Songbird, part 4

Most of Livadis' neighborhoods reflected its Pankoţmy history and influence: two- and three-story stone buildings faced narrow paved streets. Their upper stories overhung the street below, supported by columns -- often carved of marble from the Sevōrny Mountains -- to make porticos. Many buildings were further topped with domes, often mounted with spires. Where frugality demanded, upper floors were built of wood, instead of limestone or marble. Regardless of material, though, the outer walls of every building were then limewashed, often with several coats, to keep the summer heat at bay, protect the structures from mildew, and produce a brilliant uniform white color that made the city shine. At noon, from the Baḑmavi River, the city seemed to glitter like so many glass beads stacked upon the shore.

The House of Secrets, meanwhile, sat among buildings that were decidedly mixed in character. Many fully-wooden structures stood here among the stone, spaced a few pūsa apart from each other to keep fires from spreading. This created a network of narrow alleys in between the main roads, among which lurked small community gardens and neighborhood parks. Some roofs bore traditional red clay Išmiry tiles, or even grey slate all the way from Kadiţã. Cypress and holly oak lined the street along the banks of the Baḑmavi, creating pockets of cooling shade. Even the Pankoţmy bath had foregone whitewashing in favor of natural stone, to try to fit in with its environs; its all-encompassing colonnade did more than enough to set it apart from its neighbors.

The late winter air still held its night-time chill this early in the morning, but with the sun above the horizon, many in the city had already started their day. Ţyla again lifted the patterned shawl from his head and tried to drape himself with it as Miss Matã had shown him, twisting it twice loosely at his throat before pinning it with a small straight pin and draping both ends over his right shoulder. It weighed awkwardly on his ears, but a men's cap was out of the question and going bare-headed like a peasant would've attracted even more attention. A few glanced his way as he stood before the brothel, but if anyone noticed his discomfort, none remarked on it as he stepped out into the street.

Tucked within his stays, the end of the strip of bell-bedecked magenta cloth that the old starling had given him yesterday just poked up at him. The bells shook faintly as Ţyla moved, though not enough to be heard over the bustle of the morning crowd. At least, he didn't think they could be heard. Time and again, eyes darted in his direction, then turned away; was he obvious? Could others tell? Did they know? The kept his paws before him, lightly clasped with his forearms against his chest. He worked to keep his steps measured, breathing as naturally as the stays would permit. As he walked, the hard-packed earth seemed to suck the heat out of him through the thin leather of his sandals.

"---?"

Ţyla froze; someone had spoken to him; he was sure of it. Beneath the shawl, his ears felt slick with sweat. He could feel the fur of his tail bristling, and all along the back of his neck. Air whistled in his nose, out through his muzzle as he steadied himself. Turning, the vixen found himself facing an older steppe-mouse squinting at him from beneath the brim of his grey woolen cap. The old man's brown fur was streaked with grey across his face and arms, and his thick whiskers bristled like a mustache. The mouse wore a dark brown vest embroidered with yellow and green, and baggy trousers that exposed his stick-like ankles.

Represent the House of Secrets, came Miss Matã's reminder in the back of his mind. The old man had done nothing -- yet -- to warrant suspicion. Ţyla held his tail still behind him and spoke carefully, his voice pitched forward and up into his muzzle. "I'm sorry, what was that, sir?"

"I said you look lost, young lady," the elderly steppe-mouse repeated. He stooped his shoulders, craning his head forward as he leaned on a thick wooden cane, his claws drumming on the rough-hewn knob on the end. He lifted one paw, his fingers shaking as he motioned towards the vixen. "Such a well-dressed young woman, alone in this neighborhood." He cast his furrowed brow about the street, then turned back to Ţyla. "Are you here by yourself, miss?"

"I---" Ţyla bit his lip, glancing about the street; a few passers-by had turned their way, but no-one had yet stopped to watch them talk. "Yes, I am. I've just come back from life afield a few years away." It wasn't a lie, exactly.

Without warning, the steppe-mouse stepped forward, reached out an arm, and put his paw on Ţyla's upper arm; he felt every prickle of the old man's short, sharp claws through his russet fur. Every hair in the vixen's tail bristled. Stale tobacco clung to the mouse's clothes and fur like a shroud, and when he spoke Ţyla caught a whiff of strong tea and a rotten molar. "Well, then welcome home, young lady!" He brought his other arm around in a sudden hug, and the vixen found himself unexpectedly drowning in old smoke, feeling the length of the man's cane banging against his back.

