Chance came last. Among all the royal children, he was the only golden head. Corry knew the fact must contribute to the rumors about his pedigree. Most cliff fauns were fair-haired. Dark hair ran mainly in a few noble houses.
Queen Istra, however, was also golden. She walked behind the last of her children, talking to a cliff faun Corry did not recognize. Istra was beautiful in a faded sort of way. She had Chance’s pallor and also his defiant tilt of the chin.
Meuril looked plain in his blue and green robes. He was talking to Shadock. Capricia trailed a little behind Chance. She looked tired, Corry thought, but beautiful in fur-trimmed cream silk with dagged sleeves so long they nearly swept the floor. Her hair fell down her back in a cascade of cinnamon curls. Syrill was walking with her and talking earnestly, his green plumed hat his only nod to Danda-lay’s fashions.
Corry saw a dark fauness walking with Capricia and Syrill and decided she must be Sharon-zool, the swamp faun queen. She had smooth, straight black hair, cut short to her chin in the swamp faun fashion, just visible under an ornate headpiece that Corry recognized from books as the swamp faun badge of royalty. It looked more helmet than crown—iridescent scales, said to be dragon skin, that lay smooth against her head and cascaded down to her shoulders. They caught the light with every turn of her head. Her clothes were white leather worked with scales of lapis lazuli that matched the turquoise and green of her crown, and she wore breeches rather than a dress according to swamp faun custom.
The centaurs came behind, dwarfing the fauns. Corry knew their king at once. Targon walked with the fluid movements of a deer in spite of his bulk. His fur was blood red—almost the color of the centaur flag. His bobbed, glossy black tail swished restlessly. On his human torso, he wore only a short black cape with red trim and elaborately embroidered high collar, which covered only part of his heavily muscled belly and chest. His human hair was the same color as his tail—black with no trace of gray. He had sharp, deeply intelligent green eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee. Corry noticed that he wore a coiled battle whip as shelts might wear a sword.
Lexis was talking to Targon, and for once he looked small, his head coming only to the centaur’s horse shoulders. Other cats walked behind him, all of whom Corry recognized: Ounce the snow leopard, Nolfee the black leopard, Liliana the lioness, Loop the lynx, and Cleo the ocelot. They were the same council members who’d fled with Lexis to Meuril in the dead of night to broker a treaty, and they’d been frequently in and out of the wood faun court since then. A number of other fauns milled around the edges of the party, each wearing chains of office.
Corry’s eyes kept returning to Targon. Something about him is familiar. He looked nothing like the centaur Corry had left in the Otherwhere, but still… The almost-human head turned, and Corry ducked back into the shadow of the staircase. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to be seen. He breathed a sigh of relief as Targon moved into the next room.
“Corry!” Syrill had spotted him. “You must be starving!”
Over his shoulder, Corry saw a palace guard leaving the meeting hall. It was Jubal.
Chapter 10. Furs and Filinians
A Filinian throne may be inherited, but Filinian loyalty never is.
—Demitri Alainya to his heir
Liliana the lioness swerved into a passage and set off at a brisk trot, the noise of the other councilors fading rapidly behind her.
“Lily.”
She turned. The ocelot had followed her. Cleo’s eyes were green-gold and they filled her exquisitely marked face. The eyes looked soft and shy, but the voice had claws. “Where are you going?”
Liliana’s lip curled. “Attend to your own affairs, slant-eyes, and let me attend to mine.”
Cleo’s voice dropped to a hiss. “If your affairs threaten my life, I will most certainly attend to them!”
“Have a care, Cleo,” rumbled the lioness.
“No, you have a care. Listen to me: he won’t do it, not if you let it be. We can all live. Do you hear me? Let it be. Otherwise, you will get us killed!”
Liliana took a step towards her, stiff-legged, lips pulled up in a noiseless snarl. “You stuttering mouse-catcher, I was gutting deer when you were still kneading your mother’s belly, so don’t talk to me about killing! We’re dead right now unless we act.”
Cleo backed off a pace. “Lexis is not Demitri.”
