The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers Read online

  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.