask me he?s just an oversized, bloated r? ? The ferrybeast caught himself and glanced at his passenger, but Silas was too distracted to catch the almost insult. ?Rapscallion,? the otter finished.

?Northvale, you say?? Silas braced himself as the boat slid to a stop against a shore of smooth bank mud. The otter hurriedly tied down the ferry, waving at a family of mice who seemed to be considering his boat from the road. Silas hopped down as the ferrybeast fastened a wide, treaded ramp against the edge, upping the appeal of his ride.

?Only one bronze a head! Pups ride free! No wait! No line!? He gestured compellingly but the mice moved on, shaking their heads. The otter cursed under his breath, wiping a paw across his whiskers. He turned back to Silas at last. ?Did ya say somethin???

The rat considered, then nodded simply. ?Thank you.?

--------------------

It took some time, but eventually Silas reached the bustling river port city of Northvale. A thick haze of smoke hung low in the sky above, blending into the clouds until it returned with the rain, leaving a thin black coat of residue on everything. As he walked the busy, dirty streets, Silas was glad to find that here no one looked twice at a rat, though the crowds and noise were intimidating, and there was still obvious division between classes. Rich, well-to-do beasts ? both vermin and woodlanders alike, road around in fancy palanquins and wagons, carried along by slaves and servants. He peered hard at every aristocrat, fully expecting to see Blasio, but the effort was in vain. He needed more information.

The rat found some temporary work at an eatery in exchange for food and board. He listened while he scrubbed floors, but the beasts surrounding him chatted mostly about games at an arena called ?The Crater.? At first Silas assumed it was some sort of popular boxing ring, but later as he was mopping up a puddle of spilled soup he overheard a customer regaling his companion with details far more gruesome. The rat kept his head down, disturbed that anyone could find amusement in such horror.

Another day Silas was painting shutters and doorways at a tavern and observed a rowdy mixture of weasels, ferrets and rats crowding obsessively around a public ranking board. A messenger arrived to post results from the Crater and the crowd cursed and cheered as names were dropped and repositioned, exchanging varying amounts of coinage. A pair of stoats bought rounds of ale for all their friends while a testy horde rat had to be forcibly removed by the door guard. Silas tried to focus on his work, but it was hard to ignore the tasteless predictions of a nearby weasel and fox. 

?My money?s on the Crane,? said the fox. ?He?s gonna soak the sand.?

?Naw, the Crane?s been outta the ring far too long,? the weasel sneered. ?Hammerpaw?s gonna cut ?is bollocks off and feed ?em to ?is ?ead. You wait an? see.?

?I heard tell they already pitted him against the Direbeast. They say he chopped its legs off one by one til it was hobblin? around on bloody stumps. Only offed him once he got bored.?

?Yer lyin?, Splitongue. Match like that woulda drawn in the whole town! But enough gossip. ?Ow many greenpaws ye think Nire?s gonna put down in the next batch? I?ve got five silvers it?ll be eleven.?

?I?ve seen the latest lot. I?m wagering nine.?

Silas finished the door frame, leaving the morbid exchange behind. He wondered at the callous nature of the beasts of Northvale. To them, death was a sport and suffering an entertainment. Blasio Timberfell probably fit right in. 

After that Silas drifted toward the docks where poorer beasts congregated. These had no time for games or gambling away their hard-earned money, and it was a welcome change. He found work unloading roofing materials from a barge and fell easily in step beside a dozen other day laborers.

The rat had nearly lost himself in the peace of humble purpose when a word caused his ear to swivel and he stopped. A mole was talking to another dock worker, complaining about the pompous beaver who kept local masons and carpenters from working the Crater. ?Ho aye, ?e?m be monopoloizin? the ?ole Northverl buildin? industry,? the mole grumbled as he and the other beast added their crates to the wagon. ?These days you?m either work furr Timberfell or you?m be foindin? a new career, ho err.?

Silas?s entire focus snapped to the mole, moving closer until their paths joined. ?Heard you talkin? about that bloatcase, Timberfell,? he baited. ?Any idea where he?s hidin? these days??

