The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers, Deluxe Illustrated Edition (13 page)

“Half-hearted experiments—poking a rat in a
cage to see how hard it bites. But when I decide to break its back,
I won’t just poke.”

“Your own officers,”
continued Gerard, “are nothing exceptional.”
Because you don’t trust anyone who’s as smart as you
are.

“Of course they’re not,” said Silveo.
“They’re obedient, moderately intelligent, un-ambitious, and
ruthless—exactly the traits desirable in an officer.”

“And good in bed?” asked
Gerard, and then he
knew
it was time to put down his glass.

Silveo, however, took the insolence in
stride. “Well, it never hurts,” he said with a smirk. “But it’s not
a prerequisite. Look at Arundel.” He shuddered. “You, on the other
hand, are none of these things—well, the first things, anyway. I’d
have to ask Thessalyn whether you’re anything other than
pretty.”

I suppose I earned
that,
thought Gerard.
“My point is: for all you keep sniping at me, I’m better than
what you’ve got to work with. The Priestess was right. We could
eradicate the Resistance if we worked together.”

Silveo rolled his eyes. “Holovar, the
Resistance is something to be controlled, not eradicated. As long
as we make faun pies on Wefrivain, there will be fauns—and some
other shelts, too—who object. The only way to eradicate the
Resistance is to kill every single faun in the islands. We won’t do
that, so we’ll keep controlling them.”

“But you’re
not
controlling them,”
said Gerard. “They are getting better, more organized, more
dangerous. The average lifespan for a Captain of Police in the last
ten years is less than a year.”

“Noticed that, have you?”

“Unless
you’re
killing them all, I’d say the
Resistance has become very efficient.”

Silveo spread his hands. “Not me. The Police
are land-based, which means they have potential to come into
contact with a lot more hidden dangers. Still, I’ve suspected for
some time that there’s a spy somewhere in their organization. Could
be one of your wardens on the ship. That’s one reason I haven’t
encouraged their participation.”

Gerard thought about that.
And someone
searched my office.

Silveo grinned. “I bet you thought it was
just to slight you, but that was only an added bonus. I’ve treated
everything and everyone from the Police as suspicious for years. I
suspect it’s kept me alive.”

“You treat everyone as suspicious anyway,”
said Gerard, deciding that he’d been reckless enough already in
this conversation that he might as well speak freely. “It sounds to
me like the Resistance’s attack on the Police was even more
effective than I thought—it’s kept the Watch and the Police
isolated.”

Silveo shrugged. “Could be. You obviously
understand the situation so well, after examining it for an eighth
watch.”

Gerard sighed. “Trying to talk to you is like
trying to climb a hill with someone at the top throwing rocks.”
Before Silveo could say anything, he continued. “Those grape
presses—”

“Ah, yes, the grape presses. You were right;
they’d been modified. The block that does the pressing had been
made to hold some kind of tray or panel. It didn’t look like
anything that could be called a weapon. I think the Resistance were
probably just using the warehouse as a meeting place. I’ve already
asked our dear magister to detain the owner. His shelts are
searching, but I doubt they’ll find anything.”

Gerard was about to ask if they knew the name
of this person, when he looked up to see Thessalyn coming towards
them, walking carefully with her hands out as she threaded between
the tables. Gerard jumped up to help her, but she’d already
navigated most of the distance. “I want to speak to the admiral,”
she told him. “I thought I heard him over here.”

Gerard would have liked to tell her she was
mistaken, but Silveo piped up. “Keen ears, a sense of humor,
and
a voice like a goddess. The lady has it all.”

“All except for sight,” said Thessalyn with a
smile.

“Sight is overrated,” said Silveo. “Any fool
can have it and often does. What may I do for you?”

“I’d like to sail back to Lecklock aboard the
Fang,
if that’s alright.”

Gerard shook his head. “Not a good idea,
Thess.”

“Ah, but she asked me, not you,” said Silveo,
eyes dancing, “and I would be happy—more than happy—to have you
aboard, Thessalyn. I’ll even refrain from trying to drown Holovar
for the duration.”

Thessalyn hesitated and then seemed to decide
this was a joke. “How very generous of you.” In fact, Silveo’s
threats were becoming more difficult to distinguish from his jokes,
and Gerard thought that was a good sign.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I am willing to
pay a high price for your company.”

Gerard cut in. “I would like to return to
that warehouse this evening and take one of those presses back to
Lecklock for further inspection. Will you loan me a few shelts to
carry it?”

Silveo stood up, stretching like a cat. “I am
beset by requests from Holovars. A grape press. Why not? We have
more useless things aboard ship—yourself, for instance.”

“I would not be useless if you would let me
do anything!” exclaimed Gerard.

Silveo tutted. “Don’t lose your temper in
front of the lady, Captain. As it happens, you will be useful this
evening. I’ll give you your grape press if you take me back to that
teahouse. I promise to try very hard not to light anything on
fire.”

Chapter 16. Lost
Ground

The most populous species of shelts in the
Lawless Lands are the hunti—hyena shelts. They are fierce, barbaric
warriors, continually fighting with each other and everyone else.
They are renowned slavers and supply many of the trained slaves of
Wefrivain, as well as the poor wretches who row the galleys. The
Lawless Lands have a population of panauns that includes lion
shelts—called leons. Leons are a little smaller than grishnards but
are in other ways similar. It is legal in Wefrivain to employ leons
as slaves, so long as they come with a certificate of inspection,
verifying that they are not grishnards. Lion and leon pelts can be
so difficult to distinguish from griffin and grishnard that many
furriers in Wefrivain refuse to work with them.

