The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers, Deluxe Illustrated Edition (7 page)

If that’s true, then it’s an idea you
fought hard,
thought Gerard,
and lost.
Aloud, he said,
“And what about the Cowry Catchers?”

Again that curious twitch of the lip. “What
about them?”

“Resistance pirates these days are calling
themselves the Guild of the Cowry Catchers. It’s an odd name, don’t
you think?” The name was, in fact, so odd that Gerard had once
believed that grishnards and their allies had bestowed it in
contempt. However, his preview of Police papers had made him
increasingly certain that pirates had chosen the name themselves.
It had a curious double meaning.

“Cowry catcher” was the common name for the
despised manatee shelt—a creature that could not even speak. They
were dull, spiritless nauns, easily enslaved. Most harbors had a
team of cowry catchers, used to repair ships and scrape their
hulls. Long ago, they had been used to retrieve the cowry shells
from the ocean floor, which were then used as currency. Now most
islands used coin, though money in Wefrivain was still called
cowries.

The Resistance had chosen to identify itself
with these humble creatures. Of course, Resistance pirates were
quite literally cowry catchers. But they caught their cowries from
merchants and Temple treasure ships, not from the sea.

“Shelts have been talking about Sky Town
since I was a child,” Gerard told Arundel, “but the Guild of the
Cowry Catchers is new. I don’t remember hearing about it until a
few years ago, and I can’t find any mention of it in Police papers
more than ten years back.”

Arundel nodded. “Perhaps their leaders
decided they needed a fresh focus, a new rally cry.”

“It seems to me,” said Gerard, “that the
Resistance shows an increased level of organization since they’ve
been calling themselves the Cowry Catchers. I’m wondering whether
this Gwain person has anything to do with that.”

Arundel shrugged.

Why don’t you want to talk to me?
thought Gerard.
Whatever else you may be, you’re not one of
Silveo’s pets.

Arundel interrupted his thoughts. “If you
have nothing else to discuss, Captain, I will bid you good
evening.”

“There is one more thing,” said Gerard. “You
are the only captain in living memory to leave the Police alive. In
the last ten years, the average length of survival has been less
than a year. This seems to coincide approximately with the advent
of the Cowry Catchers.”

A thin, mirthless smile curled the corners of
Arundel’s mouth. “Nervous, Gerard?”

“Well, yes. Mainly, though, I’d like to know
how and why they’re being killed so efficiently and so rapidly. Did
anyone try to kill you?”

“Several times. If you really want to survive
the Police, I advise you to follow my example and get promoted out
as quickly as possible.”

Gerard frowned.

“Learn to get along with Silveo Lamire,” said
Arundel. “He makes an excellent alternative to dying.”

Gerard wasn’t sure he agreed. “Thank you,
sir. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

He left the cabin with Alsair, feeling
dissatisfied. He was about to take his leave of the
Sea
Feather
when two of Arundel’s captains came bumping and
laughing up the side. “We sail tomorrow!” they cried to a comrade
who’d just come from below deck. “The silver fox has had his way at
last!”

“What, you caught one?” asked the other
grishnard. “And me not there?”

“Caught one what?” asked Gerard sharply.

The group turned, saw him, and grew instantly
silent. Gerard walked towards them, his long shadow preceding him
in the flickering torchlight. “Exactly what did the admiral catch?
Where are you sailing tomorrow?”

The group glanced guiltily at each other.
“Well, you see, Your Highness—” began the cheekiest. But Alsair’s
warning growl cut him short.

“My name is Captain Holovar,” said Gerard
quietly, “of the Police.”

The captains were technically his peers, but
the Police had special status. Another cleared his throat. “Don’t
mind him, sir. He’s had too much to drink. We went with the admiral
to question a suspicious faun. We had a bit of sport. In the end,
the faun told us the location of a Resistance hideout on Sern.
We’re supposed to sail tomorrow.”

“’Suspicious faun,’” repeated Gerard. “He
wouldn’t have been one of my recent prisoners, would he?”