For too many long seconds, the vixen stood, motionless within the old man's arms. Some part of him in this moment understood his work had been so thorough that this steppe-mouse had... treated him like he would any young woman, with casual possessiveness. Another part -- that voice within him that cried against she even as it clung desperately to vixen and Ţyla -- had at first had gone numb with shock. When it awoke, though, it threatened to flare with panicked brightness, and the vixen did jerk backwards, pulling out of the elderly grasp and taking as much of a step back as he thought dignity would permit. "Sir!" Quickly, he grasped old mouse's free paw in both of his own. "We haven't even exchanged names yet."

Startled out of his forwardness and back into a semblance of formality, the steppe-mouse quickly planted his cane between them and squeezed Ţyla's paw with his own. "O-oh, of course. My name is Deķym; it's my pleasure to greet such a pretty vixen back to Livadis." Deķym then stepped to the side and lifted his cane to gesture with its tip. "So where is your husband? Does he know where you are at this hour?"

Pretty vixen. Ţyla's chest tightened, his ears dripping sweat into his borrowed shawl. "I'm Ţyla, and---" The words left his muzzle as a reflex, the twitch of an ear or the tip of his tail, even as the early stages of his training flared in the back of his mind, sending a flush to his cheeks and a rush of heat to his groin. The vixen leaned forward, tugging his paws from Deķym's spindly grasp, clasping them together in front of his crotch to try to mask his body's response. Vedym's face flashed before closed eyes, forcing the vixen to take a steadying breath. "That's--- That's why I'm back in Livadis." Again, not truly a lie, if not a truth Deķym would understand, and the warble of grief in his voice felt real enough.

"Ohh, my dear...." The old man's thin, grasping fingers once again fell on the vixen's shoulder, this time in a series of what he must have thought were comforting short strokes along the grain of Ţyla's fur. "Did he beat you? Was he unfaithful? Whatever it was, I'm so sorry. Let's get you back to your parents; where do they live?"

Ţyla's shoulders hunched; this conversation was rapidly getting out of control. "I don't--- I was raised in a Pankoţmy group home."

The steppe-mouses's eyes brows lifted, his voice softening even further. "Oh you poor thing," he murmured. "I've heard stories of life in group homes. Which one?"

"Merciful Āremis." As soon as the name of his old home left his muzzle, Ţyla knew he'd made a mistake. His chest felt crushed, every breath fighting for space within him. He hunched his shoulders as Deķym's grey-furred brow furrowed. The vixen's paws felt slick, the shawl starting to cling to his head from ear-sweat.

"The...." The steppe-mouse shuffled a half-step forward, his head craned forward and up to touch his thickly-whiskered nose to the vixen's. "Boys' home?" He punctuated his words with a firm tap of his cane on the ground between them.

"I---" Tea and rot flooded Ţyla's nose, his senses swimming just from the old man's presence. "It's the one everyone at the farm knew, sir." He fought to keep the quaver from his voice. "Vedym attended Merciful Āremis, righteous and great is he." The full honorifics spilled from his muzzle nervously, as he'd been trained to recite at in his lessons. He bit his lip; there was no other choice. "I was raised under Virginal Ūrmynã, blessed be the daughter of Šakan." He dipped his left hind back and bent his knees in a curtsy, gripping the hem of his skirt to wick away the sweat from his pads, silently praying the stiff fabric of the petticoat would help him keep his own secret in that moment.

Several more long seconds passed before the old man finally let out a sigh and a knowing chuckle. "So, married a ruffian, did you? Well, under the ever-seeing light of the Mašãs, even the eternal bonds of wedlock can be broken. I'm sure the mothers at the Virginal Ūrmynã will know how to help you. Come." Deķym tapped his cane on the ground again with one paw, then proffered his other elbow to the vixen. "I'll walk you there."

Ţyla's tail began to curl between his legs as old Deķym's version of history drifted further and further from the light of the vixen's truth. And yet, he knew to refuse the steppe-mouse's help would invite unwelcome questions, as well as further suspicion on the House of Secrets, were the old man to follow him back there. It was a remote risk, but one the vixen was unwilling to take on his first day in Miss Matã's employ. He took a steadying breath, arched his tail upward, then rested his paw in the crook of the the old man's arm and motioned for the steppe-mouse to lead the way.

As the pair walked, the vixen did his level best to follow the old steppe-mouse's casual ramblings as Deķym ambled along paved streets, the tip of his wooden cane punctuating his words at intervals, accompanying the lightly limping shuffle of his hinds and his sweeping hairless tail. He seemed displeased with the gaps and alleys between the wooden buildings, and with the multi-colored tiles, though when gently pressed on why he disliked the style of the neighborhood, he bounced rapidly from how the gaps in the building seemed to him like crooked teeth -- somehow forgetting his own rotten one -- to the sense of unease about what might be lurking in the alleys. Ţyla asked what he thought might be hiding where children could be heard playing, to which he could only shake his head and say such things were better left unnamed. The old mouse then suggested the buildings in the area were of poor quality, though when the vixen asked him what he meant by that, the mouse turned to him and replied, "You know, you ask a lot of questions for a girl that's gone to school."

