The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (17 page)

Corry didn’t understand.

Syrill scowled. “Gabalon’s teeth, Corellian,
can’t you see? She had been eaten. Not by wolves, but by wolflings,
by shelts! They found enough
pieces
to confirm her identity.
Long ago, it is said that panauns ate fauns, just as wolves still
eat deer. But shelts have considered the practice of eating other
shelts an abomination for hundreds of years. For wolflings to eat
the queen was the most flagrant and painful insult—not only to kill
her, but to desecrate her body. They say that Meuril half lost his
mind. Capricia was only two years old and thankfully with her nurse
in the castle.

“The queen’s signet ring was the only
important item never recovered. Meuril still offers a huge reward
for the ring and it’s become a kind of fabled treasure among bounty
hunters. They search every wolfling they catch and every den they
uncover, but so far, it hasn’t turned up.”

“I don’t suppose Laylan thinks the Raiders…?”
began Corry. “But they would have been too young.”

Syrill nodded. “Fenrah would have been three
years old, Sham five, both of them living at court in
Sarder-de-lor. This was before the city fell. Lyli and Xerous are
the only Raiders who would have been old enough to participate, and
as far as I know, Chance’s research puts them firmly in Canisaria
at the time.

“A number of other important things happened
that summer. Canisaria was needing help in the worst possible way
against the Filinians, and Meuril had been on the verge of honoring
their pleas. However, after the bandits devoured his wife, he never
again considered helping the wolflings. In fact, he put a bounty on
them soon afterwards. Shadock’s queen was also urging Shadock to
help Canisaria. They quarreled, and she started spending a great
deal of time with the captain of her guard, Jubal. Chance was
likely conceived as a result the same summer. Sarder-de-lor fell a
year later, unhelped and unmourned by Shadock and Meuril.” Syrill
sat back. “That’s the story as it’s commonly told.”

Corry considered. “I knew the part about
Shadock, but not about Meuril. Interesting.”

Syrill watched him. “Isn’t it?”

“Seems an odd thing for the wolflings to
do—insulting Meuril when they needed his help so badly.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I mean, they must have
meant
the
whole thing for an insult, else they won’t have eaten the queen and
then left the cooking where shelts could find it.”

“No one ever claimed the attack was
officially sanctioned by Malic, the wolfling king,” said Syrill.
“In fact, Malic swore he knew nothing of it, and I think Meuril
believed him. However, many of Meuril’s advisors urged that the
savage attack on the queen showed the true nature of wolflings, the
kind of thing we could always expect with them as neighbors.”

Corry nodded. “Seems a stupid thing to do,
though, even if they
are
savage.”

“Perhaps wolflings are stupid,” said
Syrill.

Corry frowned. “You know that’s not
true.”

“I’m only telling you the ideas that went
round at court.”

Corry could almost
feel
the bent of
Syrill’s thoughts. “The wolflings had nothing to gain and
everything to lose. The cats, on the other hand, had everything to
gain.”

Syrill grinned. “I’m glad you see it
too.”

“You think they framed the wolflings?”

“I’m sure of it. How convenient, when Demitri
was tightening his death grip on the throat of the wolflings, for
the wolflings to give affront to their most likely ally. The bodies
of the queen’s party had swollen in the heat, so it was difficult
to analyze the wounds. A slash from a claw and a slash from a sword
may not look so different after days in the sun, and any maulings
would have been attributed to wolves.”

Corry shook his head. “The dead wolves and
wolflings.”

“Yes.” Syrill smiled. “What about them?”

“Someone like Fenrah or Sham would never
leave companions behind, dead or alive.”

“Exactly. Those wolves and wolflings didn’t
die fighting with fauns. Cats killed them and left them behind as a
decoy.”

“And the cooking?”

“The cats came in at suppertime, did the
deed, tore the queen to pieces, ate parts of her, dropped the rest
in the cooking pot. Easy as that.”

Corry shook his head. “Surely tracks—”

“Two-day-old tracks on leaves and loam don’t
tell much, Corellian, certainly not the difference between a cat
paw and a wolf paw.”