—Gwain,
The Non-grishnards of
Wefrivain

It was not quite midnight when they left the
magister’s estate. After many farewells and a number of little
gifts, they were given the loan of thirteen trained pegasus to
carry them back. Their party consisted of Silveo, Gerard, Farell,
and Farell’s ten captains. Thessalyn pleaded time to pack her
things and said she and Marlo (who was apparently functioning as
page and messenger boy) would meet them the next morning.

On pegasus it took no time at all to reach
Ocelon Town. They dismounted in the main street, and Gerard traced
his route back to the teahouse by lamplight and the faint radiance
of waning yellow moon. From the air, Gerard had seen light and
heard music in parts of the shantytown, but on this street all was
quiet.

“Gone,” murmured Silveo, “fled or hid.”

He was right. The teahouse was completely
empty, save for a lingering odor of tea. The admiral set a lamp in
the middle of the main room, then stalked around the whole place
several times, including the tiny backroom. He sent Farell and his
captains outside to stand guard, then crouched near the floor and
sniffed. He proceeded to work his way slowly around the room on
hands and haunches. It was a very foxling thing to do—a very
un-grishnard thing. He shot a glance at Gerard as though to say,
“Not a word out of you.”

Gerard busied himself examining the walls.
“Are these kind of walls traditional?”

“What, the fur?” asked Silveo in a distracted
voice.

“Yes.”

Silveo grunted. “Traditional is deer and
giant cony from the mountains, but in Slag they use whatever is
cheapest. I’m not sure what the ribbon is about.” He stood up and
dusted off his pants and hands. “There have been fauns here
recently. I don’t know Gwain’s signature scent, and even if I did,
the smells are too mixed up to track one individual, but there have
been shavier fauns in this room in the last day, and…” He shook his
head. “Something else—an animal of some kind. Not a griffin or a
pegasus or an ocelot. Canine, I think.” He shrugged. “Could even be
a fox, but I doubt it.”

Gerard was impressed. “You can tell all that
from sniffing the floor?”

Silveo glared at him.

Gerard held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it
as an insult.”

Silveo gave a little dismissive huff. “Here—”
He made an X with his boot on the ground. “—is where you dumped out
your tea. It reeks of deathcap mushrooms. Flag must have figured he
needed a lot to kill something the size of you. That, or he
couldn’t handle his dosing properly with you sitting there talking
to him. Anyway, I’d say he could have killed you thrice over with
that much drug. Wasteful, really.”

“Perhaps he’s not accustomed to poisoning
shelts.” Gerard was still looking at the walls. “Silveo, are these
pelts really lion?”

Silveo looked miffed. “I am not a substitute
for your inadequate nose or eyes, Holovar! If you want your own
personal smell-tester, indebted ocelons can be purchased for the
right price.”

Gerard had taken out his belt knife, and he
proceeded to slice off a piece of the pelt in question. He passed
it wordlessly to Silveo, who took it in spite of himself. He
glanced at it, then looked a bit more closely. Finally, he examined
it minutely with nose and fingers. “Grishnard,” he said at last in
a flat voice. “You’d have a hard time proving it in court, but if
you’re willing to take my word, then, yes, it’s a grishnard or
griffin pelt.”

Gerard nodded. He took a few steps back from
the wall, looking at the bizarre twisted bits of ribbon, feather,
and bone (
What kind of bones?
he wondered) amid the crazy
patterns of stripes and spots. He took another step back. “It’s a
map,” he breathed.

Silveo did not argue, although he did not
immediately agree. He came to stand beside Gerard, looking at the
largest wall of the teahouse. From this angle and with the idea of
a map in mind, the bits of ribbon, feather, and bone no longer
looked random. Even the stripes and spots of the pelts formed part
of the pattern, differentiating the outline of an island from the
rest of the wall. The island had a large cove where someone had
pinned a single bright, red feather.

“I don’t recognize that island,” said Silveo
after a moment. “It could be any of thousands of numeraries.”

“Maybe that’s why they didn’t bother taking
it down,” said Gerard.

Silveo fished inside a pocket. “Nothing to
write on or with,” he muttered. None of the sailors outside had
anything, either. Silveo took one last look at the wall. “I suppose
we’ll just have to remember it.”

Outside, they retraced their steps to the
warehouse. Silveo had broken the bolt on the back door before he
left and nothing but a major carpentry job would make the building
secure for some time. Gerard gave a hiss of frustrated anger as the
light of his lamp penetrated the room.

Empty. Every press and crate had disappeared.
Silveo tried to show little concern, pointing out that common
thieves could have taken them. Gerard didn’t think anyone believed
it, though.
You could have taken one or destroyed them all.
Instead, you left them for the Resistance to carry away. Then
again, I didn’t do much better in the teahouse with Gwain.
There was nothing to do but start back to the ship
empty-handed.

They sent the pegasus home when they reached
the harbor. Gerard noticed that a crowd had gathered on the pier
near the
Fang.
As they drew nearer, he realized it was
composed mostly of Sea Watch sailors. They were all shouting, their
attention fixed on something in their midst.
Must be a
fight,
he thought.

Apparently, Silveo thought so, too, because
he cursed and started walking faster. “Back, you selkie spawn! What
is the matter with you? I leave for two watches and you develop the
discipline of a pack of hunti? I said, back!” Those who saw him
grew instantly quiet. Gerard noticed several begin to slink away,
although shelts on the far side of group were still yelling.

And then Gerard caught a glimpse of what was
at the center. His heart sank.
Oh, no.

It was Alsair. At first, Gerard thought he
was fighting with the sailors, but the truth was worse. Alsair had
caught a little foxling—undoubtedly an urchin from around the
docks. The foxling was perhaps eight, but tiny, no bigger than a
grishnard toddler. He was like a mouse between Alsair’s paws,
struggling in blind panic. His clothes were shredded rags, and he
was bleeding. Gerard couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt.