Treading Paper

[Adeen Pinebarrow]

?Welcome to yer new home.?

Rank fur and festering wounds, cold stone and cobbles wet with more than water. The Drag spiraled as a tunnel beneath the base of The Crater's many tiers, closed off at one end by a cave in and the other by a guarded and locked gate. Holding pens and box cages, for troublesome beasts, crammed near the front so passing slavers knew their stock. Decorated caves cut along the walls for storage as the tunnel wound onward. Wealthier captives commandeered a few of these caves, and rested in the comfort of feathered beds surrounded by trophies from fallen enemies.

Only misshapen bunks and hay piles awaited Adeen.

Adeen pulled her cloak tight as Hargorn, the weasel slave master, showed off a teetering wooden bunk. The bunk itself stood more a small, hay-filled trough than an actual bed. Rudimentary decorations of stars and heroic beasts carved along the small wooden sides. Adeen recognized the scratch of initials and snippets of lyrics as well. Songs meant for pups.

A clot of cold mud welled in Adeen's chest.

Hargorn rapped the bunk. The creature reminded Adeen of Granz in how he loomed so tall despite his crooked peg leg. A strike of lightning scarred from the weasel's right ear, across an empty eye socket, and down to twist his muzzle into a permanent bearing of fangs. Adeen stared overlong at the hanging, yellowed teeth, each as pocked with grime as The Drag itself.

Hargorn's good eye swiveled over the suggestion of a form beneath her gold-stitched cloak.

?Never 'ad an eye yer lot. Moles 'n voles an' diggin' types. Too beady 'n slow, an' ye allus break afore I'm done.?

A flush of heat and acid blitzed through Adeen which incinerated the mud in her chest.

?Devastating. You've killed my one and only hope.? Beneath her cloak her paw shuffled through the scribe's kit at her hip. Neither the sharpening stone for crisping quill tips, nor a quill itself, would do enough damage. ?I'm sorry I wasn't born to your tastes, sir.?

?Shame. Ye'd git far aroun' 'ere if ye were smart or pretty. Might've even kept ye from th' ring.? Hargorn unceremoniously scratched at his rump, pulled out something which squirmed, and flicked it onto the floor. Satisfied, he bent forward and sniffed at Adeen, a grin curling onto the unmaimed side of his muzzle. ?Strip down anyways. Gotta check ye fer weapons, an' we may'se well 'ave a liddle fun widdit. I kin close my eye.?

?No.?

?That yer way, is it?? Hargorn licked his exposed fangs. ?Good. I allus like meself a fight.?

The weasel stepped forward and Adeen could not move. Her stomach threatened voiding the few scraps of bread within. Her heart screamed of due punishment for her heinous crimes. Her mind raced in search of solid ground: the journal of notes at her side, the beasts of the slave line, the marteness...

?Nix.? Hargorn's paws shot from her shoulders like a dibbun's from a hot woodstove. ?M-miss Nix already searched us.?

?Don' take me fer a fool. She only touches the ones she kin sell.?

?Then let's ask her. She's still at the gate.?

Adeen's tail trembled as the weight of her bluff surged through Hargorn's tiny brain. The weasel stamped his peg leg once, twice. He snorted, brushed past Adeen, and bowled her over.

?Argh. It don' matter. Ye kin keep what ya have, ye ugly liddle git. Ye'll need alla help ye can wi' manners like yores.?

Minutes, hours, or days passed, but Adeen did not count. She remained on the ground ensconced in her cloak, immobile save the twitch of her tail. Passing beasts did not recognize her for more than a scrap pile, and the slaves peeking from their decorated caves knew better than interfering with Hargorn's prey.

In time Adeen pulled herself upright. In time she pulled her journal of records from the holster on her belt. Using the bunk as a desk, she clawed through the new minted entries to the ?Obit? section. She flipped onto a blank page and quilled line after line under Hargorn's name, digging harder into the parchment with each sentence. All of the weasel's injuries, mannerisms, and even his smell were detailed in small, tight script.

Adeen exhaled when finished and browsed her previous entries.

