A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

by Beth Hilgartner

  Sharkbait raised a cynical eyebrow. "Did you do this as a favor to me, or to steal a march on your competitors? Let's do business, Shipmaster Kharren. You owe me for twenty men at fifteen Guilds each, plus my commission—a Half-Noble. Will you pay up front, or half in advance?"

  When they had concluded their business, the shipmaster watched from the charthouse doorway as Sharkbait deployed his men. They were ruthlessly efficient; the shipmaster was impressed. This run, he would lose only a small fraction of his sawdust-and-sacking-wrapped blocks to the heat; and at this rate, he'd be out of the harbor with the noon tide. There was a maxim in this somewhere, he thought. Something about paying for quality, or spending a bit more to reap better profits. He watched a moment longer before he returned to his charts and ledgers.

  ***

  Donkey stood, as stoic and patient as the name Ferret had given him, while Arkhyd's tirade seethed around him. "Wretched boy...lazy...useless... clumsy..." Donkey had heard it all before. He schooled his face to contrition, and fought back his own impatient defense. It never, never did any good to argue.

  He caught movement at the edge of his vision: Squirrel. He stifled any betraying flicker of interest and hung his head a little lower.

  "I swear it, Thantor, if I weren't so softhearted, I'd beat you for this morning's clumsiness: if it weren't enough you spilled on a customer, you had to break the dish as well! You’ll have to fend for yourself, today: Tibhe will scrub your pots — and have your food! I willn’t feed a clumsy, lazy boy. Get out of my sight — and if you dinna mend your ways, boy, late or soon, I'll cast you out on the streets for good, and not just for the day!"

  "Good morrow, Master Arkhyd," Squirrel cut in brightly. "I dinna mean to interrupt aught, Master, but I've a message from the tavern keeper at the Anchor."

  "Give your message, lad," Arkhyd instructed, pausing only to give Donkey a rough shove. "Run along, Thantor—and dinna let me see you again until nightfall."

  "Master Rhenn wonders whether you could spare him two barrels of your small ale; he'd trade eight bottles of Thedezh red for it."

  "I have no use for Thedezh wine," Arkhyd growled; in the face of Squirrel's alert attention, the tavern master's irritation began to ebb. "It's too expensive for my trade. Go back to Rhenn and tell him I'll sell him the ale, but he'll have to trade me three barrels of stout, or two Nobles. Here, lad." He flipped a scatter of Commons at the boy. "Hurry."

  Squirrel darted outside; he clapped Donkey on the shoulder. "It's the Anchor," he whispered. "I'd best run 'til I'm out of sight. Catch me up." He sprinted off.

  Donkey plodded after. Once he was out of sight of the tavern, he stretched his legs into a faster pace. He caught up with Squirrel, who was walking again, a block or so further on.

  "Ho, Donkey. Sounded like ol' Arkhyd was really on you."

  "Ho, Squirrel. He gets like that once a week, whether I deserve it or not. What's up?"

  "Owl's brother beat him again last night; he looks a mess, but he doesn't complain."

  "Does no good, complaining. Zhazher's a brute. Poor Owl."

  "Look, Donkey: he's by the Waiting Wall. Why dinna you trot off; happen you could cheer him up. I'm apt to be running twixt the Trollop and the Anchor all morning. Rhenn hasn't got three barrels of stout—and two Nobles is a ridiculous price for that swill your uncle sells."

  "You didn't mention Rhenn hasn't the stout," Donkey noted.

  "At five Commons a trot? Course not. Ho! I just carry the messages; advice is extra."

  Donkey smiled slowly. "See you at the Wall."

  "Around noon," Squirrel agreed. "I'll buy you and Owl something to eat."

  ***

  Owl wasn't alone, Donkey found. Mouse was there. Owl bore obvious signs of his brother's mistreatment: a purpling shadow across one cheekbone; a pinched expression on his face; and he moved like an old man. Mouse was trying to amuse him. They made such an appealing pair that several people had actually veered from their course to pass close enough to toss the children a coin. Donkey watched for a moment before he joined them.

  "Ho, Donkey," Mouse greeted him.

  "Ho, Mouse, Owl. I'll spoil your takings."

  "Why would you?" Mouse asked.

  "I'm not cute."

  Owl grinned, then winced. "Just look half-witted—"

  "More half-witted than usual," Mouse interjected.

