Chapter 16. Lost Ground
The most populous species of shelts in the Lawless Lands are the hunti—hyena shelts. They are fierce, barbaric warriors, continually fighting with each other and everyone else. They are renowned slavers and supply many of the trained slaves of Wefrivain, as well as the poor wretches who row the galleys. The Lawless Lands have a population of panauns that includes lion shelts—called leons. Leons are a little smaller than grishnards but are in other ways similar. It is legal in Wefrivain to employ leons as slaves, so long as they come with a certificate of inspection, verifying that they are not grishnards. Lion and leon pelts can be so difficult to distinguish from griffin and grishnard that many furriers in Wefrivain refuse to work with them.
—Gwain, The Non-grishnards of Wefrivain
It was not quite midnight when they left the magister’s estate. After many farewells and a number of little gifts, they were given the loan of thirteen trained pegasus to carry them back. Their party consisted of Silveo, Gerard, Farell, and Farell’s ten captains. Thessalyn pleaded time to pack her things and said she and Marlo (who was apparently functioning as page and messenger boy) would meet them the next morning.
On pegasus it took no time at all to reach Ocelon Town. They dismounted in the main street, and Gerard traced his route back to the teahouse by lamplight and the faint radiance of waning yellow moon. From the air, Gerard had seen light and heard music in parts of the shantytown, but on this street all was quiet.
“Gone,” murmured Silveo, “fled or hid.”
He was right. The teahouse was completely empty, save for a lingering odor of tea. The admiral set a lamp in the middle of the main room, then stalked around the whole place several times, including the tiny backroom. He sent Farell and his captains outside to stand guard, then crouched near the floor and sniffed. He proceeded to work his way slowly around the room on hands and haunches. It was a very foxling thing to do—a very un-grishnard thing. He shot a glance at Gerard as though to say, “Not a word out of you.”
Gerard busied himself examining the walls. “Are these kind of walls traditional?”
“What, the fur?” asked Silveo in a distracted voice.
“Yes.”
Silveo grunted. “Traditional is deer and giant cony from the mountains, but in Slag they use whatever is cheapest. I’m not sure what the ribbon is about.” He stood up and dusted off his pants and hands. “There have been fauns here recently. I don’t know Gwain’s signature scent, and even if I did, the smells are too mixed up to track one individual, but there have been shavier fauns in this room in the last day, and…” He shook his head. “Something else—an animal of some kind. Not a griffin or a pegasus or an ocelot. Canine, I think.” He shrugged. “Could even be a fox, but I doubt it.”
Gerard was impressed. “You can tell all that from sniffing the floor?”
Silveo glared at him.
Gerard held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Silveo gave a little dismissive huff. “Here—” He made an X with his boot on the ground. “—is where you dumped out your tea. It reeks of deathcap mushrooms. Flag must have figured he needed a lot to kill something the size of you. That, or he couldn’t handle his dosing properly with you sitting there talking to him. Anyway, I’d say he could have killed you thrice over with that much drug. Wasteful, really.”
“Perhaps he’s not accustomed to poisoning shelts.” Gerard was still looking at the walls. “Silveo, are these pelts really lion?”
Silveo looked miffed. “I am not a substitute for your inadequate nose or eyes, Holovar! If you want your own personal smell-tester, indebted ocelons can be purchased for the right price.”
Gerard had taken out his belt knife, and he proceeded to slice off a piece of the pelt in question. He passed it wordlessly to Silveo, who took it in spite of himself. He glanced at it, then looked a bit more closely. Finally, he examined it minutely with nose and fingers. “Grishnard,” he said at last in a flat voice. “You’d have a hard time proving it in court, but if you’re willing to take my word, then, yes, it’s a grishnard or griffin pelt.”
Gerard nodded. He took a few steps back from the wall, looking at the bizarre twisted bits of ribbon, feather, and bone (What kind of bones? he wondered) amid the crazy patterns of stripes and spots. He took another step back. “It’s a map,” he breathed.
Silveo did not argue, although he did not immediately agree. He came to stand beside Gerard, looking at the largest wall of the teahouse. From this angle and with the idea of a map in mind, the bits of ribbon, feather, and bone no longer looked random. Even the stripes and spots of the pelts formed part of the pattern, differentiating the outline of an island from the rest of the wall. The island had a large cove where someone had pinned a single bright, red feather.
“I don’t recognize that island,” said Silveo after a moment. “It could be any of thousands of numeraries.”
“Maybe that’s why they didn’t bother taking it down,” said Gerard.
Silveo fished inside a pocket. “Nothing to write on or with,” he muttered. None of the sailors outside had anything, either. Silveo took one last look at the wall. “I suppose we’ll just have to remember it.”
Outside, they retraced their steps to the warehouse. Silveo had broken the bolt on the back door before he left and nothing but a major carpentry job would make the building secure for some time. Gerard gave a hiss of frustrated anger as the light of his lamp penetrated the room.
Empty. Every press and crate had disappeared. Silveo tried to show little concern, pointing out that common thieves could have taken them. Gerard didn’t think anyone believed it, though. You could have taken one or destroyed them all. Instead, you left them for the Resistance to carry away. Then again, I didn’t do much better in the teahouse with Gwain. There was nothing to do but start back to the ship empty-handed.
They sent the pegasus home when they reached the harbor. Gerard noticed that a crowd had gathered on the pier near the Fang. As they drew nearer, he realized it was composed mostly of Sea Watch sailors. They were all shouting, their attention fixed on something in their midst. Must be a fight, he thought.
Apparently, Silveo thought so, too, because he cursed and started walking faster. “Back, you selkie spawn! What is the matter with you? I leave for two watches and you develop the discipline of a pack of hunti? I said, back!” Those who saw him grew instantly quiet. Gerard noticed several begin to slink away, although shelts on the far side of group were still yelling.
And then Gerard caught a glimpse of what was at the center. His heart sank. Oh, no.
It was Alsair. At first, Gerard thought he was fighting with the sailors, but the truth was worse. Alsair had caught a little foxling—undoubtedly an urchin from around the docks. The foxling was perhaps eight, but tiny, no bigger than a grishnard toddler. He was like a mouse between Alsair’s paws, struggling in blind panic. His clothes were shredded rags, and he was bleeding. Gerard couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt.
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!”
&nb
sp; 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.
The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers Page 20