The heading of Madder Barrow contained every villager, where they ended up after the slave train, and their vital information down to their birth years. Most in the slave train complied willingly, and only one mouse named Ulrich resisted on learning she recorded for Nix as well as memoriam?s sake.

In the margin by Ulrich?s name read: ?easily goaded, give him a carrot and slash with the stick.?

?Wait...I don't remember writing this...?

Note after note filled the margins; note after note detailed opportunities and weaknesses. One beast favored their left footpaw from an old injury: ?would fall from a rightpaw feint.? Another melted into thankful tears when Adeen shared her rations: ?would eat poison willingly.?

Adeen turned the page. The names of kind Aldridge and the matron Minerva. She snapped the book shut before she read the margin notes.

Then take a page from old nettle-noggin and help poor beasts stay out of the storm.

?I record to help beasts.? Adeen's voice cracked once more, but not from thirst or dust. ?I record to remember them if they fall. This is...this is not...?

Adeen realized she spoke out loud and silenced. The journal rested heavier in its holster as she walked into The Drag's sprawl to prove herself right.

Many of the beasts she traveled with were divided from the train and sent elsewhere in The Crater. Seasoned warriors with scars painting their hides wanted no word with the vole. Newer beasts, brought in days before her own train, were too wary for even a passing phrase.

A young, twitching squirrel Adeen recognized sat upon a stone bench as he picked fleas from his leg. Adeen hesitated, but she opened her book and found his name: Philpott Cricken, scout of Madder Barrow. The entry detailed his service record, his failed baking career, and a margin note citing him as ?green as spring onions.?

Adeen holstered her book and tried again. She would help; she must help.

?Philpott?? The squirrel twitched but did not look up. ?Mr. Cricken? Paws alone cannot stop fleas. A wash of clean mud and boiled vinegar worked on my-?

?The Widow!?

Cricken fell backwards over his bench.

?W-we've met before.? Adeen raised her paws in submission. ?I?m Adeen Tullus, the recorder. Don't you remember??

?I remember plenty about you.? A small crowd of slaves formed at the commotion. The squirrel pointed at a mouse in the audience. ?You, you said you were there. They dragged her through Bastion like a feral. She ate her own husband and pups!?

The mouse nodded and beasts around her gasped.

?Vicious lies.? Adeen's tone made a few jump, and she smoothed her fur before continuing. ?I've eaten nobeast. I was only charged for...well, do I look like a cannibal??

Murmurs rolled through the watchers, and Adeen caught wind of ?The Black Widow of Bastion? on many a muzzle. She shut out the whispers and offered a paw for helping Cricken upright. The squirrel scrambled backwards and pulled himself up.

?Please, Philpott. I only mean to help. We should band together before-?

?So you can feast on us before the games? I think not.?

Cricken stepped clear around Adeen and vanished into the crowd. The murmurs rose into challenges, then preparations. Veterans cracked their knuckles and widened their stance. The fresh slaves huddled against one another whether they realized their cowardice or not.

Adeen sprinted away before anybeast acted.

~*~

?I'm not mad.? Fenton twitched his whiskers. ?Really, I'm not. Still wish you hadn't.?

A silver goblet stood on the table between Adeen and Fenton. Their sandstone home contained very little, and what luxuries they did own were for the twins. A carved crib tucked against the wall, a basket of driftwood dolls sat by its side, and Silva and Thrane rested under blankets stitched with golden vines and poppy flowers.

Adeen did not look at her husband as she spoke.

?It was too easy. The maid let me in, I grabbed the cup, and left. I wonder if they'll ever notice its absence.?

?They won't, but that's no excuse.?

?A few more would see our debt cleared.? Silence between a husband and wife. Silence broken by the twins smacking at the crib's bars. ?You can sell this with the next caravan, right??

?I will.? Fenton rounded the table and pulled Adeen into a hug. She remained limp in his arms for all of two seconds before burrowing against his brown bread fur. ?But no more, okay??

?What of our stores? We've only enough grain for the week, and you're not paid until next month, and the Duke-?

?We. Are. Fine. We are, my poppy. So long as we have each other.?

?Do you promise??