The entry to Virginal Ūrmynã -- the group home for girls that shared a temple and facilities with Merciful Āremis -- sat at the end of a short, private lane. Past the front portico lived a small enclosed garden, surrounded on the inside by thickly limewashed columns covered in blue and gold art, which provided a shaded walkway from the outer wall to the inner courtyard, through a gate of thick, iron bars. By the time the pair approached, the vixen's senses were swimming in stale smoke and frustration. Ţyla'd realized after that attempt of Deķym's at witty insight that the steppe-mouse was as immune to persuasion as the deacons had been. At each logical fallacy presented as fact, some part of the vixen silently shook, his chest burning inside him, while quietly he thought through how he might prove to the old steppe-mouse what he knew to be true.

And yet he knew none of it mattered. For all the effect his words had had on the old man, he might as well have been stricken mute. At best, he'd confused an old man about how a girl had learned so much. At worst, he'd raised Deķym's concerns into why she'd want to know so much. He hadn't gotten anywhere close to convincing the steppe-mouse he might be wrong, or that me might need to rethink his premises. The elder mouse simply didn't see him as worth debating, only humoring. Breaking through that by proving him wrong risked the old man learning too much, putting himself and the House of Secrets at risk. And so all Ţyla could do was listen, and smile, and nod, and quietly wait for Deķym's rambling lecture to end, and keep his eyes constantly on the move, looking for any sign of an old classmate.

"Well, my pretty vixen," the old steppe-mouse said again with a pat on Ţyla's shoulder and a jab of his cane towards the front double-doors. "Here we are. I hope you'll permit me a moment of honesty, my dear." With that, Deķym placed the point of his cane again on the ground and leaned forward, straining to bring his head to one of Ţyla's ears. "I saw you leaving that... that place, and I hoped you would let me talk you out of making a poor decision. I hope the sisters here help you and your husband work through whatever's happened. If not, know that your gifts are irreplaceable, and that your complement deserves all that you can give him. Thank you for allowing me to help you. Walk in light, child." And with that, he stroked the vixen's upper arm one last time and walked away, whistling to himself as he began to depart.

Ţyla stood, transfixed and trembling beneath the portico of his sister-school. Deķym's final utterance of that trigger-phrase rang in her ear. Somehow that had left her--- him--- he shook his head; sweat was running into his ears beneath the shawl. His paws and hinds felt numb; his blood pulsed in his ears, his cheeks flushed. He stared through the gates at the front door. At the edge of the courtyard, the steppe-mouse stood, watching, his very presence threatening by his innocence.

He turned to face the gates. Of course they would be locked. In a small nook, a pull-cord hung that connected to the clappers of the bells hanging above. The vixen glanced back once more--- still Deķym stood at the pillar by the entrance to the peristyle, his thick whiskers bristling at the delay, waving him forward with a paw in a go-ahead gesture. In a wooden box beside the gate, the end of a pull-cord hung that connected to the bell in the alcove above. Pulling it would summon the sister on duty. His shaft was hard beneath his petticoats and leaking into his linens. He could scarcely breathe. He pulled the rope.

A loud silver peal rang out across the commons. His blood froze. His breath felt crushed out of his chest. Sixty pūsa away, at most, the door to the Virginal Ūrmynã group home for Pankoţmy girls opened. Ţyla's heart pounded in his chest. The sister was going to reach the gate, take one look at him, and call for the guards. Fifty. His cock throbbed beneath his skirt. It wouldn't be an inquiry; it would be an inquisition. Forty. His tongue hung from his muzzle, dry and swollen. No plea of invincible ignorance; they'd find him thoroughly shadowed. Thirty. His hearing swam with sweat. They'd burn him alive on the pyre like Heretical Temerys. Twenty. He glanced towards the corner of the garden. Deķym was gone; the steppe-mouse's good deed completed with the ringing of the bell and the summoning of the sister.

Ţyla bolted from the inner garden gate, gasping as he ran. Just as he rounded the outer wall, he heard the inner gate open and a voice call out behind him. "Hello? I saw you from the door. Are you hurt?" The vixen hunkered down behind a gleaming limewashed pillar, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid that any motion would alert the sister to his presence and then she would try to help and then it would all be over. "I can't leave the grounds; if you need help, you have to come inside." I can endure this, I can endure this. His shoulders hunched to shield the the bases of his ears, his arms wrapped around his knees. The ground below was cold and hard, the shaded marble of the outer colonnade cool despite the overhead sun. "If you're still there, I'm going to wait for you inside the front door." I can endure this, I can endure this, I can endure this. His breath came in short, silenced gasps, sucking in air as quietly as he dared, waiting for the sister to leave.