  "--and I'll look long suffering and responsible," Owl went on, ignoring her, "and Mouse can look worried."

  As Donkey's face grew blank, he fished in one pocket. After a moment, he produced a lump of charcoal. He studied it stupidly until Mouse noticed what he held.

  The little girl suddenly grew avid. "Oh, give it here, Donkey. Please, Donkey. I'm sorry I teased you. Oh, please Donkey; didn't you really bring that for me?"

  Hiding all his amusement, Donkey feigned puzzlement. He let slow comprehension dawn, then pushed the blackened lump toward the girl. "Want?" he asked, and beamed in imbecilic gratification when she snatched it away.

  A few more coins came their way before they forgot their charade as the drawing under Mouse's fingers came alive. She drew the scene around them; and in the crowd she was drawing, here and there a face would spring to sudden life: the bitterness in a harlot's painted smile; a robed Healer, compassion shadowing his dark eyes; a foreign merchant, with hair like cornsilk; two khacce players, intent on the stiff figures on their game table; a bargaining vendor; a nobleman, in silk and lace, with an ebony cane. It was magical, the way the drawing grew; but long before the boys were tired of watching, or Mouse had drawn all she could see, the lump of charcoal crumbled to nothing. Mouse sat back on her heels with a sigh. Then, and only then, did the three realize the attention they had attracted. They were surrounded by people.

  The watchers were silent; awed or frightened. One sooty hand stole up to cover Mouse's mouth. Her eyes were wide. Owl had stopped breathing, expecting someone momentarily to raise the cry of 'Witch.' Only Donkey maintained his placid blankness—though his mind searched desperately for some way to ease the situation. Then, the nobleman Mouse had drawn stepped forward. Mouse had caught him perfectly: his shrewd eyes, his sardonic mouth, and the elegance of the narrow hand which held the cane. He planted the brass shod tip of his cane next to his portrait.

  "Impressive," he said. "Very impressive indeed." With a languid gesture, he sent a shower of coins to the flagstones. As if his action were a signal, other coins followed his. Stunned, but not paralyzed, the three children scrambled to gather them. In their scuffling, the drawing was smudged beyond recognition.

  "Sweet Lady of Sorrows," Owl murmured. "There's more money here than I see in a month."

  "Dinna ask me to do it again," Mouse pleaded.

  "Na," Donkey agreed. "Too near a thing."

  "What can we do with the money?" Owl said.

  "Take my share," Donkey offered. "You need it most."

  Mouse nodded. "My parents would only ask questions—and they'd never believe I didn't steal it."

  Owl was clearly terrified. "No. I mustn't have it. Zhazh— If Zhazh ever finds out— Gods, he'll think it's the beating."

  "Ferret," Donkey offered. "She'd hide it."

  "So she would." Relief warmed him; his face lost its waxen look. "So who wants to find her? Donkey?"

  "Me. I'll go," Mouse said; and then, she was gone.

  ***

  Mouse returned to the Waiting Wall with Ferret only moments after Squirrel showed up with a loaf of bread and a sausage. Squirrel grinned cheekily at the thief.

  "Trust you to turn up where there's food," he greeted her.

  "Ho, Squirrel, Owl, Donkey. So what's up? Mouse can barely squeak, she's so rattled."

  "I want you to hide some money for me," Owl said. "If you're willing."

  Squirrel's eyebrows shot up. "You're going to hold out on Zhazher?" At Owl's tight nod, Squirrel pounded his palm with a fist in a gesture of enthusiasm. "And high time."

  Owl had torn a good sized bit from his r
atty tunic, and had stowed the coins in the knotted fabric. Casually, he tossed the wad of cloth to Ferret. She was unable to suppress an instant's surprise at the weight. "Count it?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "There's a deal of silver—and a lot of people."

  "What happened?"

  It was Donkey who told the tale, around a hunch of bread and a chunk of savory sausage. Though his face was placid, it was clear that the others were still badly shaken. Despite the heat, Mouse huddled against Owl as though she were cold. When Donkey fell silent, they each remained pensive, until Ferret spoke. "Khyzhan says there's no figuring nobles."

  "A pearl of great wisdom—and from a very unlikely source," a voice commented.

