In shifted forms they followed Tibalt down the mountain, the Jaguar spirits trailing a short distance behind them. Thusly, Darcy and Beatrice relieved themselves of the weight of their packs and of potential eavesdroppers alike.

The longer she spent in her fox form, the more alive the world seemed, and the more a part of it she felt. Her shifted nose alone told her a hundred thousand times more than all her human faculties combined, each breath a bombardment of sensory information. Nonetheless, she did her best to hold her focus.

“If this king at the Heart is a diamondrake of some kind, should the sword of bone work against him?”

“If it is truly a diamondrake, or any manner of spirit, yes,” replied Darcy.

“But if it is he who imprisons Fox, and we destroy him—would that not free her?”

The Hyena was silent for some time.

“Perhaps.”

“And you would…allow that?”

A tense silence dragged between them.

“I do not know.”

“This way, my uncouth companions,” trilled Tibalt over his shoulder, rounding a great mound of multi-colored roses and stone. “Down into the depths we go.”

Beatrice’s ears perked in bemusement—they were still quite high up the mountain, after all. Darcy growled.

“What in seven hells is he on about now?”

A heartbeat later the answer revealed itself, for at the other side of the mound was a high round opening of stone, aglow with yellow light. Winged rabbits preened and munched through the greenery around it. One of them fixed them with its bright, pink-eyed stare as they approached, righting itself to reveal the open-faced pocket watch that ticked away in its chest.

Proceeding through the entrance after their ambling guide, Beatrice found it warm inside and almost a little too bright. Though multitudes of mismatched lanterns lined the walls and hung from the stoney ceilings, the worn dirt path they’d followed in continued on. Roses, mint and moss grew along the pathway to either side, and here and there small cascades of water trickled from the walls to run in little streams along the wall or across their path. It branched and broke before long, becoming more and yet more tunnels, more paths. Some climbed upward, others down. As Tibalt led them ever downward, Beatrice grew ever more nervous.

Resuming human form in an abrupt burst of shadow, Darcy appeared to have read her thoughts.

“If this is a trap or a trick-” she began.

“Yes, yes, I know the tune,” interjected Tibalt. “You’ll take my soul, with your sword you’ll sow. Please recall, imperious cur, that I’ve made my oath upon my sweet lady’s life and my dearest daughter’s, too. For they and they alone, I’d happily cast my spirit into that vile bone.” His eyes lit on Darcy’s sword, not for the first time.

“Speaking of which, you’d best hide those hilts, lest to be stalked and reviled thou whilst.”

Darcy groaned, but drew to a stop. Beatrice turned to human form as well, and set to pulling some fabric and other notions from their supplies. They wrapped their swords such that no bone was left visible, then lapsed back to four-legged form and continued on. But not for long, for soon they began to encounter others.

The first was a woman with silvery fox’s ears jutting up from her hair and fingers tipped in black claws. Beneath her arm was a basket overflowing with mushrooms and flowers and things in between, and she wore an old-fashioned bodice over a billowing frock. Her eyes went wide, staring from Darcy to Beatrice as the latter followed her wife to human form.

“Good day,” called Darcy. “Pray, do you know this gentleman?” She gestured to Tibalt, who scoffed. “We’ve commissioned him for guide, and I only wonder if there are any who might vouch for him, or otherwise attest to his capability.”

“Oh yes, m’arm or sir, I know him.” replied the spirit woman after a moment’s startled silence. “‘Tis the hermit of the hill. Mad as a bell-addled bat be he, my lord or lady, but I’d say he knows his ways well enough.”

“Thank you, mistress,” said Darcy, issuing the woman a shallow bow.

“Mistrustful mongrel,” muttered Tibalt.

Soon after that, they began to pass buildings—an ever-increasing patchwork of anachronistic architecture protruding from the tunnel walls. But among them wove hedgerow-lined paths, gardens and streams and the occasional fountain, their basins choked with lily pads and roses. And everywhere were spirit folk and their spirit pets. Most had at least one fox-like feature, while others were more vulpine than human. A few, though, had the features of other sacred beasts entirely. One meat-hawker they passed boasted the mane of lion, and a courtesan with striped skin slowed to eye Darcy appraisingly up and down.

“How can there be souls claimed by other Great Spirits in this place?” wondered Beatrice quietly as they continued on two feet.

“Ah, a most efficient man is your good king. Why merely execute his enemies, when he might trap them here, from whence their souls may never again emerge to vex his lineage?”

“That’s…that’s horrible!”

“That is royalty,” replied their guide.

Everywhere they went, spirit folk stared. In shock and curiosity toward Beatrice and her wife, in dread and even disgust at the Jaguars. The hour grew late, as far as the hour mattered in a such a timeless place. Beatrice’s feet were sore and her legs tired. Occasionally they stopped to drink stream water—which appeared and tasted as clean and safe as Tibalt assured them it was. But Beatrice longed for tea and a proper meal.

