Until the Board of Adjustment decided her father was dead, Timura Nelaji had been an ordinary student at Miss Turulov's Finishing School. The young lynx attended classes, fantasized about the handsome tiger that taught geography, and gossiped just like all the other furs at Miss Turulov's. And if she enjoyed with unusual vigor the extra-curricular activities open to a fur just coming into the fullness of sexual maturity, that was understandable for one with her attractiveness and stamina.
She was, however, the only fur at Miss Turulov's with no parents. Her mother died when she was still a kitten. Her father had raise her alone, but even he disappeared four years ago. At the time, he was waving to her from the gondola of a departing airship, leaving her the care of servants.
Her sire was an importer. From his villa in the city of Sondosia, on the central coast, he brokered the sale of unusual artifacts from the cities of the East, the tropical Archipelago to the west, and Shael in the frozen north, from whence he had come many years ago. Before he left on his final voyage, he told his kitten that a buyer had requested his presence on a trip to the outer Archipelago, but he would return as soon as the business was finished. Four years later, she still believed him.
She assumed that everyone else did too, until the day a letter arrived bearing the seal of the Board of Adjustment. It passed judgment and enumerated consequences. If only her civics teacher hadn't such a distractingly well-formed muzzle she might have learned that the Board of Adjustment lacked the power to unilaterally impose retroactive tax assessments without the consent of the Committee for Faravashi Hill, in whose jurisdiction the villa lay. If she had spent time reading her sire's mail instead of her paramours' love letters she might have also known that her family held a hereditary membership in the Confraternity of Antiquities--which maintained a permanent representative on the Board (for the purpose of rendering appraisals), to whom she might have turned for help. Ignorant as she was, however, the letter's demands left her drained and shaking.
Mixed fear and relief followed the news that a Mr. Nikolai Almas had called on her the following day. She had been out at the time, unsuccessfully seeking solace in the bed of a wolven musketeer whose third leg was as proportionally long as his hind two. The visitor had left a card, with his name and his position as Notarius for the Committee of Ten. That committee she'd actually heard of, though, she couldn't quite recall where. When she turned the card over in her paw, she saw that he had written a time and place: this very evening, at a club near the docks.
An hour after sunset, the gaslights along the boardwalk did not penetrate very far, but that did not trouble one with her night vision. Down one alley, two unbroken rows of bars vanished into the darkness, each hidden behind a thick door and windowless walls. There was little to distinguish one from another, save the simple wooden signs bearing each establishment's name. Pausing to examine each sign as she went, Timura found what she was looking for only long leaving the circle of light at the mouth of the alley.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Unconsciously acknowledging the bar mistress's softly spoken greeting with a nod, she looked around. To her left, the rich, dark brown wood of the bar stretched to the far wall. The empty barstools matched, with elaborately lathed legs and dark green cushions. Two lamps hung behind the bar, bathing the place in warm light that danced in the polished copper tops of the tables to her right. With a start, she realized that a ferret was calling her from the far table.
"Miss Nelaji...Miss Nelaji. Thank you for coming. Would you care to join me?" He asked. The ferret wore a gray suit, with a black bow tie that accentuated the matching stripe across his eyes. The wrinkle-free drape spoke of paw-tailoring and Timura felt self-conscious in her flouncy skirt and deeply scooped neckline.
As she sat, a hostess emerged from the bead curtain at the back of the bar and stepped to the table. Her gray fur, stubby muzzle, and round ears reminded Timura of the koalas she'd seen in the Archipelago. She'd been there with her sire once, and she remembered thinking that the natives' slow, heavy bodies matched the aroma of tropical flowers that filled the islands. This one filled her high-collared dress completely, threatening to burst open the ties holding it together in front and preventing the waist-high slits on each side from closing. No underwear lines, Timura noticed idly; but that wasn't a surprise at a place like this. The ferret never even glanced at the koala's buxom chest.
The hostess bowed and offered Timura a glass of iced water. Refusing, Timura asked for a glass of rakija. The ferret's eyes widened as the hostess poured and backed away, but he said nothing as she raised her glass and sipped the apricot brandy. Uncomfortable under his stare, she fixed her eyes on the glass and lowered it to the table. When the silence became unbearable, she blurted out:
"You said you wanted to talk to me?"
"Ah...yes, thank you for coming." His long body swayed. "Forgive my rudeness. My name is Nikolai. Nikolai Almas. I am...a minor functionary for the Committee of Ten."
He spoke in fits and starts, as if he needed to stop in the middle of sentences to figure out what came next. Reaching under the table Nikolai pulled his battered leather briefcase and placed it on the table. Placing his paws on the case, he paused for a moment and opened the latches with a loud snap. From inside the case he extracted a file bound in silk ribbon. Then he placed a pair of half-moon spectacles next to the file. That accomplished, he began.
"I wanted to talk to you about your...sire."
"What?" Timura's ears snapped forward. "Have you heard from him?" She asked eagerly.
"Well, that's the problem. We haven't." Timura's ears drooped. "Now, you and I know that your sire is a resourceful man, and--"
"Did you--I mean, do you know him?" Timura asked.
"I have the privilege, yes. As I was saying, though..." Nikolai's black eyes narrowed. "You and I know that we shouldn't give up hope, but I'm afraid the Board of Adjustment doesn't feel the same way."
"Wha-what do you mean?" Timura asked, a pit opening in her stomach.
"I hate to be bearer of ill tidings, but I expect you've read the letter? They've declared him dead and...plan to seize the villa and its contents."
"B-b-but--" She stuttered. That would leave her penniless, living on the street.
"I know, it isn't right, but they've put a lien on your possessions for failure to pay your sire's...death tax."
"But--he's not--" Tears welled in Timura's eyes and her tail lashed helplessly.
"I know how hard this must be for you." Nikolai placed his small paws atop her larger ones sympathetically. "Unfortunately, they decided he died three years ago, which means there are substantial tax penalties for not having paid. It's absurd, I know, but apparently they exceed the value of the villa itself."
"I need to talk to them." Timura said. She jerked her paws back from the table as her claws slid out and her ears snapped flat back against her head. She stared at the ferret, vision narrowing until she could distinguish each quiver of his whiskers.
"Well, I doubt that will do much." He ignored her stare and continued. "You know how the great Committees are, anyone you talk to will blame everyone else and say there's nothing he can do about it. If you ask me, there's someone on the Board with an eye on that villa for himself."
"There must be something I can do." Her claws scraped against the copper sheathing of the table.
"Um. Yesss." He stopped, and took a slow drink. "Some...associates of your sire did have a suggestion."
"They did?" She asked desperately, swiveling her ears forward. "What did they say?"