~*~

Adeen awoke beside prison bars. She whipped about in search of Simondale, or sandstone, or the ever-dry air of Bastion. The infectious damp of The Drag greeted Adeen instead. She found herself hiding behind a stack of water barrels, near the frontward holdings for troublesome beasts.

She peeked from behind. The few slaves nearby looked elsewhere, and no masters prowled. Adeen rose like a shadow gaining sentience, and passed the row of cells. The first contained only hay and droppings. In the second a stoat sharpened a rock against the wall, but the beast did not notice Adeen's passing.

Another stoat rested on his side in the third. None of the cells contained any furniture, so the creature made due by tucking himself against where the wall met the cell's bars. On approaching she found the stoat asleep, and suddenly familiar.

A flutter of pages and Aldridge Moor's name jumped out amidst the Madder Barrow collective. She shut the journal again before reading the margins.

Water. Adeen swiped a stone gruel bowl from an unaware slave and filled the vessel at the water barrels. After a little spilling, and a little creative turning, she worked the bowl through the bars and set it quietly beside Aldridge.

"My thanks." The stoat's eyes opened and Adeen recoiled in surprise. "Not so scared of joining me this time, are you."

Adeen knew the maneuver well, and employed the same feint in Bastion's prison, but still her heart raced. She'd not expected as much from the quiet bowyer. But now, as she watched, even the simple act of drinking still smacked of a ritual, or a performance, to Adeen. Aldridge finished before she could puzzle free assessment from assumption.

"I fear your neighbors more. Young Cricken calls me a cannibal, even after we spoke on the journey here. Tell me you don't believe him."

"I apologize for Philpott." Adeen's tail twitched at the omission. "He spent his whole life at liberty to run and climb where-ever he likes - and has taken great solace in that since his mother passed five-some seasons ago. To have that ripped away is hurting him more than anything else ever has. Were I in his place, by now I would be mindless with the need to return to the woods of home."

"He's the right idea. If we're...when we're free I'm keeping to the trees. The scent of city life alone is overmuch, stories and monsters aside."

"And I wonder what other stories you've heard." Aldridge tilted his head and made a point of observing Adeen's journal, which poked from her cloak as she crouched. "Any tales of more than Cricken?"

The journal burned at Adeen's hip, and her heart sang of ripened opportunity. Adeen's mind explored the terrain. The labored sips of water, the feigned sleep, even the lilt of concern and hope in the stoat's tone smacked of artifice. The vole's heart and mind warred onward and endless until the cold automation of survival raised her shield.

"We've only just arrived. Give me time and I'll know more."

Aldridge nodded. Then, a new voice sent the stoat and vole's ears upright.

"Quiet down you lot." Adeen made to run, but she recognized the deep yet feminine cadence. "Unless yer fixin' t' be heard."

Aldridge tossed his head in permission, and Adeen bid farewell with an all-too-eager curtsy.

The Monster of Mossflower sat in the next cell over. She sewed along a small square of cloth, rhythmically plunging and pulling white thread up and through. Adeen drew close and observed the half-finished outline of a water lily. Unconsciously she touched the poppy and vine pattern of her cloak, and breathed deep the sands of Bastion for the briefest moment.

?A wise warning.? Adeen sniffed about for other eavesdroppers, but returned when she found none. ?Now, tell me why they trust the Monster with a needle.?

?They didn't. I only asked fer thread.?

Adeen nodded sagely and opened her journal of notes. Some space remained on Minerva's page. She scribed lines of her resourcefulness, and concealed the margin notes with her off paw.

?You were takin' stock fer that marten.? Adeen jumped, for Minerva came right up to the bars. ?Did ye... do ye know where everybeast was taken??

Adeen scooted sideways a few paces more, making sure her voice pitched low and that Aldridge's bars were well out of sight.

?Fable is safe. Nire keeps a well-provisioned area for his 'guests.'" She flipped through her journal and showed Minerva a list of beasts escorted away, and where they went. ?Nix sent Fable and a few hoglets away soon after you...troublemakers were hauled off.?

?Are ye sure ye're not next, 'Widow?' I heard what you were goin' t' do t' that squirrel, Cricken.?

