The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (18 page)

Far below the artificial layers of the city,
the Tiber-wan delivered its never-ending death-roar as it plunged
over the abyss. Corry stopped to admire the view. He could see the
gushing, hissing turmoil of whitewater churning around a lattice of
vertical iron bars, anchored in the belly of the bridge and the
riverbed. All of Port Ory spread out below him—the river full of
boats at anchor and the walls and buildings winking with red,
green, orange, and purple lights.

Corry dragged his eyes away and moved to the
outer side of the bridge. Beneath him the river appeared to plunge
into a sea of cloud. It was like the end of the world.

“Pretty, eh?”

Corry turned to the speaker. “Shyshax. What
are you doing here?”

The cheetah laughed. He had his front paws on
the side of the bridge, but now he dropped to all fours. “Same
thing everyone else is doing, I suppose: eating and dancing and
filling up on new wine. How do you like Port Ory?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Shyshax smiled. “You haven’t seen Danda-lay
yet, have you?”

“No. Listen, I never got to thank you
properly for carrying me back to the city last summer. I was
distracted, and I’m afraid I behaved ungraciously. You were very
kind.”

The cheetah’s wide amber eyes twinkled. “It
was no trouble. How did you end up wet and lost in the wood
anyway?”

I was chased by a centaur assassin into
some kind of dungeon dimension full of extinct shelts and animals.
Lucky for me, I somehow popped up in a river a month later than I
left.
Corry almost wished he hadn’t brought it up, but he liked
Shyshax and had been wanting to thank him. “I’m not sure. I have
these spells sometimes where things happen, and I can’t remember.”
That sounds almost worse than the truth, coming from an
iteration.
Corry could have kicked himself.
Laylan knows I
can shift. He probably told Shyshax. Now he probably thinks I turn
into something horrible and kill people.

But the cheetah only looked at him curiously.
“Well, take care of yourself at Lupricasia. Lots of shelts here
would like you not to remember what happened to your money
belt.”

Corry smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Happy hunting.” Shyshax turned and moved
away.

As they talked, Corry had been looking at the
statue of the ram behind Shyshax, and without really thinking about
it, he noticed a lion and leopard approach and stand in the shadow
cast by the torchlight. Now as Shyshax trotted to the other side of
the bridge, Corry noticed them step away from the image and glide
through the crowd in the direction Shyshax had taken.

They’re following him.
He walked
quickly to the far side of the bridge, but of course the cats were
gone. Corry didn’t like it. He could imagine what some Filinians
would like to do to a cheetah who’d spied for Syrill during the
wars. Still hoping to see Shyshax again, Corry left the bridge on
the opposite side of the city. For a time he wandered among the
shelts, but he grew tired of the noise.

Finally he strolled down to the banks of the
Tiber-wan and walked along the riverfront, looking at the boats. He
heard a splash. Corry glanced up in time to see a wide ripple well
out in the river.
Big fish,
he thought, but the ripple did
not go away. Something was moving in the water, making an arrow
against the current. Corry walked forward along a wooden peer,
trying to get a better look.
Must be a cowry catcher.

The creature swam in place for a little
longer, then moved towards a stretch of sandy beach several yards
away from Corry. A head appeared. It was a shelt’s head, but it had
no tufts on its ears. Corry had grown so used to looking at heads
with furry ears that the site seemed somewhat repulsive. The ears
were naked and slight fleshy, pointed, and folded against the head.
The dripping form came up slowly until the figure seemed to be
sitting in the shallows. Then it stood. Corry took a step back.
Definitely not a cowry catcher.

Something rose out of the river beneath the
shelt. Corry gasped. It looked like an extremely ugly dragon. Corry
realized that he must have made a noise, for the shelt whirled in
his direction, stared a moment, then dove back into the river. The
monster sank and disappeared.

Heart pounding, trying not to run, Corry
trotted back to the base of the peer and up one of the paths that
led to a road. He managed to slow to a walk as he reached the first
building. Just before he turned the corner, he stopped and looked
back. The river flowed dark and smooth and undisturbed.

