By: Abigail Hilton
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition
Published by: Abigail Hilton
Cover Art by: Sarah Cloutier
Map by: Jeff McDowall
© 2010 Abigail Hilton. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This material may not be reproduced, modified, or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact the author at abigail.hilton@gmail.com. Artwork is displayed by agreement with the artists. All artists were paid for their work and hold the copyrights to that work.
Special thanks to the people who read this book as I wrote it.
Amy
Anita
Hughes
Jeff
Mistie
Molly
Patsy
Chapter 1. The Captain of Police
Chapter 4. A Dead Shelt’s List
Chapter 5. A Traitor and A Child
Chapter 10. Silveo Gives Advice
Chapter 12. The Contents of a Warehouse
Chapter 14. Flirtation and Chocolate
Chapter 18. Maps and a Library
Chapter 19. What Happened in a Closet
Chapter 20. A Knife and a Rope
Chapter 23. A Debate about Choices
Chapter 25. Shinies and Lord Holovar
This is an illustrated book. Many (though not all) of these illustrations are rich watercolors that do not display well in black and white. To enjoy this book fully, I urge you to open the document at least once in one of the numerous free eReaders or apps that have been created for computers, phones, and tablets. Although the illustrations are still beautiful in black and white, they are at their best on a color screen.
The Prophet of Panamindorah
Fauns and Filinians
Wolflings and Wizards
Fire and Flood
The Guild of the Cowry Catchers
Embers
Flames
Ashes
Out of the Ashes
Shores Beyond the World
Other Books
Crossroads: Short Stories from Panamindorah
Map for color screens.
Map for black and white screens.
Chapter 1. The Captain of Police
Beauty is goodness.
—Morchella, sacred text
The Priestess entered her temple through the inner sanctum and paused for a moment at the edge of her sacred pool. A smear of blood from last night’s sacrifice had discolored the white marble at the pool’s edge, and she polished it clean before turning away. Layers of crystal and colored glass in the roof admitted diffuse sunlight that dappled and swam on the walls. The Priestess drew a deep breath and opened a silver inlaid door, the only visible exit from the room. She passed through a curtain of colored beads and bells, down a short passage, unlit and filled with incense smoke, through two more curtains, one opaque and gauzy, the last light and sheer.
She stepped into the outer sanctum—an octagon, with pools all around the edges. Pillars with clear crystal overlay and pavonine cores supported a vaulted roof, capped with a dome of tinted glass. Colors reflected from the pillars and roof onto the milk white walls, broken by rippling cords of light reflected from the water. Silver incense stands, twice the height of a shelt and wrought like coiled dragons, stood in pairs around the throne. The seat of black coral rose above them, inlaid with mother of pearl in intricate scenes of conflict and triumph. White-clad harpers sat at either side of the throne. Their instruments were fashioned of turquoise gemstone, the strings flashing silver.
The Priestess had ordered sweet incense in her outer sanctum a quarter watch earlier, and at the sound of the curtain bells, the harpers began a soft melody. She entered to this music and ascended to her seat. The Priestess gathered her sleeveless ivory robes, shimmering with faint color, and sat down. She put her bare elbows on the arms of the throne, folded her hands, and fixed her eyes on the shelt whom she’d called to audience.
“Gerard Holovar.”
“Your Highness.” He bowed deeply, eyes respectfully downcast.
Gerard was taller than she had expected. Like the Priestess, he was a grishnard. He had a human upper body with fur below his waist and the two legs and tail of a griffin. Gerard looked to be in his twenties, powerfully built and tastefully dressed, with hair as black as her coral throne and large, dark eyes. He was one of her watch masters, the lowest ranking of her officers.
The Priestess changed what she’d planned to say. “Have you ever been in my temple, Gerard?”
“Highness, you know I have not.” His soft, low voice resonated in the chamber.
“How do you find it?”
“I have never seen a temple that was not beautiful. Yours is surpassing so.”
The Priestess inclined her head. “A good answer. Do you know why you are here now?”
“Because I exercised successfully the command that fell to me in an unexpected situation.”
The Priestess laughed. “A clumsy way of saying you killed over fifty pirates with only a half dozen subordinates for aid.”
Gerard nodded.
“And you brought back prisoners.”
“Admiral Lamire did that, Your Highness.”
“Only because you threw them into his lap.”
“Watch masters cannot technically transport prisoners, Your Highness.”
“An excellent point, but I do not often have princes as watch masters.”
Gerard’s black tufted tail flicked behind him. “Nor do you now, Your Highness.”
She waited a moment, but he did not continue. “Holovarus is a small but respected kingdom,” said the Priestess. “As the heir to your father’s holdings, you could have started as a lieutenant, if you really wanted a career in the Temple Sea Watch.” She spoke gently. “Why start at the bottom, Gerard?”
His tail flicked again. “Surely you know, Lady.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“I have been disinherited, because my choice of mates was not to my father’s liking. My younger brother will inherit.”
She could detect no emotion in his voice, no hint of what he thought about it. “Look at me, Gerard.”
He raised his head. To look directly at the Priestess was irreverent and impious unless she expressly gave leave. Their eyes met. She saw him swallow. The High Priestess of Wefrivain rose and came down from her dais. Her robes, like pale dragon scales, fell around her, tracing her long curves. Her mahogany hair shone glossy where it tumbled from its silver clasp onto her shoulders.
Gerard fell back a pace as she approached, a little below his height now that she stood on the floor. “Have I offended, Mistress?”
“Not at all. My name is Morchella. You have permission to use it. My captain of Police has been missing for a red month. It is time to consider him dead, and I have decided that you will replace him. In that role, you answer only to me. Not to anyone else, including Silveo Lamire. Is that understood?”
Gerard nodded, his expression suddenly wooden.
“I’m putting you in charge of interrogating those prisoners,” she continued. “Find me Sky Town, Gerard.”
When he had gone, Morchella went thoughtfully back into her inner sanctum. She found a wyvern, a sea dragon, gliding around her sacred pool. The animal had a serpentine body, with webbed, clawed feet, and scales that glistened an iridescent aquamarine. He kept his leathery wings folded as he swam, but raised them a little when he spotted Morchella. The wyvern put his clawed front feet on the edge of the pool and raised his slender snout. “You sent for me, Mistress?” His words rasped around long teeth.
“Yes.” Morchella raised her robes about her and sat down on the edge of the pool to dangle her bare legs in the water. She had pearl-white fur below her navel and pink pads on her creamy paws. “Hoepali, isn’t it? You’re the deity at my temple on Holovarus.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I’ve just spoken with Gerard, the heir.”
Hoepali gave a toothy sneer. “Not anymore. He’s been disinherited.”
Morchella nodded. “Your loss; my gain. He’s done me a great service in the Sea Watch—killed about fifty Resistance pirates after being cut off from his ship in a rowboat. With only the rowers, he boarded the enemy ship while it was busy with the Fang and attacked the pirates. Those on deck died to the last shelt, but he caught some in the hold and took them prisoner. By the time Admiral Lamire managed to board, Gerard was able to hand the prisoners over to him without a struggle.”
The wyvern laid his head on the pool’s edge with a bored expression. “Sounds like something he would do.”
“Does it?” Morchella leaned back on her hands and stared at the ceiling. “Such a thing from Thessalyn’s lover—I would not have expected it.” She glanced at the wyvern sharply. “Do you know why he married her?”
“He got her with child,” said the wyvern lazily.
Morchella shrugged. “If Holovarus is like the other island kingdoms, then it is swarming with court bastards. Two or three would never stain a royal heir, and they’re certainly no reason for a brilliant young grishnard to throw away his kingship.”
Hoepali heaved a sigh. “You don’t know Gerard, Highness. He’s in love with his honor. He didn’t have two or three bastards. He had only one, and that was with Thessalyn. He was determined to marry her.”
Morchella caught at one word. “‘Had’?”
Hoepali looked up meaningfully through his long eyelashes. “I asked for the child.” He licked his lips, delicate as a cat.
Morchella’s eyebrows rose. “I see.”
“It pleased the king, as you can imagine—confirmed to him that Gerard had committed a grievous crime to marry outside his wishes.”
Morchella looked at Hoepali narrowly. “It pleased you, too, I can see.”
The wyvern curled his lip. “I gave direct omens that Gerard should not marry Thessalyn. He asked at my temple, and I gave my answer. He defied me.”
“How did Thessalyn and Gerard take the death of the baby?”
“Oh, you know something of her, I expect. She could think no ill of us. I really don’t know how he took it. Hard, I hope.”
Morchella watched the wyvern for a moment. “You may have to give up your grudge. I’ve made him my new captain of Police.”
Hoepali raised his head out of the water and looked her full in the face. Then he sank back down and lashed his tail beneath the surface. “You’re a female.”
Morchella laughed. “You think I promote every handsome sailor to my inner circle?”
“If you really want to keep him about you, put him in your private guard. He’s simple, Mistress. He won’t last outside.”
“I can tell from one interview that he’s not stupid. He’s resourceful, and he’s a survivor. I need someone like that over the Police.”
Hoepali shook his head. “I don’t mean he’s stupid. He’s just…all of a piece. He doesn’t bend. He’ll never survive among your officers.”
“He’ll bend to me,” said Morchella. “Nothing else matters.”
Hoepali shrugged with his wings. “Do as you wish. Collar him and keep him on a chain in your inner sanctum for all I care.”
Morchella frowned. “You presume too much on my good humor, Hoepali.”
He bowed his glistening head. “A fault of mine, Mistress. I apologize for my impertinence.”
“Goodnight, Hoepali.”
When he was gone, she went to the other end of the sanctum and rapped twice on the floor. A wyvern no longer than her forearm shot from beneath into the pool and vaulted out of the water with one beat of its leathery wings. It landed with a soft, wet plop in front of Morchella. Its voice came in an exited yap. “Yes, Mistress?”
“That order I gave earlier about Thessalyn—is there still time to reverse it?”
The messenger glanced about nervously. “Yes. If I go immediately, Mistress.”
“Go.”
Morchella lingered a moment, staring into the empty pool. Outside, the sun was setting, playing streamers of soft, colored light across the gently undulating water. “Thessalyn… Gerard, you do not know it, but you have saved her life tonight.”
The minstrels of Wefrivain are quasi-religious figures, schooled in the old stories. Their role in society is not only to entertain, but also to encourage religious devotion.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard found his friend and mount, a griffin named Alsair, waiting for him outside the Priestess’s Sanctum. Wordlessly, they walked through the Temple complex and then out into the streets of Dragon’s Eye.
“Well?” demanded Alsair as they started into the press of shelts coming and going in the late afternoon rush.
Gerard shook his head.
“What did she say? What was it about?” Alsair butted Gerard playfully with his beak. Their heads came to the same height when they were both standing. “You can’t say nothing, not after an audience like that.” They had been together since childhood. Gerard’s silences were legendary, but Alsair had always been good at making him talk, and when that failed, Alsair could always fill the silences.
Gerard shook his head. “Not now.”
They were coming to the market. Throngs of shelts hurried home as the day ended. They were mostly grishnards. A few shavier fauns—pegasus shelts—moved furtively in the press. They were probably the slaves of great houses. All the shelts—both grishnard and faun—had long, tufted ears that flicked back against their heads at the flies and the noise.
As Gerard and Alsair drew closer to the docks, the numbers of non-grishnard shelts increased. A filthy urchin, probably a pickpocket, darted across the road, and they saw the flash of his red fox tail. “There goes a long-lost relative of our dear admiral,” muttered Alsair nastily. “Shall we invite him to the ship and ask their relation?”
Gerard did not honor this with a reply. Silveo Lamire was a fox shelt. Rumor had it he’d risen to his post from the slums around the docks.
“Did he do you a favor by trying to kill you?” asked Alsair. “Was the priestess impressed with what you could do with one row boat and a few rowers? Especially when you’d been intentionally stranded among enemies?”
“We don’t know Lamire intentionally stranded me,” said Gerard. He strongly suspected it, but he did not know.
“Well I do,” said Alsair. “He locked me in the hold.”
“Anyone could have done it, perhaps even by accident.”
“You know as well as I do that Lamire ordered it,” growled Alsair, “and someday, I’ll pay him back.” He made a sharp clicking noise with his beak.
Gerard frowned. “Stay away from him, Alsair. He’s afraid of griffins, and Lamire is the sort of shelt who gets vicious when he’s frightened.”
They stopped in front of an inn—the grandest on the waterfront, with high, arched ceilings reminiscent of some noble’s audience hall. Two hulking grishnards loitered near the entrance, making sure that none of the dock’s riffraff bothered the patrons. Every shelt within was almost certainly a grishnard. Alsair snickered. “Do you think they’d toss Lamire off the dock if he came here without his insignia and bodyguard?”
“Probably.” Gerard pushed open the door. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“But you haven’t,” complained Alsair. “Only I have.”
“Hush.”
At the far end of the long, elegant common room, someone was singing to the music of a harp. Her voice had the haunting quality of doves at dawn or the high and lonely cry of a falcon. She sang one of the temple songs about wyverns and their coming to the islands of Wefrivain. She sang all the verses—the very old ones, unfamiliar to most shelts. She sang of the terrible wizards—shape-shifters, mind-parasites, slavers. They had come upon the islands in ages past, and they brought fear and pain and death. She sang of how the Firebird had sent the wyverns to free the shelts of Wefrivain. The song might have been dry as dust in the mouth of some temple harpist, but for her the song opened like a flower.
“Go stretch your wings, friend,” Gerard told Alsair. “Hunt on the ocean. I’ll envy you.”
Alsair snorted. “You won’t even think of me.”
But Gerard was already gone. He forced his way through the crowd around the singer, using his height and broad shoulders to muscle them aside.
She was a grishnard with glossy golden fur and hair so pale it looked almost white in the lamplight. Her eyes, too, were white, and they shone as though she saw visions and not the crowd around her. In truth, she did not see them, for she was blind.
As the last notes of the song faded, Gerard reached her and scooped her up in his arms, catching the harp with one hand. Several shelts in the crowd protested, but Gerard ignored them and carried her away. At the foot of the stairs, the innkeeper met him with more protests. “My wife,” said Gerard, “has more than filled your hall. She’s paid for our room ten times over. Good night.”
Thessalyn nestled against his chest. “Did you see her?” she whispered. “Did you see the Priestess?”
“I saw her,” said Gerard. He did not speak again until he’d reached their room and unlocked the door. “I saw her and I spoke to her. She is beautiful and terrible, as they say, but she was not as beautiful as you.”
Thessalyn smiled and shook her head. She had never seen her own beauty, for she had come sightless into the world. Gerard had always found that a great paradox. “No one sees like you do,” he’d told her once. “I think sometimes you have the gift of prophesy.” She denied that, but she did not deny she had the gift of song. Thessalyn had been born to one of the tenet farmers on a little island holding of Holovarus. Many farmers would have drowned a blind baby girl—a useless mouth in their world of labor—but her father was gentle and soft-hearted, and music ran in his blood.
By the age of five, it was apparent that she had a great gift, and the family had struggled to save enough to send her to the prestigious school of minstrels on Mance. They found the money, but a recommendation was required from a reputable source. The family boldly petitioned their lord, Gerard’s father, to listen to the child and recommend her to the school. He did both. He even paid for her books and supplies and finally for her tuition when her family fell on hard times the next year.
Thessalyn charmed everyone, including her teachers. She made her debut tour at fourteen and soon had a throng of potential patrons, but she chose to return to her family seat. Holovarus welcomed her as court minstrel. Her beauty, her blindness, her imagination, and her splendid voice had made her one of the most famous minstrels in Wefrivain, and little Holovarus basked in the prestige she brought with her.
Her success made her a great asset to the court and a worthy investment to the King. However, it did not make her a suitable mate for the prince. If Gerard had been content to dally with her, his father might have taken no notice, but marriage was different. Thessalyn might be beautiful and talented, but she worked for her living, and she brought no dowry. Gerard did not like to think about that last year, so full of darkness and grief. Thessalyn might be able to forgive the gods, and he did not begrudge her the peace her faith brought her. She might talk of higher purposes, but Gerard could never forgive what had happened in the temple on Holovarus.
We’ve come far since that night, he reminded himself. It was ironic that he’d retreated into the Temple Sea Watch, but Gerard thought of himself as a servant of the Priestess, not of the wyverns. The Sea Watch offered an honorable, if humble, escape from his family. His problems with his commanding officer, Silveo Lamire, were nothing to the churning sea of troubles he’d left on Holovarus.
Gerard set aside Thessalyn’s harp—a confection of dark, curling wood, half as big as the girl who played it. She nipped at his ear and he kissed her, but then set her down gently on the bed and stretched out beside her. “You’re tired,” she said, stroking his ink-black hair. “And worried. What’s wrong, Gerard?”
He spoke in a near whisper. “Sing to me, Thess. Please.”
So she sang, in a very soft voice, an achingly sad lullaby for the child they had lost. (Thessalyn had the gift of knowing when he did not wish to be cheered.) Yet, like most of the songs she composed herself, the end was full of light and distant shores and coming home. Gerard made her stop at last. “I have to go.”
“Where?”
“To the dungeons. I have to help Silveo Lamire interrogate prisoners.”
She stroked his cheek. “Why, love?”
“Because I am her Highness’s new captain of Police.”
Thessalyn’s fingers stopped moving. A long silence, then, “It is work that someone must do. The Police protect us.”
“The Police drag shelts from their homes in the middle of the night to pull out their fingernails in basements,” snapped Gerard. He felt her tremble and regretted it at once. “Forgive me. I didn’t come here to make you sad.”
“You are good,” said Thessalyn softly. “Good things cannot be evil.”
Gerard sighed. “I don’t know about good. I certainly am what I am, and I cannot seem to be otherwise. I will do what I am able. Perhaps I can make the Police into something more than an ugly threat. It’s no wonder their captains keep disappearing.”
He stood and kissed her fingertips. “Thank you, my dear.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Thessalyn. “However late you come.”
“Or whatever I’ve done in the meantime?”
“Or whatever you’ve done in your lifetime.”
Those with paws eat those with hooves. Just as pegasus are food for griffins, so fauns are food for grishnards. This is right and natural.
—Morchella, Sacred Text
As Gerard suspected, Silveo had already come to have a look at the prisoners. Gerard found him in the hallway of the temple dungeons, haranguing the unfortunate guard. “Have you been living under a rock for the last ten years?” demanded Silveo. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I know who you are, and I cannot allow you to enter. The Priestess has forbidden you access to these prisoners.”
“Can you let me in?” asked Gerard.
Silveo spun around to glare at him. He was a silver-furred fox shelt with hair of the same color and pale blue eyes. He was a vain creature with a plume of a tail, braided frequently with ribbon or gold thread. His eyes were lined with more kohl than Gerard thought seemly or necessary to reduce the glare of the sun. In apparel, Silveo had the unfortunate tastes of the newly wealthy. His clothes were frequently heavy with cloth of silver, pearls, and exotic furs. Gerard’s taste for elegant understatement seemed to annoy him.
In fact, nearly everything about Gerard seemed to annoy Silveo. Fox shelts were one of the little races. Adults stood no taller than a ten year old grishnard child. Silveo had to look up at most grishnards, but with Gerard, he had to look even higher. Gerard suspected this had been the original source of Silveo’s enmity. However, they hadn’t taken long finding other reasons to dislike each other.
Gerard spoke to the guard at the cell door. “My name is Gerard Holovar, and I think you’re supposed to let me interrogate the prisoners.”
“That is correct,” said the guard. “Her Highness left instructions.”
Gerard glanced at Silveo’s confused expression. “I have been made captain of Police,” he explained.
Silveo started to laugh. “You? Taking Montpir’s place?”
“Me.”
“Congratulations. As a failure, you seem to be a great success.”
Before Silveo could say anything else, Gerard unbolted the cell door. The guard stepped forward with a torch as he pushed it open. The stale air inside reeked of urine and sweat. Gerard drew his sword—a long, elegant blade that had been in his family for years and which he’d been ordered to give to his brother before he left. “If they want it,” he’d told Thessalyn, “they can come and get it.”
He followed the guard into the cell. Silveo came behind them and shut the door. The guard glanced at him, but seemed to accept Gerard’s tacit sanction of Silveo’s presence. About thirty prisoners stood or sat in the cell. They’d been stripped of all but their undershirts and most were huddled together against the underground chill. Only two of the group were grishnards. Most were shavier fauns, with densely feathered lower bodies, hooves, and feathery tails. One of the group was a gazumelle. Gerard glanced at him curiously. Gazumelle were gazelle shelts, and they were rare outside the island of Maijha Minor. The gazumelle stood only a little taller than Silveo, with delicate features and wide, liquid black eyes.
“On your feet,” growled Gerard.
They obeyed slowly, sullenly. “I am the captain of the Temple Police,” he said and watched their faces. He saw anger, hatred, and fear, but nothing at all like respect. “I am looking for information about a place called Sky Town,” he continued.
Somebody snorted. “You and everyone else.”
Gerard moved to stand in front of the speaker, an older shavier with grizzled hair and creamy white feathers below his naval. “You’re their leader, aren’t you?”
It was Silveo who answered. “His name is Samarin Mel. He’s a smuggler and a friend of the pirates. We’ve been trying to catch him for years.”
“Looks like someone did catch him once,” said Gerard. He was referring to the scars of a terrible flogging on the faun’s shoulders and back. Samarin Mel met Gerard’s eyes without a flicker. You’re setting an example for the others, thought Gerard. Unfortunately for them, it will not be the example you expect.
Behind him, the guard cleared his throat. “Do you require assistants, sir? Any…equipment?”
Gerard said nothing. His father had never believed in torture. Criminals on Holovarus were either killed or fined. As a child, Gerard and his brother had occasionally wandered down to the small cluster of cells beneath the castle and formed elaborate theories about the use of the rusty machines full of teeth and chains.
Silveo sniffed. “He doesn’t know what he requires, but I do.” He rattled off a list that included a rack and pliers.
Gerard let him finish, never taking his eyes off the old faun. “Where is Sky Town?” he asked quietly. “Who is in charge there? How do they communicate with you?”
“Your kind have always tried to frighten and humiliate other shelts into submission,” said Samarin. “Now there’s something out there that frightens you. You can’t control it. You can’t bully it. You can’t even find it.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” said Gerard and lopped off the faun’s head. He stepped back from the spray of blood and the twitching corpse. He was already scanning the cell, watching the prisoner’s faces. Behind him, Silveo gasped and then started to curse. Gerard moved to a faun two paces away, also an older shelt, who had remained calm during his companion’s execution.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
By the time Gerard stepped from the cell and shut the door, he’d killed half the prisoners, and the floor was slick with their blood. Silveo looked ready to explode. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he snarled.
“I think so,” said Gerard, shaking blood from a sleeve.
“You’ve killed the most valuable prisoners we’ve caught in the last year.”
I caught them, thought Gerard, not you. But he said nothing.
“A few days on the rack, a few hours with the fire and tongs—”
“Would have produced nothing,” interrupted Gerard. “They wouldn’t have talked, or they would have told you lies.”
Lamire wasn’t listening. “You killed the best of them! Those shelts knew more about the Cowry Catchers than you know about your minstrel girl’s tail hole, and now you’ve wasted them!”
“I killed the useless ones,” snapped Gerard, his temper finally piqued. “What they know doesn’t matter. It’s whether they will tell us that matters. The message I just sent is this: none of you are too valuable to kill, and you may not get a second or third chance to talk. Some of them are young. Let them think on death without their leaders to advise and encourage them.”
“You’re young,” raged Lamire. “It might behoove you to think on death.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Gerard.
“I’m still your superior officer. I don’t need to threaten.”
Gerard bit back a retort. He turned to the guard, standing with eyes downcast against the wall. “Do I have an office?” he demanded.
The guard smiled. “You do.”
“Then let’s go see it.”
He was relieved that Lamire did not try to follow.
Chapter 4. A Dead Shelt’s List
Maijha Minor has been a thorn in the side of the High Priestess time out of mind. It is the only place left in Wefrivain where shavier, gazumelle, zeds, and other non-grishnards are allowed to live in relative freedom. It is also thought to be a sanctuary for Resistance pirates. Again and again the wyverns and their representative have sought to have the inhabitants of the island exterminated, but ironically grishnards themselves have prevented the wyverns from doing so. The situation is a political minefield. Maijha Minor is a holding of Maijha Major—arguably the most powerful of the six great island kingdoms. For ages, perhaps since the dawning of grishnard dominance in the islands, the kings of Maijha Major have maintained Maijha Minor as a game park. Like their griffin mounts, grishnards take a deep pleasure in hunting. This pleasure is not totally sated in the tame killing of captive fauns. Wealthy grishnards will pay a high price to hunt free, armed fauns in a natural environment. The risks make the venture all the more exciting. Grishnards disappear every year while hunting on Maijha Minor, but this never seems to stop the flow of traffic, and the island is a source of both income and prestige for the kings of Maijha Major.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard followed the guard back through the cells to the entrance of the dungeons. He wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing with the prisoners, but he didn’t think he had the stomach for Silveo’s style of interrogation. His subordinates would have been called in—shelts who did not yet know him—and it would not be wise to appear weak in front them. The Police were often dredged from the lowest reaches of society and might decide to dislike him for his background, just as Lamire seemed to. Besides, Gerard knew that shelts lied under torture. He had an idea that intimidation, if handled correctly, would produce better results.
The guard unlocked a door in the antechamber of the dungeons. “This is the traditional office of the captain of Temple Police. If it is not suitable, other arrangements can be made.”
“I’m sure it’s suitable,” said Gerard. The guard preceded him into the room, lighting lamps. Gerard saw a small, cluttered office, bookshelves, a desk.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Marlo Snale, sir.”
The lamps were burning brightly now, and Gerard stared with dismay at the piles of paper and roles of vellum around the edges of the room. “How long have you worked in the dungeon?” he asked.
“I was recruited as a child of six,” said Marlo, who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties.
Gerard frowned. “Better than starving?” Better than being hanged as a pickpocket, more like. At least you seem to know when to keep your mouth shut, and you aren’t afraid of Lamire.
“As you say, sir.”
“Are you interested in working for me, Marlo?”
Marlo looked momentarily confused. “I already do, sir. All the dungeon guards are part of the Police.”
Gerard nodded. Obviously, I don’t know much about my new command. Hopefully I was right about this one keeping his mouth shut. “What I meant is that I will need a secretary. All this paperwork should be catalogued, preferably by someone who knows the history of the Police better than I do.”
Marlo inclined his head. “I would be happy to assist, sir. As a matter of fact, I did something of the kind for your predecessor on occasion.”
“On very rare occasions by the look of it.”
Marlo smiled crookedly.
“Let me look through the papers first,” said Gerard, “and then I’ll tell you what I want done.”
“Very good, sir.” Marlo withdrew and closed the door.
Gerard went to the desk. Montpir… He would not have even remembered the name of his predecessor, had Silveo not mentioned it. What kind of shelt were you? Just a thug to strike at random? A rumor of fear to keep shelts obedient? Or were you smarter than that? Did you know what you were looking for?
On an impulse, he called Marlo back into the room. “How many captains have you had in the last five years?”
Marlo thought for a moment. “I believe we’ve had six, sir, and more than a dozen since I’ve served in the Police.”
Gerard shook his head. “More than one per year. And how did they all die?”
Marlo considered. “Perhaps half were killed openly in fights with the Resistance. The other half…” He shrugged. “The Police investigate, sir. They go into hostile places. Sometimes they don’t come back.”
“Were any of these captains killed in non-hostile places? I mean, were they murdered?”
Marlo hesitated. “Captain Ranon was shot in the streets of Dragon’s Eye two years ago. Captain Hal died in a brothel on Sern, presumed poisoned, last year. Captain Ando died in his bed in Dragon’s Eye. No one can say what took him, except that he was not ill a few days before.” He paused. Gerard was pacing the room, his black tufted tail twitching. “Am I distressing you, sir?”
“No. What about the Police themselves? Are they dying in unusual numbers?”
Marlo looked uncomfortable. “Being in the Police is a dangerous job, sir.”
“You seem to have survived.”
“I’m…careful, sir.”
“Does anyone leave the Police alive, Marlo?”
“There is Arundel, sir. He was our captain four years ago.”
Gerard was surprised. One of Silveo’s lieutenants. I did not know. “And he was transferred into the Sea Watch?”
Marlo nodded. “Some viewed it as a promotion.”
“What happened to my immediate predecessor, Montpir?”
“He disappeared on Maijha Minor. He was part of a registered hunting party, so no investigation was made.”
Gerard snorted. “Was he really hunting, or was he looking for something?”
Marlo shrugged. “Montpir was a very private person. He did like to hunt. His family was from Maijha Major.”