  They all jumped. It was the longshoreman, Sharkbait. Ferret thrust her chin up and glared at him; Sharkbait made her a bit uncomfortable. Ferret disliked contradictions, and Sharkbait was full of them. He spoke like the gentry, though with his knife-scarred face and callused hands, no one could mistake him for anything but a worker. He had a reputation for shrewdness bordering on ruthlessness, but he was unfailingly kind to her and her friends; and Owl, who was quite good at assessing people, liked and trusted the man.

  "Sharkbait!" Owl greeted him. "What are you doing here?"

  "Eavesdropping," he told them. "Actually, I was commissioned to make a delivery." From somewhere about his person he removed a flat, rectangular package, which he gave to Mouse. "From an admirer."

  Mouse regarded Sharkbait for several heartbeats, worry scoring her brow, before she untied the string and unwrapped the parcel: a nicely tooled leather case which contained a stack of creamy sheets of paper, several charcoal sticks, two small pots of ink, half a dozen quills, and a small, silver knife. The girl stared at the treasures in her lap, then she looked up at the longshoreman. His expression was strange, haunted.

  "I've never used—" she gestured helplessly.

  Sharkbait's lips twisted in a painful smile. "I'll drop in at the Trollop tonight and show you how to cut a quill."

  "Who's it from?"

  "Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave. The nobleman with the cane. Shall I convey your thanks, Mouse?"

  "Wait," she said firmly. "I'll make him a drawing."

  Sharkbait leaned against the wall while she took one of the charcoal sticks and began. It was a portrait drawn from memory: her benefactor—looking down at something which interested him. Owl almost fancied he could hear the man saying 'Impressive,' in his dry way. When Mouse was done, she gave the drawing to Sharkbait. She held the stick out to him. "Write: 'Thank you from Mouse' on the bottom."

  "Write?" Sharkbait repeated. "You think I can write?"

  Mouse locked gazes with the man. "You said you'd teach me to cut a quill."

  He brushed his forehead with two fingers in a gesture of concession, then took the charcoal and carefully made letters across the bottom of the page. He handed the stick back to Mouse, and with no further comment, melted into the crowd.

  "Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave," Ferret repeated softly, rolling the name over her tongue as though she could discern some important information from the taste. "I wonder who he is."

  "I wonder how he knows Sharkbait," said Squirrel. "And how Sharkbait—Sharkbait!—learned to write."

  "I wonder," Mouse mused, "what Sharkbait would look like if he didn't have that horrible scar."

  They fell silent; Ferret looked around and got to her feet. "I'm off. I've fish to fry—and a Master to appease. Will you lot be at the Trollop later?"

  "After nightfall," Donkey answered. "I'm in disgrace."

  Ferret grinned at him. "Is that again—or still?"

  He shrugged. "Comes to the same thing. 'Til later, Ferret."

  Chapter Four—Journeyman

  Ferret had had a good day. Owl's secret hoard, which she had counted in the privacy of her lair before she hid it away, amounted to an unthinkable total: four Nobles, six Half-Nobles, fifteen Guilds and fifty-two Commons. On top of this amazing stroke of fortune (which, after all, had to do with her friend and not herself, for all that it was a wonderful thing), there had been crowds of incautious people loitering on the waterfront, and not many Watch. By late afternoon, Ferret had more than enough to appease her Master. Buoyed by her high spirits, she began to play little games with herself—shadowing this Slum denizen; spying on that one. Usually, Slum dwellers left one another alone. For one thing, it deterred one from stealing when there was a fair chance one's mark might turn out to be important in the Thieves' Guild. As Ferret made her way to the Beaten Cur, she noticed a man on the street: he was better dressed than most Slum dwellers; it wasn't that his clothes were flashy, but they were of good quality, and clean. On an impulse, she tailed him. He didn't move like a Slum dweller. He carried his head with the unconscious arrogance of gentry. She smiled slowly. If he was a merchant or some petty nobleman slumming, he was more than fair game. Carefully, she sidled closer.

  Ferret's theft could have been a demonstration, it went so smoothly. One moment he had all his possessions; the next, an elegant leather purse rested inside Ferret's shirt. To make her escape, she scaled the wall of a decrepit warehouse; she watched the man saunter away, unaware of his loss. When he was out of sight—and after a careful scan of her rooftop perch—she slipped out his purse and opened it. Ferret nearly fell off the roof. In the purse were five, heavy yellow Royals, a lozenge shaped ivory miniature of a nobleman, and a gold and onyx signet ring. A wave of dizzying panic swept over her. This was no ordinary purse: it was the payment for a murder.