He felt as much as heard the sigh that followed. "We can't help you if you won't talk to us. We'll be here if you need us." And then the garden gate slammed closed with a finality that made the vixen's chest shudder. Ţyla put his head on his knees and breathed in-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four, wait-two-three-four. There he sat, tail limp on the ground behind him, petticoats wrinkling around his waist, breathing, waiting until he could breathe again. There he waited until he heard the front door of Virginal Ūrmynã close and lock again.

The vixen pushed himself to his hinds, snapping his head all about the private lane. He tilted his head one way, then the other; he felt the shawl grow slick with sweat, but his head felt lighter as well. He took one steadying breath, then a second, before looking up towards the main road; Deķym wsa still nowhere in sight. His ears twitched--- voices, from the courtyard in front of Merciful Āremis -- his old home, just a few hundred pūsa away, half a šadys at most -- four or five. Boys, a few years younger than him. Afternoon recess; they must have seen him walk past with Deķym.

Past the entrance to Merciful Āremis -- no garden, just iron gates separating the school grounds from the street -- lay the main thoroughfare and the way back to the redsmith, the only errand Ţyla had left the House of Secrets to attend that morning. He was almost an hour late and half a neighborhood off-track, but all he had to do was pass by the youths clustered by the gate. As he passed the iron bars, brief snatches of conversation caught his ears--- "---much---" "---knew---" "---how---" "---bells---" "---where---" "---tits---" ---and then he was back on the main thoroughfare, passing conversations and vendors drowning out the youths behind him.

In the shade of a šerbat-seller's overhang -- and a few červa poorer for a tall glass of rosepetal cordial: sweet and ice-cold, with notes of lemon -- the vixen stood and felt the passage of time: In the flow of people in the street, in the steady rising heat of day, in the droplets of condensation that ran from his glass into the fur of his paw. Through steady beats of air moving slowly into his nose and out through his muzzle, repeating the patterns he'd been taught, Ţyla stood and let the world pass him by, while he sorted his thoughts about the morning.

Deķym had followed him from the House of Secrets; the old steppe mouse's intervention had been premeditated, an attempt to "save" him from the life he had chosen. Within Ţyla's gut, anger and defiance roiled against tear-streaked shame -- not at the work, but at the sheer helplessness he felt. His paw tightened against the glass, the ice within it cold against his pads. Out-two-three-four, wait-two-three-four. From the instant the old man had stepped much too close into his personal space, some part of him had felt powerless. At every step, pushing his unwelcome intercessor any harder felt like either too much an escalation or too great a risk. And yet, doing nothing had almost resulted in a fate terrifying beyond reckoning.

But--- had he been powerless? Ţyla swirled cordial and ice in his glass, watching the vortex go round. Certainly, he had felt trapped. Looking back at those first moments, though, when old Deķym had presumed a young vixen must have been married, he had chosen to say nothing. What if instead of feeding the old man's misperceptions, he'd instead just spoken his truth? What if he'd said, I work at the House of Secrets? What then? What could that old meddlesome mouse have said? He might've been scandalized, but what could he have done?

The steppe-mouse's last words came back to him, sending a rush of fresh blood to his cheeks. He already knew the vixen worked there; his refusal to embrace it had given Deķym his opening! As he stewed and stared down through his drink, echoes of the boys' words from in front of Merciful Āremis came to him. He looked down at his chest, and there, dangling loose from the front of his stays, hung the last half-pūsa of magenta ribbon Miss Matã had given him last night; it had likely fallen free during his frantic dash from the front gate of Virginal Ūrmynã. Now it hung loose, its copper bells swaying with his every breath.

Ţyla laughed. His laughter came in short, sharp, ugly, wracking, barking sobs; loud enough for one of the cordial-vendors outside to check on him. The vixen -- doubled over, choking, gasping -- waved him away, then mopped at his eyes and shook his head. His pawpads were against his face from having held the glass, and the condensation helped wipe away the tears. Just as he'd hidden the light of his truth, he'd hidden from it as well; and thus by his own shadow had he been afflicted. Presbyter Kotis would have been appalled by the comparison, but the lesson was clear. He finished his cordial, stepped inside to return his glass, then adjusted his shawl to shield his eyes from the sun as he stepped back into the street.