Gerard nodded and dismissed his new secretary again. He sat down at the desk and began sorting through the stacks of paper.
* * * *
By the time Gerard returned to his room at the inn, it was well past midnight. Thessalyn had waited for him. She was sitting beside the fire in the peculiar stillness that came over her when she was composing music in her head. Her face cleared as he entered.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” he said.
“I’m a minstrel. We’re supposed to be able to harp all night.”
Gerard stripped off his coat, glad that she could not see the bloodstains. “I’ve been killing shavier. A couple of grishnards, too.”
Thessalyn’s white eyes grew luminous and sad. “You saved them from Lamire, then?”
Gerard sighed. She knew him too well. “I doubt that’s how they saw it.”
“They will see everything on the Shores Beyond the World, and they will understand.”
Gerard shook his head. “I’m not concerned with the Shores Beyond the World just now, only with Maijha Minor and my last predecessor in the Police, Montpir. He disappeared there. I think he was looking for Sky Town.”
Thessalyn strummed her harp thoughtfully. “So you really think Sky Town exists?”
Gerard shrugged. “The Priestess seems to think so. Montpir did, too, I think.” Gerard told her about Marlo Snale and what he’d said. He also mentioned Silveo’s parting words.
Thessalyn shook her head. “What is wrong with him? Doesn’t he see that you’re both on the same side?”
Gerard hesitated. He’d never told Thessalyn all of the rumors about Silveo. “They say he clawed his way up from the slums around Slag on Sern.” He watched Thessalyn’s face. The harbor town of Slag was perhaps the roughest and ugliest in Wefrivain. The town had a reputation for brothels that catered to all tastes, and foxlings were especially prized because of their fine features and child-like proportions. Gerard would have pitied any such creature, except that Silveo had a way of dissipating pity as a summer sun dissipates dew. In Gerard’s experience, Silveo would have been more likely to sell such children than to have been one.
Thessalyn was quiet a moment. “Poor thing.”
Gerard made a face. “No one can say whether it’s true, as he seems to have killed nearly every shelt who knew him as a child.” He hesitated. “However, it might explain his taste in clothes.”
“Gerard!”
“He is cruel, Thessalyn. He hasn’t the honor of a mud leech.”
“And you are intimidating, especially to someone like that.”
Gerard drew a hand across his eyes. “Alsair can talk of nothing but eviscerating him since that business with the Foam. I don’t want to talk anymore about Silveo Lamire.”
She smiled. “Then let’s not. Judging from what Marlo Snale had to say, you’ve taken on a dangerous job, love.”
“Frightened for me?”
Thessalyn stood and walked to him, fearless now that she’d memorized the layout of the room. Gerard took her in his arms. “My dear,” she said, “you could vanquish hydras and cross the deserts of fire.”
Her boundless optimism was one of the many things he loved about her. “You have more faith in me than I do.” Gerard started to kiss her.
“I want to hear about the Police,” said Thessalyn. “What’s got you so curious about Montpir and Maijha Minor?”
They curled up on the bed, and he told her about the office and the stacks of paper. “Something wasn’t right with that office,” said Gerard. “Every document I found was dated at least three red months ago. Montpir only disappeared last month. Judging by what I saw, he kept meticulous records. I even found evidence of a filing system, but nothing was in order.”
“You think someone searched the office?” asked Thessalyn.
“Yes,” said Gerard. “I think someone stole a lot of paperwork. They hoped I’d confuse ransacked with messy. I went through the fireplace, and I think a lot of paper was burned there recently. I found a bit that had fallen under the grate, a list.” Gerard took the charred fragment out of his pocket and read it to her.
Sky Town
Misnomer?
Tea cups—tea leaves?
Who is Gwain? At the center of the web
Cowry Catchers—the winged wolves
Maijha Minor
The diving spiders
Thessalyn grinned. “Cryptic!” Gerard could tell that her minstrel’s mind was already making poetry or prophesy of it.
“Yes,” he said, “but that list meant something to Montpir, and I’m going to find out what.”
Chapter 5. A Traitor and A Child
Maijha Minor is home to all kinds of creatures that have been eradicated from most other parts of Wefrivain. The exact nature and habits of these creatures are kept secret by the gamekeepers of the island in order to preserve the mystery of the place. The diving spiders are one of the more feared elements of Maijha Minor. They can grow a quarter the size of the average griffin, and they make their homes in coral reefs. The kings of Maijha Major claim that the spiders prevent the islands’ inhabitants from escaping by sea (small boats are easy prey in the spider-infested reefs). Air traffic is forbidden and monitored from the watchtowers around the island. The only safe and legal approach is overland from Maijha Major during low tide. The journey requires a skillful sand pilot with knowledge of the tidal flats. Ironically, many of these sand pilots are fauns from Maijha Minor, who receive a level of protection and trade goods for their services.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard arrived at his office early the next morning. A new guard stood at the dungeon entrance. At the desk in the anteroom in front of his office, an older shelt, whom he took to be a warden, was sleeping. Gerard pretended not to notice. “I want you to bring the prisoners to me one by one,” he began in a loud voice. The warden jerked awake and blinked up at him. Gerard was still talking. “But first, send someone out to get hot food—something that smells good, something a faun would eat.” He looked down at his officer’s bewildered expression. “That means no faun meat,” he said in case it wasn’t clear.
“Prisoners?” repeated the warden. Gerard could smell alcohol on his breath.
“Yes! Prisoners! The ones who arrived yesterday. Their cell is a bloody mess. I ought to know; I made it. Get food, get prisoners. Can you handle that?”
In spite of appearances to the contrary, the officer had the good sense to nod and lurch to his feet. Gerard strode past him into his office. I was here late last night. They probably didn’t expect me this morning.
He sat down to another stack of papers—this one a catalogue of shelts the Police had interrogated six years ago. These were the Police of Gerard’s memory—the ugly stories he’d heard growing up. They don’t seem to have been as active in recent years. Is it because they had more humane captains? Or have the constant assassinations been slowing them down? He suspected the latter.
Some time later, one of the younger guards came in with a tray of steaming meat pastries from a street vendor. Gerard thought at least one of the little pies looked suspicious. He ate that one, judged the rest suitable, and sent the guard for the first prisoner. They had languished all night in the dark without food or water, with the bodies and blood of their comrades all around them. They’d been in the hold of a ship for four days before that, during which time they’d had nothing but a little water. They ought to be hungry enough and frightened enough by now.
The first prisoner they brought him was the little gazumelle. His hands had been tied, which annoyed Gerard. Do they think I can’t protect myself from a starving, unarmed faun, barely grown, and half my size? He had straightened the office, put all the loose paper in drawers. The place was clean and well lit, and it smelled pleasantly of food.
“Sit,” he commanded the faun. The chair in front of the desk was small, uncomfortable, and plain, while the desk chair was an angular throne of leather and blocky wood. Gerard had no doubt it had been designed to intimidate. However, he preferred to stand. He loomed over the unfortunate gazumelle, whom he guessed to be no older than fourteen. “What is your name?”
The faun said nothing. He had the dark hair and olive skin of his race. He was wearing nothing but a white linen shirt, much stained. His fur, too, was matted with half-dried blood. He stared straight ahead, trembling like a rabbit in the claws of a hawk. He was so bony that Gerard wondered whether he’d been getting enough to eat even before he was captured.
“You have a choice,” said Gerard quietly. “You can eat some food, talk to me, and leave here alive. Or you can refuse to talk to me, and I’ll give you to my officers and their griffins.” Griffins had a cat-like love of sport. The gazumelle shuddered. Gerard thought, belatedly, that he should have brought Alsair along for this exercise. “Or perhaps the temple is running short of sacrifices this month,” he continued. “The gods seem to have an insatiable appetite for tender young things. They love variety, and they can’t have enjoyed many of your kind.” The faun leaned forward suddenly and retched. He had nothing but bile in his stomach, and the spasms wracked his small body like a hand wringing out a rag. Tears of pain and terror stood in the corners of his eyes against his long lashes.
Gerard didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so frightened, and the sight made him feel ill. He walked around behind the chair, so that the prisoner could not see his face. He leaned close to the faun’s quivering ear and put claws into his voice. “My point is: once you leave my office, your fate is sealed. If you want to live, now is the time to tell me.”
“I don’t know!” wailed the faun, his voice breaking.
“You don’t know your name?”
“I don’t know where Sky Town is,” whispered the gazumelle wretchedly. “I’ve never been there. They never told me. I only worked on a ship. That’s all. I only worked on a ship.” He was sobbing now.
Gerard wanted to put an arm around his shoulders and give him a meat pie. Instead, he said, “I haven’t asked you where Sky Town is. I repeat: what is your name? I already know the answers to some of my questions, so you had better not lie. The Police have many resources.” In truth, he had no idea of the answers to any of his questions, but he’d seen his father use this technique with diplomats, often to good effect.
“My name is Paiter,” said the gazumelle faintly.
Gerard cut off a small wedge of one of the pastries and gave it to him. The faun devoured it, hiccupping through his tears. His fingers were clumsy, and Gerard saw that his wrists had been tied tightly enough to restrict circulation. He resisted the urge to cut them loose.
“How old are you? How long did you work on the ship? Who ran it?”
Paiter was twelve. (So, thought Gerard, I have stooped to tormenting children.) He had worked on the ship for two years. He had been born on Maijha Minor, and the pirates had offered him an opportunity to escape the fate of all but the craftiest fauns on that island. “It is forbidden to kill fauns under ten,” he explained. “But most are killed by a hunting party before they reach thirty. My mother wanted me to join the pirates. She wanted me to live.”
So when he turned ten, Paiter was bundled off in the dark to join a pirate ship. Gerard interrupted him, “Which side of the island did you sail from?” The waters around Maijha Minor were considered all but un-navigable, due to the combination of reef, diving spiders, and rough sea.
Paiter shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand how we got there.” He had been taken into a tunnel, in which he and several other fauns traveled for what seemed like more than a day. They had surfaced in a place that he did not recognize, walked to a beach he did not know, and found a rowboat waiting to take them to a ship—the pirate ship, Foam, which Gerard had helped to capture. In the next two years, the ship had taken seven prizes—four merchant vessels and three Temple treasure ships laden with offerings for Lecklock. “The pirates target Temple ships,” said Paiter. “We met many merchant ships that we left alone. I never learned how the captain decided which to attack and which to let go.”
The captain was a shavier faun, and Paiter had never heard him called anything except “Captain.” Gerard had killed this person himself, and he remembered the fight on deck with the ship pitching and burning all around them. Samarin Mel had been his second in command.
Gerard questioned Paiter closely about the tunnel and the beach from which he sailed, but Paiter had nothing to add, although he tried. “No light was permitted in the tunnel. It was tall enough for us to stand, and we walked very rapidly for a long time.”
Could the fauns of Maijha Minor have dug a tunnel to another island? It seemed utterly fantastic. Or did they sail from some secret cove on Maijha Minor? Could the tunnel have been a ruse to impress and confuse recruits in case they were ever caught? He even wondered whether the entire story were a fabrication, memorized for such an occasion. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it, though. The young gazumelle’s desperate, frightened eyes and babble of information seemed authentic.
Throughout the tale, Gerard handed him pieces of pastry, and at one point he gave him a large mug of water, which the faun drank greedily. At last, Gerard cut his hands free. When Paiter had told everything and was beginning to repeat himself, Gerard went to the door and told the guard outside to bring a tunic and pants. “I don’t care where you get them,” he said in response to the guard’s question. “If we don’t have any here, buy them on the street. Give them to this prisoner, and put him in a cell by himself. Give him a meal and all the water he can drink, and when it’s full dark, release him.”
Gerard wasn’t sure where Paiter would go or how he would get there. That wasn’t Gerard’s problem, but releasing him in the daylight in Lecklock would be cruel. Gerard would at least give him the small comfort of darkness to find his way to safety.
He glanced over the tray of food. If they all talk to me at this rate, I’ll have to send for more. However, his worry proved premature. The next prisoner was a shavier of perhaps twenty-five—Gerard’s own age. He had the marble stare of a shelt who had already resigned himself to die. No amount of threats or promises could induce him to utter a word. At last, Gerard walked around behind the chair, took the faun’s head quickly in his hands and broke his neck with one snap. He’d seen cooks on Holovarus do this to fauns intended for the pots. It was harder than it looked. In spite of his threats, Gerard had no real intention of giving any of the prisoners to griffins or wyverns.
Gerard had no better luck with any of the next four. They have been well-schooled, he thought, and found that he respected them immensely.
The sixth was a shavier faun with shifty eyes and twitching fingers. Gerard disliked him at once, but the faun clearly had no intention of dying. “What will you give me for what I know?” he asked as soon as they were alone.
Gerard offered him the same thing he’d offered the others. The faun shook his head. “That’s not good enough. The Resistance will kill me if your own shelts don’t.”
Gerard was surprised. “If you tell me what you know, my shelts, at least, will not kill you.”
The faun looked at him narrowly. “You’re new at this.”
You’re the first to notice. “You think so?”
“Let me tell you something you may not know about the Police, Captain. They never let anyone go. Accidents happen to shelts they release.”
Gerard decided to try a new tack. “You’re right. I am new. I do things differently.”
The faun looked almost sorry for him. “You may want to, but you won’t. The Police are controlled by more powerful forces than you. Now, I repeat: I want protection.”
Gerard thought for a moment. “I will arm you before I release you, and I will give you sufficient cowries to buy passage off Lecklock.”
The faun looked surprised.
He wasn’t expecting me to acquiesce so quickly or so completely, thought Gerard. I’ve already given more than he had any right to expect.
“I want an armed escort,” shot the faun. “I want a signed document from you.”
Gerard shook his head.
The prisoner argued weakly for a little longer, but it was already clear that he intended to talk. “We both know I’m not going to tell you my real name,” he said at last, “so why bother making one up? I’m a smuggler. I have many clients, but the Resistance was never one of them until recently. They wanted me to transport certain materials to and from Sern and Haplag.”
“Materials?” echoed Gerard.
The smuggler shrugged. “Passengers, sometimes, but also things in boxes. I never knew what they were. I never asked. I never went to the Great Islands, just the smaller holdings, mostly numeraries.”
Gerard nodded. Tiny islands with no appreciable grishnard population sometimes had no names, only numbers. They were called numeraries. “So far, you’re not telling me anything worth the price I’m paying.”
The smuggler held up a hand. “It’s true that I don’t know where Sky Town is or even if it exists. I don’t have a list of names to give you or a secret code or maps. However, I do have one name, and it’s an important one: Gwain.”
Gerard leaned forward. At the center of the web.
The smuggler grinned. “I see you’ve heard of him.”
“Perhaps,” said Gerard. “Continue.”
“I don’t know whether he’s their leader,” said the faun, “but I think he might be. I transported him once. I saw him.”
Gerard looked skeptical. “The Resistance is secretive. Why should I imagine they introduced you to this person?” Trustworthy individual that you so obviously are.
“Oh, they didn’t introduce us,” said the smuggler. “I don’t think I was intended to see him, but the passage was rough and longer than expected. He came on deck rather sick, and I got a look at him. He’s a shavier faun about my height with light brown hair, brownish eyes, and gray-blue feathers.”
Gerard shrugged. “That description would fit any number of fauns in Wefrivain.”
The smuggler smiled like a gambler playing his trump. “But Gwain is supposed to be half grishnard.”
Gerard’s eyes widened. Normally, matings between panauns (shelts with paws) and fauns (shelts with hooves) produced no offspring. Some claimed that very rarely a child could result, but Gerard had never seen one.
“Half grishnard,” repeated the smuggler, “and I believe it. He has dewclaws above his hooves. I saw them, and that’s how I know he was Gwain.”
The relationship between the Temple Sea Watch and the Temple Police is ambiguous. Traditionally, the leader of Police is ranked as captain, so that the admiral of the Sea Watch (and his lieutenants, for that matter) outrank him. This reflects the importance of the sea in the politics of Wefrivain. However, the Police are the administrators of the Priestess’s will on land, and they receive their orders directly from her.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard left the Temple complex feeling bleak and vaguely dirty. He’d spent the day questioning and executing shelts whose courage he could not help but admire. More than any shelt I’ve met in the Sea Watch or Police.
He was grateful when Alsair swooped into the street in front of him. “I need to ride,” he said, without so much as a greeting.
“Where?” asked Alsair.
“Anywhere.” Soon they were climbing, climbing—up over the dome of the Temple, over the streets and markets of Dragon’s Eye. Lecklock was the smallest of the Great Islands, and Alsair climbed rapidly to a point where they could see half the island.
There in the harbor stood the three tall ships of the Sea Watch—the Fang, the Dark Wind, and the Sea Feather. The Fang was Silveo’s flagship and the place where he lived, even when he was not on assignment. Gerard had heard that when Silveo took over the Sea Watch eight years ago, he’d wanted to gild the entire ship silver. Vain fool. Gerard could not think of a more unfortunate color for a ship chasing a prize. Apparently, even Silveo’s supporters thought so, and he’d been persuaded to paint the ship scarlet and gold instead.
Gerard had to admit that no amount of gaudy paint could hide the beauty of the vessel—an elegant three-masted ship with four decks and a bronze wyvern figurehead, gleaming with gold leaf. Like many ships in Wefrivain, she had a slave deck with rowers.
She had been Gerard’s home on and off for the last year. However, he’d learned today from Marlo Snale that he had a house in town—the traditional residence of the captain of Police. Marlo had been careful to add that the last three captains had chosen to purchase their own lodgings, and the house had not seen use in some years. Gerard knew the last three captains had been younger sons of wealthy families. He suspected the house was a humble affair, but it would get Thessalyn out of the inns, where she was continually badgered for performances. It would give Alsair a safe place to sleep. Silveo had a low tolerance for griffins aboard ship. The nest box where he’d put Alsair doubled as a storage room and was so crammed with boxes that Gerard feared a crate might fall on Alsair during rough weather. The house would also mean that Gerard would never again be a permanent resident of Silveo’s flagship, a prospect that lightened his spirits considerably. He told Alsair all this as they flew, as well as the story of the traitorous smuggler and the frightened gazumelle youngster.
Alsair listened with uncharacteristic silence. When Gerard finished, he laughed. “So that’s what really happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you’ll never believe what they’re saying about you in the streets. The local griffins are all gossiping about it, and half of them heard it from their masters.”
Gerard could feel his tufted ears prickling. “Heard what?”
Alsair imitated a fluting girl’s voice. “That new Captain of Police is a terror! They say he took a pirate ship single-handedly and—”
“Single-handedly?” interrupted Gerard. “I had six capable—”
“He hacked the pirate captain to pieces and took his tail as a trophy.”
“Took his—?”
“It gets better. Last night you killed half the prisoners in a rage as soon as the Priestess put them into your custody. The cell was blood from floor to ceiling.”
“That sounds like a Silveo rumor,” growled Gerard. The accusation that he’d killed the prisoners because he’d lost his temper, not as a calculated move, irked him.
Alsair was choking on giggles. “Then you cooked them up and fed them to their hungry comrades as bribes the next morning.”
“What?!”
“You so enjoy your new job that you wouldn’t even let the other Police help you question and kill them. Prisoners went into your office alive, and one by one the bodies came out. You had their tails made into a wreath and mounted the heads on your wall.”
Gerard was momentarily speechless.
“They say you’re a prince with a dark and tragic past.”
“Well, that, at least, is true—”
“They say you committed some terrible crime, for which you can never go home. The ladies are all cooing about you—tall, dark, and oh so dangerous.”
Gerard could not understand how any lady could both believe these stories and find him attractive. “Are they all mad?”
Alsair shrugged. “I think it’s the mystique of the Police combined with your own that’s prompting the rumors.”
“I don’t have a mystique,” said Gerard. “I’m very non-mysterious.”
“Oh, but you do, master of mine. You don’t know it, but you do. It makes shelts either love or hate you.”
Gerard couldn’t argue that. His fellow sailors had liked him well enough to elect him their watch master. They were the only thing he would miss about the Fang. “I suppose the gossips can think whatever they like as long as they respect me. A little fear won’t hurt.” He sighed. The sun was setting, he was tired, and he had one more chore this evening.
“I want to get something to eat, and then we need to pay a visit to the Sea Feather.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to Lieutenant Arundel. He was the Captain of Police four years ago. As far as I can tell, he’s the only one in the last ten years who’s left the Police alive.”
The Temple Sea Watch is about a thousand strong. They are led by an admiral who is appointed by the High Priestess. The admiral, in turn, appoints lieutenants, which have numbered from two to a dozen in the past, and often command their own ships. These lieutenants each appoint captains of hundreds. Captains have ten officers called watch masters, each commanding ten shelts. Watch masters are elected by the sailors themselves.
—Gwain, The Truth about Wyverns
By the time Gerard and Alsair swooped down on the deck of the Sea Feather, it was dark, and torches were burning on deck. Gerard was relieved to learn that Silveo was not there. He found Arundel in his cabin, dictating to a secretary. The lieutenant, it seemed, had heard of Gerard’s promotion. He sent his secretary out of the room as Gerard began to speak. “I trust you are enjoying your time in port, sir?” Alsair came in and lay down along the back wall.
“In my own fashion,” said Arundel. He had a toneless pattern of speech and one of the most expressionless faces Gerard had ever seen.
Gerard’s tail twitched involuntarily. Arundel was the only one of Silveo’s lieutenants who made him uneasy. He was the quietest of the group—a black-furred grishnard with hair as dark as Gerard’s own and eyes as yellow as any hawk’s. For a time, Gerard had thought him the most honest and humane of the group…until Gerard stumbled upon Arundel with a female shavier pirate whom he was supposed to have executed. The memory still made Gerard a little sick.
“What can I do for you?” asked Arundel, his spider-like fingers flickering over the papers on his desk.
Gerard forced his tail to stop twitching. “I understand that you were once Captain of Police. I have been recently appointed to that role, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Arundel watched him impassively.
Gerard plunged on. “Were you able to learn anything about Sky Town? Do you believe it exists?”
Arundel sat back. “It existed. I found Sky Town—a pitiful tree fort on Haplag-34, full of ragged fauns with old weapons and older leaders. We burned the whole island. I’m told it’s still bare.”
Gerard was confused. “The Priestess seems to think Sky Town still exists.”
Arundel nodded. “I’m sure it does, but it’s just a name—a banner for Resistance pirates and their sympathizers to rally around. They tell each other that they have clever leaders operating out of some un-findable hideaway called Sky Town. Undoubtedly, the Resistance does have leaders, but, like the place itself, those leaders are periodically killed. The names are passed on to give the illusion of permanence and invincibility. Sky Town is more an idea than a place.”
Gerard thought about that. “What about Gwain? Montpir mentioned him in his papers.”
Arundel’s emotionless face twitched. “A name that gets passed around. There have been many Gwains.”
“One of the prisoners said he’s distinctive,” said Gerard. “Gwain is supposed to be half grishnard. He looks like a shavier with dewclaws. The prisoner saw him. How many such shelts can there be?”
“Your prisoner lied to you,” said Arundel. “Or perhaps he was tricked.”
“It’s possible,” agreed Gerard. But I don’t believe it. I don’t think you do, either. “Montpir also scribbled the word ‘misnomer’ on a sheet of paper headed ‘Sky Town.’ One of my prisoners talked about being taken by the pirates down an incredibly long tunnel from Maijha Minor to a beach he didn’t recognize. Could it be that Sky Town is actually underground with the name intended to mislead?”
Arundel shrugged. “As I said, the name means nothing. I’m sure the original Sky Town was a tree village. However, the Resistance could easily be operating out of an underground fort these days. They may even have no central location anymore. Sky Town is just an idea, Captain.”
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.”
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.
Gerard shrugged. “Perhaps. However, he was the sort of faun who would highly resent being made to die for a cause. I would treat any information he gave under duress as suspicious.”
Morchella nodded. “You have a point. Please present it to Admiral Lamire when you sail with him to Sern.” She watched Gerard grimace. “You were planning on going with him, weren’t you?”
Gerard said nothing.
“The Police have no ships,” said Morchella softly. “The Sea Watch administers the ships. A journey to Maijha Minor or any other place you wish to investigate must to be coordinated with the Sea Watch. I expect you to work together.”
Gerard shut his eyes. He had not thought that far ahead. He felt suddenly tired.
“Try to get along with Silveo,” said Morchella. “I realize that you find him distasteful, but he has his uses. Learn to exploit them. Silveo can be made to do almost anything once you know how to steer him. You, on the other hand, are a delightful enigma.” And she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Gerard thought for one panicked moment that she was going to kiss him on the mouth, but she only touched her lips to his forehead in a vaguely maternal gesture.
Then she brought her lips down to his ear in a way that was not maternal at all, tickling his skin with her breath. “Now, you need to go home and love your minstrel girl and sleep. You lost your temper this evening because you are exhausted. Go home, Gerard. I’ll be watching over you.”
The High Priestess of Wefrivain is a mysterious, but stable figure for most of her subjects. She is ageless—as beautiful and terrible as their grandfathers remembered her. Some believe that there have been a long line of High Priestesses, each chosen in great secrecy. They point to the fact that she does not often appear in public, and some say that her appearance has differed over time. Others claim that she is deathless—a personification of the will of the gods, not a true person at all. A few claim that she is a wyvern shelt, although those who have worked with her closely swear she is a grishnard. Her life and work are surrounded by secrecy, and while her Sea Watch or Police may perpetrate atrocities, these acts are rarely attributed to the Priestess, who is supposed to spend most of her time in communion with the gods. The minstrels of the old school (of whom very few remain) call her a servant of the Firebird. This is curious, as the wyvern-gods of Wefrivain have completely eradicated all monuments to that ancient deity.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Alsair met Gerard on the Temple steps. “I’ve never seen a wyvern pick up a shelt that way. I thought perhaps they’d sacrificed you.” He nosed Gerard this way and that, as though to make sure he was all in one piece. “Lamire came out looking like he’d just eaten a live eel, which gave me a bit of hope.”
Gerard sighed. “Silveo probably hates me more than ever for earning him a reprimand from the Priestess.”
“Oh? Does our silver tadpole fear something, then?”
“Loves and fears, I think,” said Gerard. “But neither will stop him from trying to kill me after what I said on the deck of the Fang in front of his officers and crew. I should not have lost my temper.”
Alsair shrugged. “I wish I’d said it for you. Don’t worry; I’ll kill him before he gets another shot.”
Gerard took a fistful of Alsair’s ruff. “No, you won’t. You’ll stay out of it. Please, this is already too complicated.” He was feeling more and more confused by the Priestess’s behavior, and he hated feeling confused. Perhaps I am just tired. He’d slept less than a watch last night, and it was already late. Thessalyn would be worried.
Gerard told Alsair the gist of what had happened in the Temple as they flew back to the inn. He did not say anything about Morchella’s kiss.
“We have to go to Sern?” whined Alsair. “With those conniving sea rats?”
“You don’t have to go,” said Gerard. “In fact, I’d be pleased if you’d stay and help Thessalyn settle into the house.”
“Oh, no. No offense to your lady, but my place is with you—now more than ever.”
“I don’t need you to protect me, Alsair.”
The griffin made a mock whimper. “You wound me!”
Gerard refused to be drawn. “Silveo has an order not to kill me. He has no such order about you.” Or, he thought with a chill, about Thessalyn. “Can we go any faster?”
When they reached the inn, Gerard tore up the stairs three at a time and unlocked the door to his room. “Thess!”
She sat up in bed, her golden hair tousled and gleaming faintly in the stream of light from the hall. “Gerard? What’s wrong?”
He sagged against the doorframe. Everything. “Nothing.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “Are you hurt? Please come here.”
He shut the door and came to her in the dark (it made no difference to her). “Your heart’s beating like a bird’s,” she whispered. “What happened today? Did someone hurt you?” Her hands were running all over him in a very distracting way.
“No one hurt me. I had a fight with Silveo. We almost attacked each other. The Priestess interfered. I thought Silveo might think of hurting you to get at me.”
“No one has bothered me, unless you count asking me to sing “The Tale of the Maiden’s Pearl” eleven times. I suppose that could count as harassment.” Gerard smiled. Thessalyn was undressing him with expert speed. “What were you and Silveo fighting about?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he said, and then growled in her ear, which had the usual effect of making her try to crawl inside his shirt.
* * * *
Gerard dreamed that night that he stood on the shores of a starless sea, with only a fingernail of yellow moon shining through the clouds. He was lost and alone and very cold. He was looking for something, but he did not know what.
Then light exploded in front of him. It struck him like a hammer, so that he sank to his knees. Squinting into the heavy brilliance, he saw a huge eagle with feathers so bright they looked like flame. Gerard struggled to his feet. He did not want to appear afraid.