  Ferret tried to catch her breath, tried to think. She slipped the miniature out of the purse and stared at it. Five Royals was a fortune; if this was the target, he'd have to be important. The miniature showed a young man in profile: tawny skinned like most of the people of Bharaghlaf; light brown eyes; classically sculpted features; black hair. It was a very good portrait, Ferret judged, for he looked as though he were about to turn to speak to her. Ferret stared at it, trying to memorize the face; then with a sigh, she made a move to return it to the purse. Instead, she found herself tucking the miniature away separately, and she recognized that she intended to keep it, and to keep it secret, regardless of consequences. She shivered. After a moment, she inspected the signet ring. The onyx was carved with a seal which was meaningless to her: a spread-winged butterfly prisoned within the lines of a six-pointed star.

  After several minutes of intense inward debate, Ferret climbed down from the roofs and made her way to the Beaten Cur. At least, whatever else happened, Khyzhan couldn't accuse her of another fruitless day.

  The Beaten Cur was crowded, noisome and loud. Khyzhan, sporting a bandaged arm, was holding court. There were no sniggers or comments from his bravos as Ferret approached. Khyzhan raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

  "What happened to your arm, Master?" she greeted him.

  "Nothing to worry over, Ferret: a mere brawl. But Ybhanne's man had a knife. In the end, we used it on him. A bit of poetic justice. And how's your hunting been, Ferret?"

  "I think I've overreached, Master." She tossed the leather purse onto the table. "I lifted that off a mark I took to be flash slumming."

  Khyzhan spilled the contents out onto the table. The gold chimed softly, then lay gleaming like a dragon's hoard.

  "Holy gods," one of the bravos breathed.

  Khyzhan picked up the signet. "House Azhere. Did your mark see you, Ferret?"

  She shook her head.

  "Are you certain?"

  "He didn't even twitch, Master." The watchful stillness in Khyzhan's face made a horrible possibility occur to her. "He could have known I was there and been shamming—but it makes no sense. A trap for me would hardly be baited with Royals."

  Khyzhan was silent so long Ferret began to fear that he was too angry to speak. He'd warned her to leave Slum denizens alone—and clearly, she'd disobeyed him. "Well, Ferret," the master thief said, when the silence had grown nearly unbearable. "You dinna leave me much choice. I shall have to promote you to jou
rneyman, for all that you're young for it." He gestured to the Royals on the table. "You've paid your Guild dues through the seven years of your journeyman service." He put the things back into the purse, then rose to his feet. "Come with me; I'd best take you down to Guild headquarters and register you."

  "It's kind of you, Master, but dinna you think this a case of dumb luck?"

  Khyzhan pinched her chin. "Dumb luck or not, Ferret, I've no choice. Even if I wanted to give you your apprentice share, I haven't the coinage. At two fifths, Ferret—which is a thin reward for an impressive haul—your share would be two hundred Nobles; or four hundred Half-Nobles; or twelve thousand Guilds. So let's be off, Journeyman Ferret."

  ***

  Sharkbait didn't like the Ivory Comb; it was on the upper fringes of the waterfront district, the haunt of gentry who imagined themselves daring. The prices were high, the ale was inferior (though the wine was good), and he always felt conspicuous, there. But Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave hadn't asked for Sharkbait's preference—and at least the old man hadn't expected him to come up to the Palace.

  He scanned the trade in the taproom; it was a bit thin, but there was no one who looked like trouble. Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave had taken a table by a side window, where they could see anyone close enough to overhear. He joined him.

  "Here," Sharkbait began, handing him Mouse's drawing.

  The old man smiled. "She's a wonder. What can you tell me about her?"

  "Her parents are flower-sellers. Too poor to be respectable, I suppose, but hard working. They're fond of her—which means, in the Slums, that they don't beat her and she usually has enough to eat. Ven," he added, noting the other man's abstracted expression. "What are you thinking?"

  "Such talent deserves to be trained. It's almost a pity she has kin. It might be easier for House Ykhave to acquire her if she were an orphan."

  Sharkbait laughed mirthlessly. "Approach her parents. In the Slums, everything's for sale."

  Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave eyed him coolly. "That's not exactly what I meant. By the way, An—"