The mole seemed to appreciate the rat?s solidarity, tugging at his pink snout. ?Yurr hurr, ?e be livin? the ?oigh loife oop in ?ee Crater. Oi ?ear tell ?e be sittin? in ?ee glory box nex?ter Nire ?imself, e?en.?

Silas sighed. Part of him had hoped to find Blasio in some rich mansion among the haughty aristocrats of Northvale, but he should have known the power-hungry villain would have gnawed his way into the strongest center of influence.

That evening Silas stared out at the giant, circular structure beyond the city?s edge, rimmed with orange sunlight. It rose in a high ring above the ground, though rumor had it the inside was four times as deep. Lights of patrolling guards twinkled and moved both inside and out. The rat lifted his nose, sniffing at the air, then narrowed his eyes. He was so close, he could practically taste the thick, pungent oil that coated Blasio Timberfell?s shiny coat. But he would wait. And he would plan. ?Soon,? he reassured himself.

The rat spent the next week odd-jobbing, saving what little he could of his paltry earnings. At dusk he would walk the road outside the crater, scouting for a back door or some other covert entrance, but the gates were always well-guarded, the walls solid stone, and the windows high off the ground. Then one day opportunity came in the form of an offer.

As usual, Silas had gravitated toward garden jobs, and was pruning an ornamental juniper when a hedgehog leading a mixed team of beasts and carts stopped just beyond the fence.

?Be this your work, friend rat??

?Yes sir.? Silas paused in his trimming.

?Tell me, why did you cut the hedges thinner at the tops??

Silas shrugged, glancing over at the bushes he?d pruned the day before. ?I try to cut ?em according to the way they grow, sir. Plants always branch out more on top. Figure it?ll keep an even shape longer.?

The hedgehog nodded approvingly. ?I like a beast who thinks before he cuts. What would you say to joining my team? Five bronze a day to start.?

The rat considered the juniper thoughtfully. Such pay was better than any he?d found so far, but temporary jobs allowed him to walk away at any given moment without raising suspicion. ?Well. Doesn?t feel right leaving a job half done,? he waffled.

?And integrity to bote!? The hedgehog laughed. ?I?ll tell you what. If you find you?re interested after wrapping up here, meet me down at the Crater. We?ve contracted a big job and could use the extra paws.?

Silas barely regained his composure in time to nod before the quill-covered beast turned and left.

--------------------

Three weeks later, Silas said goodbye for the last time to the hedgehog and his small gardener workforce. They had finished planting and mulching over fifty vines, following weeks of trellis installation along the Crater walls. The trellises were supposed to be too weak to hold a beast, but Silas had personally bolted one trellis in all the right places, leading just high enough to reach a single window: the window Blasio passed by every evening after the kitchen staff left.

Night after night Silas had observed the patterns of the guards as well as the habits of others. A squirrel from the kitchen regularly dumped her wash basin out the window at the eighth hour. Shortly after that the lamps would be snuffed, and a half hour later Blasio would inevitably appear to help himself to more wine before returning to the adjacent dining hall. Silas couldn?t see him after that, but he could clearly hear the distinctive, robust laugh that distinguished the beaver from all others. The rat ground his teeth and curled his paws into fists every time, fur rising along his spine.

Tonight, he would silence that laughter forever.


Once back at the shed where he stayed, the rat gathered all of his earnings together in one sack and headed for a local weapons shop. A bell tinkled merrily as he stepped through the door and he stared, open-mouthed at the wide array of axes, swords, maces, and crossbows.

?Can I help you?? A voice drew Silas?s attention and he met the masked face of a ferret.

?Yes, sir. I?m looking for a sword.?

?Any particular type??

?I ? no. Not really.? Silas spotted a blade that looked about right and pointed. ?How about that one??

The ferret turned and lifted the sword off its display. ?Good choice. Double-edged, single-handed arming sword, weighted toward the handle for improved wieldability.? The ferret demonstrated several fluid, full circle swings. ?That?s Ridge Hammerpaw?s weapon of choice, you know.? He tapped the sword importantly. ?Twenty silver.?

?T-twenty?? Silas nearly choked on the word. Suddenly his month?s savings seemed inordinately small. ?Uh. What can I get for 30 bronze?? He grimaced.