Syrill leaned forward. “I believe that Istra,
Shadock’s queen, knows the truth as well. She and Natalia were
girlhood friends. They were very close. I do not know her, have
never been alone with her to ask the question, but I cannot imagine
she would have supported the wolfling cause if she had believed
they killed her friend.”

“So Meuril’s queen and Shadock’s queen were
close? That’s interesting.”

Syrill wasn’t listening. “If Meuril had
helped Sarder-de-lor twenty-two years ago, the Demitri would never
have had a chance to attack us. The cats tricked him, devoured his
wife, and lived for three years on the bodies of his fallen
soldiers. Then, instead of letting me kill Lexis, Meuril parlayed
with him, made a treaty, rewarded him for his deceptions, and let
him off without a scratch!”

Syrill realized how loudly he was speaking
and lowered his voice. “You see why I have some sympathy for the
wolflings?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“But Meuril’s actions make sense if he really
believes the wolflings killed his wife. He was on hand to examine
the evidence, after all, and you weren’t.”

Syrill flushed. “I can assure you that I did
not come to this conclusion over an evening’s bottle of wine. I
have spoken with many eye-witnesses.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing for the last
few months? Building your case?”

Syrill’s eyes flicked away. “To a degree. I
had the outline, but I have improved it.”

“Even if you’re right Syrill, it would be
Demitri, not Lexis, who did all this. You can’t put Lexis on trial
for something his father did.”

“He
must
have been told about it,”
growled Syrill, “at least by the time he came to the throne. He
used the deception, just like his father used it.”

Chapter 7. Port
Ory

Your idea about the stone from the Triangle
Road has been tried, but shelts fear buildings made from wizard
stone. At the last guild meeting, one member reported having
harvested stone from around Selbis itself, and the house collapsed
the day before the family was to move in. Customers were
frightened.

—Chief of Laven-lay’s Guild of Masons to
Danda-lay’s Guild Chief

Corry had an idea that wine had made Syrill
more talkative than he intended, because the next morning he was
uncharacteristically quiet. They rode along, listening to the
twitter of birds and the clip of deer’s feet on old stone. Corry
watched the other travelers—mostly wood fauns, with an occasional
cat—and he noted with interest the busy little towns they passed.
Toward evening they came to the bank of a broad river. “The
Tiber-wan?” asked Corry.

Syrill nodded. “Not far now to Port Ory.”

The road paralleled the river. Soon Corry
caught sight of a barge moving with the current, piled high with
crates. Fauns moved to and fro on the deck.

Corry squinted. “Syrill… What’s that in the
water?”

He looked where Corry pointed. “I don’t see
anything.”

“Beside the barge, there’s something
swimming.”

“Oh.” Syrill looked away. “Just a Cowry
catcher.”

Corry shook his head. “I’ve never heard of
them.”

“There aren’t many in middle Panamindorah.
They’re manatee shelts, native to the sea and the jungle streams of
the Pendalon mountains. I’m told that fauns use them at sea to find
cowries. Here they’re used for catching fish, towing small loads,
boat maintenance, that sort of thing.”

“Used?” echoed Corry.

Syrill had the grace to look embarrassed.
“They’re slaves…all those in Middle Kingdoms, at least. I suppose
there are free ones in the Pendalons.”

“I thought slavery was illegal in Middle
Panamindorah.”

Syrill shrugged. “Yes, well, we don’t extend
that courtesy to deer and burrows. We buy and sell animals that
can’t talk.”

“Cowry catchers can’t talk?”

“No. I’ve been told they can’t make the
sounds of our language. They seem to understand it well enough.
I’ve never owned one, Corellian, and I’ve never lived on the
riverfront.”

Corry shook his head. “But not even wolflings
are sold as slaves!”

“No?” Syrill raised his eyebrows. “And what
do you think happens in the deep forest when a faun farmer comes
upon a den with a couple of strapping youngsters? He could collect
a few dozen white cowries in bounty for their tails. Ah, but
perhaps they could work for him? Then he keeps their secret and
they keep their lives.”

Corry said nothing, but his disgust must have
shown on his face.

“Some would call it merciful,” said Syrill,
“on the part of the faun, I mean. He does run a risk. He could be
heavily fined. The wolflings, of course, stand to lose a good deal
more.”