The sound of metal pinging against metal reached Ţyla's ears long before he saw the first glint of bright sunlight off of copper, from a row of pots all hanging from a rope hung from a freshly-limewashed balcony. Tinsmiths, coppersmiths, jewelers, and other fine artisans lined both sides of the street, the constant din of hammer striking chisel against firm metal ringing along the many stone columns along the way. Every shop displayed various wares on stands or hung from lines: cookware and kettles, lamps and serving platters, many bearing intricate engravings or complex filigree. And from every shop, voices calling to passers-by to come in for tea, for cordial, for almond biscuits or sweet gelatinous squares of loķam flavored with mint or bergamot, and for rounds of negotiations.

The vixen winced, his temples already starting to throb as he scanned storefronts, looking for Eškin Pirič's door. Miss Matã had been insistent about seeing him, specifically. Some of the buildings were unmarked, only known by their wares -- large copper cauldrons or silver mirrors -- but most bore the names of either the proprietor or the one who trained them. The shops, however, were in no particular order, and while a few could trade on the draw of their name, many relied on showing their work to impress visitors, as well as the constant stream of peddlers and artisans crowing for attention.

Halfway down the street, Ţyla spotted the name Pirič, just above the words Custom Copper Craftwork stamped neatly into a brass plaque pinned to a narrow door; tucked between a shop devoted to musical instruments, and another dedicated to dining ware. As he stepped inside, he heard the light ringing of a bell, likely from the shop beside. A moment later, a voice -- male, deep but not gruff -- called out from further within, "Look around, get ideas, we'll talk soon." Soon after, a steady rhythmic ting-ting-ting rang out from the back of the shop as whoever spoke got back to work.

The front door closed behind him, and Ţyla blinked rapidly in the reduced light, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Several brass lamps sat around the room, adding their glow to the space and blending lavender in with the metal polish and pipe tobacco tickling the vixen's nose. At the front of Pirič's shop, a few rows of simple wooden shelving displayed pieces of ornate jewelry: pounded copper bracelets adorned with smooth hematite and sparkling quartz, a massive jet pendant in a delicate setting hung from a polished chain, a wide filigree necklace bearing ornate knotwork. A few pieces bore notes suggesting the patrons never returned for their commissions; others were marked as hobby pieces, personal projects made to pass the time between clients.

Past the shelving, in the back half of the store, a jackal sat on a stool, hunched over one of his workbenches. To Ţyla's eyes, he looked maybe five or ten years older than the vixen. His tall, pointed ears stood erect atop his head, with his muzzle set in a tight line as he focused on his work. In his teeth, he clenched a meerschaum pipe, tan from use, from which rose a steady column of smoke smelling faintly of cherry and leather. He wore an unbleached cotton shirt with loose trousers and leather sandals over coarse grey fur. His long, thick tail swayed slowly as he worked, brushing against one leg of the stool. A dark blue woolen jacket embroidered in copper thread hung on a peg near his desk, next to a round felt hat bedazzled with glass beads and birds' feathers.

As Ţyla watched -- ting! -- the smith brought his arm up and down -- ting!--- in a steady rhythm, creeping his other paw -- ting! -- over the workpiece the tiniest bit at a time -- ting! -- shifting the slim engraving tool he held -- ting! -- with every every rise and fall of the mallet -- ting! The vixen studied the smith while he worked -- ting! -- noting he didn't seem overly strong -- ting! But he admired the precision with which the smith moved -- ting! --- and the control he seemed able to exert -- ting! -- over every part of his body as he worked -- ting!

The jackal lifted his hammer again, then paused and leaned forward to peer at the piece more closely before sitting back on his seat and setting down the mallet with a heavy thud. He pulled a loupe from his right eye and set it on the bench, then set the engraving tool beside it. From his ears he then pulled on a pair of strings, extracting what looked like two small wads of cotton before shaking his head. "Agh. I can hear myself think again." He shook his head and paws, then began an extensive routine of cracking various joints, ending with a twist to the side that sent a sent a ripple of low pops along his spine. Finally, he rose and turned to face the vixen standing -- his muzzle level with the top of Ţyla's head -- at the end of the show aisle and bowed. As he bent at the waist, he plucked his pipe from his muzzle with his left paw, tapping his forehead with two fingers from his right. "We haven't exchanged names, miss. Please, call me Eškin."

"Ţyla." The vixen held out a paw; Eškin stepped forward to take it, lifting it briefly before releasing. "Miss Matã sent me," he continued. "I've just taken up employment there."

"Ohh?" At that, Eškin gave the vixen a slow appraisal, tilting his head as if studying a piece of fine art. A slow smile spread on his muzzle, bringing a flush to the vixen's ears. He gestured towards Ţyla with the stem of his pipe. "So what is it she's wanting? I'm paid up for my last few visits with Čilã." He paused and rubbed the underside of his muzzle with his knuckles. "And Kelţy."

The vixen shook his head. "It's not for her; it's for me." He paused again, took a steadying breath, and relaxed his voice, letting it fall back into his chest. "She wants me to be fitted for a brava."