The Firebird looked at him with warm, golden eyes, and Gerard knew that he could hide nothing from this creature. He also knew that the Firebird saw his courage in the face of his fear and loved him for it. The huge eagle bent his head until his beak brushed Gerard’s forehead and uttered one word. “Mine.”
Then the light went out, except for one tiny spark on the sand. Gerard picked it up—a golden feather, warm and glowing. He saw a trail, then, leading away into the caves beside the beach. He followed the trail, carrying the golden feather. The darkness seemed to press against him. Darker and deeper he went, until he could see nothing except the feather. He clutched it in both hands, terrified that he would lose it, that he would lose himself in the darkness.
* * * *
“Thess, how does the Priestess know things?”
Thessalyn stopped her tactile exploration of their new home. “What do you mean?”
“Her wyvern probably saved my life last night.” Gerard had already told Thessalyn about the fight. “It happened so fast, yet she seemed to have sent the wyvern.”
“Perhaps the gods have been watching over you,” suggested Thessalyn.
Gerard had thought of that. It made his skin crawl. “But,” he persisted, “she knew things about the fight when we arrived in her Sanctum. I don’t see how even a wyvern could have gotten there ahead of us.” He hesitated. “And yet, she doesn’t know everything. She didn’t know what I’d done with the prisoners or what they’d said to me.”
“She is a goddess, love,” said Thessalyn, “a servant of the Firebird. She may have once been a grishnard like you or me, but now she is something more, something different. Perhaps the Firebird himself speaks to her. Who can say?”
The Firebird. That reminded him of something. “I dreamed of him last night.”
Thessalyn looked interested. She believed in dreams. “Did he speak to you?”
“Yes…” The details were coming back. “He came to me on a beach on a dark night. He said…” What did he say? That I was brave? That he loved me? No, he didn’t actually say any of that. “‘Mine.’ He touched my forehead with his beak and said, ‘Mine.’”
Thessalyn smiled. “I told you, Gerard: you are good. The light claims you.”
Gerard shook his head. It was the darkness, he thought. The darkness was trying to claim me. Who won? Did I keep that golden feather? He couldn’t remember.
Chapter 10. Silveo Gives Advice
The islands of Wefrivain were once home to a rich variety of shelts and creatures, and there is evidence that they once lived and worked (and sometimes fought) on equal terms. However, grishnards eventually subjugated all the other races. They believe that panauns (shelts with paws) are the natural rulers of fauns (shelts with hooves) and nauns (shelts with neither hooves nor paws). Grishnards believe that fauns are fit food for panauns. However, grishnards were not the only panauns in old Wefrivain. Wolflings once inhabited the islands, too, and the grishnards slowly eradicated them as competitors. Foxlings were more circumspect, more willing to serve and work with the grishnards, so they were allowed to survive, though viewed as a lesser species. Their animal counterparts did not fare so well and have been largely exterminated from all but the deepest jungle. A few pockets of other rare panauns still exist on some islands, such as the ocelons of Sern.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
The traditional residence of the Captain of Police was, indeed, a humble place compared to the homes of most government officials in Dragon’s Eye, but there was a small griffin nest house and a garden. Thessalyn began at once to memorize the layout of the rooms, and Gerard knew that by the time he returned, she would be navigating the house as though she could see. He asked Marlo Snale to look in on her daily and buy anything she required. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.
Gerard debated over whether he should take any Police with him to Sern and if so, how many. He was appalled to learn from Marlo that the Police presently consisted of only fifty-five individuals. In the past, their numbers had ranged from five hundred to more than four thousand, with offices on several islands. Gerard’s fears of inheriting a bloodthirsty army of thugs were replaced by fears of inheriting a tiny band of ineffectual cowards. It seemed to him that the only Police to survive their service in recent years were the lazy, the young, and the incompetent. Those the Resistance didn’t think worth killing.
His officers consisted of three wardens, who presently commanded less than twenty shelts each. I had better get to know them, he decided. Now is as good a time as any. So, very early that morning, he sent a messenger to each of their homes with orders to report to the dock prepared for a journey to Sern by the first watch of the day.
He left Marlo Snale in charge of the Police on Lecklock, in spite of his ardent protests. (“I have never wanted to be an officer, sir.” “With all respect, I am too inexperienced for this, sir.” “Sir will please note that I take this position under protest.”)
“I’ll be gone for a red month at most,” said Gerard. “As far as I can tell, you’ve been in the Police longer than anyone and, you know how they work. Besides, there are no prisoners in the dungeon and virtually nothing to do. You’ll spend more time running errands for Thessalyn than managing the Police.” As an afterthought, he add, “Should you become bored, you have my permission to do some recruiting.”
“Yes, sir,” said Marlo miserably.
Gerard kissed Thessalyn good-bye and left his new house about mid-morning. He did not think Silveo could possibly sail before noon on such short notice, and if he had somehow gotten away earlier, Gerard would catch up on Alsair.
“I wonder what our dear admiral thinks about going to Sern,” said the griffin as they flew low over the rooftops of Dragon’s Eye. “Home sweet home, eh? Shall we ask him the way to the best restaurants?”
“Only if we want our throats cut,” said Gerard. In the time he’d been sailing with Silveo, they’d visited every one of the great island kingdoms except Sern. A small, mean part of his mind hoped Silveo was uncomfortable. If he’d left my prisoner alone, we wouldn’t have to go there now.
When he reached the dock with his three bleary-eyed wardens, he found that only the Fang was intended to sail to Sern. This meant that he would have no choice but to sail with Silveo and Farell.
Farell was the lieutenant who commanded that ship, and one of Silveo’s sycophants. Gerard suspected they were sleeping together, though he had never cared enough to puzzle it out. Silveo was sexually omnivorous and as restless as the sea, the only common denominator in his relationships being that they always involved shelts over whom he had complete control. This disgusted Gerard.
“Ah, and here are the Police,” said Silveo brightly as they came onboard, “come to bring order to the vessel! I see you’re already whipping them into shape, Holovar.”
Gerard glanced at his wardens. One of them—the one he’d met in the prison foyer yesterday—looked as though he might already be drunk. Of the other two, one was hardly older than Marlo Snale, and the other was a white-haired shelt of perhaps seventy who looked mildly confused and was wearing boots that didn’t match.
“What makes you think we have enough extra victuals for these mouths,” asked Silveo, “useful as they appear.”
“I sent a messenger early this morning,” said Gerard stiffly. Don’t even try to tell me you don’t have enough food. Silveo and his crew ate like kings aboard ship. It was one of the things the sailors liked about him. “The Priestess ordered us to come,” he added, in case that helped.
Silveo looked doubtful. “She may have ordered you to come. These fine specimens, on the other hand—”
“They will do their part aboard ship,” snapped Gerard. “I know you can always use more deckhands.”
His wardens looked alarmed. Gerard guessed they had not served on a ship in a very long time, if ever.
“Deckhands,” repeated Silveo. “Why not? They’re breathing and everything. Farell, give them assignments.” He turned back to Gerard, his pale blue eyes bright with scorn against his black kohl. “And yourself, Captain? What do you intend to do aboard ship?”
“‘Myself’ would rather be employed than idle,” retorted Gerard. What are you going to do? Make me mend sails like a seamstress?
Silveo must have taken Gerard’s words to heart, for he proceeded to make certain that Gerard was, indeed, idle. No one would let him help with anything. He was housed in one of the guest cabins, away from the regular sailors with whom he’d served the last year. His new position, combined with Silveo’s apparent orders, made his old comrades shy and awkward around him, and his placement on the ship isolated him.
Gerard should have been taking his meals with Silveo and Farrell, but they did not invite him, and he did not ask. Instead, he dined alone in his cabin with Alsair. Without the griffin’s company, he would have been lonely indeed. They made long forays away from the ship, hunting on nearby islands and visiting small towns. Alsair seemed entirely pleased with the arrangement, but Gerard was not. He had spent half his life sailing, rowing, and fishing. None of his previous vessels had been as large as the Fang, but he’d certainly not come aboard her ignorant of ropes, sails, knots, or navigation. Gerard was a good sailor. He was willing to be useful, even to Silveo, and the waste of his time and talents chafed him.
Late on the night of the tenth day, he came out of his cabin (lack of activity made it difficult for him to sleep), and found Silveo alone on the quarterdeck. The rail was about the right height for him to cross his arms and rest his chin there. In keeping with his new policy, Silveo completely ignored Gerard when he rested his elbows on the railing a few paces away.
“Do you want a public apology?” demanded Gerard. He was tired of this. Besides, he had a direct order. Priestess, I am trying to get along with him.
Silveo sniffed. “Would that make you feel better? Appeals to your honor, eh?”
“In this case, it’s what appeals to yours that matters.”
Silveo made a face. “My honor?” He looked down at the churning wake. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get here?”
We’re having a conversation, thought Gerard in surprise. This had never happened before. “No,” he said truthfully. “But I know it can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” said Silveo, almost in a whisper. “You, who’s had everything handed to you—shelts like you can afford honor. Shelts like me—” He shook his head, his turquoise earrings flashing in the moonlight. “Holovar, I’m going to give you some advice. You may not trust most of what I say to you—and you shouldn’t—but this, at least, is well-meant: take that apology you want to give me, and give it to your father. Get down on your hands and knees and beg him for forgiveness. Foreswear your minstrel girl; trust me, there will be others. Do whatever it takes, and go home. Your place, princeling, is back on your island.”
Gerard could feel a knot of anger in his belly. “Never!”
Silveo’s lip curled. “What I just told you to do is nothing to what I’ve had to do to get here. You have wealth and power at your fingertips, and for the sake of your absurd ideas of honor, you come into my place and try to usurp it. Well, I won’t let you! I will kill you if you persist.”
Gerard stared at him. He thinks I’m a threat to his position.
And why shouldn’t he? asked another voice in his head. The Priestess obviously likes you. You’ve been promoted with great speed. You’re the first son of a royal house, with all the training that entails. Temple service rarely sees a shelt like you, and when they do, they put him in charge.
He remembered a conversation with Thessalyn. “And you are intimidating, especially to someone like that.” Always wiser than I credit her.
“I don’t want your job, Silveo.”
“Want has nothing to do with it. I don’t think you wanted the Police, but there you are. Now, I’ve given my advice and my warning. Don’t expect to hear it again. Goodnight, Holovar.”
“Wait,” growled Gerard. “Personal differences aside, I need to talk to you about this trip. That smuggler was not the sort of person to willingly die for a cause.”
Silveo turned back to him with his usual sneer. “No, thank the gods. He was bleating like a sheep before we finished.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Gerard. “He was the sort of person who would say anything he thought you wanted to hear. He would especially delight in leading you into a trap. It would not matter to him if some Resistance died as a result, so long as his tormenter suffered.”
Silveo quirked an eyebrow. “I’m touched by your concern.”
“I am concerned for the organization I serve,” said Gerard, willing himself to patience.
Silveo examined his fingernails. “I find that in general, the first things a shelt throws out during an interrogation are the truest. After that—” He shrugged. “You take what you hear with a stiff dose of reservations.”
“I’m glad to know it. Because that smuggler struck me as devious and cunning—”
“So am I,” interrupted Silveo, “and I’m sure he thought there was something in a particular warehouse in Ocelon Town. He suspected weapons. Of course, our smuggler might have been mistaken, or the Resistance might have moved, or the materials might not turn out to be very impressive. I’m not actually stupid, Holovar; I know these things. But I think there’s an excellent chance we’ll find something in that warehouse if we move fast enough. Of course, your bellowing and parading the night before we left didn’t do much in the way of keeping things quiet. Rumors may already have reached the Resistance, and they may have moved their stash.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” said Gerard.
“Don’t thank me,” growled Silveo. “I am not doing you any favors. I’m not your friend, Holovar. I have given you my one and only piece of good advice: go home.”
One might think, after visiting an island like Lecklock, that Wefrivain is utterly hostile to all non-grishnard species. This is not the case. Wefrivain is not a nation. It is a loose confederation of highly autonomous island kingdoms, frequently at odds and occasionally at war with each other. They are held together not by a central government, but by a central religion. Attitudes towards non-grishnards vary widely. Haplag is probably the most tolerant of the Great Islands. There, free shavier born on the islands receive a brand at birth. They are permitted to own property and some are successful business shelts. A skilled non-grishnard sailor may find employment on merchant vessels everywhere, and most harbors in Wefrivain have laws against violence to sailors of any species in port. Some kingdoms afford the rarer faun species, such as gazumelle and zeds, the same treatment as the more populous shavier. The rare panaun species, such as foxlings and ocelons, are frequently treated like lower class grishnards. Nauns do not fare so well. Grishnards consider cowry catchers to be little more than beasts. Selkies (seal shelts) are often treated like cowry catchers if they can be caught.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
They reached Sern two days later and docked in Slag harbor. Sern was the westernmost of the great isles and the closest to the Lawless Lands beyond Wefrivain. If Silveo was uneasy about revisiting the place, he never showed it. He sent a messenger to notify the city magister of his arrival, left Farell in charge of the ship, and started off to the warehouse district with fifty armed sailors. Gerard’s wardens were left aboard ship and Gerard was, as usual, ignored.
Gerard did not feel like fighting for the company of his wardens. Silveo’s estimation of them had been unfortunately correct, although Gerard thought that actual work was doing them good. However, he did not intend to be left behind himself. Alsair was determined to come, but Gerard shook his head.
“I don’t want you in a situation where an arrow could be said to have fired wildly.” Before he could protest, Gerard continued. “Fly over the city. Look for suspicious activity—shelts running from the area where we’re going, large groups of fauns, that sort of thing. You can watch me and come down if it looks like I’m in trouble.” The griffin reluctantly agreed, so Gerard followed Silveo’s party alone.
They were heading for the warehouse district, which bordered Ocelon Town. Gerard had been on Sern only once before during his coming of age tour of the islands, but he had retained strong memories of the area. Ocelons were ocelot shelts—a rare breed of panaun indigenous to Sern. They were protected by law, but tended to fill the lower ranks of employment on the island. Sern had the largest wineries in Wefrivain, powered primarily by ocelon labor, and the brothels loved them almost as much as foxlings. They were good sailors—small and agile, with an innate sense of balance on a rolling deck.
Ocelons stood a little taller than foxlings and, like zeds, some of their fur patterns continued onto their skin. They frequently had markings on their arms and faces. Their eyes were striking—faintly almond-shaped, slitted, and often an arresting shade of green or gold. They were exotic, beautiful creatures. Perhaps their beauty had saved them from the fate of other non-grishnards in Wefrivain, but it could not save them from the poverty in which they lived. Their animal counterparts lived with them—small cats about thigh-high to most grishnards, whose spotted pelts were as gorgeous as their masters’. Only an ocelon could legally sell an ocelot pelt on Sern, the claim being such a cat had died a natural death. However, desperate or indebted ocelons were frequently pressured into killing their own animal blood kin for the expensive pelts. Silveo had been joking to Farell that morning about whether he could get away with wearing ocelot fur into Ocelon Town—an idea that Gerard found perfectly revolting.
Now as they left the harbor, the buildings changed from the wooden sheds to shacks and finally to semi-permanent tents of leather and sailcloth. The tents were clumped so closely together as to seem like one mammoth structure, and the dirt streets between grew narrower as they went deeper into the shantytown. They passed open dung pits buzzing with flies. The stench mingled with odors of wine, cheap perfume, food, sweat, rotting meat, and unwashed bodies. Gerard didn’t remember coming to this part of the shanty town on his coming of age tour. He felt sick.
The place seemed eerily quiet, with only the occasional golden eye peering from behind a leather flap or skinny spotted cat darting down an alley. Yet Gerard saw evidence of recent activity. A children’s jumping game had been scrawled in the dirt, with small pawprints all around. A table stood outside what must have been a restaurant, cups of tea still steaming beside the plates. He guessed that Alsair was seeing a wave of ocelons retreating from the area occupied by the Sea Watch. Curiosity made him wish he’d flown with the griffin. Are these shelts guilty about something? Or are they just frightened of the Watch? He knew that several kings of Sern had taken it into their heads to eliminate the eyesore of Ocelon Town, and Gerard suspected that the ocelons were wary of grishnards in general.
Wooden shingles with a meaningless scrawl of lines hung above some tent doors. Gerard stared at the shingles. Ocelons have a different language, he remembered. His father had mentioned it briefly in their tour of Sern. Looking closely, he saw that many tents had small signs in the strange, sparse writing. He even thought he saw street signs. It’s a world unto itself, a world grishnards can’t even understand—a perfect place for the Resistance!
A street vendor’s cart had been left standing, full of roasted fruits. Gerard saw some of the sailors helping themselves and resisted the urge to discipline them. He looked around at the shacks. The bone-gnawing sense of want was almost tangible. Give them a future, and they would give us anything.
On their right, the tents gave way to a series of blocky stone and mortar buildings, heavily locked and sometimes guarded by unfriendly looking grishnards and griffins. Silveo stopped before a squat, smallish building with an intimidating grishnard guard. He proceeded to have an argument with the guard, most of which Gerard could not hear from his position in the back, although his height allowed him to see most of what happened.
Silveo was hard to miss. He had apparently elected not to wear ocelot fur. Instead, he was dressed in a black and white striped cape, pants, and boots which gave every indication of having once been the pelt of one or more zeds. The leather had been cunningly sewn so that the furless sections formed a pattern between the furred pieces. Gerard had always been taught that wearing the pelts of shelts, even fauns, was tasteless and perverse. Silveo had completed the outfit with a white linen shirt, heavily frilled at the sleeves and a red hat bristling with feathers.
“He looks like he’s wearing half a pegasus on his head,” Alsair had commented. “Is he trying to look taller? Because it isn’t working.”
“I can’t unlock it,” Gerard heard the guard say. “I don’t have a key. I only patrol for the owner.”
“Gerard!” Gerard turned to see Alsair dropping into the street, panting with excitement. “Shelts are fleeing out the back of the building! I think some of them are shavier. Quick or you’ll miss them!”
Chapter 12. The Contents of a Warehouse
The status of griffins in Wefrivain is strange, considering they are the animal counterpart of the supposed dominant species. Although they are treated with respect and allowed to hunt other sentient species, such as pegasus and even some shelts, griffins are not considered equal with grishnards. Alone, they are not permitted to participate in government, to own property, or to vote on those islands where voting is part of the governmental system. As the partner of a grishnard, they may influence all these things, but only indirectly through their rider. They are treated much like underage grishnard children. In fact, although they cannot be bought or sold, the griffins of Wefrivain are essentially chattel.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
Everyone heard Alsair’s excited shout, and Silveo reacted immediately. “Hold this one!” he bellowed and shoved the warehouse guard at two of his followers (or tried to; Silveo was a bit small to be shoving grishnards). “Around back! Now!”
Gerard was already away, following Alsair, who evidently thought that taking to the air would require too much time. The griffin dashed along the wall of the building. Without breaking stride, he leapt over a sunken road, spreading his wings a little to clear the gap. Gerard jumped over it as well. Silveo will never clear it. Gerard was sure that at least a few of the other sailors could jump the gap. The rest would have to either climb down into the sunken road and back up, or they would have to find a way around it. But there will be enough of us to fight.
As it turned out, no fight was necessary. Alsair slid to a stop, growling in front of the open backdoor. “Wyvern piss! I should have followed them. Or attacked them.”
Gerard shook his head. I should have stayed with you. “It’s not your fault. You moved as fast as you could.”
He turned to the handful of sailors who’d followed him over the road. “Spread out and search all the surrounding buildings. Arrest anyone who’s running or out of breath, anyone who hides from you. Look for shavier. Go!”
They wavered a moment, clearly uncertain of his status.
“I am a captain!” barked Gerard, thankful that no shelt above the rank of watch master was present. “That’s an order!”
They went, then, running into the maze of warehouses.
“What’s an order?” snarled Silveo, coming around the corner. He had somehow negotiated the sunken road well ahead of most of the grishnards.
“I sent them after the shelts who ran,” said Gerard. Belatedly, he realized that he was confirming Silveo’s paranoia of losing his command. “If you don’t want that, I’ll send Alsair to call them back. They haven’t gone far.”
“In the future, bring your own shelts to order,” snapped Silveo, but he did not attempt to call them back. His tail was bristling, and he was openly toying with a throwing knife.
Is that for me or the rebels?
Gerard turned away with an effort, drew his sword, and started into the building. “At least we know they didn’t have time to hide much.” The warehouse, however, did not seem to contain much that needed hiding. Gerard had expected to find boxes of swords or spears or knives. He had thought that perhaps they would find coins or sweet leaf—an addictive drug grown in the mountains of Sern and some of its holdings. He had thought they might find medicine or food or other essential supplies of an army.
Instead, they found grape presses, close to a hundred of the smaller variety, which could be operated by one or two shelts. Even Silveo would have a difficult time finding anything treasonous about grape presses. They were exactly the sort of thing one would expect to find in a warehouse on Sern.
A few crates were discovered against one wall. When they were pried open, they turned out to contain a great many small, randomly shaped bits of metal. “Scrap,” Silveo pronounced it. He tossed one of the pieces across the room in disgust. “Scrap of no great worth. This warehouse must have been a meeting place. The shelts were the only things of value here.” Nevertheless, he set half a dozen sailors to disassembling several of the presses to make sure there was nothing hidden inside.
Gerard examined one of the machines minutely. “These presses look a little strange to me,” he said at last. “Has anyone here worked with them before?”
No one spoke. Gerard forced himself not to look at Silveo. If you really did grow up here in the kind of conditions shelts claim, there’s a good chance you’ve used one of these things or seen one used. But if that were so, Silveo had no intention of volunteering the information to Gerard.
Alsair was batting a piece of scrap metal around the floor. “Holovar, please send your creature back to the ship,” said Silveo. He was peering into the one of the grape presses, not even looking at Alsair.
Gerard frowned. “He was helpful, sir.”
Silveo waved his glossy tail. “And now he’s just making a mess. Please send him away before he wets on the floor.”
Gerard heard Alsair’s outraged hiss and half ran to get between the griffin and the admiral. Alsair was bristling to his tail-tip, his eagle’s eyes dilated and murderous. Silveo was talking to one of his captains now and didn’t appear to be paying attention. Gerard caught a fistful of Alsair’s ruff and pulled the griffin’s feathered ear close to his own mouth. “Don’t you dare!” he whispered. “He is baiting you so that he can kill you! Keep your temper, Alsair!”
Alsair’s throat was throbbing on a kettledrum growl. He was still straining against Gerard’s hold on his ruff. Gerard shook his head. “You’ve done everything you can here. Go back to the ship.”
Alsair’s golden eyes shifted to Gerard’s face. Gerard winced at the hurt and anger he saw there. I can’t defend you in this! he wanted to say. The only defense is to swallow your pride and stay out of his way.
Abruptly, Alsair jerked free, leaving some of his tawny feathers in Gerard’s fist. He gave a harsh scream that echoed in the building and made everyone’s ears flip back against their heads. Then he whirled and stalked from the warehouse.
Gerard watched him go, wondering for the hundredth time whether he should have forced Alsair to stay on Holovarus. He wasn’t sure that he could have done it, but he could have tried. It was selfish to bring him with me into exile.
Alsair had been raised as the bond animal of a crown prince. He had been groomed from cubhood to be the companion of wealth and power. He could read—something almost unheard of in beasts. He not only knew how to fight, but how to compliment the fighting of a shelt. He could fly like a gull and not throw his rider. He could speak four languages—most of them better than Gerard—and he knew the correct etiquette for a griffin in every great island of Wefrivain and a number of the smaller ones. He was more than a friend. He was a weapon and a tool, and he was being largely wasted in Gerard’s present situation. A year ago, Alsair could have shredded the likes of Silveo for a wrong look, and no one (except perhaps Gerard) would have done more than chide him. Now he had to swallow insults without even a reply. And all because of my choices.
Gerard felt suddenly tired. He had been planning to wait until the sailors he’d sent away returned from searching the area for the fugitives, but now he changed his mind. Silveo will do what he’s going to do, whether I’m here or not. Gerard left the party to their disassembling of grape presses and started back towards the ship.
This time he found more activity in Ocelon Town. Evidently one lone grishnard was not as intimidating as fifty Sea Watch. Gerard was wearing civilian clothes (the Police did not have an official uniform, a fact Gerard intended to remedy when he got around to it). Most of the ocelons coming and going in the dirt streets paid him no attention, although the children stopped their games to peer shyly at him. Their facial markings were delightfully varied—some having almost none and some with heavily lined eyes and stripes on their foreheads and cheeks. Silveo should have been born an ocelon, thought Gerard. No need for all that kohl. On an impulse, Gerard stopped outside a tent with tables where two ocelons were eating. He opened the flap and stepped inside.
The grishnard written language is an ancient and cumbersome pictographic text. Each word is a little picture with no clues to pronunciation. It requires years to learn to read and write these characters with any skill, and they serve to perpetuate Wefrivain’s rigid class system. Shelts without the means to begin early training in the written word are hopelessly outmatched by shelts who’ve been trained from childhood. Oddly enough, phonetic characters have been known in the islands for ages. They can be taught in a day to a willing shelt and would greatly increase efficiency in almost every area of business and learning. However, the beauty-cult of the wyverns dismissed phonetic characters long ago as barbaric, crude, and ugly (the worst sin). The wyverns and their Priestess may, indeed, find the phonetic characters ugly, but I believe that they also find them dangerous. The class system is to their advantage. They do not want a reading public.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
The tent was a teahouse. Gerard could smell the tea as soon as he entered, but the interior was so dark that he could see nothing for a moment. He stood there, his head brushing the top of the low roof, fighting a sense of claustrophobia. Gerard took a step forward, and something dangled in his face, tickling his nose and making him sneeze. Gradually, he became accustomed to the gloom and saw that the tent had been constructed of raw pelts, fur-side inward. They made a crazy pattern of spots and stripes. A number of the pelts had feet or faces of animals still attached to them, and a couple of paws were dangling in Gerard’s face.
In addition to the pelts, the owner of the teahouse had unaccountably sewn random bits of ribbon, bone, and feathers into the walls. The whole effect was a bewildering array of colors and textures. Gerard glanced over the tables. There were only four, each large enough for two or three shelts. A leather curtain partitioned the back of the room, which must be the kitchen. The place was lit by only two censors, which gave off a pleasant odor.
A lone ocelon sat at one of the tables with a book and a cup of tea. He was wearing pants and boots and had a few facial stripes. His hair was light brown. Gerard wondered if he might be a sailor, as his pants appeared to be made from sailcloth.
Gerard sat down across from him. The ocelon’s eyes lifted slowly from his book, hazel in the muddy light. Gerard was surprised. The ocelon was wearing little wire-framed lenses. Eye-lenses were rare on Wefrivain, though Gerard had seen them a couple of times before. They were expensive and difficult to make. Most of the shelts who could afford them didn’t need them (grishnards had legendarily good eyesight), and shelts who might need them couldn’t afford them.
“Where did you get those?” he asked.
Gerard had intended nothing but honest curiosity. However, the ocelon took off his lenses and slid them across the table. Gerard felt ashamed. Have these shelts been so trodden upon that they immediately roll over every time a grishnard points a finger at them?
Gerard forced himself to pick up the lenses and examine them. The frames were only cheap wire, but the glass itself was good work. He set them back on the table in front of the ocelon. “I wasn’t accusing you of theft. I was only curious.”
The ocelon quirked a smile. He put his lenses back on. “You must be Gerard Holovar. Welcome to Sern, Captain.”
Gerard tried to cover his surprise. “Am I already so famous?”
“You have something of a reputation, yes. And you’re hard to miss.”
Gerard sat back. It was true that his height set him apart in a crowd, but usually only to shelts who’d met him before. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
The ocelon shrugged. “I was on Holovarus once—just a ship’s clerk. I doubt you remember me.”
Gerard didn’t, but he would not make the mistake again. “Can you read?” he asked with interest.
For answer, the ocelon showed him the book in his hand. Not only read, thought Gerard with a jolt. Write. The book was a blank of vellum sheets produced for scribes who copied manuscripts. Gerard spied an inkwell and pen at the ocelon’s elbow. A moment later, his surprise turned to puzzlement. The characters on the page were not grishnard. They were the strange, spidery script of the ocelons.
“It’s the phonetic,” said the ocelon as Gerard examined the book. “Bookkeeping for a merchant vessel.”
The owner of the teahouse appeared at that moment and asked Gerard what he wanted. She spoke haltingly, with downcast eyes. Gerard was still looking at the book. “Whatever he’s having.”
He stared at the dense lines of script. They didn’t look like any bookkeeping he had ever seen, but Gerard had no experience with the phonetic. He returned the book. “Do you read and write grishnard also?”
“Not as well, but, yes, I can.”
“And other languages? Hunti? Mountain grishnard? Maijhan?”
The ocelon smiled, his lenses flashing in the censor’s light. “I speak a little of everything.”