?No, 'Monster.' Never a squirrel. Too stringy for my tastes. I'll leave his butchering for your table.?

The mothers chuckled in earnest for the first time since capture. A warm silence followed, like the sharing of afternoon tea. A drip in the otter's cell grew louder, and nearby some slave howled with grief. Minerva cupped the lily stitching in her paws, staring at it as though wishing the flower would come alive.

The drip from above, the clouds gathering in Minerva?s eyes, the bite and savor of dune nettles through Adeen's mind. No manner affected the Monster. Not now, not when they dragged Fable out of her arms. Not when greater beasts tried showing the otter her place.

Adeen held out a paw through the bars.

?Please, let me see it to her. I will find a way out in time.? The vole held no plan, but she believed the potential lie and found strength. ?She'll want to know her mother is well.?

?You- you would do that fer me? I can't repay ye.?

?You have. We are keeping each other out of the storm.?

Minerva hesitated, and joined the long list of beasts inspecting Adeen's form for signs of sanity or treachery. In the end she pressed the lily stitching into Adeen's paw.

?Tell me if ye find her. Please.? Minerva's claw passed over the stitched hem of Adeen's cloak before pulling back and away from the bars. ?And when ye do, tell Fable it's her turn.?

?A delivery and a message.? Adeen tucked the stitching into her kit of tools. She looked back towards Aldridge's cell again, but bit her lip to keep her conscience clear. ?You've my promise, Minerva.?

?That marten said everybeast was scum. I'm happy she's wrong. Thank you, Adeen.?

The Drag's only entrance creaked open. Adeen dove away from Minerva's cell, and hid behind the water barrels. A fox of martial bearing shouldered through the door. The beast stood assured, with built and skilled muscle coursing under his thin red fur. Veterans, who unknowingly shared the shadows with Adeen, whispered about a crane. Adeen saw no birds with the tod, but a male vole of smooth movement and easy manner entering alongside.

?Round up the newest.? The fox spoke with a gray finality. Adeen knew the tone from gravediggers of her youth, who moved unflinchingly through life as they dealt with death. ?Nire wants them sorted and trained for some stunt.?

?And are the newest painted a special color?? Adeen smiled despite herself and snuck closer. The male vole's fur ran the color of over-mulled wine, and a kiss of mischief licked his eased cadence. Handsome, thought Adeen, even with the stained headband. ?Perhaps they respond to a certain whistle??

?You wanted to 'help,' bookie. Go fetch Hargorn and he'll point em out.? The bookie bowed far too low and sauntered off and into The Drag. ?'Gorn best not be dusting the maids again...?

A tired patience wrapped about the gladiatorial fox, observed Adeen. One you found in a librarian helping a dibbun learn their letters, an elder sailor at rest, a healer...

?A healer.? Adeen whispered to herself.

Sure of her stealth, Adeen spread out her tools. Her quill and ink flew across the curve of a blank scroll. Line after line filled the void, uniform and infinite like the rolling waves of The Great Sea. Onward she swam, until her memory and notation breathed life into the document before her. A few test blows for settling the ink, a repacking of her gear, and she stepped out from behind the crates.

?A list for-?

Instinct sparked, and the fox swung hard at Adeen for sneaking up on him. Only her short stature, and the billow of her cloak, kept her from losing teeth. Her hood flew off as the fox's fist caught the edge, and her exposed ears blazed red with panic.

All the fire within the fox suppressed on command, in the way only a true fighter could.

?Pinebarrow??

?...Healer Hapley.?

?It's Crane, now.?

?It's Tullus. Or The Black Widow of Bastion as the rumor spins.?

?I've heard.?

Silence as they both cast about for eavesdroppers. Satisfied, Adeen pulled up her hood again and offered her scroll.

?A list of the new beasts, myself excluded, sorted between penned and free-roaming. Nix tasked me with recording, but left me with the slaves anyways.? Hapley took the scroll and said nothing as he read. Adeen carried on. ?I did not think to see you here. Why trade red bricks for gray??

A twitch flickered along the fox's infected ear.

?I could ask you the same, Widow.? Hapley looked Adeen up and down, as so many would. ?Is it true??

