The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox

Up at the castle:

The day after the Lantern Festival marked the end of the holidays, Anasius the whistling duck spirit carried his account books into Baron Claymouth’s study for their yearly review of barony finances.

“We’re doing well, my lord,” reported the seneschal. “If you would like, we could even increase the capitation tax by a copper.”

For the past few years, the weather had been good, and the peasants had produced a surplus of rice and wheat to sell to other fiefs.

“Mmmm,” said the baron. He traced his finger down the page as he pored over the numbers, balancing his needs against his peasants’ inevitable complaints. “That’s acceptable. Do it.”

Anasius made a note for himself, then went through each of the categories of taxes, tolls, rents, fees, and fines in turn. Barony revenue came not just from the capitation tax levied on every adult resident, but also from property and inheritance taxes; tolls on bridges and roads; rents on homes, shops, and market stalls; fees for using the official mill, well, oven, brewhouse, and bull; licenses to peddle goods; mandatory festival gifts presented to the baron by his vassals; and more. Fines for offenses such as public drunkenness and disorderliness added up, too.

Annoyingly, even though the baron owned the pasture, woodland, and meadow, tradition allowed the peasants to use it practically for free. Anasius hadn’t come up with a way to raise that fee yet without alienating everyone – which was never a safe option. But that didn’t mean he didn’t track their usage patterns.

“Timber exploitation went up last year,” he informed the baron.

“Oh? Did Master Gravitas expand his business?”

Anasius shook his head. “No, although there’s talk of him taking an apprentice this year. The second Jek boy.”

The baron raised his eyebrows. “The Jeks haven’t applied for permission to apprentice their son to the carpenter, have they?”

Anasius consulted his records. “No, although last year they did apply to apprentice him to Master Gian the basket maker. Apparently that contract fell through. I’ll keep an eye out for a new application.” And the special fee that the baron charged for registering new contracts. “But in fact…it appears that it was the Jeks who increased their use of the woodlands last year.”

“So their son could practice woodworking before they approached Master Gravitas?” The baron looked more perplexed than displeased.

Anasius consulted the reports he’d received. “For…property improvements, actually. Apparently they built…a pigsty and a chicken coop? And…new furniture?”

“So they were having their son practice woodworking to improve his chances of getting the apprenticeship!”

“Perhaps,” agreed Anasius, “but why a chicken coop?”

The whistling duck spirit was old enough to remember when chicken coops were necessary to protect hens and their eggs from foxes. But the pests hadn’t been a problem in the humans’ living memory.

The baron frowned as he tried to remember who all his peasants were. “The Jeks…the Jeks…that sounds familiar. Aha! Mistress Jek was born a Lom, wasn’t she?”

Although he was the Loms’ lord, his forefathers had learned not to tangle with the sharp-tongued, eccentric family. Let them have their delusions of grandeur about their supposed connection to the long-defunct imperial family. So long as they paid their taxes, tolls, rents, fees, and fines on time, and didn’t incite their neighbors to revolt, he got what he needed.

“Assess their property improvements and raise their rent accordingly,” the baron directed.

“Yes, my lord,” said Anasius.

He’d go in person, he decided, so he could check if the other rumors about the Jeks were true.

At Honeysuckle Croft:

The sight that greeted the seneschal as he approached Honeysuckle Croft was so bizarre that he couldn’t begin to process it. The cottage itself looked nicer than usual: Master Jek had obviously patched and whitewashed the walls for the holidays, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary was the miniature house next to the cottage, built from the excessive quantity of wood that the Jeks had cut in the woodlands. As Anasius gawked at the contraption, a hen fluttered out of a square opening near its roof, landed on the ground, and started pecking.

Behind the cottage, he glimpsed a wall built from pieces of rock, which must be the pigsty.

When he turned off Persimmon Tree Road and walked into the yard, he saw something even more baffling: a little girl on her hands and knees with a sharp stick, mumbling to herself as she dragged it through the dirt.

“Puella…matri sui…malum…dat….”

What was a peasant child doing talking about a girl giving her mother an apple in Classical Serican?

The peasant child scooted backwards, revealing characters scratched into the ground that read, “Puella matri sui malum dat.” They were all clumsy – and all correct.