The jackal's ears first shot back, then upright again, his tail lifting. "You---" He snapped his head from Ţyla's face to his crotch, to his face again, to his crotch again. "Unreal."

Under Eškin's gaze, the vixen felt the blood rising in his cheeks, and elsewhere. His cock began to twitch in its tightly wrapped linens, and he looked towards the door. "Could we---"

"Yes, of course." Before Ţyla could finish the thought, Eškin rose from the stool and hurried to the front door, throwing a heavy bolt and locking it. As he passed the window, he lowered a thick sailcloth shade, dropping the room from sunlight into the soft golden glow of the oil lamps around the room. "So, a cage." He brought his pipe to his muzzle and took a draw, then tilted his head back and blew a stream of thick smoke towards the ceiling before looking back to the vixen. "I'll need measurements."

Relief was the first emotion to strike, hitting Ţyla in the knees, making him wobble slightly as he began to disrobe. "Uh, could I borrow a stool, or a bench, or---?" As the vixen continued to strip, Eškin rose and slid his stool over to him, then studiously focused on his tools. "So how do you know Miss Matã?" he asked the jackal, laying out his clothes in a careful pile.

Eškin chuckled, his back still to the vixen. "My father was one of her clients." His tail began to wag in memory as he drew on his pipe, then blew another stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "My mother died of plague when I was seven, saints keep her." He kissed his fingertips and lifted them skyward. "After that, my father was heartbroken, and lonely. He went to see Matã Ţardič every few months, I suspect as much for the company as anything else. She and another woman used to bring me milk puddings and medicines when I would get sick as a boy." Another puff, a pair of smoke rings that broke apart as they drifted upwards. "He lived another ten years, long enough to teach me his craft and will me his shop, but had it not been for that old whore, I likely would've wound up at the Pankoţmy group home." He turned around to face the now-naked vixen. "How about you?"

Ţyla stood, covering his muzzle with his paws, tail swaying lazily behind him, short triangular ears perked upright, free at least from the shawl. "I... uh... was raised at Merciful Āremis." He chuffed a soft laugh behind his paws at the jackal's flat-eared, open-muzzled gape. "It's fine; they found me invincibly ignorant and refused to see the light of my truth. I first went to the House of Secrets on a dare, but they were so nice to me that when I didn't know where else to go, I pleaded with Miss Matã for help and she offered me a job. Speaking of which ---" He rummaged in the pile of clothes for the small sack of silver coins the starling had given him this morning. "How much to be fitted for a brava, Eškin?"

For a few moments, the jackal merely stood, eyes wide and muzzle open, reeling in a stew of embarrassment, bewilderment, and quiet astonishment at Ţyla's casual mention of a formal tribunal. Finally, though, Eškin's attention caught up with the vixen's question, and reflexively the guarded smile of a seasoned haggler settled onto his face. He walked back to his workbench and leaned against it, then popped his pipe back in between his teeth and folded his arms across his chest. "You need this soon?"

The vixen's ears twitched. "I think she's expecting me to come back with it. She mentioned wanting it for my training."

"Well." The jackal's smile broadened, and Ţyla felt the fur on the back of his neck rise. Eškin took another puff from his pipe, then took it from his teeth, using its stem like a pointer. "You need it today, and that's a few hours of work. There's a level of skill that kind of craft requires, and artistry as well. It can neither detract from your figure nor distract from your... training." He paused to adjust the fit of his trousers. "And then there's the copper itself. I have some rod stock I could use, but it's all allocated for other projects. If we were in Bakyr, the Sevōrny and all those mines would be right there; instead, you're asking me to tell another customer to wait for the next shipment." He paused a moment to let his words settle. "Eight grōša twenty-four."

The vixen's eyes shot wide; eight-and-a-quarter grōša was--- the starling had offered him thirty to leave! Ţyla did his best to mask his shock with an eye-roll, but not before he caught the telltale tightening at the corners of Eškin's suggesting he'd caught his fish for the day. "I--- I'll need to think about that."

"Of course, of course." The jackal popped his pipe back into his teeth around his grin. "You wish to haggle, maybe talk down the price?" He spread his arms and gestured towards the shaded window. "Perhaps you could tell your story to another brazier or whitesmith on the block. Perhaps someone else will offer a better deal? I'll be here while you think." And with that, Eškin Pirič turned his attention back to his workbench and began idly fiddling with his tools.

Naked, Ţyla stepped back into the front half of the shop, quietly cursing himself for not counting the purse he'd been given before he left. He slipped between two sets of shelves and, in the thin trickle of dust beside a pair of ornate earpieces set with emeralds, he dumped the contents of the small burlap sack and then raked the coins back inside, quietly summing as he went. He'd hoped to find a few grōša, or maybe even a shiny silver aḑy, but the as more and more thin copper červa fell back into the bag, his hopes for an easy answer fell with them. Even ignoring his glass of šerbat, he had barely over half what he needed.