Corry walked back toward the bridge. The
night had gone sour. He felt like all of the shelts he passed
watched him and whispered things that he could not hear. Instead of
seeing the brightly colored lanterns, he saw the shadows they cast.
Not nearly soon enough, Corry found the bridge, crossed without
stopping to look down, and headed for the Unsoos.

He was nearly back, shouldering his way along
a particularly crowded road, when he almost ran into a large snow
leopard moving in the opposite direction. “Excuse me,” said Corry,
then stopped.
That was Ounce, Lexis’s lieutenant.
He turned
just in time to see the leopard stop beside a figure in a side
street. The shelt stood in shadow, yet something about the form
looked familiar. It turned, and Corry caught a flash of gold chain
and the silhouette of long, thick hair.

“Capricia?” But she was already gone.

Chapter 8. The Sluice and the
City

Danda-lay, Danda-lay,

city ancient,

hunter victim,

benevolent tyrant,

pearl of the sky.

—old wood faun poem

“Watch the road, Corellian! By the hoof! One
would think
you
were the one who stayed out all night, and
I
was the one who went to bed early!” In the gentle wash of
morning light Port Ory looked like a different city—calmer,
emptier.

Syrill was giving a tour. “Up that lane is
the official meeting hall for the guild of tanners, as I’m sure you
can tell by the stench. Furs and skins pour into Port Ory every
year to be processed. Fauns grow food along that side of the river,
also on their rooftops. See the gardens?”

A fauness glided passed them, carrying a
wreath of flowers, and Corry did a double-take. Her fur was long
and faintly curly, white like a cliff faun’s, but her skin was the
nut brown of a wood faun’s.

Syrill grinned. “That woke you up!”

“What is she?” Corry asked in a low
voice.

“A satyr—half wood faun, half cliff
faun.”

“Oh…” Corry had read a few oblique references
to satyrs, and he gathered they were a cross between to different
shelts.

“Half-breeds can’t usually have children,”
continued Syrill, “but they’re often beautiful. In fact, the
unofficial ‘Guild of the Ladies’ is here in Port Ory. Families,
especially old ones, frown upon mixed marriages for the obvious
reason that such unions produce no fertile heirs. Most satyrs are
illegitimate. This city is full of them, and the Guild of the
Ladies attracts them. My home province is cliff-side, and I know a
few from back then. If you like, I can introduce you this
evening.”

Corry was looking desperately for a change of
subject. “Are there any nauns at this festival?”

Syrill cocked his head. “Nauns?”

“Yes—shelts without hooves or paws. I saw
something last night that looked like…I don’t know what it looked
like, but not like a faun and certainly not a wolfling. It had
legs, so it wasn’t a Cowry catcher.”

Syrill looked curious. “Someone told me
yesterday that we have alligator shelts at the festival this year.
They don’t always come up for the festival. But when were you out
last night?”

Corry breathed a sigh of relief.
Alligator
shelts. Of course. Not a dragon. An alligator.

He remembered now that he’d read about these
shelts—”lizard riders,” the fauns called them. They lived in Kazar
swamp, technically citizens of the swamp faun nation, but the
lizard riders were tribal and kept to themselves.

“I got hungry and decided to get food from a
street vendor,” Corry told Syrill. “I saw an alligator and its
shelt swimming in the river. They startled me.”

“Oh. Did you see anything else
interesting?”

“Well…” Corry thought about the lion and the
leopard following Shyshax. He thought about Ounce and Capricia.
No good talking about cats to Syrill, though. He’ll get angry,
and I’m not sure there’s anything to get angry about.
“I saw a
faun and fauness painted blue and green.”

Syrill laughed. “Yes, they do that sometimes.
It’s the rutting season, you know.”

Corry did not know and wasn’t sure he wanted
Syrill’s explanation, so he kept quiet. As they rode to higher and
higher street levels, Corry recognized the bridge ahead. His eyes
widened as he caught a glimpse over western side. This morning the
air was clear, and he could see the suggestion of a horizon far
away.

