“Which doesn’t bode well,” put in Merlyn, “considering what happened to the wolflings.”
“So how does that pay for the lion’s meal?” asked Corry.
Syrill spread his hands. “Simple. The vendors keep track of all Filinian sales and give the bill to Meuril.”
“Or Shadock,” put in Merlyn. “He’s wanting a slice of the orange now, too, from what I hear. Talking to Lexis about re-opening the gold mines in the Snow Mountains. There’s tin up there, too, that the centaurs would give their eyeteeth to get their hands on.”
“‘A cat will stand in an open door,’” Syrill quoted a proverb.
“And you won’t see till the last minute which way he means to jump,” muttered Merlyn.
Corry was beginning to understand. He knew that gold and silver coins constituted only the highest denomination of currency in Panamindorah. The fauns used cowries by common agreement, salt because it had uses in practically every industry, and gems, as well as bartered goods. The only large gold mines were in the Snow Mountains—cat country to which no shelt had had access for years, and the cats themselves certainly weren’t going to put the gold into circulation. The largest salt works were in cat-conquered Canisaria and in old Filinia. “So, Meuril pays the vendors the Filinian bills and is allowed to mine a certain volume of salt from Filinian territory?”
Syrill nodded.
“Makes sense—” began Corry.
Merlyn snorted. “The wolflings thought so, too. Canisaria was a rich nation before it fell. They had salt treaties and gold treaties with Filinia, paid the cat-debts at Lupricasia right up until the last one they attended. For Meuril, the treaty with the cats may have been about revenge for Natalia. He thought the wolflings ate his wife, so he turned the cats loose to eat wolflings all over the wood. But for the wood faun nobility, the treaty was all about greed.”
“Right now,” growled Syrill, “the treaty gives us access to salt works and guarantees feline aid in the extermination of wolflings from the wood. The cats may hunt any beast other than deer in the wilds, but they are not to hunt anything but wolves and wolflings less than one king’s league from a faun town or city and half a king’s league from a faun village.”
“That’s the treaty now,” said Merlyn, “but it won’t last. Merchants are greedy. The wolflings were. The fauns are no different. Soon they’ll say, ‘We’d like a piece of those silver mines too, Lexis.’ And Lexis will say, ‘Certainly, but we’d like to hunt a bit closer to your towns.’ And the fauns will think, ‘Where’s the harm in that? The cats protect us from bandits and wild beasts.’”
“And then,” continued Syrill, “one day, the fauns will want more salt or gold, and Lexis will say, ‘Certainly, but we’d like to be able to kill deer not kept by fauns in your wood. After all, we kill them in Canisaria.’ And the fauns will say to themselves, ‘Well, they’re not our deer. The cats have to eat…and then there’s that gold.’”
“And,” Merlyn continued, “a few years later, when the fauns have gotten used to seeing cats in their streets and having their dens in their backyards, shelts will start disappearing. Slaves at first, criminals working in Filinian mines. Then strangers—swamp faun visitors, outsiders, orphans, urchins, wandering minstrels. That will go on for a few years and no one will much mind, and the fauns will get richer and form more lucrative trade agreements, and their neighbors will become jealous and quarrelsome, but they’ll snub their noses at those neighbors because they have Filinian treaties. And pretty soon the Filinians will be their only friends.”
“And then one day,” said Syrill, “the cat king—maybe a new king now—will suggest that faun criminals should be given to them. They’re to be put to death anyhow.”
Corry looked skeptical. “I can see where you’re going, but—?”
“And then,” continued Merlyn, “the cats will suggest that any shelt beyond a league from a city without a legitimate reason is fair game. The king will argue for a bit, but then the cats will threaten to withdraw access to their mines, perhaps point out that neighboring kingdoms would pounce at the chance to do business with the cats and so be revenged on their wood faun rivals. And the wood faun king will give in. He’s made too many enemies now, has too many jealous neighbors, maybe has some wars to pay for.”
“That’s what happened to the wolflings?” asked Corry.
“Over several generations, yes,” said Merlyn. “But by the way the cliff and wood faun merchants are running to offer themselves to Lexis, it won’t take that long here.”