Gerard saw their eyes flick away. He didn’t
wait for the answer. “Alsair!” The griffin was beneath him in a
moment, and they fairly leapt between the ships. Gerard landed on
the deck of the
Fang,
a growl already forming in the back of
his throat. He was furious.

There was Silveo on the quarterdeck, chatting
and laughing with his other two lieutenants, Farell and Basil.
Gerard strode towards them, his hand curling around the hilt of his
sword. It had been a long time since he’d felt this angry.

“Lamire! You have overreached yourself. How
dare you!”

He was bellowing and certainly close enough
for them to hear. Farell and Basil glanced at him, but Silveo kept
talking. At the foot of the steps to the upper deck, two burly
sailors—part of Silveo’s personal guard—stopped him. Gerard shoved
away from them and pointed his drawn sword up at Silveo. “Those
were
my
prisoners! They gave information, and they were
promised freedom in exchange. You had no right!”

Silveo had finally stopped whatever he was
saying. “Do I hear a yapping?” he asked his lieutenants, still not
looking at Gerard. “Is there a griffin cub on the ship? Someone go
and drown it.” There was a titter of polite laughter.

“You are a coward and a fool,” snarled
Gerard, “still as much a dock rat as the day your mother sold you.”
It was a low thing to say, and he regretted it at once. Yet he was
still angry, and he could not take it back.

Silveo’s head snapped around. He stared at
Gerard as though he could not quite believe what he’d just heard.
Then his face twisted, flushed with rage, and his hand shot beneath
his tunic.

Gerard had just time to think,
He’s going
to kill me.
Silveo was indifferent with a sword, but he was
deadly with a knife. Then something iridescent shot over the side
of the ship in a spray of foam and landed between them. Gerard
heard the sharp
tink
as Silveo’s throwing knife struck the
wyvern and bounced harmlessly across the deck. The beast stood
there dripping, its scales like mother of pearl, dazzling in the
torchlight.

Gerard could not see its expression when it
looked at Silveo, but when it turned to him, it was clearly
annoyed. “My mistress,” hissed the wyvern, “would like a word with
you both.”

Chapter 8.
Reprimand

The grishnards think they are the dominant
species on Wefrivain. They are wrong. One need only look in the
Temple on every island to find the true dominant species.

—Gwain,
The Truth About Wyverns

“The gods have informed me that I had better
do something with my officers before they kill each other.”
Morchella spoke without amusement from her throne. “Explain
yourselves!”

Gerard bowed his head. He’d never in his life
expected to ride a wyvern, had certainly not expected to be picked
up like a mouse from a field and flown away. He felt a little
shaken, but the rage that had driven him onto the deck of the
Fang
was still burning in his chest. He stabbed a finger at
Silveo. “Admiral Lamire picked up my prisoners without my consent
or knowledge. He tortured and killed shelts whom I
promised
freedom in exchange for information. I gave my
word.”

“
A
shelt,” grated Silveo. He was
wearing an absurd yellow hat with a lavender plume large enough to
choke an elephant seal. Gerard noted perversely that his earrings
alone looked heavy enough to drown him, should he somehow fall into
the sea. “You will be pleased to learn that the grasshopper
escaped.”

Gerard felt a measure of relief.
“Grasshopper” was uncomplimentary slang for gazumelle, who had
unusual jumping abilities.

“He
released
them,” Silveo continued,
addressing the Priestess. “I picked up a faun off the street who
seemed likely to provide me with information. The Police appeared
to have finished with him. It has
never
been Police policy
to let traitors escape. I have killed several ‘released’ shelts for
other Police captains.” By the end, he was almost pleading.

Gerard glanced sideways at him. It was
strange to see Silveo neither laughing nor sneering.

Morchella steepled her long fingers before
her face. “We are getting off the point. The gods inform me that
you threw a knife at my officer.”

Silveo dropped his gaze. “I might have.”

