The fig garden had become my place of respite.  Most nights, it was empty of other souls, silent save the scattered chittering and thrumming of insect and frog song.  There were two guard post lanterns lit near the stone archways that marked the entrance from the fields and the gate into the inner grounds, shut and barred at night, of course.  But the field archway had no door, there was no need except perhaps to keep the servants from stealing figs from the ten-foot-high, bushy trees all aligned in rows down the length of the garden.  Most wouldn’t dare, though.  Not with the perimeter guards making their rounds past the gate every few minutes.  Even for the hungriest servant, denied dinner for some mistake or slight they’d made that day, the chance wouldn’t be worth it.
	No guard would bar my entrance, though.  It was a known fact that poaching fruit from the gardens was, while technically a punishable offense, a widely accepted benefit of the job.  When I’d first contacted a Clan Agent and handed over my service record, he’d mentioned that one of the primary reasons to apply to the Sura Estate was for the fringe benefits entitled to staff from the gardens.  The Estate was built over an oasis, chosen of course at first to use the aquifer for the purpose of keeping the Divine fields watered, but the Estate’s gardens used whatever excess they could draw up throughout the year, and it meant we always had ready access to produce.  Very little of what the Sura Estate grew went to market – save of course the Divine, because it could be dried and stored.  I think the plantains would be dried and shipped as well, but as a guardsman, I hardly concerned myself with such things.
	The important thing is, the fig gardens were empty at night, being as they were on the outskirts of what you’d call the ‘main’ estate grounds.  Still within the guard perimeter, clean and manicured, and isolated from the filth and squalor of the servants’ lodgings.  The dappled stone wall that surrounded them also served the dual function of blocking sight of the wide expanse of Divine fields that stretched for miles around us.  When you came here at night, you could sit amongst the fig trees, breathe clean, clear air, and pretend that you weren’t working as part of the system of malignant slavery and abuse that had once destroyed your life, and the lives of everyone you cared for.
	But not tonight.
	Tonight, Mistress Sura was throwing one of her ‘events’.  That’s all she bothered to refer to them as when she related the schedule to us each month.  It was, of course, of no concern to her lower-caste staff what type of events these were, except what menus might need to be prepared, which wine to retrieve from the cellars, and for my own purposes, what level of security we may need.  In this case, the threat level was so low, she’d called most of the guard staff off for the evening, allowing us to partake in the servants’ party.  A much less auspicious event being held . . . in the fig garden.  A likely location, since it was so far on the edge of the grounds and wouldn’t run the risk of interrupting the more lavish celebrations inside.  
	I was happy at least for the servants, having one night a year where they were given enough cheap drink and food that they could get sloppy and forget their troubles for a time, but it was intruding on my usual brooding spot, and solitude was essential for brooding.  There’s this misbegotten belief that for some reason during a celebration, you must enjoy yourself, or you’re doing it wrong.  It doesn’t matter if you had any say in being a part of that celebration, (say you had other plans for the evening that didn’t involve the celebration, but the celebration just intruded on your life).  And now you’re not allowed to brood in your usual spot without people being offended.  It’s the only time that people you hardly ever speak to on the job will come up to you and insist-
	“You look tired.”
	“Are you alright?”
	“You look like you need a drink!”
	None of these statements are in any way helpful to your current mood, of course.  They just serve to remind you of something you already know – firstly that you’re unhappy, and secondly, that other people can tell.  And I can’t think of a single time that someone has told anyone they look tired, when it wasn’t meant to imply they look terrible.  A fact of which I am well aware.
	I give noncommittal responses for the most part, trying to make it clear at least that I appreciate their concern, even if it isn’t really that.  I’ve been working on this plantation for only a few months now, long enough to know it’s a good gig and that the benefits outweigh the flaws.  I don’t want bad blood with any of the servants or paid workers, even those I will almost never see.  Why rock the boat if you don’t need to?  I’m a firm believer that nothing good comes from being unpleasant when you have no reason to be so.  Now, get on the wrong side of me, and that’s another ball of wax.  But social slights, whether intended or not, have never riled me.  