Without noticing Anasius, she went on muttering to herself, “Puella…matri sui…malas – no, wait, what’s the plural of malum?” And, closing her eyes, she rattled off the noun’s declensions in the order that every scholar memorized: “Malum, mali, malo, malum, malo, malum, mala, malorum, malis, mala – mala! Puella…matri sui…mala…dat. There!” She dropped the stick and sang, even more nonsensically, “Mr. Tuuur-tle! I’m doo-one!”

No response.

Confused, the seneschal and the girl both looked around. “Mr. Turtle?” they asked in unison.

At the sight of a visitor, the girl’s eyes flew wide. Leaping to her feet, she flourished an elaborate bow that was completely at odds with her dirty hands and thin, patched clothing. “O, good morrow sir! I most humbly beg your pardon for my inattention! Do you desire to see my parents?” And she swept one graceful arm around to gesture at the cottage.

“I…I….” Anasius had no idea how to respond.

This unnatural creature in front of him was neither a spirit transformed into the shape of a human child, nor a human child possessed by a demon. But now he could see why her neighbors thought she was one.

At the sound of their voices, a frizzy-haired woman with a broad, coarse face appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron and blinking in the sunlight. When she spotted Anasius, her posture changed at once. Her chin came up, her spine went as straight as Baroness Claymouth’s, and she, too, executed a showy bow.

“Seneschal Anasius! ‘Tis an unexpected pleasure! Truly this day hath been blessed by Heaven. Please, be welcome!”

Anasius recoiled. “What is this, woman? Do you mock a representative of the Baron?”

The woman froze, horrified. “No! Honored Seneschal!” The ridiculous, antiquated phrasing vanished, replaced by stumbling attempts at apology. “Never! I’d never do anything like that! How could I dare? I just – I just – ”

“You just think it’s funny to make fun of your visitors? What are you playing at here? Why is she writing?” Anasius stabbed an accusatory finger at the sentences in the dirt.

“I – that – ” The woman scuttled over and started scrubbing out the characters with her shoe.

A little late for that.

“Did you apply for permission to build that chicken coop? Did you apply for permission to build that pigsty? Did you apply for permission to operate a school on these premises?” With each question, the woman cringed and shrank in on herself. “And you have the gall – the consummate gall – to mock me? The Baron will hear about this!”

Spinning on his heel, Anasius stormed out of the yard.

“No – no! Honored Seneschal, wait, please!” The woman scrambled after him, clutching at his arm. “Please don’t report us to the Baron!”

Anasius yanked away, nearly making her fall. “Let go.”

“Please, there’s a reason! A good reason! It’s not a joke!”

He kept striding down the road, forcing her to run alongside him. “And what is this ‘good reason’?”

“It’s just – I just – I’m so sorry, but I can’t tell you! I’m not allowed to tell you!”

“Not allowed to tell me?” Anasius halted, suspicious. “Who gave that order?”

“I – I can’t say….”

“Was it the Dragon King of Black Sand Creek? The Green Frog? Sir Black Pine?” Anasius listed neighbors who might be plotting to expand their own fiefs at Claymouth’s expense. “I warn you, the penalty for betraying your lord is – ”

“No! No!” She shook her head, frantic. “It’s nothing like that! It has nothing to do with – ” She gulped, lowered her voice, and mumbled something that possibly ended with “on Earth.”

“With what on Earth? Speak up.”

“With…affairs on Earth,” she mumbled at the dirt. “It doesn’t have anything to do with affairs on Earth. I can’t say anything more. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Anasius was rendered speechless. Yes, the Loms had always had been arrogant, but this was taking presumption to a whole other level. “So you’re trying to tell me that Heaven commanded you to do all this?”

She shook her head again, casting wild glances up at the sky. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not saying anything! I’m not allowed to say anything!”

“Hmmm.” Well, she wasn’t a transformed spirit or a possessed human either, so maybe the Lom family insanity had manifested late in Jek Lom Vannia. Taking pity on the madwoman, Anasius dropped his interrogation. “Very well then. I will report your property improvements to the Baron. You can expect a rent increase this year. Good day, Mistress Jek.”