“Admiral Lamire, perhaps you are unfamiliar
with my policy on such things, as we have not had this problem
before. Let me enlighten you. As my admiral, you are free to
discipline shelts whom you appoint and administer. If you find them
insubordinate or incompetent, you are free to execute them.
However, you are not free to either discipline or execute officers
whom I appoint and administer. The Police fall into this category.
If you kill one of my officers, you will lose more than your
station. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And you.” She turned to Gerard. “I am told
that you arrived on the
Fang
and drew a sword on your
superior officer. Is that correct?”

“It is,” said Gerard. He drew a deep breath.
Silveo’s explanation made more sense than he had expected.
The
smuggler was right; I am new at this.
“But,” he continued, “it
wasn’t the sword that provoked the incident. It was what I said.”
He turned to Silveo. “I apologize for my…comment. It was
dishonorable and insubordinate.”

Silveo shot him an expression of loathing,
conveying the general sentiment that the only apology he would
accept from Gerard was one written in arterial blood.

“However,” continued Gerard to Morchella, “my
point stands: any organization which you put in my care will be not
only feared, but respected. How can the Police be respected if they
fail to keep their promises? How can I bargain or parley with an
enemy if I am considered untrustworthy, if every shelt I release is
killed in an alley?”

“Bargain with them?” echoed Morchella. “A
curious notion. The Admiral is right about the traditional
treatment of prisoners by the Police. Those who escape warn their
comrades of what they’ve seen, heard, and told. For this reason,
they are not normally allowed to leave alive. However, I trust your
judgment enough to let you play out this experiment. In the future,
your wishes will be honored, so far as they pertain to the province
of the Police.”

And there’s the problem,
thought
Gerard,
because the province of the Police and the Sea Watch
overlap.

Silveo was glaring down at his bright yellow
boots. Morchella rose and walked down from her dais to stand
between them. “My fox and my lion…you will compliment each other’s
strengths if you will only work together.”

Her voice grew harder as she turned to
Silveo. “In the future, if you have a problem with one of my
officers, you will bring it to me. Now go back to your ship.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Gerard expected to be dismissed as well, but
she spoke before he could move. “Stay a moment, Captain.” When
Silveo was gone, she continued, “How do you find your new
command?”

Gerard hesitated. “I hardly know how to
answer that yet, Mistress. I have had less than two days with
them.”

“I told you on your last visit that you have
permission to use my name.”

He inclined his head stiffly. She was
standing very close, and Gerard wished suddenly that Silveo were
back in the room. He caught a faint scent of salt and sandalwood.
Was it only incense, or was it her perfume?

“If I have put you in an untenable situation,
you may tell me so,” she continued. “I have other positions to fill
with capable shelts. You may serve me elsewhere.”

Gerard felt his fur bristle uncomfortably
against his clothes. “I do not quit that easily, Mistress
Morchella. It is true that the Police are in a pitiful state. They
have been leaderless for a red month, and it does not seem to me
that they have had firm leadership for some time before that. Their
captains have been yearly assassinated, as have many of their
officers. They are hated by the citizenry of Wefrivain, both
grishnard and non-grishnard. They are distrusted. In addition, I
find it difficult to work with Admiral Lamire. This is my own
problem, and I will deal with it.”

Morchella nodded. “I’m sure you will.
However, the Police will never be a gentle organization. This would
undermine their function. Can you do what I’m asking, Gerard? If
you can’t, now is the time to tell me.”

“You mean, can I torture and kill if
necessary?”

Her aquamarine eyes bored into him. “Can you?
Will your honor let you?”

“I can.”
Firebird forgive me.
“I can
be cruel when I must, but not to no purpose.” He told her about his
treatment of the prisoners, the reasons he had killed the leaders
at once, the things that the youngster and the smuggler had told
him.

Morchella folded her arms. She thought for a
moment. “You’ve impressed me. This is unconventional behavior for
the Police. I have no doubt that torturing the prisoners would have
produced more information, but not of the same quality. I think
you’re right: what they told you is probably true and the best they
had to tell.”

Feeling a little bolder, Gerard said, “I’m
certain that youngster knew no more than he told me. The smuggler,
on the other hand, was an unscrupulous bastard—”

“Exactly the sort of morals desirable in an
informer,” interrupted Morchella.