Tugging the tie of the burlap bag closed, the vixen drew in a steadying breath and let it out. He did his best to put his nudity -- and his aching, blood-gorged shaft -- out of mind while Ţyla considered his options. There was no going to another artisan; they both knew it. The old starling had sent him here knowing the jackal would be sympathetic... and that he was the only one who would be. For but a moment, the vixen considered putting on his skirt and bodice, marching across the street to a competitor, and loudly asking how much---

His shoulders hunched, his head crushed into his neck. He couldn't breathe--- weight on his chest--- endure--- No!--- the word rang rung sang sung out inside his head, wrenching his thoughts away from the penitence-rod, focus--- He reached for the memory of last night, of the candlelight shining off of the glass top, the hollow sound echoing through his head as it spun on its base--- twisting burning twirling turning spinning singing ringing learning--- *spin still, pretty vixen, lips moving with the words as he thought them--- in-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four, wait-two-three-four....

Ţyla knelt; he'd gotten himself to his knees, rather than fallling. He'd managed to divert his breathing from panicked gasps into the pattern Miss Matã had taught him. In the vision in his memory, the top's echoey drone rose and fell in pulsing waves. He felt... detached, as if he had drifted... back? He felt outside himself, like he were seeing the world through the back of his own head, or as if he were wearing himself as a mask. He felt as though he ought to be panicked or afraid, but instead he simply knelt, and breathed, and waited. In his right paw, he felt the sack of coins Miss Matã had given him. The path revealed by his light would be found in this shop. What else had he brought to this place? Only his clothes, and the ribbon he'd been given---

The vixen drew a steadying breath, and though his ears and tail fell, a smile settled on his muzzle; he wouldn't make the same mistake twice in one day. Turn lively, pretty vixen, he told himself as he opened his eyes. Ţyla pushed himself off of the floor, dusted his knees, and then padded back to the neatly folded stack of clothing. Scraping the stool to make the wood squeak and draw the jackal's attention, he lifted the magenta ribbon from the pile and, as Eškin watched with growing interest, tied it around his neck in a bow. "Two grōša twenty-four, and my muzzle."

The jackal's pants shifted a moment before his expression did. Eškin's eyes widened, his lower jaw jutting forth as he gave a slow nod in recognition of the unexpected offer. "I might pay Matã Ţardič six grōša for head. Six grōša twenty-four, and your muzzle."

"Miss Matã wouldn't fondle you for less than a dozen," the vixen quipped back, warming to the banter. He turned and bent forward, lifting his tail to show off his rump. "Four grōša twenty-four and my muzzle," he called over his shoulder.

"Kelţy charges me half that for a full-body massage and a lay." Eškin's expression slid back to his satisfied smirk. "Six grōša twenty-four and your pucker."

The vixen's stomach clenched, sensing the moment slipping from him. "Four grōša twenty-four and my muzzle, twice. Once now, once on a night of your choosing." His ears reddened. "I only have four grōša sixty on me."

The jackal pulled on his pipe, regarding Ţyla standing before him, then craned his neck back and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. "Four grōša sixty and your muzzle twice."

"Done." Ţyla held out his paw, which the jackal quickly took. This time, he bent fully over it, pressing it to his forehead before sitting back. "Business or pleasure first?"

"Business," Eškin replied, his voice once again all business. "Pass me the bag." Ţyla tossed him the sack of coins, which he then dumped and quickly counted himself. "Four and sixty-two," he said, dropping two copper červa back into the burlap. "Your change."

As the vixen tucked his change back into his petticoat, the jackal again adjusted his trousers, then retrieved a pair of calipers from his workbench, along with a charcoal and some paper. "Spread your legs, hinds shoulder-width apart." Eškin seemed comfortable working with his nudity. "Relax, head up." He glanced down at Ţyla's erect shaft, free of its sheath and leaking pre onto the wooden floor. "I said 'relax,' fox; there's---"

"Vixen, please, Eškin." Ţyla's words came out louder than he'd intended, and he clapped his paws to his muzzle. "I--- I'm---" He stopped, forcing himself to take a steadying breath, to ignore the sudden pounding in his chest. "I'm a vixen, not a fox."

Eškin slowly tilted his head down to lock his gaze onto the vixen's sheath, the vixen's cock still stiffly rising above, the small spheres that hung below. "Forgive me, but, I've never known a vixen who could wear a brava."