Gerard drew a deep breath. As far as he knew, what he was about to suggest had never been done before. Still, the Priestess has a foxling leading her Watch. I don’t see why she should object to an ocelon in the Police. “Would you like a job?” he asked.
The ocelon nearly choked on his tea. Gerard took a moment to realize he was laughing. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I was only thinking of what my master would say. I have debts I cannot abandon, but thank you for your offer. I realize it’s a high compliment.”
The mistress of the teahouse had brought Gerard’s drink. She passed it to the ocelon, who handed it to Gerard. “I could arrange for payment of your debts,” Gerard persisted. “I’m in need of a shelt who speaks Maijhan.”
“I’m sure you are,” said the ocelon, gathering his supplies into a bag. “But I’m not the one to help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
“At least tell me your name and the name of your ship.”
The ocelon hesitated in the doorway. “Flag,” he said, “and my ship is the Defiance. Good-bye, Captain.”
Gerard frowned. Defiance was a strange name for a merchant ship. Something was tickling at the back of his brain. Almost, he got up and went after the ocelon, but he couldn’t think of a way to detain him except by force. He didn’t have a good reason, just a gut-level sense of wrongness. At that moment, he remembered Montpir’s list. Tea cups—tea leaves?
Gerard glanced down at his cup. It was ordinary clay. He reached across the table and picked up Flag’s empty cup, but the sodden leaves told him nothing. He sniffed at them, then sniffed at his own cup. I thought I told her to give us the same kind of tea. He was fairly certain that the teas were not, in fact, identical, but he couldn’t be sure.
Grishnards and griffins did not possess a keen sense of smell, a trait they shared with fauns. However, other panauns did have extraordinary noses, including foxlings. On an impulse, Gerard tipped out his tea onto the dirt floor, keeping the leaves. As he did so, he noticed something under the ocelon’s chair and picked it up—a scrap of downy, blue-gray feather. It could have come from anywhere, but… Gerard stood up all at once. He picked up both of the small cups and put one in each pocket. The owner was still nowhere in sight, so he deposited several cowries on the table—more than enough to pay for both his tea and the cups—and ducked out of the tent.
He had not gone far when he ran into Silveo’s party returning from the warehouse. Gerard fell in with them. His eyes! he realized suddenly. I don’t think they were slitted. I was so busy looking at his lenses that I didn’t notice. Of course, the teahouse had been dim, and any shelt’s eyes would have been dilated. Even a slit-eyed shelt’s pupil might look round in that light, but Gerard thought he was right.
He picked up his pace and reached the front of the group. “Silveo, are these teas different?”
Silveo leapt back as though Gerard had tried to hand him a live snake. In his excitement, Gerard realized he’d been over-familiar. He was also asking Silveo to do in public something that set him apart as a non-grishnard. It might make him angry, but at the moment Gerard didn’t care. “Teacups,” he said impatiently, waving them in the air. “Different—yes or no? It’s important.”
For a moment, Gerard thought Silveo would refuse, might even spit in his face. Then he took the teacups, moving with deliberate slowness. “Has anyone ever introduced you to the concept of verbal communication, Holovar? Sentences, perhaps?”
Gerard was thinking again. The face spots could have been paint or kohl. And he was wearing boots. Normally, only panauns wore boots. They were unnecessary and uncomfortable for fauns, but a faun wishing to disguise himself as a panaun could construct padded and reinforced boots. Did he have a tail? Gerard didn’t remember seeing one. Of course, long-tailed shelts sometimes tucked their tails into their pants to keep them out of the way, and a tail could be amputated in an accident. Picturing the shelt standing up made Gerard think of something else. His height! Flag had been tall for an ocelon, but he was about the right height for a shavier faun.
Silveo broke into his thoughts. “You could say they’re different, yes. Did you actually drink any of this, Holovar?” He was holding out Gerard’s cup.
“No.”
Silveo clicked his tongue. “A pity. It’s poisoned.”
Gerard started to laugh.
Silveo raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you would find the idea so entertaining. This is really crude work; I can do much better. Priestess knows I’ve exercised self-restraint in the matter of your food.”
Gerard hardly heard him. “I think I just met Gwain.”
Chapter 14. Flirtation and Chocolate
In many cases, minstrels are essentially the priestesses of the courts they serve. However, a few minstrels choose to dig deeper than their basic training. Their school houses the oldest library in Wefrivain. Some of the old ballads and epics contain kernels of truth that make our High Priestess and her dragons uneasy.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Silveo stopped his banter at once. “You met whom?”
“Gwain.” Gerard started away. “In a teahouse.”
Silveo had to trot to keep up. “Which teahouse? Where?”
“You know who Gwain is?” asked Gerard.
“Of course, I know who he is. He’s a nuisance. I’d love to carpet my library with his pelt.”
“Arundel didn’t seem to think he’s a real person.”
“Arundel doesn’t think anyone but himself is a real person,” retorted Silveo, and then he seemed to remember who he was talking to and that his command was listening. “Holovar, I demand that you stop and explain yourself. That’s an order. Then, you’re going to lead us to this teahouse.”
Gerard stopped walking. He realized belatedly that the price of Silveo’s help was Silveo’s interference. “Listen: they think they’ve poisoned me. They don’t know that I know. Let’s not kick the hornet’s nest yet. I think we can learn a little more.”
“What you’ll learn,” growled Silveo, “is that the whole arrangement is up and gone by tomorrow. You don’t poison a Captain of Police and then stay in town to see what happens.” His eyes lit up. “We could burn Ocelon Town for this. It’s been a nest of Resistance traitors for ages. This would give us the perfect excuse. The magister will whine about it, but the king won’t care.”
Burn it? Gerard thought of the children staring up at him shyly from their jumping game scrawled in the dirt. He took a deep breath. “So we’ll make enemies of every ocelon in Wefrivain? They’ll hate us, and they’ll never help us.”
“They already hate us,” said Silveo. “Besides, not many will survive the fire to hold grudges. If you think you can make friends out of them, you’re dumber than I thought.”
They were about to have a full-blown argument, and Gerard had the sinking feeling he would lose. The sailors with Silveo had backed off to a respectful distance. Gerard understood their nervousness. When superiors fought, the loser often took out his frustration on the nearest subordinate. However, before either of them could say another word, a messenger came running up the street. He bowed.
“Magister Alvert says that he is honored at the presence of both the Temple Sea Watch and Police on his island—”
“Honored,” muttered Silveo, “more like scared witless.”
“—and he would like to invite sirs to dinner at his city estate. He also begs me to tell the Captain of Police that his wife is here to see him.”
Gerard’s breath caught in his throat. “Thess is here?”
The messenger kept his eyes downcast. “She said that you would not be pleased. She asked me to tell you that she is blind, not crippled.”
Silveo started to laugh. “I like her already.”
Gerard shot him a look. If you come anywhere near her, I will break you in half.
“Would sirs come with me now?” asked the messenger.
“Yes, yes,” said Gerard, “lead the way.”
* * * *
The magister’s city estate was a lavishly manicured garden fortress at the top of a hill. They were met halfway there by a wind-carriage drawn by four purple and gold pegasus, their feathered manes twined with flowers. The carriage had foldable, kite-like wings attached to its sides, and a balloon of light gas attached to the rear. It was constructed to skim along above the rooftops when the wings were opened. The market area at city center provided space for take-off.
Farell and several of the captains from the ship met them there, brought by messenger. Silveo sent the rest of the sailors back to the ship with permission to take the evening off and enjoy themselves. Gerard thought of Alsair. The griffin would have been entirely at home in such an environment, and Gerard wished he hadn’t sent him away.
They had a pleasant ride over the rooftops with the wind in their faces and arrived at last at the hilltop estate amid spreading trees and rich archways of flowering vines. Nothing could seem further from Slag Harbor or the squalor of Ocelon Town, but Gerard noticed that most of the retainers were ocelons. They looked better fed than those in the streets, immaculate in white and gold livery that accentuated their exotic stripes and brilliant eyes. They padded around the estate, bootless on their spotted paws, quiet as shadows and as ornamental as the flowers.
The light had almost faded when they arrived. Torches had been lit in the garden. Gerard heard harp music coming from the pavilion at the center and strode towards it. “Thess?”
The music stopped at once, and she came tripping down the steps, as light-footed as a gazumelle. She ran into his arms. “Gerard!”
He hugged her hard. “Thess.” His voice almost broke. “You cannot follow me around. How did you get here?”
She laid her head against his chest. “An airship. We had a favorable wind. I’ve sailed that route before.” During her touring days as a minstrel student, Thessalyn had been all over Wefrivain. She’d traveled more than Gerard. “You seemed so unhappy about coming; I thought I’d beat you here and surprise you.”
“You did.” He wanted to lecture her, but it felt so good to have her in his arms.
Marlo Snale came slinking out of the pavilion. “Sir, I tried to stop her—”
Gerard shook his head. “I understand.”
“There was nothing to do but come with her,” continued Marlo.
“Thank you for that,” said Gerard.
“I am sorry, sir.”
“It’s alright,” said Gerard, although it wasn’t. But there’s nothing Marlo could have done. If I can’t keep Thess from walking in harm’s way, he certainly wouldn’t be able to. He remembered a time he’d found her strolling alone on the beach on Holovarus, how he’d chided her about tides and pirates and wild animals, and she’d just kept talking about shells and ballads and the smell of the ocean. The trouble was that she’d never been able to see. A shelt who’d gone blind later in life would know the world as it was, would fear their vulnerability in it, but Thessalyn knew only the world as she perceived it, the world in her mind. Gerard had never been able to convince her that it was a deeply dangerous place.
“They have giant butterwort flowers here,” continued Thessalyn. “They’re very interesting. They eat insects. They don’t grow anywhere else. Come and see!” She used that word blithely, knowing that for her it meant to touch, and for him it meant something else.
“Thess!” Gerard took her by the shoulders. “Listen to me: you really can’t follow me around Wefrivain. It—is—dangerous. Please!”
She frowned and brought out her practical voice. “You don’t really expect me to sit at home and worry about you like a sailor’s wife? I am a professional wanderer; you can’t take that away from me, Gerard.”
Gerard bowed his head. There was the trouble. Thessalyn could sing her way to almost any place in the islands. Shelts would not charge her a cowry, and they’d thank her for coming. Normally, her blindness would not put her in much danger—not in the company that would patronize her talents. The title of minstrel gave her a great deal of protection as well, especially to the devout or those who simply feared the gods.
“Yes,” he said carefully, “but I am making enemies.”
Someone cleared his throat, and Gerard turned to see Silveo standing at his elbow. “What he’s try to say in his inarticulate fashion is that the world is not a safe place because there are shelts like me in it.”
Gerard glared down at him.
Silveo kept looking at Thessalyn. “He’s right about that. However, when it comes to me, he worries needlessly. I would not harm someone so lovely—or, at least, I’d need a better reason than Holovar.”
Thessalyn smiled. “Silveo Lamire?”
“For better or for worse.”
She crouched down so that she was on eyelevel with him. Gerard’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, but Silveo ignored him. Thessalyn put a hand out and went over Silveo’s face lightly with her fingertips—her way of seeing someone. Silveo didn’t flinch, even when her fingers danced around his eyes.
Thessalyn giggled. “As Gerard says—too much kohl.”
Silveo grinned. “Is that all he says?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Her fingers whisked over his hat and earrings. “You love pretty things, don’t you?”
“To a fault, as I’m sure your husband has commented upon.”
Thessalyn smiled in the way she did when she was about to say something funny—so that her whole face crinkled up. “I think Gerard is pretty.”
Gerard rolled his eyes. Silveo seemed momentarily startled, then barked a laugh. He kept laughing helplessly for several seconds, then wiped a tear from his eye. “Lady, you have rendered me completely without comment, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”
“Please be nice to my husband, Admiral.”
“I have already told your husband what he needs to do to procure my goodwill, although I see now why he doesn’t want to do it.” Silveo reached into his pocket, and Gerard reached for his sword again.
Silveo glanced at him and very deliberately brought out a little tin. It turned out to contain some kind of candy. He took out a piece and bit it in half. “Now, your husband will note that I have eaten part of this to demonstrate its lack of poison.” He handed the other half to Thessalyn. “It comes from the Lawless Lands, and they sell it sometimes on Sern. I believe it’s called chocolate.”
Thessalyn put the candy in her mouth and chewed for a moment. She shut her eyes in expression of bliss. “Hmm…”
Silveo handed her the tin. “If Holovar wishes, I will bite them all in half, or he can. Otherwise, they’re yours. Have a lovely time on Sern, Lady.”
Gerard watched him go, frowning. Flirtation was the last thing he’d expected when Silveo crossed paths with Thessalyn. But I really don’t think he would hurt her. The idea filled him with immense relief.
Thessalyn interrupted his thoughts. “Is he gone?”
“Yes. Well, he’s across the courtyard.”
“Is he always like that?”
Gerard snorted. “That was as gentle as I’ve ever seen him.”
“He’s not all bad.”
“No. Only mostly.”
She hugged him again. “Are you less afraid for me now?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s dance. I want to dance.”
She could dance very well, provided her partner made certain they didn’t run into anyone. Several other musicians had begun to play in the pavilion and they went round and round in the twilight with the torches burning and fireflies glowing over the grass.
Cartographers disagree over whether the Lawless Lands are an island or whether they are a large land mass like the Pendalon mountains, which lie half a year’s journey to the East. If the Lawless Lands are an island, then they are larger than any in Wefrivain. They are sometimes called the Godless Lands by the cult of the Priestess, because wyverns have not been able to penetrate the interior.
—Gwain, The Truth about Wyverns
Later, when Thessalyn had sat down to sing and Gerard had been introduced to the magister, after he’d eaten, after he’d been sitting alone, sipping a local wine, Silveo came and sat down at his table. The admiral did not speak, but proceeded to help himself to most of the small sweets. A moment later, Farell and several of his captains walked by, talking loudly like shelts who’d had too much to drink. Gerard thought they were all going to sit down and make cunning, inappropriate remarks about his wife, but Silveo waved them off. “Go play somewhere else; go on. Grown-ups are talking.”
But we’re not talking, thought Gerard. We’re listening to Thess. And as the thought occurred to him, he realized it was true.
Silveo listened with absolute attention until she finished the song. He shook his head. “I would hate to make a creature like that cry, Holovar.”
“Then don’t,” said Gerard. He decided he’d better eat the last of the sweets if he wanted any at all.
“Why in the name of all that’s holy couldn’t you have waited?” asked Silveo.
Gerard was lost.
“On Holovarus—make her your mistress and then when you were king, make her your wife? Or just poison your father and be done with it!”
Gerard scowled.
Silveo waived a hand. “Oh, wait, don’t tell me; that wasn’t honorable. It was more honorable to drag her into exile and adopt a dangerous profession that will likely leave her a widow. Then she’ll be totally without protection in this dangerous world of ours. That was more honorable than keeping your intentions a secret or poisoning your father.”
“I would have poisoned the island deity,” spat Gerard, “if I had known how.” Did I say that out loud? Perhaps I’m the one who’s had too much to drink.
Silveo’s eyebrows rose. “So, the rumors are true. You did lose a child.”
Gerard said nothing, only glared into his glass. If you make a joke, I will break your jaw, superior officer or not.
“Girl or boy?” asked Silveo.
“A girl,” whispered Gerard.
Silveo shook his head. “A shame, if she took after her mother at all.” Gerard tried to decide whether this had actually been a joke and if so whether it was worth breaking all codes of conduct over. “Wyverns can be killed,” continued Silveo. “I wouldn’t advise it, though. The gods hold long grudges.”
Gerard glanced at him. “I thought they were invincible and immortal. Thess thinks so, and she’s studied on Mance.”
Silveo shrugged. “They may be immortal in the sense that they don’t sicken or age, but I know they can be killed. We’ve found the pelts in Resistance hideouts.”
Gerard was fascinated. “You found wyvern pelts?” That would be a sight. Wyverns came in as many shades as jungle butterflies, but they were all lustrous.
“Yes,” said Silveo sorrowfully. “The Priestess made us burn them. They were splendid, though.”
Gerard laughed. “Wouldn’t let you make a hat, eh?”
“Not even one. Now, tell me about your supposed meeting with the infamous Gwain. I’ve chased him on and off for years and never laid eyes on him, but dumb luck seems to be your strong point, so maybe you really did see him.”
Gerard told Silveo about the teahouse and his conversation with the shelt who called himself Flag. Silveo interrupted when he got to the book and Flag’s explanation of it. “Impossible. The phonetic is not a recognized form of writing in any court in Wefrivain. No merchant vessel would dare keep records in it. If they found themselves in a legal dispute, those records would be useless.”
“Do you read the phonetic?” asked Gerard, before he realized that he might be asking something insulting.
Silveo glared at him. “Of course I read it. They use it all over Slag for unofficial purposes.” He hesitated. “And if you’d like to learn, I have a couple of books on the subject. Although…” He smiled sweetly. “I doubt you’ll be around long enough.”
Gerard decided to ignore that. He must have taught himself grishnard characters as an adult, or at least a teenager. It was no mean accomplishment. He almost said so, but decided Silveo would probably throw the compliment back in his teeth. Instead, he finished his story about the teahouse. When he got to the part where he asked the shelt’s name, Silveo laughed.
“Flag. Oh, that’s cute.”
“What does it mean?” asked Gerard.
“You should ask Thessalyn. She’ll know, if she’s the professional I take her for.”
“What does it mean?” Gerard repeated.
“Flag is a mythological hero from the very old ballads. His stories are somewhat controversial. The originals call Flag a servant of the Firebird who fought wizards and shape shifters, but they also mention him killing wyverns.”
Gerard sat back. “Ah.”
“And Defiance,” continued Silveo, “is definitely not a merchant vessel. I’d bet a heap of speckled cowries it’s a pirate ship.” He shook his head. “How did he get away?”
“He walked out of the teahouse. I couldn’t think of a good reason to detain him.”
Silveo stared at Gerard. “He walked out? You just let him walk away?”
“I didn’t know who he was. I just had a general suspicion, and—”
Silveo groaned. “What was the Priestess thinking? She has put a lamb in charge of the Police! Holovar, you do not need a ‘good reason’ to detain anyone! You serve an organization renowned for arresting shelts without a ‘good reason’! Next time you get pricklies in your tail or twinges from whatever passes for thought inside your head, take the shelts responsible into custody. If you don’t have the stomach to question him, I will!”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. “What did you do with the guard on the warehouse?”
Silveo shrugged. “Took him inside, broke a few fingers; he didn’t know anything. I think he really was just hired to patrol.”
“And afterward?”
“Killed him, of course.” Silveo watched Gerard’s expression. “I know you think I’m just bloody-minded, but I’ve been doing this a long time. Acts of mercy have a way of coming back to haunt you. If you question a shelt—frighten him and hurt him—and then let him go, he will not thank you for your mercy. He will hold a grudge. His family and friends will hold a grudge, and they’ll have a name and face to go with it. If you kill the shelt and you do a good job of it, his family and friends may never even find the body, and they can never be certain what happened.” He sipped his drink morosely. “There were a few shelts on Sern who should have never let me go. They regretted it very much in the end.”
“Was the magister one of them?” Gerard knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he was curious. The magister had seemed as nervous as a cat in a cage when Gerard met him. His hands fluttered like frightened birds, and he kept bowing and simpering.
Silveo laughed. “No. But I put him where he is, and I could take him away. He knows he’s here not because I like him, but because I hate him less than any of the others qualified for the job.”
So that’s it. Gerard wondered whether the fear in Ocelon Town had been fear of the Sea Watch in general or of Silveo in particular.
“I left Sern a mess,” said Silveo, “but, then, Sern left me a mess.” He spoke lightly, but Gerard detected an undercurrent of pure rage. “I would set fire to the entire island if I thought I could get away with it. Gods, I hate this place.”
Gerard decided he’d better change the subject. Silveo was suddenly drinking much too fast, and the little ocelon servants kept refilling their glasses. Silveo spoke again before Gerard could think of anything to say, “Do not think that just because I’m talking to you you’re safe, Holovar. You should not trust me. You really shouldn’t.”
Gerard watched Thessalyn re-tune her harp for a new song. “You keep saying that.”
Silveo shook his head. “Yes, I must like you. I’ve given you more than fair warning.”
Gerard surprised himself by saying, “You didn’t give me much warning the first two times you tried to kill me.”
“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.”
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.
Alsair would let him escape to run or crawl a few steps, only to pounce on him again. He tossed the child in the air, eliciting terrified screeches. Gerard caught some of the words the sailors were shouting.
“A hand! Let’s have a hand!”
“I’ll give him another turn of the glass.”
“No a half turn.”
“A paw, a paw!”
“Take an ear!”
“No, tail, tail, tail!”
Gerard realized that they were offering suggestions as to what should be the price of escape and also taking bets on how long the foxling would survive this treatment. At his elbow, Silveo gave a strangled gasp. Gerard glanced at him. His eyes were so dilated they looked black. Gerard had seen Silveo angry, but apart from that moment on the deck of the Fang before they left, he’d never seen him lose control. He looked like he might now.
“Let it go!” Silveo screamed. “It’s a panaun for Priestess sake. Let—it—go!”
Alsair turned to face him, the foxling firmly under one paw. He grinned, his eyes wild. In the sudden silence, he said, “Perhaps I’ll snip off his pretty tail and cram it down his throat. Then we’ll see whether he’s got anything clever to say.” With that, he reached down with his beak and severed the foxling’s scrawny brush of a tail. The child’s shriek of agony mingled with Silveo’s cry of fury. A knife flashed in the air, but Alsair had already shot into the dark sky, taking the tail with him and leaving the foxling child in a puddle of blood.
Gerard was so shocked and horrified that for a moment he couldn’t move. He glanced at Silveo, trembling with rage. He has to know I didn’t plan this. He strode forward in the silence and scooped up the whimpering foxling. It struggled for a moment, pleading inarticulately through tears. It was so thin and tiny, it felt lighter than the coat on his shoulders. He walked away from the cluster of shelts on the dock, feeling Silveo’s eyes on him as he passed. Was this you twenty years ago? Were you ever this small, this helpless?
He walked until he was almost back to Ocelon Town. Then he knelt and set the little foxling on his feet. The child stood there shaking, eyes downcast. He was still sniffling, and mucus dribbled off his chin. Gerard wiped it away with his sleeve. He tilted the child’s face up. The round eyes met his, frightened, infinitely distrustful. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Anything broken?”
The foxling did not answer him, so Gerard felt his arms and legs. The child flinched at every touch, but he seemed only bruised and cut, apart from the bloody stump of his tail. It was oozing, but not gushing. Gerard had seen shelts lose tails, and he knew the foxling would probably live, even without medical attention. However, the wound would heal better with a few stitches and he said so. “Anyone could do it,” he told the child, “Just use thread and a needle boiled in water. Cut the stitches out when the skin has closed over the bone.”
The foxling nodded, his huge eyes never leaving Gerard’s face. “Where can I take you where you’ll be safe?” asked Gerard. “I’ll take you anywhere; just tell me.”
The foxling shook his head. Gerard didn’t know whether this meant he didn’t want Gerard’s help or he knew of no place safe. Suddenly, he seemed to realize that no one was holding onto him. He leapt back, nearly stumbled, then darted away into the night.
Paper is used in Wefrivain only for the most ephemeral purposes or for documents never intended to leave a safe, dry place. Paper deteriorates and warps too rapidly in the sea air. Books are never constructed out of paper. They are too expensive, as each one must be copied by hand. Book pages are made of heavy vellum, which can survive brief submersions in salt water and prolonged submersion in freshwater. Vellum is specially crafted leather, which can be made of any creature, but in Wefrivain is most often taken from sheep or zebra skins.
—Gwain, The Truth about Wyverns
For the next three days, Silveo drove everyone on the ship mercilessly. He set the rowers to work, and Gerard heard that one slave in the hold died from the strain of their frenzied pace. It was true that they were tacking into the wind and oars would increase their speed. However, there was no emergency that required it. Silveo snapped at everyone, even Farell, who was normally exempt from his more cutting remarks.
Nothing pleased him. He caught at the smallest mistakes of knotting or sailwork, berated anyone responsible, and sometimes those who were not. He managed to make one of the cabin boys break down in open tears over a tiny error in sanding the deck. In addition, he did not appear to sleep, but paced the ship at all hours, looking for someone to upbraid.
He’s punishing them, thought Gerard. Because half the ship participated in Alsair’s little stunt. Alsair wisely failed to make an appearance. Without him, Gerard had no way of leaving the ship to relieve the tedium, but at least this time he had Thessalyn. He convinced her to stay in the cabin those first few days, reluctantly outlining what had happened on the pier.
For a long time afterward, she sat in silence. “Poor little foxling,” she said at last, and Gerard heard genuine tears in her voice. “I wonder if something like that happened to Silveo. Is that why he hates griffins?”
Gerard shrugged. “Perhaps.”
She was silent again for a long time. “Alsair is out of control,” she said at last.
“Yes.” Gerard would not have admitted it to anyone else. “Silveo was almost…well, not quite friendly, but we were almost working together. And then this. I think he blames me, may even think I set Alsair up to it.”
“Give him a few days to calm down,” said Thessalyn. “Have you apologized?”
Gerard shook his head. “‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t mean anything to Silveo. I tried to apologize for what I said to him before we left, and he just sneered.” Gerard took a deep breath. “I realized something when I was talking to him at the estate—a lot of his apparently frivolous behavior is actually quite calculated. This pushing for speed, for instance. He wants shelts to think it’s because he’s lost his temper, and partially it is. However, he also wants to work them so hard that they don’t have time for gossip. Ships are gossipy places—nothing else to do. Silveo was humiliated on that pier, and if they have time to embellish the story, he stands to lose a lot of respect. The Watch doesn’t like serving under a foxling, but they respect his wit and they fear his cunning. They’re proud of him in a way. He makes them laugh, makes their enemies look ridiculous. But they’d also turn on him. He knows that.”
Later that day, Gerard cornered one of his old subordinates and demanded to know what the sailors were saying. Silveo had not managed to totally quash talk of the incident. Alsair’s behavior was too sensational not to talk about, and Gerard didn’t need anyone to tell him that the sailors considered him the victor of some kind of contest. He learned from his old shipmate that the general opinion of the lower deck was that Gerard had planned the demonstration and that the threat had been most clever. It had been directed at the little foxling, not at Silveo, though the real intent was obvious.
Silveo has to know at least some of what they’re saying, thought Gerard. Faster and faster they sailed, until four days out, with barely a watch of sleep per night, the sailors were saying very little.
It was Thessalyn who brought things to a halt. She came out of her cabin on the evening of the fourth day, in spite of Gerard’s protests, and set up her harp on the deck. She’d spent much of the last few days carefully oiling it to protect the instrument from the salt air. Her strings had been perfectly tuned and the elegantly curving wood shined to a lustrous gloss. In the dusky light, with blue moon rising over the water, and the ship skimming along like a bird, she began to play. Gerard sat down beside her, where he could actually feel the vibrations of the harp coming up through the deck.
She did not sing, just played a rich and complicated piece that mingled with the creaking of the sails and ropes and the occasional call of a sailor or a sea bird. None of the sailors came on deck to listen. Sleep was too precious, but all superfluous noises ceased as they strained to hear. Silveo had been up in the rigging, and he jumped down onto the deck a few paces from Thessalyn. Gerard thought for a moment he would tell her to stop playing, but then he paced away to the upper deck, down again, around the mizzen mast, down below deck, where he was gone for quite a while.
He kept coming back, though, and finally he stopped leaving and just leaned on the rail to listen. Thessalyn played one song after another—no words, just music. When Gerard looked at Silveo again, the admiral had sat down against the side of the ship, leaned his head back, and shut his eyes. A moment later, he slumped onto his side and curled up, his tail wrapped around his body. Farell came over, saw him, and practically tiptoed away. Gerard heard him mutter, “Thank the gods. Finally!”
Chapter 18. Maps and a Library
Wefrivain is a crescent of thousands of islands, many of them tiny. There are six Great Islands—Maijha Minor on the eastern edge, followed by Maijha Major, Mance, Haplag, Lecklock, and Sern. Each of these island kingdoms have hundreds of smaller holdings. In addition, there are several dozen small, independent kingdoms, most of them near the center of the crescent, well away from the Great Islands. The sea is rougher outside the crescent, and outer islands are more likely to be uninhabited.
—Gwain, A Guide to Wefrivain
Half a watch later, Farell had gone around the ship reducing sail, slowing their pace, and redefining the lengths of the sailors’ shifts so they could rest. He stopped to talk to Gerard about some points of navigation—the first acknowledgement that Gerard was more than a passenger. While they were talking, Silveo twitched and sat up. Farell looked instantly on edge. The admiral struggled to his feet and came over to Thessalyn. She looked up from re-tuning her harp.