Syrill nodded. “There’s a reason all the cat shelts are extinct. Cats are treacherous, and they kill shelts, always. The wolflings were little better than kept-burros before the end. They were wealthy burros, but Demitri regulated their every move. King Malic tried to stop it.”
“He put his paw down,” said Merlyn. “He dared to tell Demitri not to kill shelts anymore in Canisaria, but by then it was too late. The cats were everywhere. They knew the country too well. Sardor-de-lor held out for several years, but without help, it was bound to fall.”
“The cliff fauns were jealous of wolfling wealth and the wood fauns were smarting over the incident with the queen,” finished Syrill. “The wolflings had grown too arrogant in their wealth, and no one came to help them. When Sador-de-lore fell, it was red slaughter.” Someone else shouted to Merlyn. He turned, saw someone he recognized, and hopped off.
Syrill watched him go. “Don’t let that grin fool you. Any pegasus living on the cliff has seen black times. It’s the mountains they dream of until their dying day, and this cliff isn’t the same. He can’t ever go home.”
Corry stared into the black sky. Like me. Only his home is far distant, and mine is far past. Then he remembered something. “Syrill, what was the song about? The song the little minstrel sang on the Sky Walk. Something that happened in Kazar?”
Syrill laughed. “In Kazar, yes, but I don’t know that it ever happened. The Unibus disappeared four hundred years ago, probably got finished off by Ounce’s kin. The swamp monster, now, he’s alive and well, if you believe all the old faunesses cliffside.”
“Unibus,” repeated Corry. “Ah, yes, the Unicorn Maid.” He had read about Unibus—unicorn shelts. They were creatures of legend, said to know something of magic. The last survivors had fled into the Snow Mountains, deep in Filinia in the time of Gabalon. Corry had heard tales of sightings by snow leopards, but never by fauns. The Unibus would have been alive in my time, thought Corry.
Syrill was still speaking. “Every time a shelt or animal goes missing in Kazar, they blame it on their monster—a monster made of quickslime and alligators most likely. No one can agree on what he looks like. Some say he’s a shelt—a wolfling or a lizard rider or even a cat shelt. Some say he’s a wizard or an iteration. If he exists, he must be either very old or very prolific, because mothers have been frightening their children away from the swamp with his stories since my grandmother was a babe. They say he keeps a pet cobra—a huge snake big as an alligator.”
Syrill stood and stretched. “I suppose you’ll want to see the library?”
“Yes!”
“In council, they mentioned a new book on display. Some history that was found in a secret room. Everyone’s in raptures because it has a drawing of Gabalon.”
Corry’s eyes widened. “By someone who actually saw him?”
“Why else would scholars be slavering over it? We’ve got hundreds of drawings of Gabalon!”
“But none by an eyewitness. Yes, I want to see the book.”
* * * *
“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” burbled the librarian. “Incredible condition for being so old.”
“Incredible.” Syrill leafed through the small, brown volume. “Who is the author?”
“Someone named Archemais,” said the librarian. “He wrote his name both in the old pictographs and the phonetic. We’ve no record of him in our archives, and some scholars suspect the name is a pseudonym for the great tr
avel-writer of the high wizard period, Artanian Lasa. The author of this book claims to have produced both the illustrations and the text—a feat few shelts could have managed at that time. From his sparse use of the phonetic and what we know of the pictographs, this book is a travel guide to Selbis in the height of its power.”
“Impressive,” said Syrill in a voice that clearly indicated it wasn’t.
Corry had to admit that the book did not look like something to get excited over. It was about the height of his hand, with a plain leather cover, similar to many other volumes in the library. The pages were slightly yellow, written mostly in the old picture language. He read some of the text to himself, but found only a very technical discussion of Selbis in the time of Gabalon—its economy, geography, law, sewer, prisons, courts, etc. Corry wasn’t sure exactly what he had hoped to find, but this wasn’t it.
The illustrations were not much better than the text, just map after map of Selbis. Even the picture of Gabalon was disappointing. It showed a man in loose trousers, shirt, boots, and cape. He had flowing dark hair. One hand rested on the hilt of a long sword, and a dagger hung in his belt. Corry studied the picture minutely while the librarian babbled. There’s nothing familiar about it, he decided at last. He just looks like a man. That could be me when I’m grown.
