The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers, Deluxe Illustrated Edition

by Abigail Hilton

  “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.”

  Chapter 11. Ocelon Town

  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.