?Yes.? Adeen kept herself from shaking by clutching the journal at her hip. ?Unless you've heard the version where I eat beasts. My teeth only run red from cherries, I assure you.?

Neither laughed. Hapley sat upon a crate and joined Adeen in considering the trail of sconces lighting The Drag. At the edge of sight they spotted the fast-talking vole ever-so-calm before a raging, half-naked Hargorn. Hapley sniffed and spoke at just above a whisper.

?Hiding will not save you for long, Tullus. This time, perhaps, but not again. Hargorn has a need to test everything he gets his paws on.?

?Then help me avoid his test. A place so large must need a capable scribe. You know me; you know my skills.?

The swiftness of his turn startled Adeen.

?I knew of a vole maid who hounded brot...elders for writing lessons. I knew a vole maid who once ransacked my infirmary to learn all the ingredients within.

I do not know The Black Widow of Bastion.?

Adeen's muzzle drooped. The ladder of nettles woven through overlong fur. The tired smile of a beast cleaning gashes along her thighs. The weight of her journal, of the names and notes within, kept her afloat.

?Neither do they.? Adeen gestured at the pockets of distant slaves. ?Give me one chance. I will prove my worth to you and more.?

Hapley remained still for longer than any beast should.

?We will see.? The fox rose. ?And you'll see the ring if any talk of red bricks reaches me. Understand??

No malice carried in Hapley's threat, but the weight fell upon Adeen's shoulders like an iron mantle.

?I?ll keep your secret safe.?

?Good. Stay out of sight for the muster. I will send a page to grab you for recruitment. You?re right, educated beasts are in short supply.?

?Thank you, Crane.?

?Gratitude in deeds, not words, Tullus.? Hargorn and the handsome vole started their way up towards them. ?Off with you. We'll speak more later.?

Adeen stepped backwards and faded into the shadows as Hargorn and the bookie approached. She did not stay for the weasel?s fiendish grunts, and wound with care through the clusters of slaves at their own devices. The echoing call of names, read by Hapley from her scroll, cannoned through The Drag, sending all into a surge towards the front door.

The hay-filled bunk now looked a fortress to Adeen. With care, with skill, she curled into a ball and vanished beneath the hay. Mites danced along her cloak and whiskers. Still, Adeen smiled. The infection of hope curled along her tail, and doubled still as the last name echoed and the muster left for the training grounds.

Hapley kept his word. Not a beast looked for The Widow.

?I will keep my word as well, healer.? Adeen whispered.

Adeen yelped in surprise the moment she relaxed. Something sharp, something cold, bit into her backside as she extended her legs. She scooped out the hay and discovered the source beneath.

A dagger. A rondel with a sharpened point meant for piercing armor. The grip ran between two circular guards, both weighted to aid in plunging, but still thin enough for concealment. Clouds etched into the hilt and the supple leather of the grip, climbing an otherwise clean blade.

Adeen whipped about for some sign of a sender, some beast nearby ready with a knowing wink. Nothing. Her mind raced for an explanation, a benefactor, or anybeast that'd know her history. Hapley didn't move so far into The Drag. Simondale remained in Bastion. Her father's death, the caged associates. Nobeast remained to offer her a weapon.

A piece of parchment poked out from beneath the dagger. With caution she pulled the note free and read:

Three gets you Canen.

A list of names followed. Adeen recognized some immediately, and knew others from her journal. No signature adorned the message, and the scrawl seemed hurried and varied.

The hit list fell from her paw.

?No, I promised.? Adeen trembled as she pulled out the water lily stitching from her kit. ?I promised I would...?

Her other paw curled about the dagger's grip and the trembling ebbed. The weight felt right. A test stab plunged through the wood of her bunk with little resistance.

Canen's back would offer less, thought Adeen.

Three. Slay three beasts for Canen. Adeen plunged again and the musings of desert hares vanished with the splitting of wood. Again, and the memories of her love contorted into the grimace of his father. Again, and again, until holes dotted the wood like so many stars in the night sky, until she floated free from The Drag and let the rattled sigh clear her throat.

Adeen hid the dagger beneath her cloak, opened her journal, and pored over her notes.