	What is beginning to bother me as I watch the festivities is an ongoing situation, a drama of sorts, unfolding in the opposite corner of the garden on the East side.  I like the East side of the garden because there are stone benches there.  Normally, when the garden isn’t full of the drunken masses, laughing raucously and clinking their pints on collars, scuffing the dirt beneath unsteady paws and chattering away about their unsatisfying, poor lives, I come here and lean back against one of these benches so I can stare at the stars.  The other nice thing about being so far from the main grounds is that there’s very little light to pollute the night sky.
	Tonight, the place is strung up with cheap, multicolored paper lanterns and even if I could see the stars, it’d be hard to wax poetic about life and circumstance with so much noise and distraction around me.  So instead, I’ve apparently fallen back into Guard duties, (hardly strange considering it’s been my vocation for most of my life, even while indentured) and have taken to watching the partygoers for signs of trouble.
	That’s how I happened to catch this little drama.  Or the tail end of it, it’s hard to tell.  One of the other guardsmen, a Dhole named ‘Luca’, (I’m not sure if that’s short for something else) has been successfully making ground with one of the serving staff from the main house.  I’ve seen her around from time to time, although I can’t remember her name right now.  She’s a petite, pretty young squirrel with a tight saree and an even tighter collar.  It’s hard to think the dainty young thing has caused enough trouble over the stay of her contract to warrant such a restrictive collar, but the fitting process is usually careful enough that that doesn’t happen by accident.  If she has been reprimanded for her behavior in the past though, it’s likely due to the kind of show she’s putting on right now.  Over the course of the last hour, Luca had coaxed her from a polite, arms-width conversation to the point now where she’s all but sitting in his lap, sharing his beer, and letting him shove his paws up beneath the hem of her saree.  
	No one else at the party seems to have noticed, or if they have they don’t care, but I’m about to do something to put this display to an end.  For one, guardsmen aren’t supposed to fraternize with any of the indentured staff except on a professional basis.  It sounds like a restrictive, unnecessary rule, but it serves its purpose.  It’s to prevent abuses between those with authority and those who serve, and it’s one of the only things that protects the servants around here.  
	For two, I know Luca well enough by now to know he’s irresponsible, prone to making bad decisions with his money, and perhaps most importantly – married.  He has two pups at home, in fact.  I’ve never met his wife, from what I heard the marriage was arranged by their families and he doesn’t ever speak of any particular love for her, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be slighted this way.  
	It’s hard to say who’s taking advantage of whom, given that the servant woman seems all too willing to laugh at his bad jokes, flirt back at him and let him shove his hand beneath her clothes, but the whole situation rubs me wrong and I’m getting ready to put a stop to it.  One mention of his wife, I’m certain, is all it’ll take.
	 It’s while I’m entrenched in thoughts of my planned meddling that someone settles down beside me.  The kid moves so quietly, I almost don’t notice until he’s right there.  What ultimately catches my attention is the jewelry.  He’s not elaborately done-up like the Mistress or many of her party-goers, but what he is wearing is catching the glinting light of the paper lanterns enough that I know it’s real gold.  The bangles he’s wearing are even intricately-carved, not just the simple hoops a well-paid worker might own.
	He’s also a hyena – the only one at the party unless you count myself, and I like to think of we Aardwolves as a separate ilk, regardless what the Clans may have to say about it.  But his fur is striped, not spotted like the Sura, and he wears a collar.  Most definitely not a member of the Clan family.
	Or is he?  I could have sworn I’ve seen him around the main estate, in the company of the Mistress, no less.  A kept servant, then?  Like one of the colorful parrots they adorn the gardens with.  A rare beast the Mistress can boast she owns, and parade about on a gold chain.