“Silveo?” Gerard still didn’t understand how she sometimes knew who was approaching her. She claimed to recognize footfalls, but if so, she could hear many sounds beyond his ears.
Silveo smiled dozily. “Thessalyn.” He yawned. “I think I owe you more chocolate.”
“There’s more?” she asked in delight.
“Yes. Good night.”
He went slowly off to his cabin, and Gerard heard Farell breathe a sigh of relief.
* * * *
The next morning someone knocked on Gerard’s door very early. Reluctantly, he left his warm nest, composed of three parts blankets and one part Thessalyn, and answered the door. It was one of the cabin boys. “The admiral wants to see you, sir. He says to bring the map. He said you would know what that means.”
Gerard was momentarily lost. Then he remembered the map on the wall of the teahouse. One of the first things he’d done when he got back to his cabin was draw the outline of the island as he remembered it. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he said and closed the door to dress.
Thessalyn stirred in the bed. “What’s happening, Gerard?”
Gerard hopped around for a moment in one pant leg. “Apparently, Silveo’s speaking to me again. I think you fixed him.”
Thessalyn giggled into a pillow. “Oh, good. The price is chocolate.”
Gerard smiled. He had a hard time thoroughly hating anyone who was kind to his wife. He wondered if Silveo knew that. Probably. Nearly everything Silveo did seemed to involve several layers of intent.
Gerard had never been in Silveo’s cabin, only the outer office, where he’d been berated several times as a watch master. He knew from others’ accounts that the inner office was also a library, but he was unprepared when he entered to find floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Like all ship libraries, they had cabinet doors that could be closed during rough weather. Several chests stood along the walls, overflowing with scrolls and loose-leaf documents. Several books were open on the floor. Through the far door, Gerard could see that the same clutter continued into the bedchamber beyond.
A large map table took up one side of the inner office. It had obviously been intended for a shelt of Gerard’s height. Silveo was sitting on it, his back against the wall, one knee drawn up, and a snowstorm of maps strewn around him. He was wearing a sailcloth tunic and britches so ordinary that Gerard might not have recognized him at a distance.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Silveo didn’t look up from the chart he was studying. “Did you draw that map from the wall of the teahouse?”
For answer, Gerard came over and laid it down. Silveo rocked forward and crouched over the paper. Then he slapped another down beside it. “There’s mine. Looks about the same.”
Gerard nodded. Silveo had actually caught more of the details of the coastline. “I was talking to Farell last night,” Gerard said carefully. “We’re not heading for Lecklock.”
“No.” Silveo looked up and grinned. “We’re headed for Mance. I think I found the island.”
He had, more accurately, found three islands—all in the vicinity of Mance—that bore a remarkable resemblance to the one on the wall of the teahouse. With reference to Gerard’s drawing, they were able to eliminate two of the islands with fair certainty, leaving a single candidate. It was Mance-94, a small numerary on the outer side of Wefrivain’s crescent.
“It’s basically just a volcano and a cove,” said Silveo. “The cove might have become a grishnard harbor, in spite of the island’s small size, except that it’s an outer island, and the cove faces directly into the open sea. It’s too isolated to make a convenient port and too exposed. It would make a good harbor for hiding ships at the right times of year, though.”
Gerard frowned. “It could be a trap.”
Silveo gave him a look, making it clear he’d said something very stupid. “Of course it’s a trap! The Resistance aren’t such fools as to leave maps lying around, not even obscure ones. But it’s still a bold move for them, a risky move. Any trap they construct must be in a place where they have resources. They are exposing themselves, and their trap can backfire. I intend to see that it does.”
“I don’t want to bring Thess into a fight,” said Gerard. “Can we stop somewhere and put her off?”
Silveo sat back. “I’m stopping on Mance to send a message for Arundel to join us with the Sea Feather. The Dark Wind is too slow, but the Sea Feather can catch us up. Thessalyn should have friends on Mance. She went to school there, didn’t she?”
Gerard nodded. “She’ll probably be excited about it.”
Silveo looked pleased. “We’ll pick her up on the way back. I’m also putting all your Police ashore. No one knows yet where we’re going, and I don’t want the spy in your organization to spread it far and wide.”
Gerard frowned. “My Police—”
“Are infected,” cut in Silveo. “If I were you, Holovar, I’d have everyone of them executed. Make up a charge. Incompetence—you wouldn’t even have to make that up! At the very least, I’d execute all those who’ve been in the Police for more than two years. Then you’d have the weed out by the root.”
He flicked his tail at Gerard’s grimace. “Of course, this is you we’re talking about, so you won’t do the smart thing because it’s too sticky. I suppose you could retire them all with full pension. Then your traitor will be running loose to do more mischief, but at least he’s not hiding in your closet.”
Gerard thought about that. While he was thinking, Silveo went back to sorting maps and replacing them on shelves or in chests. He had an enormous collection, even for an admiral of the Sea Watch, and he seemed to have looked through every single one. He had his back to Gerard when he said, “I hope you killed that little foxling.”
Gerard’s head snapped up. “I certainly did not!”
Silveo clicked his tongue. “What did I tell you about acts of mercy, Gerard?”
Gerard was momentarily stunned. He has never called me that. “Well, they seem to have earned me a first name.”
Silveo glanced around at him with an expression of irritation. “There are two Holovars on this ship. Speaking of which—” He clambered up one of the bookshelves, pulled out a volume and tossed it to Gerard. “Does she have that one?”
Gerard stared at the book. It was a beautifully copied and illustrated collection of old legends and ballads. Such a book might have easily cost a quarter of his year’s wages for a watch master. The stories were exactly the sort of thing Thessalyn loved to use as raw material for songs.
Silveo seemed to misunderstand Gerard’s expression. “I do realize that someone has to read it to her, and maybe she already has one like it.”
Gerard found his voice. “No, no, my father made her leave her little collection on Holovarus. He said that because he paid for her schooling—” Gerard could feel the old anger welling up in his chest and didn’t finish the sentence.
Silveo hopped down from the bookcase. “There’s a tin of chocolate on the desk in my outer office.”
Gerard crouched down to look at Silveo squarely. “Thank you.” Thank you for not holding Alsair against me. Thank you for being kind to my wife.
Silveo’s lip curled. “It’s for her, not you.”
But it’s the same thing, thought Gerard. When she’s happy, I’m happy. “Nevertheless, thank you.”
Silveo turned away again. “If you can think of anything else she’d rather have…”
Well, she’s fairly fond of me in one piece. “She will be delighted with this,” said Gerard. “She will probably come over here herself and thank you.” He stood. “Where did you get all these books?”
He half expected Silveo to reply with an insult, but instead Silveo said, “About half of them from Resistance hideouts. Gwain or Flag or whatever his name is likes to read. Every trail I’ve ever followed of his has led to books. Of the rest, I inherited about a quarter. The other quarter—” he shrugged. “You’ve got to do something with your wages.”
Gerard was walking around looking at titles. No wonder you knew about the name Flag. You probably read it in the same book Gwain did. The titles covered every conceivable topic. Quite a few were in the phonetic, several even in hunti. “Do you read hunti?” asked Gerard.
“No, but apparently Gwain does. I’ve taught myself a little.”
“You’ve taught yourself a lot. When you learned to read, you made up for lost time.”
“No more than you when you learned to think,” snapped Silveo.
Gerard turned to look at him. “I didn’t mean that as an insu—”
“You never do. Go on; take that to Thessalyn.”
Chapter 19. What Happened in a Closet
Most sailors in Wefrivain do not use advanced instruments of navigation. They are aware of such tools, but they believe them to be cumbersome and unnecessary. Sailors in the crescent are rarely out of sight of land, and their navigational skills consist of an intimate knowledge of the coastlines of thousands of islands and their accompanying sandbars, tides, and reefs. In addition, grishnard sailors rely heavily on griffins to fly up and look around.
—Gwain, A Guide to Wefrivain
Thessalyn did want to thank Silveo in person. She had been given many fine objects over the years, but she’d left most of them on Holovarus. Since that time, she’d made a point of asking for payment either in room and board, traveling expenses, or cowries to buy those things. She ran her hands over the pages of the book, sniffed its leather, and listened with shining eyes as Gerard read her the titles of the stories. She loves stories, thought Gerard. She always tells them to everyone else, and no one tells them to her.
Nothing would do, but that they should go to the admiral’s cabin at once. When he answered the door, Gerard thought she might have hugged him if he hadn’t taken a swift step back and offered a hand instead of a shoulder to her questing fingers.
“You are very welcome, Lady,” he said in response to her thanks. “You more than deserve it. Last night I was…”
Half mad? thought Gerard.
“Tired,” continued Silveo. “I don’t always sleep so well.”
“Neither does Gerard,” said Thessalyn, busily feeling her way around the outer office and into the library. Gerard frowned, not appreciating the comparison. Silveo noticed and was instantly amused. Gerard could tell he was about to say something embarrassing when Thessalyn spoke again, her fingers flickering over the books. “Gerard said a lot of these are Gwain’s.”
“Were, yes,” said Silveo. “I’d like to bring him to join them as…I don’t know—a lampshade, perhaps. I think he’d make a fine lampshade.”
“That’s not very nice, Admiral,” chided Thessalyn, sniffing delicately at one of the parchments. For a grishnard, she had an extremely good nose.
“As Gerard may have mentioned,” said Silveo, “I’m not a very nice person.”
“You’re nice to me,” said Thessalyn.
“I make a very great exception for you. Don’t be surprised if I occasionally slip. Nice is not a part of my skill-set.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” Thessalyn was examining a shelf of navigational instruments. Silveo had an unusually large collection, as he liked to navigate without the aid of griffins or pegasus—something almost unheard of in Wefrivain. “By the way, there’s a storm coming,” said Thessalyn, “a big one. I’d like to sit on deck a bit before it gets here. I haven’t been in the sun much these last few days.”
“A storm?” repeated Silveo. “How do you know?”
“She always knows,” said Gerard. “It’s part of being a prophetess.”
“I am not a prophetess,” said Thessalyn with a flick of her tail. “It’s not a feeling. I’m not guessing; I know there’s a storm coming—the same way you two know what’s on the far side of the room without walking over and touching it.”
Silveo looked at Gerard quizzically.
Gerard shrugged. “If she says there’s a big storm coming, then there’s a big storm coming.”
Silveo considered this. “In that case, I have things to do. Out of my office, little lambs.”
So they went and sat on the quarterdeck in the sun. The day was clear and bright without a trace of clouds. Thessalyn had put on a sailcloth shirt and breeches to go about deck. She went bare-pawed, her heavy gold hair whipping in the breeze, her cheeks turning pink in the sun. Gerard thought she looked adorable. She stretched out on the warm boards and laid her head in his lap, her hair pooling around them, and he read to her.
Meanwhile, the bewildered sailors began the process of preparing the ship for a storm—securing or removing everything on deck, furling sails, and preparing a sea anchor. Below deck, Gerard knew they were just as busy. He wondered how long it would take the ship’s boys to go around Silveo’s library, putting every book in place so that the doors of the cabinets could all be shut. The oars would be stowed and all portholes shut tight. Preparing for a major storm involved quite a bit of work, and Gerard was surprised Silveo had decided to act on Thessalyn’s statement. He won’t be sorry, though.
About noon, Gerard went below decks to get them something to eat. As he navigated the dim labyrinth of corridors, a shape stepped out of the gloom and tugged him gently into a closet. “Hello, Gerard.”
For a moment, he couldn’t process what he was seeing—the Priestess, dressed in what looked like dark silk, her deep blue eyes glinting in the half-light. “M-mistress,” he stammered. “How did you—? I mean—” He became aware that he was staring rudely and dropped his gaze. Of course, she flew here on a griffin or pegasus or even a wyvern. She probably just arrived.
She tilted his chin up, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry to have startled you, Captain.”
No, you’re not. You’re enjoying it. Gerard became aware of how very close they were standing in the small space. He started to back out of the closet, but she put her hands on his elbows and stopped him. She was only a little shorter than he and much stronger than he would have expected.
“I won’t keep you long,” purred Morchella. “I only wanted to warn you that a severe storm is coming.”
“We know,” said Gerard. “Thess told us.”
Morchella raised an eyebrow. “Did she?”
“Yes, she always knows when a storm is coming—ever since she was a little girl.”
“Interesting. I suppose being blind makes other senses keener. Still, it makes me wonder whether she’s distant kin of mine.”
Gerard didn’t know what that meant or whether he should ask. “How are you getting along with Silveo?” continued Morchella.
“Better.” Gerard thought for a moment. “He’s still threatening to kill me, but I’m not sure he really would. He likes Thess, but Alsair did something nasty on Sern that upset him.” He told her about the foxling.
Morchella laughed. “That would do it—especially on Sern. Probably gave him nightmares. He can be annoyingly sensitive about a few things.”
Gerard frowned. “Sensitive” was the last word he would have applied to Silveo. “He thinks I want his job,” said Gerard.
Morchella ran a finger down the front of Gerard’s jacket. Her voice was playful. “Do you?”
“No.” Gerard tried again to step out of the closet. This time she leaned up, put one hand around the back of his head and the other around his waist, and kissed him full on the mouth. Gerard was surprised, almost frightened, and he didn’t know what to do. Morchella pushed up the back of his shirt and ran a hand along his bare spine. The shock made him gasp, and her tongue flicked inside his mouth.
She stepped away from him suddenly, and Gerard stumbled back against the doorframe. He could feel his face burning. He wanted to run. Morchella pushed past him out of the closet and stopped to whisper in his ear, “You’re doing fine, Gerard. I heard that you talked to Gwain. That’s very good. But next time try killing him. I’ll be watching.”
Gerard raised his head a moment later and looked around. The corridor was empty. He drew a shuddering breath. He felt sick and guilty and profoundly confused. He couldn’t remember where he’d been going or what he’d meant to do. He visited the head. He thought he might vomit, but he didn’t. When he came on deck again, clouds were rolling in from the South, but the sun was still shining. Silveo was talking to Thessalyn. He was wearing brilliant blue wool, hoop earrings, and a fur cape made of what looked like wolf fur—an extinct species in Wefrivain, though their pelts could still be bought on occasion. Silveo had had food brought up, but no table or chairs, due to the increased motion of the ship. “Well, Gerard, it appears that your wife has many talents. In addition to making you almost tolerable, she can also predict the weather. Perhaps I shall make her my pilot. The one I’ve got isn’t entirely satisfactory.”
Gerard smiled faintly and put an arm around Thessalyn, who snuggled against him. The wind had grown cold.
“Have some faun pie,” continued Silveo. “It’s not Gwain, but we can pretend.”
“Thank you,” said Gerard. “I’m not hungry.”
Silveo looked at him narrowly. “Sick already? These waves will get worse.”
Gerard glanced at the bank of black clouds approaching from the south. “Is the Priestess up here?”
“No… Why do you ask?”
“Because I saw her a little while ago below deck. She spoke to me.”
“Ah,” Silveo looked at him even more closely, and Gerard couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “She does that sometimes. It’s always startling. We didn’t see her up here.”
“She’s done it before?” asked Gerard. “To you?”
Silveo pursed his lips. “She’s turned up unexpectedly, yes. I’ve always assumed she came on a wyvern. The gods are swift and secretive.”
“What did she say to you, Gerard?” asked Thessalyn, real concern in her voice. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”
Gerard sighed. She can read me even without eyes. “She just asked about what happened on Sern.”
It began to rain at that moment. Silveo looked at Thessalyn. “Lady, I think you’d better go below deck. Gerard, I want to talk to you in my office.”
A short time later, Gerard was back in Silveo’s outer office. Everything had gotten a lot neater since his last visit. Silveo had a single map on the desk, along with a compass and several other instruments. “Am I in trouble, sir?” asked Gerard.
Silveo looked up. “I don’t know. Are you?”
Gerard said nothing. He felt sick again.
Silveo sighed. “I’m going to give you some more of that useful advice you never listen to: be careful of our mistress. I’ve survived by doing several things. One of them is staying well away from the Police. Another is making sure that I am liked, but not loved, by Morchella. I’m her pet—a vicious little pet that bites every hand but hers, and she likes that. You don’t want to be more than a pet, Gerard.”
Gerard shifted uncomfortably. “Why are you—?”
“She was extremely fond of Arundel,” continued Silveo, “but she devours things she loves. She can’t help it; it’s her nature, like the wyverns. She ate him up inside. He should have been put out of his misery after that, but instead she gave him to me. He always had a cruel streak, but now…” Silveo shrugged. “There’s practical-mean—that’s me. And then there’s sadistic—that’s Arundel. I’m not saying I’ve never been there, but I don’t live there, and he does.”
Gerard stared at the floor. “Why are you telling me this? I thought you wanted me killed, Silveo.”
“Killed, sure, but I don’t want to deal with you in that condition. You’d be worse than Arundel. Now stop acting like a wounded animal. Whatever she did to you, it can’t have been worse than what was done to me when I was no bigger than that foxling you rescued. Go get some sleep. I’m sure we’ll need you to haul on a rope soon enough.”
Chapter 20. A Knife and a Rope
Foxlings are born with a loose scruff, much like that of a fox kit, by which they may be carried. Many retain a remnant of this scruff into adulthood. However, no foxling beyond the age of two would appreciate being lifted in this way.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
They did need him. By midnight, the waves were as high as Gerard had ever seen them in the crescent. Thessalyn kept an admirable calm, in spite of the fact that they were being more or less flung about their cabin. She and Gerard had both been raised to the sea, and although Thessalyn threw up her supper, she did not stay sick for long. Gerard had not been seasick since he was a small child. He was not surprised when a beating on their door turned out to be a sailor, saying that the boatswain was asking for help.
Gerard put on sealskin breeches and coat. He did not wear his boots, preferring to have his claws free to grip the deck. He saw that Silveo had wisely put up the smallest possible scrap of sail, and they were running before the wind. Gerard could not see any islands in the driving rain, nor could he hear breakers. That was a good sign. Their worst danger would be running aground on one of the innumerable reefs, rocks, and sandbars that surrounded the smaller islands.
Gerard helped babysit the sail. He was bigger and heavier than most of the other sailors, and he’d had plenty of experience in storms, as Holovarus was near the mouth of the crescent. He glanced at Silveo and Farell up on the quarterdeck and shook his head. Sailing without griffins in these conditions is just foolish, Silveo.
Morning brought a measure of relief. In spite of the driving rain, they could see an island off to their left and were able to ascertain with fair certainty that it was Mirmouth—one of Lecklock’s distant holdings. The gray seas were as high as ever and the wind fierce. Gerard took turns with everyone else on deck, tied with a long rope to the mainmast. Thessalyn insisted on coming out briefly, and Gerard made her tie a lifeline around her waist as well. He was surprised at how the sailors welcomed her and how respectfully they spoke to her. Although the Sea Watch enjoyed the company of women as much as any sailor did, they believed that a woman aboard ship was bad luck.
In spite of this, Gerard knew that Silveo had managed to keep a number of girls at various times over the past nine years—the last being a gazumelle, who had apparently sailed with them for about half a year and then run off one day on Haplag. The rumor was that several of the sailors had encouraged her departure with rocks while the admiral was away. This story, combined with Silveo’s enmity, was the reason Gerard had never even tried to bring Thessalyn aboard during his days as a watch master.
Now, however, he sensed an undercurrent of awe in the way the sailors spoke to her. After asking some questions, he discovered that the lower deck thought Thessalyn nearly as lucky as a cured selkie tail hanging from the mizzen. The idea had blossomed the day she charmed the admiral out of his black humor, and when word circulated that she had predicted the storm without a cloud in the sky, they had all become convinced that she was a seer. Her blindness and white minstrel’s clothes only added to her mystery and appeal.
Gerard told her all this as they lay lashed in a hammock during one of his breaks. She giggled against his chest. “Sailors are silly, aren’t they? Like children.”
“They’re only honest,” said Gerard with gravity, and she punched him in the shoulder. “If you’re not good luck,” he continued, “then nothing is.”
“I was talking to Silveo while you were away,” she continued.
“I saw that,” said Gerard. “Has he told you all his troubles yet?” Sympathetic minstrels made good counselors for many reasons. Because they traveled widely, they were viewed as impartial and experienced. Any passing minstrel might be asked for confidential advice about marriage, investment, or children. Thessalyn was special, though. Shelts who would not normally trust their own mothers would find themselves telling her their life stories after only a brief meeting. Gerard doubted that even Silveo was immune.
Thessalyn shook her head. “Nothing like that. I told him you were really sorry about what Alsair did on Sern. I told him you’d been fretting about it for days.”
Gerard squirmed. “Thess, that wasn’t—”
Thessalyn laid a finger on his lips. “He said he knew. He said to forget about it. I asked him whether he would let Alsair back on the ship if Alsair apologized.”
Gerard opened his eyes in the darkness. “What did he say to that?”
Thessalyn frowned. “He changed the subject, made a lot of jokes. A few minutes later, he said, ‘I don’t like griffins. I just don’t. No Holovar is going to change that.’ I asked him why, but he wouldn’t tell me. I think he might eventually, but I’m not sure it will help.”
Gerard ran his fingers through her hair. “Thess, you are amazing.”
“Not really,” she said sadly. “I didn’t get permission for Alsair to come back.”
“I haven’t given permission for Alsair to come back,” growled Gerard. “He has a lot of explaining to do.”
They tried to make the port in Pyrnon that day, but the wind and waves were too wild. They could not get into the lee of the island, and the opportunity was lost. Night fell again, and they proceeded on their frightening journey through the darkness. Gerard knew that Silveo had been able to take fairly accurate readings of their location, so in theory they should be headed in a safe direction. However, the wind veered several times that night. The waves actually grew higher and rougher, crashing over the bow each time the ship plummeted into a trough. By the time the gray dawn broke, Gerard was sure that no one had the slightest idea where they were. The day was very dark. Everyone strained for sight of an island—anything to identify their location.
The sailors' shifts grew longer as crews worked to pump out the water accumulating in the hold. The ceiling of Gerard and Thessalyn’s cabin also began to leak. Gerard mentioned it to Silveo—not as a complaint, but as a statement about the condition of the ship. Silveo immediately moved them into his own cabin and moved himself in with Farell—not that Silveo slept much. Gerard didn’t think he left the deck all day.
By the third night, everyone was exhausted, and still they had no idea where they were. Gerard heard some of the sailors whispering that they weren’t in the crescent at all, that they’d been driven into the open sea to be lost forever in its vastness. Gerard knew that wasn’t true. In fact, they had to be getting close to the center of the crescent, into the region of the Small Kingdoms. These were his home waters. He knew them well, and this did not ease his mind. The thick sprinkling of islands near the center of Wefrivain were laced with deadly reefs.
The morning of the fourth day dawned darker still. Just as the gray light began to illuminate the mountains of water around them, lightning struck a spar and sent it crashing down on deck, hanging half over the side of the ship. Everyone ran to cut the trailing pieces. The ship had just started up a wave, and the deck was sloping steeply. Several sailors slipped in their hurry, but they were clipped into the lifeline, so they weren’t in much danger. Silveo, who had been below decks only moments before, had not yet tied his rope, and he went bounding up the deck without one. Gerard came up beside him just as the fallen spar slipped completely into the sea and caught the pull of the wave. The ship jerked almost broadside to the swell. Suddenly they were nearly sideways on an almost vertical slope. The wave crested over the side of the ship and crashed waist-deep across the deck. We’re going to broach, thought Gerard. We’re going to die.
He slipped, but his claws splayed and caught him, gouging deep furrows in the wood. He looked to his right and saw the flash of Silveo’s hair beneath the water. Without even thinking, Gerard reached out, caught Silveo by the scruff, and dragged him to his feet just as they started down the far side of the wave.
Gerard yelped as something sliced into his forearm. He dropped Silveo and they stared at each other, the deck now free of water and sloping crazily in the opposite direction. A knife flashed briefly as it toppled away across the deck and over the side. You cut me! thought Gerard, too amazed to be angry. You actually cut me!
Silveo bounced up again and launched himself across the deck towards the trailing spar. Gerard followed him. There was no time to think about what had just happened. The ship would not survive another wave in its present state. Three other sailors had already reached the spar and were hacking desperately at it with axes. Gerard took an ax and with three blows he managed to sever the main mass of the spar. Still it clung to the ship by its ropes, attached to the upper rigging. Looking up, Gerard saw that Silveo had climbed up and out onto the perilously splintered section. He was probably the only person other than a ship’s boy light enough to do what had to be done, but it was still a near suicidal act without a lifeline. They were hurtling sideways towards the trough of the wave now, and Gerard didn’t know if the ship would have time to turn, even if the spar could be freed.
Then Silveo sliced through the last of the ropes, the spar fell away, and Farell was leaning on the rudder, and they were turning…turning… Then they crashed into the trough of the wave—not completely broadside, but near enough. Gerard was thrown through the splintered railing and over the side of the ship. He yelped as the lifeline bit into his ribs, and then he was under water in darkness and terror, clawing for air. The rope wrenched him out of the water again, and his ribs were on fire, but he was clawing his way over the side of the ship.
Gerard saw with relief that they were straightening out, preparing to take the next wave head on. He looked up to see Silveo standing over him. Gerard thought he might have been pulling on the rope, but couldn’t be sure. Silveo was shouting orders to trim the sail, but he paused to crouch down and bellow in Gerard’s ear. “Ship’s healer! Now!” Gerard looked down and saw the blood streaming over his arm from the knife wound. In his excitement, he’d hardly felt it, but the cut was deep.
“Now!” repeated Silveo. He walked with Gerard to the head of the stairs and took his lifeline when he removed it. Gerard watched him tie the rope. All you had to do was cut it, he thought, and you would have been rid of me.
Panamindorah’s three moons play a complex role in sailing and in the life of the inhabitants of Wefrivain. The temple festivals are centered around lunar events. Most islands use red moon, with its predictable sixty-day cycle, to measure the months. However, some islands and many hunti still use fifteen-day yellow months. Blue moon is sometimes called Sailor’s Plague, because of its unpredictable behavior. It can influence the tides in unexpected ways, and a great deal of ink is expended each year on almanacs that claim to predict the patterns of blue moon. Most of them are useless.
—Gwain, A Guide to Wefrivain
The ship’s healer was a smallish grishnard of about sixty—a sour creature, overfond of sweet leaf. He washed Gerard’s wound in stinging salt water, smeared nettle paste on it, and bound it up tight in boiled linen. By this time, Gerard’s ribs were aching worse than the knife wound. He knew he was going to be black and blue where the rope had caught him and wondered if he’d broken ribs. He was swaying in a hammock, watching the healer finish the bandage, when his eyes fluttered closed.
Gerard awoke to the sound of voices. The lantern on its chain in the ceiling was still swinging crazily, but Gerard thought the motion had diminished a bit. Several other sailors had crowded into the room. One was the youngest of his wardens, whimpering as he leaned against the wall. He appeared to have a dislocated shoulder. Silveo was talking to the healer. When he saw Gerard stir, he gave a brisk motion with his hand. “Come.”
Gerard struggled to his feet and followed Silveo unsteadily out the door and along the dark passage. “How’s your arm?” asked Silveo over his shoulder.
“Alright, I suppose,” said Gerard.
“Don’t ever do that again,” said Silveo.
“Don’t ever do what again?”
“Pick me up like that!” They had reached the hatch to the upper deck, and Silveo climbed into the dusky light.
Gerard saw that it was almost dark again. “I thought you were going overboard! You didn’t have a lifeline! Why did you stab me?”
Silveo turned to glare at him. “I…panicked.” He spat out the word as though he hated it, but couldn’t think of any more appropriate. “Just don’t do it again.”
Gerard nodded. You never say ‘thank you,’ do you? Or ‘I’m sorry.’ “My ribs hurt worse than where you cut me.”
Silveo grunted. He was scanning the dark sky.
“You could have cut my lifeline,” said Gerard.
“Ran out of knives,” said Silveo, who was famously never without a sharp object. “Besides, I think you’re about to be useful. There it is. Look.”
He was pointing at something in the sky. Gerard squinted. A griffin! He skidded down to the main deck. The rain had slackened, but they were still running before a strong wind in heavy seas.
Gerard ran up and down the deck, waving his arms. The circling griffin dropped at once, struggling to control his descent in the high winds. Gerard knew well before he hit the deck that it was Alsair. He was soaking wet and shivering. He looked thinner, and Gerard’s heart lurched at the sight. He was angry, too, but he kept his face neutral. This was not the time to discuss what had happened on Sern.
“Where are we?” demanded Gerard.
“Almost home,” shouted Alsair. “I lost you three days ago. I’ve been looking and looking.”
Gerard knew Alsair would have been following the ship, and he had suspected that the storm had separated them. He nodded. “Where is ‘almost home’?”