Syrill seemed to have the same thought. “I suppose Gabalon didn’t sleep alone,” he muttered, glancing from Corry to the picture. “Probably had all kinds of shelts in his bed. You could be some great great grandson, Corellian. He looks kind of like you.”
Corry snorted. “As easily as you could, Syrill.”
“Nah, I’m not tall enough.”
Corry thought the library itself far more interesting than the book. The complex of buildings were at least ten times the size of Laven-lay’s library, full of the rich aromas of leather and ink and illumination paints. Furtively, Corry slunk away. He’d been rambling happily for an eighth watch when he rounded a corner and came face to face with Laylan. His hat with its long wolf tail looked oddly out of place in this establishment of culture. “I’ve come to see this famous book,” he said. “Any idea where I could find it?”
Corry grinned. “I’ll show you. Syrill is probably ready for me to rescue him from the librarian.”
Syrill stood in the same place when Corry returned, hunched over the pages. “Have you learned all the hidden wisdom of Panamindorah yet?” whispered Corry.
“Getting there. I just noticed something interesting. See anything familiar?”
Corry looked down and saw that they were back to the drawing of Gabalon.
“No. Syrill, are you still trying to make him my sire?”
Syrill smiled. “Seriously, Corellian. Look closer.”
Corry obeyed, but he still didn’t see anything new.
“That’s Gabalon?” Laylan was staring at the drawing.
Syrill glanced at him. “You see it, too?”
Laylan bent close over the page. Corry realized that he was holding his breath.
Syrill began to chuckle. “Nice, eh? Fitting.”
Corry was lost. “What are you talking about?”
Laylan looked at the librarian. “You’re sure this is Gabalon? You’re positive?”
The scholar looked uncomfortable. “Well, we’ve no documents to compare it with, but the author claims it was drawn by an eyewitness, and his accounts match—”
Corry heard the sound of claws clicking against stone and turned to see Shyshax come round a bookcase. He sighed with relief when he saw the shelts. “Laylan, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Laylan’s attention remained on the book. “The details, the weapons—the artist saw them too?”
“Laylan?” Shyshax nosed his leg.
“Yes,” said the librarian. “Funny you should mention it. This book reveals an interesting story behind that dagger he’s wearing. Supposedly, the gates of Glacia, the city of the Unibus, where made of one solid pearl, and when Gabalon attacked the city, he—”
“Laylan—”
“Not now, Shyshax!”
“—broke the gates and set some of the pieces in the dagger. He took the blade and stone in the pommel from—”
“Laylan!” Shyshax jumped up impatiently, “someone is trying to kill me!”
Laylan turned his full attention to his mount. “Shy, I told you to stay out of the wine.”
The cheetah growled. “I’m not drunk! Twice today strange things have happened. A stone came loose from a roof and smashed into the street not five paces from me. Only moments ago someone tried to push me off a bridge, and now I think someone is following me.”
“He’s right,” said Corry suddenly. “About being followed, I mean. Last night after you talked to me on the bridge in Port Ory, Shyshax, I saw a lion and a leopard follow you away. I thought then it looked odd.”
Laylan sighed. “The Filinians haven’t forgiven you, I guess. I’ll talk to Meuril about it. You’d better stay with me from now on.” He glanced at the picture one more time. “I’ve got to go see Chance and tell him that—” He stopped, then tapped the picture with his index finger. “That’s it. That—is—it!” Then he was running from the building, Shyshax at his heels.
Corry looked at the picture again and at last he saw what they were talking about. The large dagger Gabalon wore at his hip was familiar.
“Unicorn gold,” sniffed the librarian, who apparently resented being interrupted. “Legends say that the base and core of a unicorn’s horn is made of gold that has peculiar qualities, some of which survived in Gabalon’s dagger.”
Corry grinned. He had seen that stone before—bathed in moonlight and nestled in black fur. “I remember now, Syrill. It’s Fenrah’s dagger.”
