Leyland tried to turn away from the awful sight, but the air had become oily and glutinous and every movement was an effort. He gave up, and tried to make out the words that filtered into his ears over the pounding of his heart and the rushing of his blood. Pelona and the vulp cub were still struggling against the tight grip that restrained them, but it was clear that they were no match for a fit, trained OB.
Hyra, to the surprise of many in attendance, did not look remotely worried; instead there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. The second OB officer, the one who was not holding the youngsters, saw this almost at once; and his own expression, so recently one of a fur for whom everything was going right, had become infected by a slight flicker of uncertainty. Only a flicker, but quite enough for Hyra to pick up on, and she wasted no time.
"Oh, I don't think so, young vulp," she said to him, in tones that reminded those listening of — well, of a cat about to pounce. "I'm afraid I really can't allow anything like that."
By now the OB had recovered himself. "You have no choice," he snapped. "The Book of Treaties is paramount, as well you know. These two are to come with me. Now."
Hyra shook her head. "Oh no they're not."
"Oh yes they are."
"Look, Obby," retorted Hyra, using one of the tamest of the many derisive nicknames the Olive Branch were known by on both sides of the river, albeit often in hushed tones and not without great apprehension in Oakwood, "it's the wrong time of year for panto. I'm serious: they're not going back to your boss's disgusting regime."
The officer let out a short, mocking laugh. "Oh queenie, queenie, queenie... I know how much you fels like to show off, but even you are going to have a pretty hard time pretending that you didn't sign that treaty. It's been all over the press on both sides of the Haven, and even our pathetic buns usually manage to struggle through the paper. Well... so long as the words aren't too long; most of them just slaver over the does on page three."
Hyra folded her arms. "I'll overlook that 'queenie'," she said. "For the moment. And most of the rest is no more than I'd expect from your gang. But what I won't overlook is the law." She saw the OB about to protest again, and continued at once. "Now listen to me. And tell your revolting colleague to be more gentle with those two; if they're hurt you really will be sorry."
Reluctantly, the vulp nodded at his companion, who slightly loosened his grip, though not nearly enough to allow his captives to escape. Hyra went on.
"I know exactly what I agreed to in the Book. I agreed that Oakwood officers and constables could arrest troublemakers and escort them back over the river to face justice." A pause. "I think that's pretty clear."
The vulpine officer's face split into a disbelieving grin. "Is that it?" he said.
"Yep! But as I think you have now amply demonstrated, the Oakwood top brass are a pretty thick bunch, and the higher you go the more custardy they get. Warty maybe a little less so than Slime, but I like a challenge and he's the nearest I can get from your lot. I must say, considering your town has orchards all over the place, he's bloody useless at telling cider from scrumpy."
"You spiked his drink?"
"Oh, I wouldn't call it that. Just trying to put him at his ease," Hyra grinned, trying — without total success — to suppress a giggle.
The OB rolled his eyes. "Are you going to get to the point, Queen?"
"It's such fun teasing you like this that I almost wish I wasn't, but I suppose I'd better. It's very simple, even for the likes of you. Yes, you have the right to take Oakwooder troublemakers to face justice, but this is still my realm. And that means that I decide what is and isn't justice."
"But... I promised His Lordship that they would be in Oakwooder paws."
"And so they shall be."
* * *
The centre of Oakwood was almost deserted, the sounds of merriment from across the river in Sandbourne drifting in on the steady westerly breeze. In Bridge Street, Logan leant on the counter of his shop and gazed absently out of the window at the scudding clouds, his mind partly on the letter he was writing — with due regard for the prison censors — to Majul, but mostly adrift in the past, a past that seemed — as pasts so often do — a time of cheerier, brighter colours and of warmer, friendlier odours. A time, indeed, when there would have been no question of his staying away from the Festival.
He sighed softly. It was impossible to make out discrete sounds at this distance, but the waves of sound carrying over the water gave that beautiful impression of a rushing stream, bubbling and churning with excitement and activity. And in a free town, too — no wonder most of Oakwood's population had gone to Sandbourne, even under the ever more onerous restrictions imposed by the vulp regime. To know freedom, even if for just one day, was too wonderful a prospect to turn one's back on.
Logan had met Queen Hyra when he had first come to Oakwood: back then her wits had been just as sharp, if perhaps the edge a little less well-honed. Even so, the contrast between her and the incompetent Chieftain, Alvaran, had been stark, and in retrospect it was hardly a surprise that he had been deposed, hauled out of the Manor House one morning and packed off on the afternoon train that same day. Many exiled rulers would have commanded loyalty, but not Alvaran.
Which, mused Logan with another, less peaceful, sigh, gave Selim and Wharton a clear run. At first it had been so easy for them, with their assurances of security and protection — which, after a fashion, they had provided. There was simply no "king over the water" to turn to: the buns were cowed and sullen, with just a few exceptions. Leyland, for one, though he was watched too closely ever to do more than to try to keep a few embers aglow in the kittens' hearts. It was worth doing, Logan knew that — but how could it ever come to more?
Logan thought back to the murdered chev (whose name, he had taken pains to discover, had been Yex) still burning with anger. The execution of his killer had had the desired effect — to dampen down lapine anger just enough to allow the OBs to maintain their strangehold on the streets. Wharton was the problem, as ever: had Selim been in direct control of the force, Logan was sure that there would have been opportunities to slip a knife into slits in the armour and lever off a plate or two. Wharton had just too much about him for that.
"I said, a florin's worth of sherbert lemons!" growled a harsh vulpine voice, and Logan — with yet another sigh, this one containing the tiniest hint of contempt, shook himself awake and stood up to walk to the sweet jars.
* * *
"You cannot be serious," said the OB holding the cubs, who by this time had stopped squirming and were looking simply tired. "I can't hand traitors over to another traitor!"
"Can't you?" said Hyra. "What a shame. We'll make you two as comfortable as possible, though."
Now both officers looked entirely baffled. "Huh?" they snorted, in rather unmusical harmony.
Hyra rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder whether your boss has really understood the idea of a secret police. I may be a mere fel, rather than one of the glorious vulpine horde, but I'd always understood that in a job involving spying and lying, not to mention snooping and swooping, one of your tasks was the supply of intelligence. It looks like you don't have any going spare. Though I'm sure their Lordships will be doing just that."
"I still don't get it," muttered the first OB peevishly.
"Well, I can't quite manage words of one syllable, but it's quite simple. I will not allow these two cubs to be taken away, and since I don't consider their arrest to be legal by our Book of Treaties, you two are the ones breaking the law. Thus, you are heading for a nice holiday in the Palace dungeons."
"You can't do that, you stupid cat! I thought this was a free town?"
"Cat is not a word for princes," retorted Hyra. "I'm a fel. And it's really a bit rich for OBs to be whinging about freedom; you wouldn't know freedom if it leapt out on you and did a jig. So... here's your choice. You either enjoy our hospitality for a little while, or you hand over those two to me."
"To you?"
"In a manner of speaking. To my staff, at any rate." Hyra looked up and beckoned to a shady corner of the park. "Mac!" she bellowed in her surprisingly powerful voice.
The OBs looked at first confused, then suspicious, and finally furious as the identity of Hyra's servant became clear. Leyland's eyes, meanwhile, widened in simple astonishment. This was no fel; indeed, it was not even a local. As the Queen had promised, the newcomer was an Oakwooder.
It was Almactar.
Copyright © David "Loganberry" Buttery 2004-8. Last updated 25th May 2008.