“But that’s not the same,” persisted Corry.
“I know it happens, but it’s not legal, like what you’re describing
with the cowry catchers. They’re shelts, aren’t they? What’s the
difference between making slaves of them and making slaves of
wolflings?”

Syrill sighed. “Nauns—they don’t look as much
like us, do they?” He allowed his buck to a canter. “Blix has been
trying to tell me for the last quarter league that he wants to
run.”

The smell of spring was in the air, and the
deer
were
anxious to move. They only stopped running when
Syrill judged the crowd too thick, which was a good deal later than
Corry would have judged it. The deer were far more agile than
horses and liable to shoot straight into the air when they
encountered barriers in the form of other riders and wagons. Syrill
only chose to slow when Corry’s doe landed
inside
a cart,
nearly on top of a number of ragged children. Corry shakily offered
the cart’s owner his apologies and several cowries, but the owner
only shook his head, watching Syrill wide-eyed over Corry’s
shoulder.

“I’m the dashing cavalry commander,” said
Syrill out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m
supposed
to be
reckless.”

“Well, I’m the stuffy royal clerk,” panted
Corry, “and I don’t want to kill any children on my way to
Lupricasia.”

Towards evening, Corry caught sight of a
stone wall which continued on the other side of the Tiber-wan.
“What good is a city wall?” asked Corry, “if anyone can come
through the river.”

“Inspections,” said Syrill, “tariffs, that
sort of thing. Port Ory is a merchant city.” He laughed. “Who would
want to attack it? Everyone does business here.”

As they drew closer, the traffic thickened,
and Corry saw a gate swung wide and shelts with merchandise lined
up for inspection. He and Syrill were waved through with barely a
glance. Beyond the wall, narrow streets wound between tall
buildings, all hung with garlands of early flowers and colored
paper. Colored lanterns winked in the dusky twilight. Booths on
wheels came and went, trailing smells of food. Corry could hear
flutes and tambourines and the thump of dancing feet. Children
yelled back and forth across the rooftops.

Syrill kept stopping to talk and laugh with
shelts Corry had never seen before. Quite a few of them were
female. At last they reached a gaudy-looking hotel on the
waterfront, called the Unsoos. The lobby was paved with dressed
stone, and the rugs were large and elaborate. The roof turned out
to be a park-like deer garden, complete with trees and small
waterfalls.

Syrill requested a double room at roof level.
As soon as they were inside, he dropped his pack and said, “I’m
going out. Are you hungry?”

Corry had an idea Syrill didn’t want him
along. “No, I’m tired, actually.”

“Well, if you change your mind, there’s a
common room downstairs. The food here is excellent.” Syrill slipped
out the door without another word.

Corry found his way to a lavishly appointed
bedroom with windows opening on the deer park. He took off his
boots, lay down, and dozed off almost at once. When he woke, the
night was full dark, but he could hear distant sounds of
merrymaking through the window. He didn’t think he’d been asleep
very long, but he was ravenously hungry. Corry got up, put his
boots back on, and went out into the hall. Voices, music, and the
odor of food drifted up the staircase and he followed them. On the
ground floor, he paused beside the common room entrance. He could
see a fire and something roasting over it. Shelts were eating at
tables, talking and laughing. Corry hesitated. He reached into his
pocket.
I have enough cowries to buy food outside.
He didn’t
feel like trying to make conversation with strangers right now.

In the street, Corry bought a warm, thick
drink and an unidentifiable hunk of meat on a stick. Chewing and
slurping happily, he started up the incline of the street. All
three moons were up and nearly full—Dragon high overhead, Runner a
little below, and blue Wanderer just visible between the buildings.
Dancers and acrobats were performing here and there. He saw
minstrels and fire-eaters and magicians and even a cat who could
balance knives on his nose. Gradually he noticed the streets he
walked were rising higher. Finally the road came out on a massive
stone bridge. Near him, a larger-than-life statue of a cliff faun
in battle dress atop a magnificent ram reared against the velvet
sky. On the far side of the bridge, stood a similar stone image of
a wood faun on a stag, illuminated by flaming torches. Flags of
Laven-lay and Danda-lay flew from the tops of their spears.