Logan yawned a little as he waited for the newspapers to come in, his long ears twitching gently in the breeze. It certainly felt strange being back in his shop after so many years away from Oakwood, yet at the same time it was oddly comforting. The sights, the smells, even the feel of the air in his nostrils, were so familiar to him, and as he gazed at the rows of sweet jars that lined the walls, he drifted briefly into a nostalgic daydream of his childhood days in the town.
As a kitten Logan had been extremely shy and quiet, but he had always loved books and maps, and by dint of hard work and good fortune he had eventually become the owner of the newsagent in Bridge Street. The success of the shop had encouraged him to set up others around the Haven Valley, and several years ago he had moved out of Oakwood - initially it had just been for a holiday, but that had been the time of Lord Selim's rise to power, and Logan had felt at first disquiet and then revulsion at the changes that had come over the town.
Yet now his paw had been forced: Majul, the bun Logan had employed and relied upon ever since his move out of town, had been arrested for drawing satirical cartoons of the Lord Protector, and was currently languishing in prison. Logan had tried to find a local replacement, but it was no use: every bun he had asked had come up with some excuse, but the real reason was both simpler and darker: no-one in Oakwood would dare risk public association with a subversive. In the end, Logan himself had been forced to take on the job.
He shook his head to clear it as the delivery cart appeared and disgorged its daily load. Logan arranged the copies of the newspapers on their shelves. As he always did, he glanced at the front pages as he did so. The Oakwood Chronicle seemed to have had an exclusive: something to do with liberalising the laws to do with marriage and other relationships. Logan was confused, as this was most unusual for the generally highly conservative Council, but the story seemed authoritative enough. He was about to read the smaller print of the article when a constable entered the shop.
"Good morning, Logan," he said. "A Chronicle and a quarter of barley sugars, if you would."
"Of course, sir," said the rabbit and carefully measured out the correct amount, reaching back as he did so to fold and offer the paper in one smooth movement of his other paw. "That'll be one and nine, please."
The policeman nodded and handed over a florin. Logan gave him a threepenny bit in change and and watched as he left the shop. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he had seen the constable give a a slight start as he turned the corner, as though he had been taken aback by what he had read in the newspaper. Logan wasn't surprised: if the Chronicle had got their story right - and their sources were said to be impeccable - then this would be the talk of the town.
No-one else was in the shop, so Logan busied himself with the map display. Although he enjoyed most things about his job, cartography was his true love and he had often spent hours simply gazing at maps and charts. The street map of Oakwood and Sandbourne he had drawn himself over a decade ago, and despite the passing years it was still the most accurate of any along the Haven.
A little later, Logan heard the bell, and looked up in time to see Leyland walk into the shop, an odd expression on his face. Logan smiled: the two had not known each other for more than a few weeks, but were already becoming friends. But when Leyland did not return his greeting, Logan asked in a concerned tone what was the matter.
"Never mind," said Leyland, so curtly that Logan's eyebrows shot up. "Look, I can't talk about it, not here anyway, but there's something else."
"And that is...?"
"You see this paper?" came the reply. Logan squinted at the copy of the Chronicle the other was waving wildly; all he could make out was a weather map. "Look at it. Look at it! I should be delighted at this; just for once Slime is getting out of our lives rather than interfering even more. But that's the thing: why would he do that? It goes so against the grain it's not true. I'm sure Warty is behind it all, currying favour for some reason. And it'll work, too. But what is he up to?"
Logan picked up another Chronicle and peered at the front page, then looked up and shrugged. "Well," he said, "I know I haven't been back here that long, but I must say that this Bailiff seems to know what he's about, and for all your suspicions you have to admit that he's doing something useful here."
Leyland looked doubtful. "I suppose..." he said uncertainly, trailing off into thoughtful silence for just a few moments before giving a sudden start and jabbing a claw forcefully at another part of the newspaper.
"Now what?"
"No wonder he's brought this in now, the crafty bastard!" exclaimed Leyland. "Mac's crossed the river!"
There was a stunned silence. Crossing the river meant making the dangerous escape over the Haven to seek sanctuary in Sandbourne - a protection that Queen Hyra was always inclined to extend where it meant one in the eye for her arrogant western neighbours. And Mac was Almactar, a bun who was employed as an overseer in the orchards and who had been widely considered so subsurvient to the vulpine regime as to be bordering on being a collaborator. In short, the very last fur anyone would expect to run away.
In his somewhat spartan office on the ground floor of the Bailiff's House, Lord Wharton relaxed with a welcome glass of cider and reflected on his successful arguments at the Council House. It had been far from an easy debate to win, especially - he scowled inwardly - with Lady Cara's vocal opposition to the new laws, but in the end he had found that the best policy was simply to ignore her and to give her enough rope, trusting that the other Councillors would tire of her stridency; and this had been the case.
As with all new laws in Oakwood, the Relationship Acts had in theory entered into force the moment the Lord Protector had given his final assent, but of course in practice it meant little until the populace as a whole had been informed by way of the newspapers. Sometimes it would be a struggle getting the press to print anything beyond the tiny official notice that was legally required, but not on this occasion: debate was, and would surely continue to be, loud and heated in all corners.
Taking a long draught of his drink, Wharton considered the irony that a town ruled with such an iron paw should have an relatively free press: articles containing personal criticism of Selim or himself, or advocating the overthrow of the vulpine regime, were of course strictly illegal and their authors dealt with ruthlessly, as Majul had discovered, but in most other ways the newspapers were free to print what they liked. Selim was uncomfortable with this, but the Bailiff pointed out that it was in fact an excellent and very cheap way of determining the mood of ordinary furs.
Wharton reached across to a bookcase beside him and took down one of his favourite books of cricketing stories. He had been a more than useful batsman in his youth, and still held the record for the fastest century in the annual match with Sandbourne - which, he reminded himself, was coming up, and for which he had been asked to stand as umpire. He was just settling down to read when the doorbell rang. Annoyed, he told a servant to send whoever it was away, but it seemed that the party would not take no for an answer, so with a sigh he laid aside his book and invited them in.
His visitors numbered three: two constables (one dog fox and one vixen) and, a little to his surprise, a member of the Olive Branch. That, however, was as nothing to his astonishment when he realised that the OB was not commanding the constables as he had first thought, but was in fact under arrest by them! Seeing his look of open-mouthed amazement the vixen began to explain. Strictly she should have waited for Wharton to speak first, but in such unusual circumstances the Bailiff did not intend to pull her up on it.
"So," he said as the constable finished her tale. "So... you're telling me that this officer shot a chev, on a busy road, in full view of a bunch of bun schoolkittens?" The vixen nodded. Wharton took another swig of his cider to steady his nerves: this was the last thing he needed, and it seemed likely that all hell would break loose in the town once shock had worn off and anger had set in. He needed to act very fast.
"Well then," he said, sighing heavily, "there doesn't seem to be anything else for it." He turned to the OB, who all the while had been standing to attention in silence, and adopted a grave expression and serious tone of voice. "Officer of the Olive Branch," he said, "your job is to keep public order and safety. Yet instead you are accused of killing a fur in public view. Do you wish summary justice, or will you submit to a trial?"
The OB gazed at him levelly, not a flicker of emotion in his sharp brown eyes. "Try me," he said at last.
"Then so be it," said Wharton. "Constables, take this vulp away and keep him safe overnight. Tomorrow at midday, in Hales Park, he will go on trial for his life."
Copyright © David "Loganberry" Buttery 2004-5. Last updated 31st August 2005.