Alsair ducked his head to their right. “Malabar is off that way. Scorp is back behind you.”
Gerard’s eyes opened wide. “That means we’re headed straight between Malabar-3 and Malabar-5!”
Alsair nodded. “That’s what I came to tell you.”
Gerard drew a deep breath. “There’s still time. Get out there and look for the buoys. You can guide us through.”
Alsair didn’t argue. He turned, ran along the ship, and launched himself into the air. For one moment, it looked like he might be driven into the sea, but then he gained height, beating madly, jerking this way and that in the high winds.
Gerard turned and ran back towards Silveo. “We’re near Holovarus,” he began when he reached the quarterdeck.
“I guessed that,” said Silveo impatiently. “We need a port. We’re leaking badly, and we’ve lost so many spars and so much rigging that we’d be crippled even in a calm sea. We’re on our third and last sea anchor. Maps of the Small Kingdoms are abysmal. I’ve never sailed here without a local guide. Also, my coxswain seems to have gotten himself swept overboard. No one can find him.”
Gerard nodded. “We could probably make port on Malabar if we survive the night. The problem is we’re headed between Malabar-3 and Malabar-5. There’s a solid line of reef between those two islands. It’s a ship graveyard. My brother and I used to pick up trinkets that washed up from the wrecks after every storm. There’s one place to cross, and it’s marked with a couple of buoys. If Alsair can find them, he can guide us through.”
Silveo considered this, looking out at the darkening sea. “How big are these buoys?”
About as big as you. Gerard almost said it aloud, but opted to hold out his arms instead.
Silveo made a face. “And how long until we reach them. Could we try to veer away?”
Gerard shook his head. “We’d run aground on the sandbars around the islands. We’ve been lucky to keep away from them without knowing where we were. We’ll reach the reef in perhaps half a watch. That should give Alsair plenty of time to find the buoys.”
But he did not find them. Twice Alsair returned to the ship to report. Gerard could hear the breakers now, crashing across the horns of coral. The rain had picked up again, and the night was black.
The third time he returned to the main deck, Alsair looked wild. “The buoys must have washed away!” he panted. He leaned over and spoke in Gerard’s ear, “Please, let me take you off. This ship is going to founder!”
It was all Gerard could do to keep from cuffing his ear and shouting at him. “And leave Thessalyn?”
“I’ll come back for her,” said Alsair. “Please, Gerard; you don’t know how bad it is out there. The rowboats will never make it. I saw another ship already grounded on the reef. I couldn’t find a single shelt alive!”
“No,” said Gerard. “We’re not leaving anyone.” He thought for a moment. “Take me up.”
Alsair stepped away from him, shaking his head violently. “Oh, no!”
“Yes!” shouted Gerard against the wind. “You’re too busy trying to stay airborne to look properly!” Gerard saw that Silveo and Farell had come down onto the lower deck, but they did not try to interfere. He jumped forward suddenly, grabbed Alsair’s ruff, and vaulted onto his back. He knew there was a danger of Alsair trying to take him away, as he’d wanted to, but Gerard didn’t think Alsair would act against a direct order. He’d been too well trained.
Alsair responded by lying down on the deck. “Gerard, no, no, please. You don’t understand. I flipped four times just now. I almost went into the sea. Gerard, we’ll both drown!”
“I said go!” bellowed Gerard, but Alsair only whimpered.
“You’re just punishing me,” he whispered.
Gerard ran a hand under the griffin’s throat and along his lower beak. He tilted Alsair’s head up to look at him upside down. “Have I ever taken you into a situation I couldn’t get you out of?”
Alsair looked at him for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head.
“Trust me,” said Gerard.
Alsair drew a shuddering breath. “I suppose I’d rather die with you than with anyone else.” He stood and leapt into the wind.
The Small Kingdoms of Wefrivain survive by being too distant and too unimportant for the Great Islands to want them. Their rulers know this and keep a careful distance from greater island politics. Even the Priestess often takes only a passing interest in the Small Kingdoms, allowing their own local deities to control events, meddling as much or as little as they wish.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard thought for a moment that he and Alsair would die before they even started looking for the buoys. The wind punched them back and forth like an unseen fist. Gerard had been riding Alsair without a saddle harness for years, but in this weather they should have had one. Alsair flipped once in spite of his best efforts, but he managed to right himself before Gerard lost his grip. Below them, the waves heaved like migrating mountains, lit by strobe lightning.
Gerard caught sight of the ship Alsair had mentioned—a boat about half the size of the Fang, its hull almost upside down now. It was caught on the reef, only visible in the troughs of the waves. It was definitely a fresh wreck. Gerard doubted any of it would be there by morning.
The way the hull was appearing and disappearing gave Gerard an idea. He leaned close to Alsair’s ear and bellowed, “Get lower! Follow along in the troughs.”
Gerard had not been seasick in years, but their unsteady dive brought the bile into his mouth. Almost, Alsair hit the water. He gained just enough height to escape the crest of the wave; then they were flying low along the trough. Gerard strained his eyes down the line of it. There!
He saw the yellow-painted shape in a flash of lightning just before a wave swallowed it. “I saw it!” he shouted and Alsair nodded. The wave passed, and Gerard spotted it again. This time, he saw the other one further on. Gerard looked back towards the Fang. They weren’t too far off course. There was still time to get it right.
Alsair screamed in his eagle’s voice—a sound that cut through the storm and nearly deafened Gerard. Silveo, please know what that means.
He must have, because the next instant, the ship began to turn. Gerard could see the sailors trimming the sail, angling towards the place where Alsair was circling over the waves. He watched as the ship came on, her tattered sail straining. Below, in the waves, Gerard thought he saw something flash beside the buoy—an iridescent streak that glimmered and was gone.
I’ll be watching you, Gerard.
He shut his eyes and hung onto Alsair, shivering in the cold rain.
* * * *
The storm blew itself out by morning. Gerard went off to bed just as light began to gleam across the water from under the clouds. He woke sometime later to a strangely level cabin. Alsair was sleeping against one wall, and Thessalyn had her head on his shoulder. The way it should be, thought Gerard. He didn’t move for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet. They were still in Silveo’s cabin, and he could see light shining from under the door of the inner office.
At last, he got up quietly, without waking Thessalyn. He threw on the driest of his clothes—damp and smelling faintly of mildew—and padded out the door into the inner office. Silveo was sitting on his map table, reading. He was wearing serviceable linen in bizarre shades of orange and lavender. Gerard laughed. He stopped immediately when Silveo looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Something amuses you?”
Gerard was thinking about the first time he’d walked in here and seen Silveo in ordinary sailcloth. “I just figured out why you dress like that.”
Silveo’s eyebrows rose even higher, and he shut his book. “It’s not complicated. I like shinies. As an added bonus, I get to make shelts like you uncomfortable.”
Gerard shook his head. “You never do anything for only one reason.”
“Well, that would be terribly inefficient.”
“Shelts who have never seen you before, never even seen a drawing—they all know what you look like. They at least know you dress like a—” Gerard decided to rephrase.
Silveo smiled sweetly. “Like a what, Gerard?”
Gerard tried not to squirm. “Flamboyantly.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s what you were going to say.”
“What I mean is, when you do decide to wear ordinary clothes, you’re practically invisible. When you don’t want to be recognized, all you need is sailcloth and no kohl. It doesn’t even matter that you’re a rare panaun in an unusual color. Shelts don’t see that. They only see the shinies.”
Silveo smirked. He hopped down from the table. “Well, you’re starting to think, but you’re still mostly just pretty. I found three kids on griffins circling the ship this morning, asking if we needed a local guide, but I’ve got one, don’t I?” He pointed to the table. “I have half a dozen maps there, all of them significantly different. Pick the best one and meet me up on the quarterdeck after you’ve removed that creature from my bedchamber.”
“Thessalyn?” asked Gerard innocently.
Silveo scowled. “You know what I mean. Keep it out of my sight and I’ll try not to shoot it.”
Gerard sighed. “Would it matter if he apologized?”
“What do you think?”
“He saved the ship last night.”
“You saved the ship last night,” said Silveo and stalked out the door.
An eighth watch later, Gerard was standing with Silveo and Farell on the quarterdeck, holding three maps. “Well, you’re right that none of them are very good,” he told Silveo. “It depends on where you want to go which you should use.”
“We need a port,” said Silveo. “We couldn’t keep up with the leak last night, and all the slaves drowned. We’ve got no rowers and not enough spars left to hold up a decent set of sails.”
Gerard winced. Normally he tried not to think about the slaves, because there was nothing he could do about them. “Did no one think of letting them out?”
“What, so they could kill us all?” asked Silveo. “Besides we were too busy trying to get over that reef. No one even knew they were underwater until they were dead. I’ll be happy to give you an oar if you want to do penance.”
Gerard decided it was too late to have this argument. “I suggest Malabar as a port.” He spread a vellum map in his hands and pointed to one spot. “This one shows the area of our location fairly accurately.”
Silveo studied it. “Looks to me like we’re just as close to Holovarus as Malabar.”
“Perhaps.” Gerard had been hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Silveo grinned up at him. “You want to lie, but you just can’t, can you?”
“I repeat,” said Gerard. “I think we should go to Malabar. I do not want to go to Holovarus.”
“I know,” said Silveo. “That’s probably why I do.”
Gerard’s tail lashed. He wanted to say a lot of things and didn’t know how to phrase them. “Silveo, please.”
Silveo’s pale eyes glittered through his kohl. “Oh, we are definitely going. Now stop looking wretched and make yourself useful. As long as that creature is here, you might as well use it to fly over to Malabar and get us some decent food. Everything in the hold is wet, and nearly all the jars are broken. I spent enough of my life eating bad food; I refuse to do it aboard my own ship. Be a good guide, Gerard, and go find us some local cuisine.”
Chapter 23. A Debate about Choices
Wyverns are poisonous. Curiously, first exposure causes only mild illness, while a second bite is nearly always fatal. A few old stories make reference to an antidote, but if such ever existed, its source has been carefully expunged from all records by the wyverns and their servants.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard left a quarter watch later. He had been wanting some time alone with Alsair, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any. Before he left, he took stock of his meager followers. Apparently, the oldest of his wardens had been swept overboard in the storm. No one was sure how or when. Three shelts from the Fang had vanished, two of them experienced sailors, so the loss of his ancient warden was no surprise, but it did make Gerard feel guilty.
I should never have brought them. Silveo was right; I should retire them all. The drunk was turning out to be a very unsatisfactory sailor, and the youngster was hurt so badly that he wouldn’t be able to use his arm for a red month. Marlo, on the other hand, appeared to be thriving. He had no expertise on ships, but he had learned quickly and he was amiable enough to make the sailors like him. Gerard intended to make him his permanent secretary as soon as he had anything worth keeping track of.
Alsair said very little as they left the ship. He was wearing a light harness that Gerard had made out of rope. When they passed the little knoll that was Malabar-3, Gerard told him to stop. Alsair circled reluctantly. “Why? There’s nothing down there.”
“I want to talk to you.” I don’t want anyone else around, and I want to be able to look you in the face.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” said Alsair. “I won’t do it again. Can we forget about it?”
“No,” said Gerard. “Please land.”
Sea grass was whipping in the salt breeze. Fluffy clouds raced overhead. It was a day like Gerard remembered from his childhood—the kind of day he’d spent exploring these little islands with Alsair. Gerard got down and walked around in front of the griffin. “Alsair, how could you?”
Alsair met his eyes with a hint of defiance. He didn’t look sorry, only sullen. “How could I catch a street brat? Easier than catching rabbits, actually.”
Gerard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “He was a child, Alsair!”
“Things like that turn into things like him, Gerard.”
“Only when they have encounters with things like you!” Gerard fairly bellowed.
“I wish I’d saved the tail,” said Alsair nastily.
Gerard cuffed his ear. “Are you even listening to me? I find your behavior horrific and unacceptable!”
“I’m not an extension of you!” shot Alsair. He was actually bristling now and nearly screaming. “I’m not bound by your honor, Gerard!”
Gerard stepped back. “I should never have brought you from Holovarus. I wonder if father would take you back.”
“Silveo is still saying he intends to kill you, isn’t he?” snarled Alsair. “Has he retracted that threat? Tell me he has, Gerard, and I’ll take back everything I just said. I’ll apologize in public.”
Gerard said nothing.
“No,” said Alsair, “he hasn’t. He’s told you over and over again that he’s going to stab you in the back. If you don’t believe me, believe him! I have never scrupled to kill for you, Gerard, but I will not stand by and watch you die. Please—” His voice broke. “You are too trusting. You and Thessalyn both—you think any shelt can be made into a friend and ally. It’s just not true.”
Gerard shut his eyes. “Alsair—”
“I won’t go back to Holovarus! I belong with you, Gerard. I belong to you. Either forgive me or kill me. You’ll never stop me from following you, and I won’t stop trying to protect you.”
Gerard could feel tears stinging his eyes. He pulled Alsair towards him and cradled the griffin’s head in his arms. What am I going to do with you? “I forgive you. I already forgave you. It’s just—” He was not satisfied, but he didn’t know what else to say. They stood like that for a long time, and Gerard thought of all the days that he’d spent on these islands with this friend. He and I were closer than Jaleel and I ever could be.
At last, he let go. “Will you trust me enough to let me make my own decisions? Unless you see me in actual physical danger?”
“I’ll try,” whispered Alsair. They lay in the sea grass for a while and watched the clouds. Then they flew on to Malabar.
Silveo had not overstated the damage to the Fang. They were limping so badly that it took three days to make what should have been a half day journey to Holovarus. Thessalyn sat on deck every evening and played her harp in the sweet, clear air, and they feasted on indigo duck and jackfruit and plum wine from the Small Kingdoms.
Gerard could not tell what Thessalyn thought about returning to the place where she’d lost a baby. She was quiet, and he did not press. Gerard wondered what would happen if Thessalyn herself begged Silveo not to go to Holovarus. He almost asked her to, but decided it wasn’t his business. Silveo talked to Thessalyn often during meals and in the afternoons. If she wanted to ask him such a thing, she would do it on her own.
Gerard didn’t know whether Silveo and Farell had had a fight or whether Silveo had just gotten bored, but he’d clearly taken up with one of the ship’s boys. Gerard came in on the morning of the third day after the storm to discuss navigation of the reef around Holovarus and caught the youngster slinking out.
Silveo came out of his bedroom yawning, still in his nightshirt. “Is he flavor of the month?” asked Gerard as the door closed behind the boy.
“Mm-hm.”
Gerard frowned.
Silveo opened his coat closet—a huge affair intended to hold much more than coats. He went in and started to get dressed. “Did you have a point, or were you just making noise to hear yourself echo?”
Gerard was lost for words. “He doesn’t have a choice. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Silveo made an indignant huff. “Have you noticed I’m a foxling? You think he can’t fend me off?”
“You’re his admiral,” said Gerard. “He’s got to be all of fourteen, Silveo.”
Silveo stuck his head out of the closet abruptly. “And I was all of six,” he spat. Gerard realized he’d inadvertently crossed a line. Silveo stalked out of the closet glaring. “He’s old enough to say yes, and I’m not hurting him. Besides, you seem to be suffering from your perennial illusion that I’m a nice person. I’m not! Now get over there and draw me some reef lines.”
Gerard obeyed. Silveo still seemed miffed. “How old was Thessalyn the first time you ‘got lost’ on a walk, oh honorable one? How much choice do you think she had? You were her boss’s eldest! You were her prince!”
Seventeen, thought Gerard. She was seventeen, but that was different. I actually cared about her. I gave up everything for her. “I love Thess,” said Gerard aloud. “She’s my friend. I think to you, sex and friendship are mutually exclusive.”
Silveo’s ears flicked back. “Wyverns preserve us,” he said with as much sarcasm as he could cram into a sentence. “I’m all upside-down and backwards. Poor Silveo. Are you volunteering to fix me, Gerard? No? Then shut up; I’m tired of this conversation.”
Gerard mentioned the episode to Thessalyn that night.
She nodded. “I don’t think sex means anything at all to Silveo.”
“Well, that’s obvious,” muttered Gerard.
Thessalyn shook her head. “Not in the way you think. I mean that to him, sex is just the price he has to pay for…I’m not sure—comfort, security, reassurance. Silveo wants more than anything to feel safe, and he never feels safe, Gerard. I think the closest he comes is when he’s with us.”
That made Gerard laugh. “Thess, you see good in everyone, even when it’s not there.”
“Not true. I just think it’s never too late for anyone.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s cruel to all kinds of shelts?”
“Cruelty always bothers me, Gerard. Pain always bothers me. I fix it whenever I can reach it.”
He stroked her head. “You’re better at picking your battles than I am.”
“Comes of being blind and female,” she said.
That made him think of something else. “Thess, did you feel like you had a choice when you made love to me the first time? Or when you married me?”
“Hmmm.” He could feel her frown against his neck. “Did I have a choice? I suppose it would be easier to answer that question if I hadn’t been madly in love with you.”
Her response didn’t make Gerard feel any better. It occurred to him that Silveo and Thessalyn had both grown up in the lower echelons of society—a place that was foreign to him.
Thessalyn broke into his thoughts. “Silveo doesn’t think anyone has any real choices—or not many, at least. He thinks maybe shelts like you have a few choices, although he’s skeptical.”
“But you don’t think that, do you?” persisted Gerard. “I mean, I didn’t make you feel that way…did I?”
“You make me feel alive,” said Thessalyn, hugging him tight. “You make me feel like I can fly, like I can see, like I can walk on water. Please don’t be sorry for loving me, Gerard.”
The so-called winged wolves of Maijha Minor are not wolves, nor are they quadropedavia—creatures with four legs and two wings. They are sometimes called blood bats, and this is perhaps more accurate, as they do live exclusively on blood. The creatures can grow nearly as tall as a shelt’s waist, and they have a long fifth toe, which folds upwards when they are running along the ground. A thick flap of skin connects this toe to a point near their hips, forming a “wing.” Although they prefer to glide for short distances, they are capable of true flight, via a double-jointed shoulder that allows them to lock the wing in place. They can speak, but have no shelts as far back as history and their own legends record. They are shy and secretive and usually live in large colonies in the cliffs of Maijha Minor.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
They arrived in Port Holovarus on the fourth morning after the storm. The little bay looked smaller than Gerard remembered it—the castle, just visible on the hilltop, grayer. He doubted that the port had ever seen a ship the size of the Fang. Peasants in their fishing boats stood to gawk as Farell maneuvered in around the reef. Gerard knew almost all of them. He doubted he could avoid being recognized, so he didn’t try.
They anchored well out from the shallow edges of the bay and waited. Several of the fishing boats came up cautiously to learn the identity of their visitor. It didn’t take long for an official sloop to put off from the pier and come gliding over the water towards them. Gerard could feel a knot in his belly. He’d never wanted to come back here. He glanced at Silveo up on the quarterdeck. This is a fine way to repay me for saving the ship!
The knot in his belly turned to ice when he saw the first shelt over the side. Jaleel.
“Gerard!” cried the other. “Come home at last, have you? With your tail between your legs, I hope.”
Gerard said nothing. His hand was itching for his sword.
“I hope you didn’t bring that whore with you,” continued Jaleel. He was a little shorter than Gerard with the same large dark eyes, but lighter hair.
Silveo came strolling down from the quarterdeck at that moment, wearing his most dangerous smile. “I don’t usually let shelts call me that on my own ship,” he said cheerfully. “In fact, come to think of it, I use shelts who call me that as fishing weights.”
Gerard glanced at him. For Silveo to willingly own an insult intended for Thessalyn made him feel absurdly grateful.
Jaleel blanched. “S-sir,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean— I meant—”
“You doubtless have confused us with another ship,” continued Silveo. “As anxious as you may be for whores, we are not that kind of merchant. In fact, we’re not a merchant at all. As any fool who didn’t grow up in a wyvern-forsaken backwater could see, this is the Fang of the Temple Sea Watch, and we are in need of supplies. Please go tell your harbormaster that my quartermaster will wait upon him shortly, and if your king isn’t a complete fool, he might think of inviting us to dinner. Now get off my ship.”
Jaleel tried again to apologize, but Silveo had already turned and stalked away. “Is he still talking?” he said loudly to Farell. “Someone go toss him overboard.”
The sloop departed in some haste, and Gerard watched them sail away. Silveo was grinning from ear to ear. “Your brother?” he asked Gerard.
“My brother,” said Gerard with a faint smile.
“Charming.” Silveo was positively gleeful. “Did you see the color he turned when I came down on deck?”
“I saw,” said Gerard, who was beginning to realize that Silveo’s purpose in coming here might not have been to torment him after all.
“Is your father anything like you at all, Gerard?”
Gerard thought for a moment. “He looks like me.”
Alsair piped up behind him. “Yeah, but you’re not a total bastard.”
“A good point,” said Silveo.
It was all Gerard could do to keep from gaping. You just said something to Alsair! You never say anything to Alsair! Gerard licked his lips. “My father only thinks in terms of what’s good for Holovarus. Usually that means cowries, but sometimes other things. Public relations, appearances—”
“Marriages,” supplied Silveo.
Gerard nodded.
“Good enough. He’ll invite us to dinner. He’ll have to. It would look terrible otherwise.” Silveo walked off to his cabin humming.
Chapter 25. Shinies and Lord Holovar
Zeds are zebra shelts, and evidence suggests that they are not long-time residents of Wefrivain at all, but were imported from the Lawless Lands for hunting on Maijha Minor. They have some traits in common with the hunti, including a female-dominated warrior culture. Of all the creatures living on Maijha Minor, the zeds seem to embrace their predicament most readily. They regard themselves as hunters of grishnards, rather than game animals.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
Silveo reappeared half a watch later dressed in his zed-skin pants and frilly, white silk shirt. He wore a red felt hat with a monstrous canary yellow plume, a pegasus-skin cape of brilliant purple and gold feathers, and his bright yellow boots. He had three earrings in one ear and five in the other, in a variety of shapes and colors. He’d braided tiny golden bells on golden thread into his tail and re-kohled his eyes so that the pale blue irises flashed in the fading light.
Gerard stared at him. Silveo grinned back. “Do I look like a more expensive version of something from the pleasure districts of Sern?”
“I wouldn’t have said it that way.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. You would have just grimaced and given me that look.”
“What look?” asked Gerard, but Silveo only sniffed and flipped his tail.
Thessalyn had come cautiously up on deck to stand in the late afternoon sunlight. “Let me see,” she said. Silveo let her fingers dance over his attire. Thessalyn giggled when she got to his earrings. “Silveo, this is a lot even for you.”
“I know,” he said. “I jingle every time I turn my head.” He demonstrated. “And you didn’t ‘see’ my tail. Listen.” He waved it, and the bells rang merrily.
“Are you trying to annoy Lord Holovar?” asked Thessalyn.
“The lady is brilliant. I am trying to be completely shocking and offensive.”
“I think you’ll succeed,” said Gerard.
“Are you coming with us, Thess?” asked Silveo.
Thessalyn hesitated. “I—I’d rather not. Unless you really want me to.”
Silveo shook his head, earrings tinkling. “No, stay here. I will order something edible brought to your cabin and someone to read to you while you eat it. Or you can play and sing. Whatever suits. You don’t have to touch this island if you don’t want to.”
Alsair wanted to come, but Gerard shook his head. “Father will regard you as a weapon. I might as well walk in there with a drawn sword.”
“I am a weapon,” growled Alsair. “Weapons keep you safe.”
“Not when they’re seen as a threat. You’ll only end up in a fight with some of the other house griffins. There are lots of them and only one of you. Please honor what I told you earlier.”
A quarter watch later, a lantern-lit boat put out from the pier and glided towards them. Farell and his ten captains were all dressed in quieter clothes, ready for a formal dinner. “I’ll tell you something else about shinies,” said Silveo to Gerard while they waited. “I’m not just invisible when I’m not wearing them. I’m invisible even when I am.”
Gerard thought about that.
“I poisoned a shelt one time while he was looking right at me,” continued Silveo. “I was wearing these earrings, in fact, and he just couldn’t get his eyes off them. I reached over and dumped felbain in his glass, and he didn’t even notice.”
“You’re not planning on poisoning my father?” asked Gerard in some alarm.
“Probably not,” said Silveo. “What’s his name anyway?”
“Mishael. But no one ever calls him—”
He saw Silveo’s grin and shook his head. “He has a temper, Silveo. Be careful.”
“Does he have a wife?”
“Not unless a lot has changed. Mother died when we were young, and he never remarried.”
Something in Gerard’s voice must have betrayed him, because Silveo turned to look at him. There was a long pause, and then Silveo thumped his bells against the side of the ship. “Very occasionally I am slow, but I do catch on in the end.”
You’re never slow, thought Gerard. You are annoyingly not slow.
“He wanted Thess, didn’t he?”
Gerard said nothing.
“Yes, yes,” Silveo continued. “No wonder he paid for her schooling—pretty, talented girl. He probably thought he’d bought her.”
Gerard scowled. He drew a deep breath. “Most minstrels are sons or daughters of great houses, and they marry well. Females of humble birth are in a tough position and often end up as court mistresses to some great lord.”
Silveo shrugged. “One could do worse than Lord Holovar.”
Gerard looked up at the night sky. I loved her, and he didn’t. But you really don’t know what that means, do you? “One day, I remember we were walking on the beach—he and Jaleel and I and several of his councilors. Thess had come, and she was trailing behind, feeling with her paws for shells, the way she likes to do. She was wearing an expensive gown, and it would trail in the sand every time she bent over to pick one up. My father saw her, told her to stop; the gown was too expensive to be doing that. She protested, and he hit her—casually across the face, the way you might slap a dumb animal that was misbehaving.” She looked so surprised, so lost, so hurt.
Silveo’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Gerard couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Did he ever hit you?”
Gerard was taken a little off guard. “Sometimes—not often and never to wound. He would never have married Thess. That might have confused the succession. He would have cared for her children, of course, and for some girls that would have been enough. But Thess…symbols mean a lot to her, and being hit—”
“I know all about being hit,” snapped Silveo. He said nothing else for the rest of the ride to the pier.
The wyverns did something clever when they came to Wefrivain. They chose the largest, most aggressive shelt species in the islands and helped them subjugate all the other creatures. They made sure that the grishnards would control everyone else. Then all the wyverns had to do was control the grishnards.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Servants had been sent to bring them up to the castle. Again, Gerard knew them all. They stared at him curiously, but when they saw Silveo, they almost forgot about Gerard. By the time they reached the end of the little harbor town and started up the castle hill, Gerard thought that half the population of Holovarus must have turned out to have a look.
“Embarrassed to be seen with me, Gerard?” asked Silveo, chiming with every step.
“No,” said Gerard, and found that it was true. He didn’t belong on this island anymore. The knowledge came as a shock and a relief.
Formally dressed servants met them at the castle entrance. They were too polite to stare, but they kept shooting little glances at Silveo out of the corners of their eyes. Lord Holovar was waiting in the antechamber outside the dining hall. “Oh, look,” said Silveo softly, “it’s you in thirty years—if you live that long.”
Lord Holovar was slightly taller than Gerard. He had the hard profile of an active shelt, a face prematurely lined with sun and wind, and iron gray hair that had once been black. He was not the kind of person who smiled often. Gerard could feel his stomach knotting again. He felt as though he were twelve years old and being called in to account for mishandling of the island’s resources or neglect of some duty. Jaleel was standing slightly behind his father, looking sullen. He whispered something as they entered.
“Stop that,” snapped Silveo, and Gerard realized he’d been slapping Silveo on the back of the head with his own lashing tail. “Don’t fidget,” hissed Silveo. “Hold your head up, stay with me, and keep your mouth shut. If you must talk, remember that you are the captain of the Temple Police.”
He strode to the front of the group. “Mishael,” he said just as the king was opening his mouth to speak. “You have the honor of hosting the Temple Sea Watch and the Police this evening, and I’m sure you’re charmed. No doubt your little dining hall is delightful, but I have been on my ship for days and would like to stretch my legs first. May we have a tour of this…uh…fort…castle…whatever…first?” Silveo flipped his hand languidly as he spoke, jingling and glittering with every move.
Gerard watched his father, who was staring in open horror at Silveo. His mouth twitched. His teeth were fairly on edge as he said, “I take it you are Admiral Lamire.”
Silveo yawned. “Yes, yes, my fame precedes me throughout the lesser kingdoms.”
Gerard forced himself not to smile. Silveo had hit a nerve. The lords of these little islands preferred “small kingdoms,” not “lesser,” and his father was prickly on the point.
Jaleel made a hiss, and the king’s tail lashed once. “The food,” said Mishael Holovar with studied calm, “will be cold if we do not proceed to dinner. I will be happy to take you on a tour after we have eaten. However, there is one point we must discuss first.”
