Fortunata nodded. He certainly looked like a patched coat. “Well, I come from the . . . er, southwest. Maybe that’s why we’ve never met. I’m really hungry, though, Patchcoat. I expect you’ve seen tracks around here. Maybe there’s a camp of woodlanders nearby. They usually give me food in return for my healing skills.”

Patchcoat rubbed his lean stomach. “Aye, I’m hungry too. There’s not much future in eating grass and drinking dew. Listen, Besomtail, maybe I can travel along as your assistant. I passed a place earlier today that might be just what we’re looking for.”

Fortunata’s ears stood up. “You did? Where?”

The strange fox waved a paw. “Oh, round and about, you know. I didn’t stop because those woodlanders always drive me off, for some reason. Huh, you’d think I was out to steal their young. It looked like a well-stocked hideaway. I expect I could find it again.”

“I can’t blame them driving you off, friend Patchcoat,” Fortunata sniggered. “You certainly don’t look anything like a baby fieldmouse on posy day.”

Patchcoat threw back his head and laughed wickedly. “Hahaha, look at yourself, you raggedy-bottomed tramp. Any honest woodlander would run a mile from you. Let’s join forces. Come on, how about it? You won’t find the place without me.”

Fortunata rubbed her whiskers as if she was giving the matter some earnest thought. Finally she thrust out a paw. “All right, Patchcoat,” she agreed. “We’d better stick together, I suppose. Shake paws, fox.”

“Aye. Shake paws, fox.”

Left paw met left paw as they intoned the ritual of villains,

Shake paws, count your claws.
You steal mine, I’ll borrow yours.
Watch my whiskers, check both ears.
Robber foxes have no fears.

Ben Stickle was observing the scene from the cover of a humped loam bank. He scurried off to report to the Corim that the Mask, alias Patchcoat, had made contact with Fortunata, alias Besomtail.

The Mask would lead Fortunata a merry dance through Mossflower before evening fell over the woodlands.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Chibb left the cell window at Kotir. Gingivere sat in the straw with his two little friends, patiently explaining the message sent by the Corim.

“Now, if a ferret looks like a ferret, or a stoat like a stoat, or a weasel looks like a weasel, don’t trust them. But if a fox that looks like a fox says that his name is Mask and he’s been sent by the Corim, we must do exactly as he says, quickly and without question.”

Ferdy scratched his spiky head. “Supposing it’s a stoat that looks like a weasel with a ferret’s nose and a fox’s tail, Mr. Gingivere?”

Gingivere pushed him playfully backward into the straw. “Then don’t trust him, even if it’s a Ferdy that looks like a Coggs with a Gingivere’s fur, you little rascal. Hush now, there’s somebody coming. I’d better get you back into your bags.”

Two weasel guards passed along the corridor, chatting animatedly.