“Pough!” Liliana spat. “You know nothing. He’s his father’s cub, and his father had impeccable timing. This festival is it. Have you seen the way Syrill looks at him? The war debts aren’t paid. You can wait to be spent like a cowry if you like; I won’t.”
They parted growling. Cleo was nonplussed as she emerged again in the foyer by the council chamber to see a palace guard. She glared at him, half inclined to ask how much he’d heard, then thought better of it and trotted away.
Jubal watched her, frowning.
* * * *
“This,” said Syrill as he and Corry stood on a wide, stone-paved walk, “is Chance’s famous statue, commissioned in honor of his promotional ceremony after fighting bravely with us in the cat wars. I think it was the first and only time Shadock paid him any attention.”
Corry looked at the statue—a life-size image of Chance in full battle dress, atop a stag. “They’ve repaired it, of course,” continued Syrill, “but you can still see the line where the wolflings gelded the buck and took off the antlers.” Syrill laughed. “I doubt they even knew who Chance was at the time, but he’s made sure they know since.”
Corry and Syrill were strolling on the Sky Walk—a scenic broadway along the very brink of the cliff. A waist-high wall ran along the edge, fashioned from the same warm, rose-colored stone as the pavement. Syrill had wanted to catch the sunset before dinner. Other shelts and animals came and went around them, enjoying the view or selling things to those who were.
A cliff faun child, one of a number of urchins, sidled up to them. He was dressed in a ragged tunic that might have once been yellow. He held a stringed instrument that looked like a cross between a banjo and a violin. “Would sirs like a song?” He noticed Chance’s statue and added, “Perhaps the Lay of the Prince’s Magical Gallows?”
Corry shook his head. He had heard the Lay of the Prince’s Magical Gallows in more versions than he could remember. The song had grown popular in Laven-lay, where minstrels were less careful to veil their references to Chance. The most recent version Corry had heard made the observation that “princes with small towers are like to build high gallows” and finished with the cunning remark that, “like a certain statue in Danda-lay town, the prince’s tall gallows came tumbling down.” The statue, of course, had never fallen, but everyone knew what part of it had.
“We’ve heard that one a few times,” said Syrill.
Corry could tell Syrill was about to send him on his way, but he felt sorry for the child. “What’s popular in Danda-lay?” he asked. “Something we wouldn’t have heard in Laven-lay.”
The young minstrel-hopeful considered. Corry doubted he’d ever been anywhere near Laven-lay. “The Unicorn Maid and the Monster?” he hazarded.
Syrill rolled his eyes. “Yes, there’s one from my childhood. They only sing it cliff-side to frighten children away from the swamp. It’s classic, though. Sing away, kid.”
“Very good, sirs.” He settled himself at the foot of the statue and began.
In the dark of the moon in a time long ago—
“I was wanting to ask you something,” said Corry. “While I was sitting in our room, two cubs came running up the stairs.”
“Cubs?” Syrill bristled. “As in, feline cubs?”
—a maiden rare, with eyes of gold and silver hair—
“Yes, and they—”
“In my room?”
“Syrill, just listen to me. They didn’t know the room was occupied. They ran when they saw me.”
“They’d have run a deal faster if I’d been there!”
But the guide he sent to br
ing his bride
Lost his head where the bandits ride
And a storm blew up the mountainside
And darkened all the halls.
“They were tiger cubs,” continued Corry patiently, “one orange, one white.”
“How typical,” muttered Syrill, “for him to let his brats run wild in the palace.”
“They belong to Lexis then?”
—wandered far, she wandered wide,
lonely steps on the mountainside,
fleeing the place where the bandits ride
until she slipped and fell
Syrill was still grumbling. “And he’s brought both of them! That striped cur is determined to bathe the wood in blood. And they were prowling in my room! Shadock will hear of this.”
Until his ears bleed, thought Corry. “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘prowling,’ Syrill. How can two cubs running around at Lupricasia bathe the wood in blood?”
Deep in the swamp where the trees crouch low
hard in the dark of the moon,
the unicorn maid crawled into a cave
And found she was not alone.
Oh! She found she was not aloooone!