Silveo raised an eyebrow. “If the food congeals, I’m sure the servants can reheat it. They can probably re-poison it, too; I hope you didn’t use anything expensive.”
Jaleel made another little noise. “I can assure you that nothing you eat in my castle will be poisoned,” said Lord Holovar.
“Good, good,” said Silveo. “My Mistress takes a dim view of those who poison her servants. Now what was this point of yours?”
“My son,” said Mishael Holovar, “is not welcome here unless he has come to apologize on his knees and make appropriate restitution. Otherwise, he is not to set foot on this island.”
Gerard glanced sideways at Silveo. He remembered the advice Silveo had given him on the way to Sern. Is this what you brought me here for, Silveo?
Silveo twirled a bracelet. “It may be the practice of the lesser kingdoms to air family squabbles over dinner, but I find it very dull entertainment.” He gestured at Jaleel. “If he has offended you, surely you can find another place to beat him into submission.”
Lord Holovar’s mouth hardened to a granite line. Gerard could tell he’d had just about enough. “I don’t have to put up with his,” he snarled. “Gerard, either get over here or get out. You were banished, and if you don’t understand what that means, my guards will educate you.” The castle guards dutifully stepped into view on either side of the room.
“Excuse me.” Silveo’s voice was still insipid, but Gerard saw that he was playing with a gold-hilted throwing knife that had magically appeared in his hands. He was flipping it over and under his fingers. “I don’t know what you’re nattering on about, but let me assure you: if you have another son besides that specimen behind you, he is not here. The Watch and the Police are here.” He jerked a finger at Gerard. “If you haven’t met our new Captain of Police, then perhaps you should. I realize that news reaches these little forts rather slowly. Now I have a sudden, intense desire to see your library. Do take us there at once.”
Lord Holovar made a slight and very stiff bow. “I will humor your request against my better judgment. This way.”
Gerard heard Jaleel mutter nastily behind his father, “We’d hate to leave any of his sudden and intense desires unsatisfied.”
“Oh, I know you would,” cooed Silveo loudly. “Come see me when you’re old enough.”
Gerard rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Silveo, he really might kill you if you keep this up.
As they proceeded along the hall, Silveo dropped back a little and murmured, “We’re looking for Thess’s books. You did say she left them here, didn’t you?”
So that’s what this is about. “Yes,” said Gerard.
Silveo nodded. “Just go around and start pulling them out. I’ll handle your delightful family.”
“You’re making them very angry,” whispered Gerard. “My father really might try to throw us in the dungeon, and Jaleel really might try to stab you.”
Silveo nodded. “Gods, I hope so!” He was practically skipping. “Oh, just give me an excuse…!”
“I take it you don’t want me to apologize and foreswear Thess anymore.”
Silveo shook a knife at him. “You apologize, and I’ll hamstring you. Just keep your mouth shut.”
They reached the library, and Gerard began scanning the shelves. He knew his father might have sold or burned Thessalyn’s books, but he doubted it. Mishael was not the sort of king to waste resources, and books were rare and valuable. At first he thought he might not remember the titles, but soon he spotted one and then another. I ought to know them, thought Gerard. I read most of them to her.
Behind him, Silveo was keeping up a banal chatter to his father, his brother, and an assortment of castle guards who’d trooped in behind. Gerard stopped suddenly. He was looking at a book called The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain. The author’s name was Flag.
Gerard plucked the book off the shelf and leafed through it. He was sure he’d never seen it before, and he’d read every book in this library. He rounded on Jaleel. “Where did this come from?”
Jaleel stepped back, his jaw working at something Silveo had said. “What?” he snarled.
Gerard shook the book in his face. “This book was not here before I left. Where did it come from?”
Jaleel snatched the book, glanced at the title, and tossed it down on the table. He’d never had much use for books. “I have no idea. Perhaps that storm crow left it. He spent a few hours in the library.”
“Storm crow?” repeated Gerard. It was what they called the shelts who washed up from wrecks.
“Shavier faun. He was here two days ago. Probably stranded by the same storm that ripped apart your precious ship.”
Silveo spoke before Gerard could. “Did he have lenses?”
“Lenses and an ugly pet,” said Jaleel. “A winged wolf.”
Gerard and Silveo looked at each other. “He was here!” exclaimed Gerard.
“I told you there was an animal in that teahouse,” said Silveo. “Winged wolf. That sounds about right.”
Lord Holovar did not seem interested in discussions about their previous guest. He had walked over to the table and examined the pile of books Gerard was pulling down. When he turned back, his eyes were murderous. “You ungrateful, dishonorable whelp,” he snarled at Gerard. “So you’ve come to rob me? You think that just because you’ve made friends with some two-cowry dock rat from the Sea Watch, you can come home and plunder my library for your peasant wife?”
Silveo was strolling along looking at the shelves behind Gerard. “Do I hear a yapping?” he asked. “Or perhaps it’s a squeaking—some small vermin amongst the books.”
Lord Holovar’s face had turned purple. “You and this mountebank have tried my patience long enough!” he roared. “Do you think I can’t take that half-broken hulk in the harbor? Do you think I can’t execute this rabble? You’re not my son, and you’re not under my protection.”
“Excuse me,” came Silveo’s voice, still sweet, but Gerard detected something boiling underneath. Lord Holovar turned. Silveo had hopped onto one of the reading tables, so that Lord Holovar had to look up at him.
“Get off that, you wretched squirrel. I should give you to my guards and let them treat you as what you look like.”
Silveo’s smile solidified, and his eyes turned as cold as glass marbles. When he spoke again, his voice had razor blades in it. “Let me explain something to you, Mishael: you are nothing. If you think you own this island, you’re a fool. If your god thinks he owns it, then he’s a fool, too. I know who owns every island in Wefrivain, and she’s my Mistress.
“If she finds you’ve injured—or even threatened—her servants, let me explain what she can do to you. Your neighbors consult their local deities for omens, signs, advice. If those deities tell them to go to war with you, they will. If the wyverns tell them not to trade with you, they’ll do that, too. My Mistress can strangle your little island, and that’s only the beginning.”
Silveo paced the length of the table. His tail had bristled until it was nearly as big as the rest of him. The bells had disappeared. “You may have heard what I did on Sern when I took over the Watch. She gave me that island like a newborn pegasus colt for the pots, and I took it to pieces. Eight years later, they’re still putting themselves back together. I happen to know she’s very pleased with her new Captain of Police. If Gerard said, ‘Mistress, I’d like to burn Holovarus and sow it with salt,’ I’m sure she’d say, ‘Do you need any extra firewood, dear?’”
There was an echo of footfalls in the hall at that moment, and three frightened guards raced into the room. “Sire,” panted one, “four wyverns are circling the castle. What shall we do?”
Silveo’s eyes glittered. “I hear you’re fond of sacrificing royals around here. Perhaps the gods would like another. Shall we ask them, Mishael?”
Lord Holovar had gone gray. Gerard had never seen his father look like that before. Silveo slapped him hard across the face. Every guard in the room reached for his sword, but Lord Holovar reeled back and held up his hand. He did not raise his head or look at Silveo. He gave no order. The guards hesitated.
Silveo hissed. “Don’t you dare threaten me, you pathetic little king. I’ll take what I want when I want it. Now get out! I’ll ask for you if I want you. Get—out!”
Moments later, they were alone in the library. Silveo had sent Farell and his captains to eat. “No point wasting good food,” he told them. “Bring some back to the ship for us; I think we’ll be busy.”
Gerard cleared his throat. “Well, that was nasty.”
“Felt good, didn’t it?” Silveo was leafing through the book Gwain had left. He shook a finger at Gerard. “Don’t think I’m doing this for you.”
Gerard smiled and looked at the floor. “Of course you’re not.”
“I’m doing this because it amuses me.”
“And for Thessalyn.”
“Yes,” said Silveo, entirely willing to admit favors for Thessalyn. He gestured around the library. “Shall we take all of them? I suppose we could burn what we don’t want, but I’m not sure I can bear it. Burning books is just vile.”
Gerard shook his head. “Silveo, it’s so hard to get books out here. They’re at least two or three times more expensive than in the Great Islands. This collection is the work of at least six generations of Holovars. I don’t want to plunder his library. I really don’t. Let’s just take Thess’s books and go.”
Silveo shook his bells in annoyance. “Didn’t you hear what he said to you? What does it take to make you angry, Gerard?”
“Well, you’ve managed to do it a few times.”
“He killed your daughter.”
Gerard shut his eyes. He took a deep breath. “Hoepali—the local god—killed my daughter. My father did nothing to stop it, but it wasn’t his idea. I’m sure that no matter what he says, he will feel guilty about it until the day he dies. This is enough, Silveo. I don’t want to wreck Holovarus.”
Silveo stared at him curiously. “What did you do to make the god so angry?”
Gerard shrugged. “He gave omens that I shouldn’t marry Thess, and I defied him. I should never have asked for the omens, but she wanted me to.” Gerard rubbed his eyes. I don’t want to talk about this, Silveo.
For once, Silveo didn’t press. “He was, mostly, a good father,” said Gerard, trying to change the subject. “At least when I was young.”
Silveo shrugged. “Well, he would have to be an improvement on my mother. Very well, then. We won’t take all his books.”
“Did you not have a father?” asked Gerard.
Silveo hopped down from the table. “I’m sure I did. Nearly everyone does.”
Gerard smiled. “And your mother wasn’t much of a mother?”
“Well, you said it before we left Lecklock.”
Gerard took a second to process this. You are a coward and a fool, still as much a dock rat as the day your mother sold you. He groaned. “If I had believed for a moment— I am so sorry I said that, Silveo. I know words don’t mean much to you, but—”
Silveo was grinning up at him. “It is so pathetically easy to make you squirm, Gerard. I keep thinking I’ll get tired of it, but it’s too much fun. Stop being sorry. Did Thess leave anything else she valued here?”
“Lots of pretty things that my father has probably sold.” And she loved shells and smooth stones and flower petals. I’m sure he dumped those out on the back step. “Nearly all her clothes,” said Gerard. “She had some glorious clothes.”
“He made her leave her clothes?” exclaimed Silveo in horror. “Why didn’t you just take them?”
Gerard spread his hands. “We left in the middle of the night! I thought the god might ask for her next. We just scooped up what we could carry and ran.”
“And you ran to the Temple Watch.” Silveo shook his head.
Gerard shrugged. “It was the only honorable way out I could think of—the only thing that might put us beyond the reach of the gods.”
Silveo had started to sneer at the word honorable, but he stopped when Gerard finished. “Well, you’re not wrong there. If Morchella values you, no wyvern will touch you. You just might not like the price.”
Gerard felt suddenly cold. “How did you get those wyverns here?”
“A messenger came to the ship this morning. He wanted to know if we needed anything. I asked for a demonstration this evening.”
Gerard could feel himself bristling uncomfortably. He didn’t want to owe Morchella anything.
Maijha Minor is a strange place for all kinds of reasons. The keepers of the island claim to make the hunt fair by limiting the quality and type of weapons hunters can carry. Of course, this is mainly to limit the kinds of weapons the fauns get hold of. Their best weapon, however, is the island itself. A more dangerous place for the unwary does not exist in Wefrivain.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
As Gerard had suspected, none of Thessalyn’s other possessions remained to be claimed. He managed to corner the butler, who confirmed that her clothes had been sold. Gerard also questioned him about the shavier faun who’d been there two days ago. The butler had noted that his feathers below the hem of his pants were “sort of a grayish color.” He’d also worn lenses while reading. He had a winged wolf. “Well trained,” the butler added. “It heeled perfectly and never said a word.”
The faun claimed to be a merchant’s bookkeeper whose ship had been damaged in the storm. His master—a wealthy grishnard—was in Malabar procuring a new vessel. In the meantime, he’d sent his bookkeeper to have a look at the local libraries. The merchant was thinking of bringing in a shipload of books, and he wanted to know what titles were held and valued in the region. The guest had met briefly with the king and prince, exchanged news items, and then been given the run of the library for half a day.
Gerard asked whether it was possible he was still on the island, but the butler shook his head. “I heard he stayed one night in town and left yesterday for Malabar on a pegasus.”
“And if that’s what he told them,” said Silveo, “you can bet it’s not where he went.”
“Why would he come here?” muttered Gerard as they were walking back to the ship.
Silveo shrugged. “He could have left Sern about the same time we did, headed in the same direction. He got blown by the same storm to the same place. That could have been the wreck of his ship you saw on the reef.”
“Even if that’s true, it’s unlikely he was the only survivor. If he survived, then there should have been others. If he came straight here from the wreck, he should not have been dressed in decent clothes with cowries to spend in town. He had to have landed somewhere else after the storm and then chosen to come here. Why?”
“I have an idea,” said Silveo.
“Which is?”
Silveo shook his head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow if I’m right.”
They returned to the ship with Farell and company, who were in high spirits. Any prestige Silveo had lost on Sern had been completely restored by his victory over Lord Holovar. Many of the sailors came from humble backgrounds, and they’d suffered at the hands of such shelts in the past. They liked nothing better than to see one brought low. The whole ship was babbling with the story for half the night, and Silveo let them talk. He’d also let Farell’s party bring back every scrap of food from the dinner table. They’d plundered the kitchens as well, and the entire ship made merry.
Alsair made Gerard repeat the story twice, and then he went around asking the sailors more questions. He was perfectly giddy with the news that Silveo had slapped Mishael Holovar, and seemed almost willing to forgive all past offenses.
Gerard wasn’t so pleased about it. “Although,” he said to Thessalyn in their cabin, “I’m sure it was Silveo’s idea of saying thank you.”
The next morning, everyone got down to the serious business of repairing the ship. Silveo visited the harbormaster in person and explained what they needed. “Do we have enough cowries on hand to pay for it all?” asked Gerard when he returned.
“Pay for it?” echoed Silveo. “My dear Captain of Police, we do not pay for things intended for the service of our Mistress. Any shelt who does not make an offering of anything you need to perform your function is asking for trouble with the gods.”
Gerard shook his head. “You may have to introduce my father to this concept.”
“I suspect he was called to the temple last night and frightened out of his wits,” said Silveo. “The Harbormaster more-or-less said so. In any case, they will give us whatever we want so long as we leave as quickly as possible.”
Below them in the water, a team of trained cowry catchers was already scraping the hull and beginning repairs to the leak. Gerard could see their fat manatee tails flip above the surface periodically. Their overseer stood a little way off in his flat barge with tools and supplies. Another boat was putting off from the wharf, heavy with sailcloth, rope, and planking.
Silveo watched it. “Did you leave anything here, Gerard?”
My childhood? My identity? Gerard shook his head. “The only thing I wanted off this island was Thess.”
Alsair gave an indignant little sputter behind them. “The Meerkat,” he said with a cough.
Silveo looked at Gerard. “What’s the Meerkat?”
Gerard glared around at Alsair. “A little boat,” he said. “Nothing I need to go looking for.”
“Oh, Gerard!” exclaimed Alsair. “You loved that little boat! We went all over the Small Kingdoms in it.” He turned to Silveo. “He built it when he was thirteen.”
“And fourteen and fifteen,” said Gerard.
“And then we practically lived in it for another three years,” said Alsair happily.
“Well,” said Silveo, “one of our small boats was damaged in the storm, so obviously we are in need of another.”
“It’s a little big for a jolly boat,” said Gerard doubtfully.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Where is it?”
It was in dry dock in the royal boathouse. Gerard saw with relief that Jaleel hadn’t done anything nasty to it. When it came to hobbies, Jaleel had always preferred hunting to sailing. He liked being a prince and had never wanted the responsibilities of kingship. He and Gerard had fought occasionally as children, but mostly they were just different and rarely together after the age of eight. Gerard doubted anyone had touched the Meerkat since he left it, except to put her in storage.
Silveo walked around the vessel. It was over twice the length of Alsair, with a mainsail and a jib. Gerard had designed her himself and put her together as carefully as Thessalyn constructed her ballads. Silveo whistled. “I bet this boat can sail as close to the wind for its size as anything in Wefrivain.”
Gerard smiled. “She is very maneuverable.”
“She’s beautiful,” said Silveo. “And as we’ve established, I like pretty things. We’re definitely taking her.”
An eighth watch later, they were slipping through the doors of the dock house into the breeze and sunshine. Gerard could have sailed the Meerkat in his sleep, and Silveo didn’t try to do anything—just climbed up on the gunnel with his face in the wind and wrapped his tail around him. He was wearing sailcloth today and only a trace of kohl. He hadn’t even bothered with boots. About halfway to the Fang, he stood up and walked back to where Gerard sat with his hand on the boom. “Do you want to sail her?” asked Gerard. He was proud of the way the Meerkat handled. She was a responsive little skiff.
Silveo shook his head. “I’m not that good with small boats—never needed to learn about them. I was going to tell you: when I went to see the harbormaster, I asked some questions in town. Gwain was there for one night. He stayed in an inn, but he seems to have been busy about town. He asked a lot of questions about you.”
“Me?” Gerard was surprised.
Silveo nodded. “It’s what I suspected. He found himself in this vicinity and thought he might do some research on the new Captain of Police—maybe figures you’ll be harder to kill than the last dozen (although I can’t think why). Maybe you made him curious in that teahouse.”
“I tried to recruit him,” said Gerard.
Silveo laughed out loud. “For the Police?”
“Well, yes. He was obviously bright. He speaks a little of every language in common use if he told the truth, including Maijhan. I need someone who speaks Maijhan. I want to investigate Maijha Minor.”
“I speak Maijhan,” said Silveo mildly.
“Well, you weren’t exactly volunteering.”
“I’m still not. Every Captain of Police wants to investigate Maijha Minor, and I think it’s a dumb idea.”
“Why?”
“Let’s think about this,” said Silveo with mock patience. “What is the Resistance anyway? Fauns killing panauns. We don’t like it, and we make it illegal. Now, what is Maijha Minor? Fauns legally killing panauns. They are at a disadvantage, but if they manage to kill hunters, it’s perfectly alright. The way I see it, the Maijhan king has made the Resistance legal on Maijha Minor, and until that changes, you’re never going to be able to do anything about the island. Sure, Pirates use it. They’d be stupid not to, although the controls in place make it difficult.”
“But if they’re basing themselves there—” began Gerard.
Silveo shook his head. “Gerard, the Resistance is not organized. We talk about them as one entity, but that is misleading. They are a group of factions, often in disagreement, and that’s part of what keeps them from being successful.”
He sat down on a bench. “Panauns have the advantage because they are mostly one species. There are a few odd ones like me tossed in, but mostly, grishnards are in charge. They’re just one type of creature who wants more or less the same sorts of things. The Resistance is heterogeneous—many kinds of fauns, some nauns like selkies, various talking beasts, and some sympathetic grishnards. They disagree on their goals and how to achieve them. This is why they will never be more than a nuisance to grishnards.”
“They’ve been more than a nuisance to the Police,” said Gerard.
Silveo nodded. “As I said before, I think you have a spy. He’s probably working for one particular Resistance cell. They can be highly organized on a small basis. I think Gwain is their leader.”
Foxlings seem to have originated mostly on Maijha Major—at least, that’s where their largest populations are located. Quite a few can also be found in the pleasure districts of Sern, and although it is supposedly illegal to hunt them, they are occasionally kidnapped and turned loose on Maijha Minor for sport. Their cleverness, small size, and adaptability make them interesting quarry.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
It was late morning when they got back to the ship. Silveo paused before climbing up the side. “How many holdings does Holovarus have?”
“Technically nine,” said Gerard, “but only four of them are inhabited year-round.”
“And which did Thessalyn come from? Is it within sailing distance in the Meerkat?”
“Number two.” Gerard thought about the wind and weather. “It’s not far. The Meerkat could be there in a half watch. Thess’s parents aren’t on the island, though. Her mother died when she was in school, and her father lived just long enough to see her installed on Holovarus as court minstrel. She does have some siblings living there.”
“Would she like to see them?”
Gerard shrugged. “Ask her.”
As Gerard had suspected, Thessalyn was reticent about going to Holovarus-2. She’d had little contact with her siblings after leaving at a young age for school, and her education and lifestyle had put even more distance into the relationships. Her abduction, as they saw it, of the crown prince had lowered their opinion of her rather than raised it. Gerard had been a favorite with many of the peasants. He spent more time around them than Jaleel did, and they resented Thessalyn for disturbing the succession.
“You’d like to walk on the beach, though,” said Silveo. “Lots of shells on the beach. Come, we’ll bring food—get off the Fang for a while.”
Thessalyn smiled slyly. “I’ll come…if you tell me why you don’t like griffins.”
All the playfulness went out of Silveo’s expression. He crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his shoulder. “I don’t know why you want to hear about that. It’s just a sad story.”
“Some sad stories are important,” said Thessalyn.
For a moment, Gerard thought Silveo would tell her to have a good day aboard ship, but then he shrugged. “I’ll think about it. Are you coming or not?”
Gerard had assumed they would take several of the sailors and make a small tour of Holovarus’s holdings, perhaps buy provisions. He was surprised when he realized that Silveo did not intend to take anyone but Gerard and Thessalyn. Silveo didn’t even comment when Alsair dropped lightly into his accustomed place in the rear of the boat.
The day was splendid, and Gerard was glad to be out of Port Holovarus. They skimmed along in a warm wind over a gently rolling sea. The water was a striking blue. Normally, they would have been able to see all the way to the bottom, but the storm had stirred things up. Still, they could see a good bit of the reef and the brilliantly colored fish and coral. Flying fish skimmed along the surface, sometimes whirring over the boat. Alsair sat up and batted at them until Gerard told him to either fly or sit down before he capsized the vessel. It was an old argument and made them both smile. Thessalyn trailed a hand in the water, her face in the wind.
Silveo made no attempt to tell Gerard where to go or what to do. He sat in the bow, taking readings with a couple of small instruments. When they’d almost reached the island, Alsair half stood and carefully made his way to the front of the boat. “Gerard wants me to apologize for what I did on Sern,” he said, laying his head on the bench beside Silveo.
Silveo glanced at him with distaste. “Gerard knows I don’t value apologies. What you did on Sern was vicious and effective. It was exactly what I would have done.” He gave a small, bitter smile. “But I’ll kill you if you ever do anything like it again.”
Alsair couldn’t seem to decide whether he’d been complimented, insulted, or threatened. Finally he said, “I still don’t trust you—”
“You hear that, Gerard?” called Silveo. “The griffin is smarter than you!”
“—but,” continued Alsair, “I appreciate what you did on Holovarus, so thank you for that.”
Silveo shook his head. “Your first idea was better.”
Gerard had decided to take them to Holovarus-4, an uninhabited little gem of an island that could be crossed in a quarter watch on foot. It had a tiny cove where he’d loved to fish, as well as some small game that Alsair had used to hunt. They landed on the beach opposite the cove and hiked up into the dunes along a little ridge of cliff that gave a decent view of Holovarus-2, 5, 8, and 9. Silveo asked questions about everything he saw, but he still made no attempt to lead them. Gerard had spotted a nautilus shell on the beach and given it to Thessalyn. She was exploring its surfaces like a child admiring a beautiful new trinket. Alsair flew off to look for rabbits and mice in the dunes.
“So this is where you should be,” commented Silveo, after Gerard had pointed out the distant spike of Holvarus-9 and explained its political relationship to the other holdings.
“Pardon?”
“I mean, this is where you fit and what you were trained to do, as opposed to wandering around Wefrivain taking orders from a foxling who dresses like ‘a flamboyantly.’”
Gerard shrugged. He glanced at Thessalyn a little way down the slope, who was alternatively examining her nautilus and unpacking their lunch. “She’s worth it.” He sighed. “No matter how I try to speak to you, I seem to say things that in retrospect appear ungracious and unkind.”
Silveo laughed. He seemed truly amused. “‘Ungracious.’ Gerard, you are so very far from the right job.”
He started down the hill. “Did you hear what happened at the castle last night, Thess?”
She raised her head from the nautilus shell and gave a hesitant smile. “I heard you made Lord Holovar extremely uncomfortable.”
“Oh, yes,” purred Silveo. “He’d never had to be polite to something like me before.”
Thessalyn frowned. “You’re not a something, Silveo.”
“Oh, I am a something,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve gotten along very well as a something.”
“You haven’t,” said Thessalyn. “You’ve survived.”
“That’s getting along well, at least where I come from. What was Holovarus-2 like when you lived there? I hope you didn’t have any siblings as charming as Jaleel.”
So Thessalyn talked about her girlhood while they ate roasted fish brought from the Fang and nibbled on pastries left over from last night’s feast. Gerard felt a mixture of strangeness at Silveo’s presence and profound peace. He was with Thessalyn and Alsair on islands that he knew and loved with his own boat on the sandy beach. When the meal was finished, he stretched out in the sun in a nest of sea grass with Thessalyn absently running her fingers through his hair. He never knew quite when he drifted off to sleep.
Non-grishnard panauns such as foxlings and ocelons are in some ways the most powerless group of creatures in Wefrivain. The Resistance does not trust them because they are panauns, and they do not have the monetary and physical clout to force their way into the Resistance by being needed as some sympathetic grishnards do. For better or for worse, non-grishnard panauns like foxlings and ocelons are usually stuck trying to make the best of what grishnards will give them.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
Gerard woke by degrees. Thessalyn and Silveo were talking, and their voices drifted in and out of his dreams.
“My mother,” said Silveo, “loved sweat leaf a good deal more than she loved me. But at least I was pretty, so I wasn’t totally useless.”
Gerard felt Thessalyn shift. “Oh, Silveo—”
“Oh, no. No, ‘Oh, Silveo’s. You asked for the story. Now I’m telling it. Be quiet and listen or I’ll stop.”
Thessalyn was immediately quiet.
“She disappeared when I was eight,” continued Silveo. “The brothel where she’d been selling me promptly claimed me, and for the next five years I was essentially their prisoner. They had a griffin that watched the grounds—mean, mangy thing. We were all terrified of it. The master told us it would kill us if we tried to leave.”
“Did anyone try?” asked Thessalyn.
“No, we weren’t that stupid. There were about a dozen of us kids—mostly ocelons. You would think that being in the same wretched situation, we’d have a lot of sympathy for each other, but they thought they were better than us foxlings. They looked more like grishnards, and when they grew big enough, the master might sell them to a ship, and they’d get out. Foxlings, though, he’d keep indefinitely, because we just don’t get very big. There weren’t many of us, and customers thought we were exotic.
“There was one other white foxling, a girl named Nix. We used to pretend we had the same father. Maybe we did, too—no way of knowing. She and I both had sharp tongues. We used to make up nasty nicknames for the customers. We’d joke about them, about each other, about everything. We made the others laugh, and it kept us all sane.
“The master, though—he didn’t like it, especially since we didn’t exempt him from the sport. One of the ocelons snitched about some of the stuff we said, and he didn’t feed either of us for three days. He didn’t want to kill us or beat us too badly, though, because we were valuable.”
Silveo paused, and this time Thessalyn did not attempt to say anything. “You sure you want to hear this, Thess? It’s not very…nice.”
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “Silveo, I’m not unaware of what goes on in the world beyond the common rooms and courts where I sing. I grew up in poverty, and there were shelts who counseled my father that there was only one way to make use of a pretty, blind daughter. Thank the Firebird he didn’t listen.”
“Yes,” said Silveo thoughtfully, “we could thank him for that, I suppose. Anyway, what I’m trying unsuccessfully to think of a nice way to say is that there are plenty of things an adult grishnard cannot do to a little foxling if he wants to do anything to him tomorrow. The customers had rules they were supposed to follow, and for the most part, they did. However, we’d get one periodically who thought that once the door was closed, the rules didn’t apply to him. If the money was good enough, the master didn’t want to turn those shelts away. However, he also didn’t want to lose valuable merchandise—us.
“He discovered fairly early that I was good at handling these customers. I could talk them down, make them laugh, convince them not to hurt me.”
“So you got the dangerous ones,” said Thessalyn.
“Yes.” Silveo’s voice carried an acid hint of mock pride. “Silvy got to handle the crazies. I was good at it, too, but I did depend on the master to use some measure of common sense. A grishnard came in one day—fellow about Gerard’s size. His idea of a good time was beating one of us senseless. We’d had problems with him before, and he’d killed a kid from a place down the street earlier that year, but he laid down a few speckled cowries, and the master let him in. I’d gotten in trouble earlier that evening for saying something snippy, and the master was angry at me.
“He shoved me into a room with that brute, and nothing I said or did made any difference. He nearly killed me. For anyone else, the master would have stopped it, but not for me. Afterward, when the bastard had fallen into a drunken sleep, Nix crept in and smothered him with a pillow. I told her not to. I told her the worst was over, but she was so angry. She’d listened to me getting knocked around for a quarter watch, and the master doing nothing. She wouldn’t listen.
