The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (21 page)

“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 Filinian 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 vender 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 Shy-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.”

“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 for 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-burrows before
the end. They were wealthy burrows, 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-lore 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.