DISCLAIMER: I do not own any original character from the Redwall saga. I just own the plot and the OCs. A warning to readers: having read just Redwall and Mattimeo I do not have a deep knowledge of what is canon and what not, so I beg your pardon in advance for any blunders I may make in future.
If you find any mistake or anything that clashed with canon, please feel free to tell me by reviewing or sending me a PM
Thanks in advance.
Enjoy!
Though he had never been there before, the young fox knew with good approximation where to go.
He just had to follow the most miserable vermin in the crowd and he would surely find a suitable place to blend in.
Besides, he remembered the stories his mother told him about the city.
She had spent some time there before he was born, after joining a circus, and had the time of her life.
She told him about the powerful criminal gangs which had a free hand in the poorest districts and how the situation perfectly suited an enterprising fox such as she was.
Unfortunately, a series of circumstances put on the provost's seat a stubborn and righteous badger, who had put in his thick mind that it was his duty to rid the city of criminals.
A thorough cleansing followed so his mother and her tribe had to flee as soon as possible, lest they were put in prison or hanged, as had been the fate of many thieves and rogues all around the city.
Some times, when she had drunk more than her fill or was feeling particularly melancholy, she would tell him about his father: a fascinating pirate she had met there, who loved her very much but disappeared in the sea, she would say.
An idiot braggart who had run away or managed to drown, he had always thought bitterly.
Even following his thoughts, he managed to pay attention to his surroundings. He navigated warily through the crowd, trying to act as if he was perfectly at home there, when in fact he was overawed by the sheer amount of people in the streets.
He had never seen so many people massed together in his all life, well, with the notable exception of Cluny's army.
He felt rage rise at the thought: he might have thought his mother was an oaf sometimes, but she had raised him alone and had been the center of his life.
She had saved him from her grave, with her medicine.
And the rats had killed her before his eyes.
Only now he realized he had never mourned her properly, more likely cursed her all the way to the deepest hell for having left him alone with his unbearable pain.
The cold wind was intensifying, and with it the pain radiating from his muzzle to his head.
He knew it would become stronger by the hour, until it was blinding and nauseating, forcing him to find a shelter and stay down until it passed.
Even trough the throbbing in his muzzle, he readily perceived an idiot ratling trying to slip a hand under his ragged cloak to cut his purse.
Could not have more then twelve summers, the brat - he thought, annoyed - and he couldn't even do it properly.
Without a second thought he grabbed the rat's wrist and pulled him off balance, making him fall to the ground.
"Learn better before you try again, you brat." he hissed to the frightened and ashamed rat.
He gave a last look to the oaf and walked away.
Just a kid, he thought dismissively.
To tell the truth, he was no more than sixteen, but he hardened and cynical beyond his young age.
A sharp turn into a dark alley brought him into a closed court with a well in the middle.
The buildings surrounding it were a little musty and shabby, but there was a tavern, its lurid sign hanging from the wall said "Mad Otter Tavern: rooms for rent." and from its windows came the nice glow of fire and a delicious smell of food.
He did not know if it was a safe place to stay the night but he was too tired to scout any longer, he just wanted to eat something warm and decent and find a place to rest before the pain turned him into a trembling and whimpering wreck.
Having already decided that the place would be perfect, the masked fox pushed the door open and entered into a smoky torch-lit common room with a low ceiling.
The patrons, not many due to the early hour, turned briefly to have a look at him, scrutinized him, searching for potential money or threats, then, satisfied by the inspection, turned their attention back to their meals or conversations.
The young fox dropped on a chair at a corner table, where he could keep his only good eye on the remaining people in the room.
The innkeeper, a fat stoat with a filthy apron tied around his prominent belly was busy at the counter, serving mugfuls of beer to a loud group of rats sated next to the fireplace.
They were commemorating something, it was evident, cheering loudly and drinking too much.
