Fox's Bride by A.E. Marling

Golden Scoundrel. He pushed open one eye and felt for breathing while petting the sleek coat. The dose didn't kill him. Good. Inannis' eyes whipped around for a final check. People ran about. None marked him.
    When he leaned above the drugged fox, his over robe spread out, concealing the fennec. He lifted the god into the nearby jar, which was coated in green glaze. At the same moment, he reached deep into his robes and pulled out a stuffed fennec and set it on top the vacated pillow. The cotton-filled fennec was curled in a sleeping pose, complete with fake emerald earring and collar.
    Living or dead, the fennec was only as large as a kitten, and the decoy had fit in his robe without trouble. Inannis trusted no one would discover the switch for a few minutes.
    Inannis carried the jar holding the paralyzed god to a room with a candle, which he had lit earlier. The emerald bracelet dropped from his hand in with the fennec. A clay stopper plugged the jar, and he dribbled wax around its edges to seal it, though he left a few cracks for air flow. With the jar tucked under his arm and out of sight in his robe, he strode to the kitchen and told the servants to search the inn for the enchantress' maid. They scurried. He walked out the servant's door to the alley.
    His personal servant waited for him. The man wore a loincloth, and he stood with his belly pushed forward to display his plumpness from ample eating. Inannis had picked him from the tent slums for his large ambition and small imagination. The servant bowed. “Halmut listens.”
    “The fennec's bride has fled,” Inannis said, careful to keep the glee from his voice. This was turning out better than he could have planned.
    “The bride of the god?”
    Inannis ignored the question. “Did a woman climb off the roof?”
    “Not while Halmut waited here.” The servant held his face downward.
    “She might've bribed servants.”
    “Not Halmut, He Who Speaks. Halmut never take a bribe.”
    “I trust you, listener.” Inannis lifted the servant from his bow. The thief loved staring straight into a man's eyes and lying. “The Golden Scoundrel is testing his priests, we must recover his bride. My recent sickness has only made my trial harder. I need—this is rather embarrassing—but I need to check my shit for worms.”
    He handed the jar with the god to the servant. “He Who Speaks...” The man tried to hide his wince. “...you wish Halmut to search for worms?”
    “You will not,” Inannis said. “All sickness is sent by the gods. My treatment is part of my trial. You wouldn't wish to step between a priest and the gods, would you?”
    “No, He Who Speaks.”
    “Good. Now take this shit to my quarters at the temple.” Inannis could not help but grin as he told him where to go. “Be careful with that jar, it's good work.”
    The servant held the jar with both hands. Inannis did not even stay to watch him leave the alley, as if the jar were only worth brief consideration.
    The pleasure of deception aside, Inannis hated relying on the man. He longed for his past partner. Inannis allowed himself to hope he would succeed in his task, that the theft of the god would lead to his partner's freedom. On the way to the inn's back door, an image of a woman's face flashed through his mind. Eyes of dark honey, pink lips parting over white teeth, brows like wing beats.
    A long breath forced away her memory. He would not let himself so much as think of his partner’s name, not when her escape depended on his work. Think of the tumblers, not the treasure.
    Inannis returned to the inn soon enough to hear the next scream.
    “He's dead.” A priest knelt before the pillow with the stuffed fennec, clawing his own chin and neck. “Our lord god isn't breathing.”
    The second priest lifted the fennec by its front feet. The animal stayed in a stiff curled position, and the priest dropped it.
    Inannis caught the stuffed animal and masked his joy with an expression of shock. People