When they reached the bridge, Corry stopped
near the outer edge and dismounted. He couldn’t tear his eyes away
from the drop. Syrill looked amused. “When you grow up in a
cliff-side town, you get used to it.” He followed Corry’s gaze.
“All that green and brown near the foot of the cliff is Kazar
Swamp. It rises into savanna along that greenish, goldish area, and
there...” he made a broad arc with his arm, “is the Anola
Desert.”

Corry stared at the sea of golden brown,
stretching away and away to the horizon. Here and there tiny dots
and ripples broke the desert’s monotony, but one point stood out
above the rest. “Iron Mountain?” asked Corry. The dark spike reared
like a tooth from the distant sand.

“The largest centaur city. Incidentally,
Targon, their new king is supposed to be present for the festival.
It will be his first meeting with Shadock and Meuril.”

“Are those mountains in the distance?” Corry
squinted.

“Yes, the Pendalon range. Pegasus and their
shelts live in the Pendalons, but they haven’t sent representatives
to the festival in the last few years on account of their war with
the griffins and Grishnards. Beyond the mountains is an ocean—a
desert of water.

“This bridge,” he continued as he turned
away, “is a monument to cliff and wood faun alliance, erected less
than a hundred years after the wizard wars.”

Corry turned to the inner side of the bridge,
overlooking the city. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to two
dry shoots opening off the main river.

“Those are the alternate falls. Every few
years, the cliff fauns turn the river into those channels and
repair the cliff which the water has chiseled away.”

“And what’s the portcullis-looking-thing
under the bridge?”

“An emergency measure to stop large boats. I
once saw a ship sucked into the falls. All the fauns got off in
time, but they couldn’t save the ship. It broke apart and went down
to Danda-lay in pieces. Little boats go over frequently—stupid kids
playing betting games. There’s been a push for years to double the
number of bars in order to save smaller boats, but it costs money
that so far the city council has seen fit to spend on other
things.”

After an uncomfortable moment of staring into
the churning water and wondering what it would be like to sail over
the edge in a small boat, Corry got back on his doe. Syrill led
them down through the other side of town until they came to a dry
sluice that angled away from the river. A flight of steps took them
to the bottom. They walked along the sluice, together with quite a
few other travelers, until it turned into a tunnel. A round stone
door stood open to the traffic. Two cliff faun guards stood beside
it, flashing in their gilded breastplates. Corry recognized one of
them.

“Jubal!” exclaimed Syrill. “So they’ve put
you on gate duty today?”

Jubal smiled. Like Chance, he had golden
curly hair falling to his shoulders. However, Corry could see no
other resemblance. Although all cliff fauns had paler skin than
wood fauns, Jubal could have been called dark beside Chance, and he
had a natural, easy charm that could not be less like the stiff
angry prince.

Jubal put his hand on Syrill’s shoulder in
greeting. “This year’s feast has drawn unusually large crowds. Can
you believe all the shelts? And the cats! Maybe it’s just the
rebound from the war years when we couldn’t have any cats.”

Syrill snorted. “I suppose letting in the
rabble does enlarge the crowd. A question of quantity over
quality.”

Jubal burst out laughing. “Forgive me! I
forgot that I’m not supposed to say the word
cat
around
General Syrill. A thousand pardons, your honor.”

For all he appreciated the sentiment, Corry
was surprised that Syrill didn’t fly into a rage. Instead, he
almost chuckled. “Corellian, I don’t think you’ve been formally
introduced to this troublemaker. Jubal is from my hometown. I
remember him chasing Blix out of his bean sprouts before Blix grew
his first set of antlers.”

“
I
remember chasing
you
out of
my little sister’s bedroom,” rejoined Jubal, “before you got your
first—”

“And then,” interrupted Syrill with a cough,
“Jubal went to seek his fortune in the big cities and so did
I.”

Jubal shook his head at Syrill. He turned to
Corry. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Corellian. I saw you at the
Raider hanging fiasco, and of course I’ve heard of you. Welcome to
Danda-lay.” He indicated the tunnel, and Corry and Syrill led their
deer inside.

The tunnel walls were polished so smooth that
Corry thought water must have been the original architect. Lanterns
lined the passage. Corry also noticed what looked like trapdoors in
the walls. Instead of handles, a wooden paddle protruded from each.
“What are those?”