Syrill shook his head. “It’s an old Filinian custom. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
—saved her from their fearful jaws,
He shattered snouts and crushed their paws
And carried her away.
‘But worse than lizards prowl the swamp.’
The stranger came to say,
oh, the stranger came to saaay!
“Traditionally, the tiger kings separate their alpha litter as soon as the cubs are weaned and rear them in different parts of Filinia or at least in different parts of the palace. They never see one another until their second birthday, when they fight to the death, one by one, tournament style. Whoever’s left standing is the heir. Often, the second and even third litters are kept separate in case the winner dies of wounds.”
And some say the stranger had her to dine
And some say he had her to wife.
But all agree, nevermore she
walked in the realms of the light.
The minstrel finished, and Corry and Syrill stopped their conversation to give him polite applause. He stood and bowed. “Would sirs like another?”
“No thanks, kid. Go find someone else to strum for.” Syrill tossed him a white cowry and turned back to Corry. “I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s barbarous, Syrill. I hope Lexis ends the practice.”
“A barbarous practice for a barbarous race. The wisdom of the ancients is behind it. Lexis has so far refused to separate these cubs, and it will mean trouble. Filinians are notoriously hungry for dominance. This will mean civil war.”
“I would have thought you would be happy about cats killing each other.”
Syrill snorted. “If only it stopped at that! But civil war in Filinia always means trouble for us. Losers and refugees come to hide and hunt in our forests. Poor game-management in Filinia creates famine there, and raiding parties from both sides descend on our deer and our children. No, Lexis’s indulgence of his cubs is only kindness on the surface. Underneath lies a callous disregard for the lives of all the shelts and cats who will die because of his ‘kindness.’”
And if he’d acted according to custom, you’d call him a monster for that, too, wouldn’t you, Syrill? “What are their names?” asked Corry.
“Leesha and Tolomy. Creator be thanked, there were only two. The white female is the true dominant, or so I hear. The male, Tolomy, is afraid of his own shadow.” He laughed. “Their father’s personality split down the middle: the tyrant and the coward!”
Corry winced. He glanced around to make sure no cats were passing nearby and noticed a welcome distraction. “That vendor looks unusual.”
Syrill squinted. “Mmm... Looks like he’s coming from the market.”
The swamp faun pushed a booth with a brightly painted canopy. A number of fur garments dangled from the corners. Corry walked over for a better look.
The merchant stopped when he saw him. “Fine, warm furs,” he boomed. “Most are waterproof. I’ve raw pelts, as well as readymade hats, gloves, muffs, capes, and cloaks.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, I’m nearly sold out. If you come tomorrow at the market, I’ll have a better selection.”
While he talked, Corry examined the merchandise. The fur was extremely soft and dense. “I’ve needed a good cap all winter,” he said, taking one. The swamp faun smiled. “Ahh! You have an eye for quality. That is Shay-shoo fur. Very fine.”
“Shay-shoo?” commented Syrill, showing interest for the first time. “There’s been a bit of talk about that. Some creature from the northern jungles? I hear that you’re starting a breeding facility in Kazar.”
“Ah, yes. We have lowered the price. This fur is twice as warm as pelts of the same thickness. It sheds water well and will not freeze.”
“Like good quality cat pelts,” chirped Syrill, making Corry cringe again. “Since the embargo on cat fur, I hear Shay-shoo has really become popular. Too bad about the embargo.”
“I’ll take the cap,” said Corry, mostly so that Syrill would shut up.
The merchant gave him change in marked salt cakes. Like many cowries, they had a hole for stringing. Corry had seen them occasionally in Laven-lay, though salt had grown so rare in the last few years that most had been ground up for use. He walked away, fingering the downy cap. It was cream and sand colored with scattered leopard-like patterns.
“You should have bargained more,” grumbled Syrill. “He cheated you.”
Corry settled the cap on his head. “And have to walk away and walk back and shout and call him names? I’d rather just pay the extra cowries.”
“Whatever you were before you lost your memory, it wasn’t a merchant.”
Corry laughed.
Syrill plucked the cap off his head and examined it. “There’s a pattern back here that looks like a bull’s eye. Bound to be poor luck in battle. You could have used that for leverage.”