With a curt bob of his head, he strode off, heading for Black Sand Creek. He needed to have a word with his uncle.

On the banks of Black Sand Creek:

Stripey rested on the riverbank adjoining the Green Frog’s fief, planning out his schedule for the upcoming year. There was the usual round of holidays and festivals, of course, which brought travelers and merchants (i.e. targets) into the barony. Business had been good last year, and he wondered how best to advertise that when recruiting this year.

Not that the Claymouth Barony or Black Sand Creek Water Court could support any more outlaws – not unless their economies grew at a faster rate. Perhaps it was a sign that the ducks should start expanding into the Green Frog’s fief. They could target theatergoers and art patrons, or insist on a cut of the pickpockets’ take. Stripey had already put out feelers towards the petty thieves’ queen, but the rat demon wasn’t easily intimidated.

A cat spirit might do better than a duck, he mused. Maybe I could hire a negotiator from Master Gravitas.

“Uncle Stripey! I need to talk to you! It’s urgent!”

A squawking storm of wings and feathers crashed down next to him.

Stripey chortled as his nephew righted himself. Anasius spent far too much time in human form these days.

“I told you to change back more often,” he chided. “Next thing you know, you’re going to forget how to fly! Or swim!”

Anasius ignored that and squawked, “We can talk about that later. I’m on business for the Baron.”

Stripey stiffened. He threw out his chest and arched his neck proudly. “And he sent you to threaten us?”

“Threaten – ? What? No!” Catching himself, Anasius also threw out his chest and arched his neck. In a lofty voice, he proclaimed, “Baron Claymouth is far too wise a statesman to allow such grave conflicts of interest to arise. No, I am here on another matter entirely.”

Stripey rolled his eyes Heavenward. “Then drop the high-and-mighty act and tell me what the Baron wants.”

Anasius shuffled from one webbed foot to the other. “Well, you visit Caltrop Pond often, right?”

“Ye-ees? Does the Baron want me to mediate noise complaints between His Majesty and his neighbors? Because I can already tell you that’s going to be a waste of time. The Baron’s welcome to hire me anyway, of course.”

Anasius was actually too distracted to take offense at Stripey’s tone. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s…um, Caltrop Pond is close to Honeysuckle Croft, so you must pass by it often, right? And your friend Bobo works there? Have you noticed anything, uh, strange about her employers?”

Ah. The whole barony had been gossiping about the Jeks – and now the Baron was finally investigating.

Stripey shrugged. “Please don’t tell me you believe those silly rumors, Anasius. Fox demons stealing the Jeks’ bodies? Please.”

Anasius shook his head. “I don’t mean that. Obviously they haven’t been possessed. I checked already.”

“You did?” Stripey was alarmed. What would happen if Anasius found out about Rosie and the goddess?

“Of course I did. But possessed or not, they’ve made a number of changes to Honeysuckle Croft without notifying the Baron. They’re also teaching their children to read and write. And Mistress Jek claims that it’s on orders from Heaven! That worries me.”

Stripey faked a snort. “What, do you think they’re planning to overthrow the Baron?”

Anasius’ voice stayed grim. “Stranger things have happened. And the Loms do claim imperial descent.”

Stripey sighed to himself. He really should have let Rosie tell him more about the goddess and her plans, instead of leaving in a huff on New Year’s Eve. “Look, Anasius, I don’t understand what the Jeks are doing either, but I assure you that they have no intention of leading an uprising. They’re…weird. But harmless. Leave them be, and you’ll stir up a lot less trouble.”

“Hmmm. You’re certain?”

“I can check on them regularly if that would put your mind at ease.”

“That would, in fact.” Anasius thought for a moment. “Well, I’m going to have to report the housing improvements to the Baron, at least. He’ll probably fine the Jeks and raise their rent.”

“Ouch.” Stripey winced, thinking of Bobo.

“It can’t be helped.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just keep him from investigating further.”

And Stripey took great pleasure in watching his nephew’s clumsy flight back across the river. Too bad Anasius didn’t fall into the water – it would have been a hilarious opportunity to see if the duck spirit still remembered how to swim.