The ferret placed the short-sword back in its place with a frown. ?Not much. Maybe a hatchet. Two hewing daggers.? He shrugged.

Silas shook his head, rubbing a paw across his face, then sighed grimly. ?Show me the daggers.? The ferret set a pair of knives on the marred, wooden counter. Though small, the blades glinted sharply in the shop?s lamplight. Silas imagined them slitting Blasio?s glutted belly open. ?Fine. I?ll take them.?

Back at his shed again, Silas stared at his only other tunic. It was worn and torn in various places, but Jubilee had pulled that thread and nipped those knotted ends. Little Heidi had held that fabric between her paws when he carried her laughing on his back, and his son, Artie, had proudly worn its match in miniature as he trailed after him through the grain fields. So many memories attached to what amounted to an old rag. After tonight, though, it wouldn?t matter. No thing would matter once he balanced the scales of justice and was reunited with his family. Even Jubilee?s letters. He touched a paw tenderly to his chest where they pressed, then began tearing the tunic?s fabric into strips, wrapping his ragged farmer?s clothing tight to his body. He tied both knives in their sheathes to his thighs within easy reach, and practiced drawing them as fast as he could.

Finally, he took a small pot of water and poured it carefully into a bowl of dark, black clay, mixing it into a smooth, wet paste. Then slowly, ceremoniously, he began to spread the substance across his face and body, hiding the faded gray of his clothing and the lightness of his brown fur and pink tail. By the time night fell, he was out the door, vanishing into the shadows of the night.

Outside the Crater, Silas was careful to stay well out of sight until he could predict the movement of the patrol guards down to the second. Once he was sure of his timing, he dashed across the wide, open path and crept up to the wall of the arena where the trellis waited, barely visible in the dim light of a quarter moon. Two sacks of mulch he had left behind earlier provided an easy cover while he waited, heart pounding as an owl wheeled silently overhead.

Minutes later, as if on cue, the kitchen maid tossed her dishwater out the window. It splashed a stone?s throw from the rat. He waited until the lights dimmed, then listened once more for the footsteps of the patrol guards to pass before making a dash for the trellis and scaling the wooden frame quick as a wink. From the top, Silas leaped for the window ledge, caught it with his paws, and pulled himself up with a straining grunt. He crouched in the hallway, drawing his long, mud-coated tail in behind him as he searched for cover. A dark display case with a broken shield and cleaved skull inside lined the far wall. Silas pressed tight against one side, just out of the light of the closest torch. Now he need only wait.

After a minute he remembered to breathe. His paws grew damp with sweat and his body shook with nerves. He clutched at his chest where the worn letters resided, hearing her voice in the words.

??There are days I imagine, if fate were a beast, I would kill it for the evil it has bestowed on us. I still wake every night listening for them, aching to hold them close and whisper words of comfort once more. My heart beats hollow, yet my hope remains. One day things will be right again.?

A hearty, coarse laugh echoed through the corridor and Silas stiffened, feeling the fur along his spine rise as before. He stopped trembling and slipped both daggers smoothly into clenched fists. It was time to make things right.

A single shadow danced across the wall and Silas readied himself, tight as a braced spring. The beast appeared and he started to lunge, then froze. This was no beaver. He sunk silently back into the shadows but the freakish creature?s large eyes stared straight at him, seeing him clear as day.

A beat passed.

Then the creature screamed.

Silas leapt forward with a slash but the beast blocked the blow with some sort of club as its unearthly, ear-bleeding screech rose in pitch. Silas attempted to lunge past the beast, but the arms expanded almost supernaturally, blocking the hallway entirely with a membranous flap of dark skin.

?Get out of my way!? Silas sliced at the arm, drawing blood. Another scream and the barrier lifted as the creature rose into the air, kicking him away with both feet. He landed on his back, then scrambled quickly to his feet.

And there was Blasio.

He stood amidst several beasts at the end of the hallway, mouth agape.

Shouts echoed from further down, accompanied by the clanking of armor.

Desperately, the mud-coated rat plunged forward, but a series of smashing blows from above knocked him senseless and a final, painful crack sent him reeling to the floor.

The world spun crazily around him in a kaleidoscope of cloven skulls, winged monsters, and armed guards, yet he could think only one thought:

He had failed.