“Come along quietly, and no one gets hurt.”
The muscles under Jiao Tu’s fur tensed at the soft words. A sharp blade point touched the back of his tunic at his left kidney. He did not turn to see who held his elbow, but he scented the air and took stock of his surroundings as best he dared.
Ahead of him stood three or four mouslings, their fur dark, their ears notched and scarred. Their bright eyes shifted back and forth from Jiao Tu and the sword on his belt to the person holding his elbow. That individual bore a stronger scent, the musk of a weasel-kin, if he was not much mistaken. He could scent others near Farrah, mouslings, perhaps another weasel, and even another lagomorph.
He could smell Farrah’s fear, and beneath that, her rising anger. He wished he could see her eyes.
He cleared his throat, and the point of the blade at his side moved forward a small fraction.
“Sirrah, perhaps if you tell us our destination, we may accompany you. But know that we have precious few credits. And you will regret any attempt to cause my companion or myself harm.”
Though they were not far from the harbor, the street on which they stood grew very still. Other citizens and travelers had found other places to be, it seemed. Against the lagomorph’s hip, Black Fang thrummed eagerly, hungrily. He heard a sound almost like a growl escape Farrah’s throat, as if she sensed his sword’s bloodlust. He needed to take control of this situation, and quickly.
With his left paw, he flipped up the weighted tassels that hung from the hilt of his sword, knocking them into the wrist of the person beside him. At the same moment, he kicked back into the person’s shin and whirled forward, away from the unseen blade. The leader let out a cry and his knife clattered to the cobbles. Before the group ahead of him could react, Black Fang was out of its scabbard, the point at the weasel’s throat, for the speaker indeed was a weasel, or perhaps a marten.
A couple of the younger mouslings ran seeing their leader so easily disarmed. Those that remained drew their weapons—long knives or curved daggers. He could tell by the way the blades shook in their paws that they were no immediate threat. He hazarded a glance to the side to see how Farrah fared.
A young male mousling flipped forward into the air, crashing beyond the weasel. His apprentice, it seemed, had taken at least some of his lessons to heart. His mind set at ease on that score, he turned back to the fallen weasel.
“Perhaps we can have a more civil conversation now. Who are you, and what do you want with us?”
The weasel stared hatred at the lagomorph and spat at his feet. Jiao Tu shook his head. He felt at his side. The weasel’s knife had sliced a hole in his tunic half a paw’s width, though the blade had not his skin.
“I see. Then perhaps you could direct me to a good tailor? I am rather fond of this tunic.”
Behind him, Jiao Tu heard someone laugh and clap his paws in applause. A chill ran up the lagomorph’s spine. He knew that laugh, though he could not immediately place it. He turned around, and his eyes went wide.
“Phulaki?”
Jiao Tu’s Endeavour 