	The thought makes me shudder.
	The boy beside me is an adult, or very nearly there.  Strangely, I find the thought of owning an adult man less eerie if your purpose for him is labor.  Everything about the hyena suggests he is kept for show.  He’s clean, from his fur to his teeth, he wears expensive adornments, including a long crimson sash about his waist that ends in further gold trim and tassels, his short mane is well-combed, and he smells of coconut oil and the expensive incense they burn in the main estate.  There is a mild undertone of sweat there too, like he was exerting himself recently.  Thankfully, none of the musky scent I’d associate with a sex slave, but that could just mean he hasn’t been forced to do that recently.  He certainly looks like someone you’d find in a brothel.
	Well, an expensive brothel.  Not the kind they sold my sister to.
	“You’re. . . .” I begin, trailing off intentionally to let him fill in the blanks.
	“Ahsan,” he smiles softly at me, his voice as gentle as his demeanor.  “I’m sorry, was this seat taken?”
	“Not many here prefer to sit,” I grunt, glancing around the rambunctious party.  “Especially not so far from the beer.”  The only other bench on this side of the garden was the aforementioned one Luca and the lady squirrel were enjoying.  And the garden was much more long than it was wide, so they were only twenty feet away from us or so, which was making the situation with them increasingly more awkward.  At this point I half expected her to jerk him off right here in the garden, public place be-damned.  They certainly didn’t seem to care about having their hands all over one another.
	And really, the only other person this far back in the corner of the garden was me.  A few of the partygoers were moving in and out of the fig trees nearby, but most of them were giving Luca and the lady a wide berth.  Shit, was that intentional?  
	Well, I wasn’t alone anymore, so now I had less reason to feel awkward.  I guess.  The hyena was snickering quietly in response to my comment about the beer, and it occurred to me that it’d been a half-assed attempt at a joke, which meant he was literally laughing at my bad joke.  Like the squirrel girl had for Luca.
	Yeah, wishful thinking.  Probably.
	“You’re outta place,” I point out to the kid, realizing as soon as I’ve said it that reminding him he didn’t fit in here was probably the equivalent of saying ‘you look tired’.  
	The way his ears immediately tip back confirms that, and confirms that I should in fact feel bad about it.  “I know,” he says, his confidence wavering, “I-I just. . . I heard the party, and I was done with my duties in the main estate for the evening, and I’ve always wanted to come to one of these, so I just thought-“
	“Kid,” I pause.  “Ahsan.  I’m sorry.  Shouldn’a said that.  I’m sure you worked up some nerve to even come out here.  I know how. . . well I mean, I can’t say I know what it’s like being-“ I glanced at him.  What could I say, now that I was trying to be careful?  A ‘kept man’?  A slave with nice outfits?  I wasn’t even sure what he did for the Mistress, and pretending I understood his situation would probably come off even more disingenuous.
	He looks to me, expectantly, his ears slowly lifting in that hesitant way one does when they’re hoping for the best but uncertain.
	“. . . well, I’ve never seen you outside the main estate,” I say, clinging to the few things I knew for sure about him.  “So I’m sure coming out here to. . . meet us lot. . . took some grit.”  I glance again out of the corner of my eye at the dhole and the squirrel, by now just muzzle to muzzle with his paw so high up her thigh he’s lost a forearm underneath all the fabric.  Their beer was discarded, having tumbled off the bench at some point, spilling across the grassy grounds.
	I sigh, gesturing loosely with a hand.  “I mean, we aren’t exactly a classy lot.  As you can see.  Kinda rough out here for someone like you, all I meant.”
	For his part, the hyena doesn’t seem offended by the couple on the other bench.  Although after a second look, he gives a snorting chuckle.  “Oh, Saurati.  Yes, she said she’d be coming here tonight.”  He leaned in closer to me at that, his breath warm on my ear, “But between you and I, she isn’t much better behaved in the main estate.  She’s ‘good friends’ with most of the house guards.  If you understand me. . . .”