“When am I going to be in battle, Syrill? Let’s find something to eat.”
Chapter 11. Salt and a Book
There are fundamental differences between animals and shelts, and they ought never to forget this when dealing with each other. Shelts often conclude that, because beasts do not deal in currency, beasts are at a disadvantage. The truth is quite the opposite.
—Archemais, A Wizard’s History of Panamindorah
“It’s a pegasus!” Corry couldn’t stop staring.
“Or a very large and ugly stork.” Syrill put down his glass of hyacinth wine.
Corry stood up to get a better view. “I’ve never seen one before. I thought they only lived in the Pendalons.”
“Oh, there are a handful living in exile here. I used a couple for surveillance during the cat wars.” Syrill sighed. “The ones I used were both killed. I should have left them on the cliffs.”
Corry was still staring at the animal in the street across from their cluster of tables. “Do you know him?”
“I know everyone.”
“Will you call him over?”
Syrill stood up and whistled. The pegasus turned his head, then started towards them. Syrill sat back down. “He’s not likely to be happy to see me. I got his brother killed.”
But the animal seemed amiable enough. He was big as a centaur, but not so bulky. Closer, Corry saw that he was a dusky gray, with a blaze of striking scarlet on his forehead. The pegasus was completely feathered. A crest of long primary feathers formed his “mane,” which rose and fell in oddly expressive gestures as he talked. His tail had a bone like a horse’s tail, so that the feathers did not all start from his rump. The down of his body lay so smooth that it looked like fur from a distance, and his fetlocks were thick and shaggy. His wings were huge, even folded, and their joints jutted out in front. His ears were like a shelt’s—long and tufted.
The pegasus came through the press at a hop, and Corry saw that he was missing a front leg. “Hello, Syrill!” He had a pleasant accent. “Who’s your friend?” He took a sniff at Corry’s head and wrinkled his downy nose. “Better, what’s your friend?”
Syrill smiled. “Corellian, this is Merlyn. He was doing reconnaissance for Shadock when I was still chasing rabbits on the cliff. Merlyn, this is Corellian, the iteration who saved Laylan’s trap key…and me.”
The pegasus’s eyes widened. “Iteration, eh? That’s why he smells like nothing shelt-ish.”
Corry reached out a hand, which sank deep in the down of Merlyn’s neck. He was surprised at how bony the animal felt, the skin warm beneath the cool feathers. “You must look half as big wet.”
“Oh, yes,” chirped the pegasus, “and these bones are hollow.” The long joints of his wings buffed Corry gently on either side of the head. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t break a skull with one of these.”
“Or those.” Syrill gestured to the pegasus’s hooves. He swirled his wine. “A pegasus is a formidable enemy for a shelt, but not, unfortunately, for a big cat.”
The pegasus’s eyes glistened. “I’ve killed a cat or three.”
“I’m sorry about Eryl, Merlyn.”
“The leopards did that, Syrill.”
“They wouldn’t have if he’d stayed on the cliff.”
“Mercenary’s luck; you didn’t make him come. We’ve all got to die sometime.”
The pegasus glanced at the table and saw the change from their meal lying there, including two more salt cakes. “Now there’s a story in a picture,” he said.
“Yes,” said Syrill bitterly. “A story Meuril needs to read.”
Corry looked at the salt cakes. One was old and gray, pocked where moisture had chiseled at the stony salt. The other was new-minted, almost clear with a trace of red magnesium. The new cake bore the buck’s head stamp of Laven-lay. Corry tried to make out the stamp on the old salt cake, but it was weathered. He thought he saw a half moon and some kind of bird.
“Should I know this story?” he asked warily, wondering if Syrill was about to say something that would insult the lion two tables away.
Merlyn and Syrill glanced at each other. “This,” Syrill tapped the new salt cake, “paid for his meal.” He jerked a finger at the lion.
Corry shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean,” continued Syrill, “part of our treaty with the cats included access to the salt works in Canisaria. Salt was growing dear as silver before the war ended. It had almost left circulation as coin, but now it’s coming back, and not bearing the wolfling stamp. Now it bears our stamp.”