Free The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers, Deluxe Illustrated Edition by Abigail Hilton

being such a
cat had died a natural death. However, desperate or indebted
ocelons were frequently pressured into killing their own animal
blood kin for the expensive pelts. Silveo had been joking to Farell
that morning about whether he could get away with wearing ocelot
fur into Ocelon Town—an idea that Gerard found perfectly
revolting.
    Now as they left the harbor, the buildings
changed from the wooden sheds to shacks and finally to
semi-permanent tents of leather and sailcloth. The tents were
clumped so closely together as to seem like one mammoth structure,
and the dirt streets between grew narrower as they went deeper into
the shantytown. They passed open dung pits buzzing with flies. The
stench mingled with odors of wine, cheap perfume, food, sweat,
rotting meat, and unwashed bodies. Gerard didn’t remember coming to
this part of the shanty town on his coming of age tour. He felt
sick.
    The place seemed eerily quiet, with only the
occasional golden eye peering from behind a leather flap or skinny
spotted cat darting down an alley. Yet Gerard saw evidence of
recent activity. A children’s jumping game had been scrawled in the
dirt, with small pawprints all around. A table stood outside what
must have been a restaurant, cups of tea still steaming beside the
plates. He guessed that Alsair was seeing a wave of ocelons
retreating from the area occupied by the Sea Watch. Curiosity made
him wish he’d flown with the griffin. Are these shelts guilty
about something? Or are they just frightened of the Watch? He
knew that several kings of Sern had taken it into their heads to
eliminate the eyesore of Ocelon Town, and Gerard suspected that the
ocelons were wary of grishnards in general.
    Wooden shingles with a meaningless scrawl of
lines hung above some tent doors. Gerard stared at the shingles. Ocelons have a different language, he remembered. His father
had mentioned it briefly in their tour of Sern. Looking closely, he
saw that many tents had small signs in the strange, sparse writing.
He even thought he saw street signs. It’s a world unto itself, a
world grishnards can’t even understand—a perfect place for the
Resistance!
    A street vendor’s cart had been left
standing, full of roasted fruits. Gerard saw some of the sailors
helping themselves and resisted the urge to discipline them. He
looked around at the shacks. The bone-gnawing sense of want was almost tangible. Give them a future, and they would give us
anything.
    On their right, the tents gave way to a
series of blocky stone and mortar buildings, heavily locked and
sometimes guarded by unfriendly looking grishnards and griffins.
Silveo stopped before a squat, smallish building with an
intimidating grishnard guard. He proceeded to have an argument with
the guard, most of which Gerard could not hear from his position in
the back, although his height allowed him to see most of what
happened.
    Silveo was hard to miss. He had apparently
elected not to wear ocelot fur. Instead, he was dressed in a black
and white striped cape, pants, and boots which gave every
indication of having once been the pelt of one or more zeds. The
leather had been cunningly sewn so that the furless sections formed
a pattern between the furred pieces. Gerard had always been taught
that wearing the pelts of shelts, even fauns, was tasteless and
perverse. Silveo had completed the outfit with a white linen shirt,
heavily frilled at the sleeves and a red hat bristling with
feathers.
    “He looks like he’s wearing half a pegasus on
his head,” Alsair had commented. “Is he trying to look taller?
Because it isn’t working.”
    “I can’t unlock it,” Gerard heard the guard
say. “I don’t have a key. I only patrol for the owner.”
    “Gerard!” Gerard turned to see Alsair
dropping into the street, panting with excitement. “Shelts are
fleeing out the back of the building! I think some of them are
shavier. Quick or you’ll miss them!”

Chapter 12. The Contents of a
Warehouse
    The