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

  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.”

  Chapter 3. The Prisoners

  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 undershi
rts 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?”