	“I get it,” I assure him, blowing out a sight and straightening my belt, readying to stand.  “I should really put a stop to it-“
	“Why?”  He asks suddenly.  And that’s not what stops me.  What stops me is the sudden warmth and weight of his hand on my wrist.
	I glance down at him.  At first I think his question is in jest, but he seems in earnest when I look down into his eyes.  “Well for one, I’m the Guard Captain,” I say, and his eyes widen marginally at that.  “Yeah,” I nod after that.  “So keeping my men in line is part of my job.”
	“Aren’t you off-duty right now, though?  Isn’t he?”
	“Being off-duty doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply, and those rules are in place to protect you,” I try to explain.  
	His eyes fall away from mine at that, and his voice sinks.  “No one protects me,” he murmurs.
	I don’t have the time to reflect on how that one statement cracked my heart in two, but I know at that moment that I’ve been issued a challenge – an imperative.  But making some solemn oath to this kid I hardly know about how I got into this line of work because I was a slave once, too. . . telling him the whole sad, sordid tale about my sister, still indebted to her house because they got her hooked on the Divine, promising him that I’m here to help other servants escape the life I barely escaped – all of that can wait until we know one another better.  Right now, I just have to say something encouraging.
	“I will protect you, if and when you need protecting,” I make a promise I know I can keep.  It seems to make him happy, brings his ears back up and a smile to his face.  If only it had been that easy with my sister.  “It’s my job, and I take it seriously.”
	“I. . . don’t think Saurati wants protecting, though,” he says, glancing past me.  “I think she wants alcohol, and favors.  At least, that’s what she usually asks for from each of her guardsman friends.”
	“That isn’t the point,” I insist, exasperated.  “Look, he’s married.  The guard there?”
	“If he’s willing to break his vows with Saurati in a public garden, he’s probably broken them before in a more discreet setting,” he reasons.
	I almost glare at him.  “You’re more canny than you let on.”
	He shrugs, haplessly.  “I never said I wasn’t canny.  I’ve spent all of my life in the estate, watching people and entertaining.”
	“ ‘Entertaining’?”  I echo, without being able to stop myself.
	“Dancing. . . mostly,” he says, rubbing a paw up his arm.
	I give him a long look.  “I see.  That what you were doing tonight?”
	“Yes,” he smiles again at that, and I’m beginning to want to see that smile.  “For the first half of the night, I entertained on the main stage, in fact!  Mistress brought in some wonderful musicians, and there were these cheetah sisters I performed with-“
	“Well it sounds like you enjoy it,” I surmise.  “So that’s good.  We aren’t all so lucky.”
	“You don’t like being a guard?”
	I shrug at that.  “It’s dull,” I admit, “but relatively safe, if you’re going to make the blade your vocation.  There are certainly worse ways to earn coin.”
	“Oh,” he says suddenly, glancing over my shoulder.  “Look.”
	I turn at that, and see what he’s indicating.  Namely, nothing.  The bench the frisky couple were occupying is now empty, the only remnant left behind their empty beer mug.
	“Shit,” I growl.  “Where’d they get off to?”
	“Somewhere to be alone, I’d wager,” he says, smiling coyly.  When I turn back towards him with an irritated look, he scoots back from me a bit.  “Well, but, isn’t this better?  It was bothering you so much-“
	“Which is precisely why I wanted to intercede-“
	“But why bother?”  He insists.  “You’d ruin their evening, and it wouldn’t make yours any better-“
	“I’d be doing my job,” I huff out a breath.  
	“Yes, I know, the rules-“
	“Exist to protect you,” I reinforce by raising my voice slightly.  “Do you think I enjoy subjugating and policing my own caste?  We can’t best the system, the most we can do is work within it and try to help one another.”