“When our master found the body, he was livid. I told him I’d done it, but I could barely crawl, so he didn’t believe me. He staked her out in the yard and let that griffin at her. He made me watch.” Silveo bit off the last word.
“Silveo,” whispered Thessalyn.
“I said none of that!” he snapped. “You asked me. I told you. The end. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s pity. And quit pretending to be asleep, Gerard. I know perfectly well that you’re not.”
Gerard sat up, feeling a little guilty. Silveo had his knees pulled up to his chin, his tail wrapped tightly around his body. Thessalyn leaned over suddenly and hugged him. Silveo gave a startled hiss like a scolded cat, and Gerard leapt up in alarm. “Thess, he’ll—”
“Lady,” growled Silveo against her shoulder, “it is extremely unwise to seize me unexpectedly.” Gerard saw, though, that his hand had stopped halfway inside his pocket. “Let go of me,” said Silveo.
“Let go of him,” agreed Gerard.
Thessalyn released him with a sigh. “Well, you won’t let me say what I want to say.”
“Maddening, isn’t it? Let’s see if I can tell you some things that will make you feel less like throwing your arms around me. The priestess got me out of that place—turned up when I was twelve and asked me to kill someone for her. I still don’t know whether she picked me at random or whether she knew something about me. She gave me a knife—first good weapon I ever had. I killed a lot of shelts for her over the next few years—mostly political assassinations. You wouldn’t believe how much she likes to meddle. One day, she said, ‘You’re good at surviving, Silveo. How would you like to survive my Sea Watch?’
“I thought she meant as a regular sailor, but she put me in as a lieutenant. I have no idea what she said to Admiral Mornay to make him do it—he certainly didn’t like me—but two years later the Resistance shot him, and she made me admiral.”
“Did you really try to gild the Fang silver?” asked Gerard.
Silveo snorted. “I was nineteen and giddy. I knew I needed a legend, needed to keep everybody guessing. They’d never serve under a foxling unless I stayed so far ahead of them they never knew what I was going to do next.”
Silveo leaned back in the grass. “The Priestess gave me Sern, too. I declared the island a nest of Resistance traitors and went through it like a scythe. Even the king was nervous by the time I was finished. My old master—” He stopped. “You don’t even want to know what I did to him. Or to that griffin. I hunted down every one of our regular patrons, killed the ocelons, too.”
“Even the ones who weren’t cruel to you?” asked Thessalyn.
“Even those,” said Silveo. “It certainly felt therapeutic, but I also knew I couldn’t have shelts running around talking about things that happened back then. It doesn’t do for an admiral of the Sea Watch to have anyone able to say… Well, it just doesn’t do. If there’s anyone left in Wefrivain who knew me back then, they certainly aren’t talking about it.”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence. Then Thessalyn said, “Did Nix sing?”
Silveo smiled. “Yes, she sang. Not like you. She hadn’t had the training. She might have been terrible; I don’t know. I was only a kid. She could make me sleep, though. Not much else could make me sleep back then, except exhaustion.”
He hesitated. “They used to carry us around sometimes by the scruff. It’s difficult for a little foxling to fight when he’s being carried that way. There’s a powerful instinct that tells your body to curl up and submit.”
“But you didn’t,” said Thessalyn.
Silveo gave a little huff. “Oh, some days I did. You can’t fight the system—not if you want to win. You have to find a way to work from inside of it. ”
“Even if the system is wrong?” asked Thessalyn.
Silveo rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s wrong. Everyone cheats. Everyone will sell you for the right price. There are no real choices. That’s the world according to Silveo Lamire. I realize that the world according to Thessalyn Holovar is quite a bit different. You’re a sweet fool.” He got up and dusted himself off. “Story time’s over, little lambs. I need to get back to my ship.”
Traffic on and off of Maijha Minor is closely monitored. Supposedly it is a closed system, but everyone knows that smuggling does occur. Shavier slaves sometimes escape to the island, judging the risks of constant hunting worth the benefits of relative freedom among their own kind. Even some grishnard smugglers are willing to trade rare items from the island for the weapons and steel that the inhabitants desperately need.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
They left Holovarus three days later, bound for Mance. Gerard didn’t think he’d ever seen a ship repaired so quickly. Neither his father nor Jaleel put in another appearance, for which he was grateful. The Fang still needed a number of small things that Holovarus’s dockyard could not provide on short notice. Silveo opted to pick them up on the way, rather than waiting.
During those three days, Gerard spent a considerable amount of time walking around town, confirming what Silveo had said about Gwain. Their resistance pirate had certainly asked a lot of questions, most of them about Gerard. Why would he have left a book in the library?
Even Silveo didn’t seem to have an answer to that, although Gerard suspected he’d read the book in its entirety the night they got back to the Fang. But whenever Gerard asked about it, he said, “Give me a few more days.”
Gerard also decided to do a little recruiting. He had no trouble finding a dozen shelts on Holovarus and its holdings whom he’d known for a long time and who were able and willing to leave with him. Gerard suspected that if he put out a public announcement, he could in one stroke staff the Police with trustworthy shelts and take the cream of his father’s military. He didn’t dare mention the idea to Silveo for fear he’d do it.
They were a day out of Holovarus when Silveo finally handed him Gwain’s book. “You won’t be able to read it,” he said. “It’s written in the phonetic, and it’s on some kind of very durable paper. I was hoping I could figure out where it was made, but I’ve never seen anything like it. The content seems to be an encyclopedia of the non-grishnard species of Wefrivain. It’s informative and has some details that are not common knowledge. There’s a whole chapter on Maijha Minor.”
“Why do you think he left it?” asked Gerard.
Silveo hesitated. “A mistake? I really don’t know.”
Silveo did not seem to object to Gerard’s recruiting, although he did talk to each of the new Police himself and had Farell assess their maritime abilities. He made jokes about pulling the better sailors out of the Police into the Watch, but Gerard didn’t think he’d really do it. Restocking the galley slaves turned out to be more of a problem. Mishael Holovar kept very few slaves and no rowers. Even the larger port in Malabar only had a slave auction every other red month. Gerard doubted they would find a decent compliment of rowers before returning to the Great Islands.
Still, they were not badly off as they sailed toward Mance. Their sails, rigging, and masts were in excellent condition, and they continued to make small, nonessential repairs as they went. Most days the Fang echoed with the pounding of hammers and the scrape of saws. Silveo even insisted on retouching the paintwork, and he found gold leaf for the figurehead and trim.
He occasionally took the Meerkat and sailed with Farell and a few officers to nearby islands. He came back from one with a collection of gaudy mother of pearl earrings, necklaces, and bangles, with which he was absurdly pleased. He brought Thessalyn so many beautiful shells that their cabin soon grew cluttered with them.
Gerard worked with his new recruits in the mornings, read to Thessalyn in the afternoons, and listened to her play in the evenings. His arm healed where Silveo had cut him during the storm, and the bruises around his ribs faded. Sometimes he flew with Alsair to nearby islands and brought back interesting edibles—specialties of various regions. Alsair was no longer trying to hide aboard ship, although he often went off alone to hunt or stretch his wings. Silveo usually ignored him, but twice Gerard overheard him ask Alsair to fly ahead and look for something.
Gerard had not attempted to tell Alsair the story Silveo had told them on Holovarus-4. He didn’t think it would change Alsair’s opinion. Also, although Silveo had never said so, Gerard felt that the story had been related in confidence and he had no right to share it. Silveo had worked hard to kill everyone who knew that story, and Gerard doubted that anything other than Thessalyn’s magic could have drawn it out of him.
She mentioned the picnic from time to time in reference to other things. One day she said thoughtfully, “Silveo can’t stand to be touched, can he?”
Gerard would not have thought of it, but as soon as she said it, he knew she was right. For all Silveo’s vaunted promiscuity, Gerard couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone lay a hand on him in public. He remembered how the admiral had recoiled the first time Thess tried to hug him and how he’d nearly stabbed her the second time. Gerard’s attempt to pick him up in order to save his life had ended in blood.
“He’s afraid of so many things,” said Thessalyn, “but he’s so good at hiding them, no one ever knows.”
“Shinies,” said Gerard. “Make it flashy enough, and no one will look too closely.”
As they neared Mance, Gerard spent more and more time with Thessalyn. He’d grown accustomed to having her nearby, and he was dreading her imminent departure. She seemed to understand this, while at the same time feeling excited about revisiting her school. She had many friends there and Gerard doubted she would miss him as much as he would miss her. Their days slipped away in sun and salt and sweet, and then they were back among the holdings of the Great Islands.
They stopped in Mage—a holding of Mance—and procured what Silveo described as “a splendid team of wave beaters”—about half of them leons and the other half big shavier. They arrived in Mance’s largest harbor town, Solamade, in fine form with even the minor damage from the storm repaired and the ship sanded and gleaming. Mance was the premiere island for learning in Wefrivain, with eight different schools. It was also the banking capital, with more cowries stamped there than anywhere else. One could trade a variety of other currencies for cowry coins in Mance, including the flat cocoa bean from the Lawless Lands and the strange velum currency of the Sunkissed Isles.
Thessalyn’s school was on the far side of the island, and Gerard took her there himself early on the second day after their arrival. Silveo handed her a large package before they left. “Open it later,” he said, and turned away before Thessalyn could even try to hug him good-bye.
Alsair was small for carrying two, although he could do it in an emergency. Gerard hired a big pegasus for Thessalyn and himself, and put her belongings on Alsair, who grumbled about being treated as a pack animal. As Gerard expected, Thessalyn’s friends and teachers welcomed her with excitement. They had not been on the school grounds for a quarter watch before she’d received half a dozen invitations to stay at various homes. Several of her younger classmates admired Gerard as though he were a new and attractive accessory, which made Alsair snicker and Thessalyn blush.
They stayed the night in the home of a favorite instructor. Thessalyn remembered the school grounds and surrounding town well enough to walk them almost as though she could see. She took Gerard to several favorite spots and introduced him to so many enthusiastic scholars that departure the next morning was almost a relief. He kissed her good-bye, told her to enjoy herself and he would see her again soon. Then he started a leisurely journey back to the Fang with Alsair. Gerard did a little recruiting in one of Mance’s small towns. He thought he’d managed to generate some interest with a number of educated shelts and encouraged them to visit the docks the next day or to apply in Lecklock within the next few months.
He got back to the Fang late on the second day after he’d left and went to ask Silveo how long they would be in port, so that he would know what to tell the shelts he was recruiting. Silveo, however, was not in his cabin, and Gerard noticed that the ship was unusually quiet and tense. Upon questioning Farell, he learned that Silveo, who never spent the night ashore, had disappeared two days ago.
Selkies are seal shelts. There are several subspecies, but they are all secretive and have as little to do with fauns and panauns as possible. They avoid the wyvern-infested waters of Wefrivain, even though its islands and reefs make good habitat for them. Harbormasters love to enslave selkies. They can speak, and they are very intelligent, so they are more useful than cowry catchers. Panaun sailors say that selkies have tasty meat, and their skins make good waterproof clothing.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
Silveo had left a few hours after Thessalyn and Gerard. He’d been dressed in blue and white linen with only one set of earrings—quiet by his standards. He’d exchanged a few comments with the sailors on deck. One had ventured to ask where he was going, and he’d been heard to respond, “Looking for trouble.” He had not come back to the ship that night. It was now after dark of the second day, and he’d still not returned. No one, including Farell or his ship’s boy, knew where he’d gone.
Gerard had served with Silveo long enough to know that this was highly unusual behavior. Silveo considered the Fang his home and never slept ashore unless some urgent need required it. In spite of Silveo’s take-no-prisoners policy, there were still many shelts in Wefrivain who had reason to hate him, and, of course, there was always the Resistance. It was the general opinion aboard ship that he was probably dead. He’d already survived far longer than most admirals of the Temple Sea Watch.
“Skipper’s finally run into more trouble than he has knives,” muttered a sailor on deck. “S’pity. He was a good skipper, for all he was a foxling and a dock rat.”
The sailors had lit more torches on deck than was customary. They should have been in town enjoying themselves, but mostly they weren’t. They weren’t singing or dancing, either. They weren’t playing flutes or fiddles or carving or scribbling letters. They were just waiting. Gerard paced the deck of the Fang as the night grew later. He felt as though he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. He could tell that Alsair wanted to say “good riddance,” but Gerard’s manner must have made him think better of it, because he went off to their cabin without saying anything.
Gerard racked his brain, trying to think of where Silveo might have gone looking for trouble. They had no reason to think Gwain was on Mance. As far as Gerard knew, Silveo did not know of any suspicious persons on Mance. But Silveo knew all kinds of things he didn’t tell me.
There’s nothing I can do, thought Gerard. I should go to bed. But he didn’t. One by one, the sailors left the deck, all except the night watch. Around midnight Gerard climbed into the maintop and found Farell there alone, looking out over the lights of the city. Gerard leaned against the mast beside him.
They were quiet for a long time. Finally Gerard said, “Where would he go, Farell? You were his lover; surely you have some idea.”
Farell laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you a secret about our admiral, Gerard. I’ve been sailing with him since he came to the Watch. I’m not saying Silveo doesn’t have his frisky moments, but mostly what he wants from a ‘lover’ is a warm body to curl up against at night. He has horrific nightmares when he sleeps alone. Sometimes he just wants someone in the room—a nightlight, another set of ears to hear an assassin’s footfall. He’ll give what he thinks he needs to give to get that, but nothing more.”
Gerard remembered something Thessalyn had said. It’s just the price he thinks he has to pay.
“I don’t ask anything of him,” continued Farell. “I don’t even like boys, but I’ll keep him company. He’s gone away and come back to me several times. I have known shelts to leave him out of boredom, but that doesn’t usually happen because he takes good care of his bed-warmers. I have a son on a merchant ship; Silveo got him an excellent position. I’d be a friend if he’d let me, but Silveo doesn’t want friends. He doesn’t like it when shelts get attached, and he fears being a nuisance. He changes his lovers like other shelts change bed linen, but he’s not nearly as busy as he likes the sailors to think.”
Farell paused. “If he comes back, please don’t tell him I said any of this. He’d kill me. I mean, he really might. Silveo values his legend; he guards it.”
“Why are you telling me?” asked Gerard.
Farell turned to look at him in the moonlight, his expression almost envious. “He trusts you. Silveo doesn’t trust anyone. I mean, no one, Gerard. He has followers and audiences and the occasional real lover; he does not have friends. But the way he behaves with you and your wife—that’s the closest I’ve ever seen him. You probably know him better than I do, and if anyone can figure out where he’s gone, it’s you.”
Gerard felt sad and ill. This is not helping me, Farell.
He went off to bed in the last watch of the night. Alsair stirred and yawned as he came in. “Has he come back?”
Gerard shook his head. He lay down on the bed fully clothed. Alsair sighed. He hopped up on the bed, making it creak dangerously. He rested his head and one paw on Gerard’s chest. “He was a mean, unscrupulous, dishonorable tyrant who only kept you around because you were useful and hard to kill. You’re making him into something he wasn’t, Gerard, because you’re lonely, and you’re already missing Thess.”
Gerard shook his head.
Alsair nuzzled his cheek. “Alright, so disagree with me. Say something. Talk to me.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“Where would he go?”
“A brothel?” suggested Alsair.
Gerard shook his head. “Silveo doesn’t patronize brothels.” He’d never thought about it, but it was true. After what Farell had said and knowing Silveo’s background, Gerard doubted that any of Silveo’s relationships were actually coercive, at least as Silveo saw them.
“Looking for trouble,” muttered Gerard. “What does that mean?”
Alsair snorted. “From Silveo? Not much.”
Gerard sat up and looked at him. “You’re right.”
Alsair seemed confused. “What—?”
Gerard drew a deep breath. “What if he wasn’t looking for trouble? What if he just said that to be silly?” The more Gerard thought about it, the more he knew he was right. It was exactly the sort of thing Silveo would say when it wasn’t true. It was the kind of thing that he would not have said if it was true. Gerard lay back down. Where would Silveo go if he was just out to stretch his legs, out for amusement?
We are told that wyverns protect us from wizards and shape-shifters, but where are these monsters? They appear as nothing but legends in old ballads. No living person has seen such a creature, because they do not exist.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard woke with the answer. He sat straight up, knocking his chin against Alsair’s beak. “Clothes or books!”
Alsair growled and pricked Gerard with his claws, but Gerard shoved the paw off his chest and got up. “Mance is famous for books. Gwain and Silveo both like books. I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier.”
He strode out of the cabin rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. The sun had just risen, and the harbor was a sea of mist. Gerard had been on Mance several times briefly when he was a watch master. He’d been here a little longer on his coming-of-age tour, and he had a vague memory of Scrivener’s Way—the area of Solamade best known for books. It was on the far side of town, a long walk from the docks. He had to ask several shelts how to get there, but he did arrive about midmorning. The district was large, full of bookshops and items related to the making and maintenance of books.
Gerard bought some food from a street vendor, consumed it in a few bites, and started looking through the shops. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that he would know when he found it. About noon, he stepped into a shop that specialized in old books. Gerard walked along the shelves, scanning the authors and titles. When he came to the back of the store, he turned and saw something in a chink between the wall and a bookcase. It was just a glimmer of metal, but Gerard had sharp eyes. After glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he unsheathed his sword and used it to lever the item out of its crevice.
It was a throwing knife—a very plain specimen. Gerard had no way of proving that it belonged to Silveo, except that his gut told him it did. Silveo owned every conceivable kind of throwing knife, and he lost and replaced them regularly. He had a few “shiny” knives, but he only pulled them out when he was seeking to impress. Gerard re-sheathed his sword and tucked the knife into his boot sheath.
He looked again at the chink. In order to have landed there, the knife had to have been thrown from the very back wall. Did someone corner you here, Silveo?
He stalked around the bookshop several times. He thought he saw scratches on one wall that could have come from a knife glancing off, and he found stains on the stone in one place that could have been blood. Of course, the scratches could have come from a piece of furniture, and the stains could have come from almost anything. I wish I had your nose, Silveo.
A grishnard clerk sat at the desk near the bookstore’s entrance, reading. She looked up as Gerard leaned over the desk. “Was there a foxling in here any time in the last few days?”
The clerk shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve only been here today.”
“Who was here yesterday? And the day before?”
She inched away from him. “Just another girl. We don’t own the bookstore. We just work here.”
“Who owns it?” asked Gerard. He realized he was being menacing, and he didn’t care.
“Marsh and Fin,” said the clerk. “They own all the stores on this block.” She stood and took a step back. “Now I have to close for the afternoon. Please leave.”
Gerard leaned over the desk and collared her with one hand. “What have you done with him?” he snarled.
The girl looked truly frightened. “I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Please let go of me. I’ll scream.”
Gerard released her in disgust and stalked out of the bookstore. None of the others were closing. He proceeded down the entire block, asking every clerk whether they’d seen a foxling. One admitted that he might have seen him two days ago. “He has silver-white fur and hair,” said Gerard in annoyance. “How many silver foxlings do you get through these shops?” Several shop owners on other streets positively admitted to having seen Silveo. One said he’d sold Silveo a book—something about Maijha Minor.
Gerard stopped in the late afternoon to eat. Silveo is probably dead. They’ve probably dumped him in the harbor by now. I’ll be lucky to even find his body.
A half watch later, most of the shops started closing. Lanterns were lit in the streets. Gerard had noticed a few urchins and vagrants during the day, but with nightfall, he began to see more. This is not a good part of town after dark. I should go back to the ship. Maybe he’s even there.
But he kept walking up and down the streets. Once or twice, he thought someone was following him, but when he turned to confront the culprits, they disappeared. Gerard wished he’d brought Alsair. He was just thinking that he really should go back to the ship when he saw a shadow drop from the roof of a building and duck into a stairwell. The shape had been black without a hint of white, but the profile had seemed familiar. Gerard picked up his pace and almost ran to the spot where the shadow had vanished.
Gerard peered into the recess of the alcove. At first he saw nothing but then he thought he saw a shape huddled in the far corner. “Silveo?”
Nothing. Gerard wondered whether his straining eyes had deceived him. He also thought that if it really was Silveo and he was frightened, he might try to kill any intruder. Gerard would make an easy target, outlined against the lantern light from the street.
Still, he came on into the small space. He crouched down a few paces from whatever was huddled in the corner. The creature opened its eyes, and Gerard saw the light reflected off them—pale blue. He gave a sigh of relief. “Silveo. What happened to you?”
Silveo coughed. “Gerard,” he grated with every sign of annoyance. “I would have thought you’d have taken over the Fang and sailed for Maijha Minor by now.”
Surely you know me better than that. Watching him, Gerard guessed two things: he was unarmed and hurt. Gerard doubted that Silveo trusted anyone under those circumstances.
“I’ve been looking through these shops all day,” said Gerard. “I thought my friend might have gotten himself into trouble.”
Silveo closed his eyes. “Then you’d better go find him.”
“Can you walk?”
“Of course, I can walk,” said Silveo without moving.
“What can I do to help?”
“You can shut up and go back to the Fang,” snarled Silveo, pulling himself up against the wall.
Gerard said nothing.
“The correct answer, Gerard, is ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir,” said Gerard and waited.
Silveo stood there for a moment and caught his breath. Finally, he turned a little unsteadily and made his way out of the alcove, one hand on the wall. Gerard stood to let him pass and then came out behind him. He realized then why Silveo was black. He was covered in soot.
“Were you up a chimney?” asked Gerard.
“No,” he snapped, “I thought if a little kohl is good, why not bathe in it?”
They proceeded for a distance in silence. Periodically Silveo would stop and crouch down against the side of a building. Gerard watched to make sure they were not attacked. The third time it happened, he heard a soft whimper.
“Silveo, what’s wrong? Please, let me help.”
Silveo shook his head. He got to his feet again, carefully, as though he were treading on shards of glass. “Thirsty,” he said softly.
Gerard handed him his half-empty water skin. Silveo drank it as though he’d never seen water before and then sat down on a doorstep. He buried his face in his arms and rocked back and forth. Finally, he raised his head, his pale eyes almost white in the moonlight. “Gerard, you should not have come looking for me.”
Gerard sat down beside him. “You’re probably right. You usually are. Do you want me to find some more water?”
Silveo shook his head. “I’m going to say this slowly so that you can follow along: don’t trust me. Please.”
“Are we back to this again?”
“Yes!” Silveo seemed to be searching for words. “I have been living with myself for quite a while, and I know me better than you do.”
Gerard flicked his tail—an impatient, cat-like gesture. “Oh, so you have some plan to dispose of me? Been working on it, have you?”
“No! I don’t. But I’ve killed shelts before whom I liked because they were in my way or I thought they jeopardized my survival. I survive, Gerard; that’s what I do.”
“And you’re doing such a good job of it this evening.”
Silveo ignored that. “You are just not vicious enough to do the job you’ve been hired for. The Priestess is…” He bit back whatever he’d been going to say. “There is still time. Take Thessalyn and get out of here. Go anywhere—out of Wefrivain, to the Lawless Lands, to the Pendalons—away from her, away from me.”
Gerard crouched down in front of him. “Silveo, you’re tired. You’re hungry. And no matter what you say, I think you’re hurt. You’re babbling, and that’s really not like you.”
Silveo looked at him, then gave a great sigh. He started to say something else and then didn’t.
“At this pace, we’ll be all night getting back to the ship,” continued Gerard. “I think whoever tried to kill you may still be looking. If you would let me carry you, we could cover ground a lot faster.”
The idea was practical, and Silveo was pragmatic if he was anything. Still, he had a collection of very impractical phobias. On impulse, Gerard reached into his boot and pulled out the throwing knife. He handed it to Silveo. “There. You’re armed. You’re not helpless. You can stab me if you need to. Now will you let me pick you up?”
Silveo looked at the knife. For one second, Gerard thought he might actually cry. “I’ll ruin your coat,” he said faintly.
You would think of the coat! Gerard bent forward and scooped him up. Silveo trembled once and then he was still. Gerard shifted him so that Silveo’s head was against his shoulder. It was like carrying Alsair as a cub; he weighed less than Thessalyn. Gerard had to loop his tail over one arm to keep it from dragging. Then he started off at a brisk pace.
“Don’t carry me onto the ship,” whispered Silveo.
“I won’t.” Silveo might lose respect with the sailors if they thought Gerard had gone out and rescued him. It wouldn’t even be true. I’m almost sure he would have made it back without me.
“Poisoned,” said Silveo after a moment. “Muscles keep cramping.”
“I figured. You’re not bleeding, though?”
Silveo shook his head.
They walked for a long time in silence, and at last Gerard realized that he’d gone to sleep. Do you feel safe now, Silveo? Every now and then, he’d twitch and whimper, but he never really woke until they were back to the docks. Gerard considered wrapping Silveo in his coat and carrying him onto the ship that way, but he knew the sailors would figure that out unless he was very lucky about who was on duty.
While he was trying to decide, Silveo stirred and raised his head. He sniffed the air. “Put me down, Gerard.”
Gerard did, but he thought for a moment Silveo wouldn’t let go of him. Then Silveo straightened up and walked away. Gerard peered around the side of the building. Silveo didn’t flinch or crouch as he approached the Fang, and he called a greeting in a normal voice to the sailor on watch. He must have made a joke as he came up the gangplank, because Gerard heard the sailor laugh—a relieved sound.
Gerard waited a quarter watch. He took his coat off so that no one would see the soot on it and then went aboard just before dawn. Later, he would remember the incident as the last time Silveo tried to warn him, and he wished bitterly that he had listened.
This story is continued in The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 2: Flames. Check your electronic bookstore or the website at www.cowrycatchers.com for details. The fullcast audio production of the whole story is available for free on the website and in iTunes, along with color versions of some illustrations. In addition, extra short stories and other premium content can be purchased in the online store. Discuss the story and network with other fans on the Forums. Paid content helps me finance the many aspects of these projects that remain free. Thank you so much for your support!
If you are enjoying Cowry Catchers, check out Abbie’s other projects. The Prophet of Panamindorah is another series set in the Cowry Catcher’s universe. Search for it in your eBookstore or find the free audio in iTunes.
Abigail Hilton is a nurse anesthetist who lives in Florida with three cats and a variety of carnivorous plants. She has spent time in veterinary school and done graduate work in literature. She currently keeps people alive and comfortable during vivisection (AKA surgery). Really, it doesn’t get more magical than that. You can find her short fiction in GUD, The Drabblecast, The Dunesteef, and other venues both audio and text. You can connect with Abbie personally on Facebook or Twitter.
Sarah (Rah) Cloutier is a graduate student at the Pacific Northwest College of Art. She has been working on illustrations for Cowry Catchers since 2007. Her illustrations in this book are: Not as beautiful as you, Sing to me, Are you threatening me? (which is also the cover), Do you want an apology?, Almost rid of me, Shocking and offensive, Carry you. You can view more of her amazing work on her Deviant Art page.
GreenSprite is a Romanian artist and student who has been creating illustrations for Cowry Catchers since mid-2009. Her illustrations in this book are: All the character portraits, Pretty things, Maps and an island, Picnic, Slap. Her beautiful work can also be found on Deviant Art.
The maps and cover design were created by Jeff McDowall, a graphic artist living in Orlando, Florida. Jeff has been beta reading for Abbie’s books since they were both teenagers. You can find more about him and his work on his website.
Kirgetova Tatiana is a Russian artist and she created this image specifically for this eBook. Her illustration in this book is: Real conversation. Her luminous work can also be found on Deviant Art.
Jason Kivela is a graphic artist and book designer living in Madison, Wisconsin. He helped with the layout for this book. Without Jason, Cowry Catchers wouldn’t look so pretty. Find out more about him and his work at his website.
blue month: one cycle of blue moon, usually 30 to 90 days.
canid: any creature in the canine family, either two-legged or four-legged, including canine-type shelts, such as foxlings.
cowry catchers: manatee shelts.
fauns: shelts with hooves.
felid: any creature in the cat family, either two-legged or four-legged, including cat-type shelts, such as grishnards.
nauns: shelts with neither hooves nor paws, e.g. manatee shelts and seal shelts.
panauns: shelts with paws.
red month: one cycle of red moon, about 60 days.
shelt: a two-legged creature having a humanoid body from the waist up and resembling some kind of animal from the waist down. Shelts have pointed, tufted ears.
watch: a period of time approximately four hours long. Shelts count four watches for the day and two watches for the night.
yellow month: one cycle of yellow moon, about 15 days.
grishnards – griffin shelts
ocelons – ocelot shelts
leopons – leopard shelts
leons – lion shelts
foxlings – fox shelts
hunti – hyena shelts
Fauns
shavier – pegasus shelts
zeds – zebra shelts
gazumelle – gazelle shelts
Nauns
cowry catchers – manatee shelts
selkies – seal shelts