“We shall need to stop to rest and eat soon,” said Darcy, calling ahead to Tibalt.

“Soon we’ll be there, where we might find respite and transport at once,” he replied.

“There?” Darcy scowled. “What do you mean there?”

“To the UnderRiver and the boatmen,” said Tibalt. “They can take us much of the way, so long as we’ve the loot to pay.” He paused to shoot a nasty look back at Darcy. “That we’ve enough goods with us after your unjust admonishment, we can only pray.”

And indeed, not a great deal longer after that, the tunnel grew into a broad cavern. They took a turn around a tall cluster of buildings, and there it was—stretched out below them. A river that flowed from many tunnel openings and branched off from there into many more. The waters were a riot of color, and as they drew closer Beatrice discerned that they were covered over completely by floating rose petals.

The docks bustled with activity, packed to bursting with riverboats as wildly hodge-podge as everything else in Fox’s realm. Crew members and captains called out as they passed, but Tibalt ignored them—rising to his tip-toes and peering around.

“Drat and curses,” he said. “Not here, of course, not here. Fie on fate!”

“What is it?” Darcy’s tone sharpened.

“They’re not here—the only crew on all these waters I know I might trust. But I suppose another will do…if it must.”

“Are there any others to whom you’re previously acquainted?”

Tibalt curled a furry lip.

“Some there are, to be sure, cur, but alas….none with whom I’d care to acquaint myself further.”

Darcy peered around, brow furrowed.

“Are there any taverns in this ridiculous place?”

“Taverns, Lady Cur? Indeed. But it’s a raft, not a draft, of which we’re in we need. “

“One more limerick and I’ll run you through,” warned Darcy. “A tavern. Show the way.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Tibalt turned on his heel and marched off.

“He will have to wait outside,” said the spirit man some moments later, jabbing a finger toward the former High Inquistor as they approached an establishment with a worn sign that read The Jolly Friar. “No full-beasts allowed.” Metzger the younger remained outside with her monstrous father, back to the brick-and-cobblestone wall.

The tavern’s interior was loud, hot and dark. A fire of rose brambles, broken furniture and planks flickered in a hearth to one end, its light the only illumination save that of a few grimy lanterns and what little made its way through the clouded brownglass windows.

Under the narrowed eye of the habit-clad barkeep, the trio located a vacant table in a cramped corner and seated themselves. Across the tavern, the barmaid caught sight of them.

“Give me some of your trinkets,” hissed Darcy to Tibalt. The fox-man’s eyes flashed with rebellion, and he opened his mouth…most certainly to argue. But Darcy made a show of gripping her silk-wrapped sword. Their guardian rolled his eyes and scoffed, but dug into his sack nonetheless.

Without a word, he smacked down upon the table before her a golden object which resembled a seal stamp, and also a chess piece—a bishop—made of saphire. The knight palmed them just as the barmaid reached their table.

“Madame,” Her wife addressed her before she could say a word. “We’ll have three tankards of your best—” at her sudden squeak, Darcy paused.

“T-tea?” mouthed Beatrice, uneasily, gaze darting from the knight to the barmaid.

“Ah, forgive me. Tea for the lady, whatever’s best. I trust this will suffice?” She handed the wide-eyed maid the golden seal. “And this is just for you. For your time,” added Darcy, passing her the sapphire rook.

When she returned with their drinks and Beatrice took her tea in hand, Darcy met her gaze and jerked her head minutely to one side. Taking this to mean she was not to actually drink it, she set the cup down in its chipped saucer and tried not to tear up. So cruel. To have tea and not be able to take so much as a sip.

“What else might I do for you, mistress?” inquired the barmaid, holding the tray close to her chest, head tilted in deference to Darcy.

“I’m in need of advice, madame,” replied the knight. “I aim to charter a boat for a journey downriver. Who would you recommend?”

“Me, mistress? But I’m just—”

“A charming barmaid at a tavern near the docks. If anyone knows these crews, it’s you.”

“Well,” the young woman’s slit-pupiled eyes darted about to either side of them for a moment, and she lowered her voice to a hush. “I can tell ye who to avoid, at least.”

Leaning in close, she dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Stay well away from The Wayward and The Roca.”

And then, before they could ask her anything else, she was off.

Further questioning of tavern occupants yielded little else, as all seemed too unwilling to recommend any one vessel over the other. And so to the docks they returned. After much haggling with multiple crews, a boat was selected and a price settled upon. The Captain of The Wayward—a man with the head, tail, and hind legs of a tiger—watched from nearby, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He’d been among the many to approach Darcy with an offer, and hadn’t taken well to her immediate rejection.

With their vessel of choice, The Silver Eel, set to depart within the hour, Beatrice and her companions piled aboard. It had cost them extra to convince the captain to accept the High Inquisitor as a passenger, and again Beatrice found herself regretting the decision to let the silent pair follow.

But the choice was made, and she couldn’t bring herself to go back on it now.