	“But she didn’t need help,” he says, standing firm against my argument despite his continued soft, gentle tone.  “Is that man dangerous?”
	“Luca?”  I scoff.  “No.  Just lazy, foolish and a bad husband.”
	“Maybe his wife knows and accepts his dalliances,” the hyena shrugs.  “A lot of arranged marriages are like that.  They have understandings. . . .”
	“We don’t know what they have,” I insist.
	“Exactly,” he says, looking me in the eyes.  “And I’m sure a lot of people think what Saurati does is disgraceful, or undignified, but she’s pretty happy with her arrangements.  She was sold for a gambling debt, and she’s probably never getting that collar off, so she likes to live well.  What does it matter how she finds a little happiness for herself?”
	“It matters because she’s making bad decisions,” I growl out.  “She could get herself sick, or with child, she’s clearly already gotten caught a number of times to warrant a collar that tight, and some of her liaisons could prove dangerous if they’re with the wrong kind of man.”
	“I’m sure she knows all that,” the hyena says softly, glancing away from me.  “As we all do.  A servant’s life is fraught with dangers.  My point is more – what does it matter to you?”
	I pause at that, taking a few moments to collect myself.  “Well, I. . . Luca, at least, is under my command-“
	“You’re off-duty,” he reminds me.
	My frustration gets the better of me.  “You want me to mind my own business.  I get it.  But that’s not why I’m here.  I’m here to protect the people here, both from outside forces and from ruining their own lives, or other people’s lives.  Like your friend’s relatives, or whoever it was who sold her for a gambling debt.  Like that girl there, who’s pissing away her reputation for booze and favors.  Like my sister, who’s still indentured because she can’t quit the Divine and she keeps trying to run from her contract!”
	I’d expected the outburst would have rattled him and I’d soon be alone again, but instead, his gaze had stayed rocky-steady on mine.  
He reaches up a hand slowly, brushing his thumb over the ruff around my neck.  There’s a break in the fur just along my throat where a collar had once rested, and I know he sees it.  It doesn’t seem to surprise him, though.
	“I’m not saying it’s right,” he murmurs, “and. . . it might even be wrong.  But people like us, we have to take our pleasures where we can find them.  The world only gives us so many.  If you look for the cracks, you’ll find them. . . and you’ll never be happy.”
	“That’s a delirious way to live,” I grumble, but the anger in my tone is half-hearted.  Honestly, the more he touches me, the less I’m remembering why I was angry to begin with.
	“Do you think that man is going to hurt her?”  He presses.
	“. . . no,” I admit, at length.  “He’s not violent.  And to be honest, I’ve suspected for a long time he’s been messing around with another of the guards, too.”
	“There are enough real evils in the world,” he says, his tone somewhat haunted.  “We don’t even know where they snuck off to.  Maybe let this one go?”
	I sigh.  “Well meddling was my only plan for the evening.”  
	He glances around at the garden, indicating perhaps the paper lanterns, free-flowing booze and general. . . merriment.  “Couldn’t you just, um.  Just enjoy the party?   Maybe a drink is a good start.”
	“Oh don’t you start,” I rumble.	
	“Your name is Lochan, right?”  He asks, surprising me.
	“I never gave it to you,” I say, suspiciously.
	“You told me you’re the Guard Captain,” he points out.  “I know the Guard Captain’s name is Lochan, and that he’s a handsome, middle-aged Aardwolf.”
	“Your definition of ‘handsome’ could use some work, but otherwise, looks like you heard right.”
	He smiles brightly at me.  “Well, Lochan,” he says, his voice all but purring, “what is it you desire tonight, if not beer?”
	I feel almost foolish, falling for such a scripted line.  It’s probably literally something out of a poem, or one of those romantic stories in the Mistress’s library.  It’s possible that’s where he read it.  Still.  I fall right into it.
	“Honestly?”  I take a breath before I answer.  “You.”
	I get exactly what I was hoping for.  A smile.