"Well, now you've met one," the vixen quipped, trying not to sound nervous. The sudden reminder of his... of the*physicality* beneath the vision of himself that the old starling -- and most of the others at the House of Secrets -- had helped him realize had briefly clouded his thoughts. He took another steadying breath and pulled on the words she'd said to him. "Miss Matã said I'm a pretty vixen, and my name is Ţyla." As the words left his muzzle, he felt that same glow in the pit of his stomach, the same ache in his loins, the same joy and embarrassment and acceptance that he had last night.

The jackal listened to Ţyla's pronouncement, arms folded across his chest, twirling a pair of brass calipers in his right paw. Slowly the smile returned to his muzzle."So is that why Miss Matã took you in? To help you become a... pretty vixen?"

Pretty vixen. As powerful as the words were when he said them to himself, hearing them from others felt like a welcome caress. Still, there was something in Eškin's question -- in the way the jackal looked at him when he spoke those words -- that felt... off, a clawtip just catching against his side. "Becoming a pretty vixen is part of the path she's helping me find, yes." Ţyla breathed in the words, letting them sink into his mind, letting the lightness and the warmth of the remembrance spread through him.

The jackal stepped forward, his paw outstretched, and wrapped his fingers around the vixen's erect shaft. Ţyla stiffened at the touch -- unexpected, not unwelcome; his pads soft like suede -- but then leaned into Eškin's shoulder, his tail wagging as the older man began to stroke him. "And what a pretty vixen you'll become, I'm sure. That feels good?"

"Mm-hm," the vixen mumbled, his breath already starting to tighten in his chest. The words rolled through his mind, making his blood rush and his cock twitch. His hips rocked back and forth, grinding into Eškin's paw, leaning into press his muzzle into the jackal's shoulder; the scent of pipe tobacco -- ash, smoke, cherry, leather -- mixed with hints of sweat and arousal. Behind closed eyes, the vision of the vixen snapped into sharp focus. He traced the edge of the ribbon tied around his neck as thrust into the jackal's fingers.

The jackal rolled his fingers along Ţyla's cock as the vixen ground against his paw. "Sweet girl," he crooned, Eškin's other arm holding him close. "Pretty vixen." The vixen's ears flattened, the embarrassment rising, his chest tightening as his thrusts grew short and shallow. The older man's pawpads were soft and slick with his arousal, gliding smoothly back and forth, the practiced strokes of an artisan familiar with his craft.

Ţyla's cheeks burned and his tail thrashed as he began to pant, a soft whine escaping the back of his throat. Stars sparkled at the corners of his eyes when he squinted, his muzzle pressed against Eškin's shoulder, the redsmith's pipe smoke swimming in his nostrils. "Eškin, I---" The vixen's voice caught in his throat, his whole body tensing. The constant reminders of his new state, the echoes of last night, the thought of the brava... his thoughts flashed from moment to moment, vision to vision, as his body rode closer and closer to its release. "Soon," he hissed.

The jackal nodded. "Go on, pretty vixen." Ţyla needed no more coaxing. He whined, grinding into the jackal's paw. he bore down on Eškin's shoulder, eyes tightly shut, hips rocking once, twice, thrice then tensing, gasping, freezing as thick gobs of hot seed slicked the redsmith's fingers and dripped in rivulets to the floor. For a minute, they both stood, soaking in the moment.

Once the vixen's breathing steadied, Eškin broke the stillness that followed, letting go and taking a step backwards towards his workbench. "No charge for the service," he chuckled. "I was saying, there was no way to size you the way you were. Now, though, I can take measurements." He grabbed a dustcloth and wiped off his paw, then passed a second to Ţyla as he returned with his calipers. "Once you're clean, of course."

The vixen cleaned himself, then dropped the rag and wiped up the dribbles that had spilled on the wood. As he did so, the redsmith dropped to one knee in front of him and, calipers in one paw, took the vixen's sheath in the other to take its measure. So soon after climax, Ţyla's skin was still tender, and his tail kept attempting to curl over his crotch, but with patience and the barest touch of cold brass on bare flesh, Eškin got the numbers he needed to proceed. "This will take at least two hours," he said as he rose to his hinds. "Three, maybe four if you want artistry."

Ţyla's stomach rumbled in response, and the vixen's ears darkened, his tail curling behind his back. "Breakfast was some time back; all I've had since is a glass of cordial. I should eat lunch, and Miss Matã will want an update. Shall I come back this evening?"

Eškin Pirič grinned. "Why don't I come by the brothel for dinner tonight? This way I can say hi to Kelţy and Čilã as well." He hesitated a moment. "Do the others know...?"

The vixen waved away the question with a paw. "Miss Matã made a point of telling them, but please don't speak of it if other guests are present." She smiled as she began to dress. "We are the House of Secrets, after all."