* * * *
Chance stood by a window in his tower chamber, watching the throngs of merrymakers. He used to enjoy these festivals, but lately snickers followed him wherever he went. Only a few moments ago, a street minstrel had dared to sing a particularly insulting version of “The Prince’s Magical Gallows” right in the royal plaza. The minstrel had been a wood faun and likely didn’t know he was under the window of the prince in question.
Chance had sat on his windowsill and listened, and when he’d heard enough, he added a well-placed arrow to the feather in the minstrel’s cap. The crowd had ended laughing at the minstrel, who fled, leaving a puddle on the stone. Chance, however, did not miss the looks they shot towards his window as they dispersed. They despise me, he thought. And now they fear me. They laugh or they fear, but there is nothing in between.
He thought of his father. If the minstrels were singing insulting songs about Barek or Martin or Galen, he’d have it stopped. Someone would bleed for it. But for me…he probably laughs along with the rest.
Bastard. He might as well have the name tattooed on his forehead. The older he got, the less he looked like the other princes. His father had bastards aplenty. They received honors and lands. Ah, but he was different. He was the queen’s bastard, and that was shameful—the more so because everyone pretended not to see it.
Chance clenched his fist. If only they would open their eyes, they would see he was Shadock’s son. Everyone knew that Jubal had favored the wolflings in the war. Chance had never favored wolflings. He killed them at every opportunity, was jealous for the pride of his city, but it did not matter. All the court saw was his golden hair.
Chance put down his bow. If he hung onto it, he knew he would shoot another minstrel and not through the cap this time. He went into his study and picked up his violin. Now there was music. Why did the street minstrels have to sing at all? Words only got in the way. He went back to the window and started to play. Chance played for a long time, one melody after another, played until he could not hear the festival outside or the minstrels or the voices of the nobility.
Suddenly the door flew open. Chance whirled, his hand dropping automatically to the sword he always wore. “Laylan. You might try knocking.”
Lay
lan was panting. Somehow he’d put his hat on backwards. The wolf tail hung in his eyes, which were glittering with excitement. “Chance, I’ve found it. I know where the Raiders are hiding!”
Chapter 12. A Rendezvous Arranged
Certain events in history resemble a stone dropped into a pool. The stone sinks into oblivion, yet the ripples go on.
—Archemais, A Wizard's History of Panamindorah
“Some pages are missing.” Corry pointed to a ragged edge along the gutter of the book.
“No, it’s in perfect condition. We examined—” The librarian stopped. “Well…how odd.”
Syrill was looking, too. “Looks like someone filched from your treasure.”
The librarian sputtered. “That…that is not—” He stopped. “I was called away briefly—”
“By whom?”
“A lioness wanted access to our old Filinian records.”
“Well,” Syrill patted the deflated scholar on the back, “don’t worry. It will probably hit the black market and turn up in some library in the wood within a year. When it does, I’ll have it sent to you.”
“Do you remember what was on those pages?” asked Corry.
The librarian frowned. “Only maps of Selbis.”
On their way back towards the palace, Syrill insisted they stop to participate in the ancient spring dances. In order to provide more room for dancing in their crowded city, the cliff fauns had built terraced platforms in the main plazas. The highest of them rose several stories off the ground. The best dancers performed at the top where all could watch their liquid twists and turns, while the more awkward fauns danced on the lower levels. Musicians sat everywhere and every which way, differing in talent as much as the dancers.
Syrill went to the top level and soon forgot about Corry. After embarrassing himself sufficiently to be certain that he was not going to remember how to dance, Corry found a place along the edge of the top platform with other bystanders. He was on a level with the third story of buildings, hardly more than a long stride from the balcony of the nearest. Up here, Corry could see far out into the crowded streets, over the rooftops and beyond beneath the brilliant moons. They’ll all be full tomorrow night. He was just making himself comfortable on the boards, when he saw something that made him stand up again. On the balcony walkway of the building opposite, a figure emerged from a door and ran towards him. She was cloaked and hooded, so that it took him a second to recognize Capricia. The fauness stopped directly across from him. She was so close, he could smell her light perfume, made pungent with sweat. Capricia glanced over her shoulder, then back towards the dancers. Her eyes focused on him.