After a short wait, he beckoned to a serving wench which had just brought a bowl of food to the table next to his.
She collected the money from the other patron and hurried to his table.
"We don't give credit." the girl snapped, eyeing his clothes.
The masked fox smirked under his mask and made a silver coin appear, almost magically, between his fingers.
"I was not going to ask. - he replied, harshly – Bring me some decent food and wine and ask your boss for a room."
He tossed the coin to the servant, who readily caught it, nodded and hurried to the counter.
The masked fox gave the room a circular look, worried about the other customers.
If they thought he had money, they could as well assault him during the night and if he had to take some pain-killing potion, he would be almost absolutely defenceless.
He had not narrowly escaped death twice just to have his throath slit in some seedy tavern.
Fortunately no one apparently noticed his show of wealth, busy as they were eating and drinking.
The masked fox relaxed a little and sighed: he was safe, for the time being.
After a while the serving wench returned with a bowl full to the brim with a questionable fish soup, a bread chunk and a pitcher of red wine.
He nodded a thank you and began eating ravenously.
He was terribly hungry and the food was hot and tasted delicious; probably it was just edible at most, but it was the first food in two years that he had not had to catch, prepare and cook on his own.
The serving wench gave him a disapproving look shook her head.
"After you finish ask Betsy to show you the room. - she instructed with an annoyed voice – She's the fat ferret with the blue kerchief on her head."
The fox nodded again and returned his attention to the soup.
"Damned tramp!" the woman muttered, returning to her chores.
He heard her but payed no heed to her insults, as he was feeling too good to spoil his mood with an argument and besides, he was dressed in rags and eating like he had not had any food in weeks.
Probably he deserved the 'compliment'.
His week-long hunger finally sated, he finished finished the soup with a cretain degree of calm and mopped the bowl with the coarse brown bread, feeling pleasantly full and warm.
It was not dreadful as he had thought, it was quite good in fact, spiced with paprika and kummel.
He sipped a little wine, which contrary to the soup was really unbearable, acid like vinegar, and stretched lazily.
He felt like yawning but knew from experience it would not be a very good idea, considering also that the heat of the room had worked wonders on his headache.
Slowly, he rose from the chair and approached Betsy the fat ferret.
The older waitress eyed him half-suspicious and half-worried. "I hope you do not have fleas." she complained, leading him trough a small door and along a cramped passageway, candlestick in hand.
"I do not!" the young fox exclaimed, deeply offended: he had always cared much for hygiene.
The ferret eyed him doubtfully and shuffled her shoulders.
As if she could care less about the wounded ego of some scrawny fox.
She climbed a flight of wooden stairs, which creacked ominously under her excessive weight, and retrieved a ring with keys from under her apron.
Panting from the exertion, she stopped in front of a small wooden door, unlocked it with an old rusty key and opened it with a flourish, showing the room to the weird masked customer.
Cautiously, he peeked inside: the room was small and had a low ceiling like the rest of the tavern but it had a small brazier and a bed.
A real bed, like the ones the monks had in Redwall.
"Satisfied?" Betsy asked, arms crossed under her disgustingly large and flaccid breasts.
"Perfect." the fox replied hoarsely, stepping into the room.
"Very well. - the maid said drily, turning on her heels – Have a nice stay."
He muttered a "Thanks" and closed the door, bolting it firmly and putting his pilgrim's staff across it, so it would fall loudly if anyone tried to crash into the room.
Satisfied with the safety measures of his hideout, he collapsed on the bed dressed as he was, too exhausted to bother with niceties such as disrobing.
The bed felt soft as a cloud to him, accustomed as he was to sleeping on the ground.
The young fox rolled over to rest upon the good side of his face and curled upon himself, burying himself in the blankets.
Warm, well fed and exhausted, he felt good for the first time in what fel like centuries.
Tomorrow I will try to find my mother's old contacts among the local rogues, he vowed, then fell asleep almost instantaneously.