A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

by Beth Hilgartner

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Mouse," he warned.

  "The scar distracts the eye, but it doesn't destroy the likeness. After all, I see it."

  "Mouse."

  "Are you related? Why are you hiding?"

  "Mouse!" He gripped the girl's shoulders, his amber eyes fierce and desperate. He lowered his voice. "It isn't safe for you even to ask those questions, much less to know the answers. Let it go. My past is dead—and deadly. Leave me as Sharkbait. Please. Please, Mouse."

  Mouse slipped the two remaining drawings into her leather case. Then, she took out one of the charcoal sticks and handed it to Sharkbait. "Show me how to make my name."

  They were still at it when Kitten and Ferret came in.

  "Any word from your noble friend?" Ferret asked the longshoreman.

  "Not yet," he replied. "I'm here because Donkey sent word that he wanted to talk to me. Do you know what he wants?"

  Ferret shrugged. "I've no idea. Sounds like the crowd's thinning; if it is, Donkey will be along, soon."

  At that moment, Squirrel came through the door; almost immediately, Donkey slipped in from the taproom. "What's troubling you, Donkey?" Sharkbait asked him.

  "Sharkbait, do the names Elkhar or Dedemar or Rhydev mean aught to you?" Donkey asked him calmly.

  Sharkbait's face went still as an effigy. "Why?" he whispered, his lips barely moving. "Donkey, why?"

  "I overheard Elkhar and Dedemar speaking, this noontime. They talked about someone they called 'the Lady,' who was displeased because..." He faltered as he sorted the original conversation from the overlay of conjecture he had fashioned. "Because a wallet had gotten lost. The one named Elkhar called it 'evidence,' and all but accused the other man of making it disappear. There was a kill, which went smoothly: the Sea Hawk was murdered, but he didn't have the wallet when the watch found him. So the Lady was angry about the wasted money: money for the assassins, for the evidence—happen it was a great deal of money."

  "Was that everything?" Sharkbait grated.

  "Na. Elkhar told Dedemar he'd best throw her a bone—the Lady. And Dedemar said to tell her her puppy is meeting Rhydev tonight, after midnight, at the Replete Feline."

  "The Replete Feline?" Kitten repeated. "That's where Magpie works—used to be the Fat Cat. Come on; it must be getting on toward midnight. Let's go!"

  "No!" Sharkbait snapped. "Kitten, this isn't a game; or if it is, the stakes are too damned high!"

  "Did that lot make sense to you?" Donkey asked.

  "Enough of it did to convince me that this is no matter for children! It's Council politics; and there's nothing more vicious than Council Houses engaged in intrigue."

  "So this has to do with the plot on the Emperor's life?" Squirrel asked. "Who's the Lady?"

  "Don't you listen?" Sharkbait demanded. "This is too dangerous!"

  "We listen," Donkey said placidly. "Happen we dinna agree."

  Sharkbait studied their uncompromising faces. Pain and worry twisted his features and he raked his fingertips through his dark hair. "Gods," he murmured. "How will I live with myself if I let any of you get killed? Ferret." He focused on the thief, pleading. "Council intrigue is worse—far, far worse —than the infighting in the Thieves' Guild. It's no place for any of you, but think of Mouse and Kitten."

  Ferret regarded the longshoreman levelly. "Happen I'm thinking of Owl."

  "But this hasn't a thing to do with him!"

  "Owl thought it did," Ferret said, her voice quiet, almost gentle. "And he said the Emperor needs us."

  "I don't give a damn about the Emperor!" Sharkbait cried.

  "You should," Mouse put in, primly.

  "The Emperor's always a target, or a pawn, or a puppet. It goes with the crown; a warning isn't enough to save him. But if you get mixed up in this mess, someone's bound to get hurt."

  "Give it up," Donkey suggested. "We're in it already. You willn't convince us otherwise. And if you refuse us your help, we're even more vulnerable. So who's the Lady?"

  Sharkbait wrestled with his conscience, but finally, he sighed, turning one palm upward in a gesture of defeat. "Lady Ycevi Ghytteve—I'd guess; at least, Elkhar is a Ghytteve man. Ycevi is the Councilor for House Ghytteve. She's vicious, and she's always scheming. Rhydev is the House Azhere Council Lord. Azhere and Ghytteve are usually at each other's throats."

  "Who's the Lady's puppy?" Squirrel asked.

  "That I don't know." Sharkbait sighed again. "Though I daresay I could find out for you."

  "Good," Ferret responded promptly. "I'll come with you."

  "No."

  "Then I'll follow you."

  "No," Sharkbait repeated firmly. "I go alone, or I don't go at all."

  "Very well," Ferret replied. "Who wants to come with me? Squirrel? Kitten?"

  "Ferret!" Sharkbait cried, outraged. "What purpose would that serve? You wouldn't recognize the Azhere Councilor."

  The thief shrugged. "You think I canna identify flash slumming?"

  Sharkbait stared at her, then laughed mirthlessly. "And to think I wondered how you persuaded that tough scavenger Khyzhan to do what you wanted." He made an elaborate bow to her, then motioned her to precede him through the doorway. He looked back at the others. "And you, for the love of the gods, stay here."

  ***

  "So who's Magpie?" Sharkbait asked as they lurked in the shadows outside the crowded tavern.

  "Goodness. Aught you dinna know," Ferret retorted. "The rest of the world knows her as Adyce. She's a barmaid here."

  "Oh. Her. Why do you call her Magpie?"

  "She has a fondness for small, round shiny objects," Ferret said dryly. "Preferably silver. Shall we go in?"

  "What? You're not planning to scale a wall and climb in a window?"

  The thief ignored his biting tone. "The door's open," she pointed out, bland.

  "Why, how observant you are. How have I managed without you?" He took her arm as they started inside.

  The Replete Feline was crowded; there was no chance of securing a table commanding a view. Instead, they joined the press at the bar, and Sharkbait bought them mugs of ale. They nursed their drinks as they scanned the crowd covertly, all the while shamming a flirtatious conversation. When Ferret's cup was empty, she set it on a passing barmaid's tray and looked up through her lashes at Sharkbait.

  "Let's go."

  "What? Already?"

  She smiled dazzlingly and nodded.

  His answering expression was so wolfish, Ferret was hard put not to step back. "So you think he's here?"

  She batted her eyelashes. "The table by the door; the man with the pointed beard, sitting with the skinny fellow with the green ring."

  Sharkbait chucked her under the chin. There was something dangerous in the back of his eyes and in the grit in his voice. "My clever infant. Let's go."

  They had to walk past the men's table in order to get out. As they drew abreast, the younger man hailed them. "I say, my good man: isn't she rather young?"

  "Have you taken leave of your senses?" his companion hissed.

  Sharkbait looked him up and down, with insolent attention, before he replied, "She's old in experience."

  "It's barbaric—"

  "My friend's had rather too much to drink," the man with the pointed beard began.

  Ferret cut them both off. "Leave it," she said, firmly. "I must eat."

  The thin fellow rose, pulling a purse from an inner pocket. "If it's money—"

  "Cithanekh, sit down!" The older man made a grab for his companion's wrist.

  What Ferret saw put real conviction in her voice. "Put that away! If you flash a Royal in here, you're apt to get us all killed." They stood, frozen like one of Mouse's pictures, until with a sigh, the man returned the purse to his pocket. "Look," Ferret patted his arm, consolingly. "It's kindly thought of, and I'm grateful; but you canna eat gold. Not in the Slums." Then she turned back to Sharkbait. "Come on, lover."

  Sharkbait stopped walking once they were through the d
oor and out of the spill of customers and lamplight. Ferret pulled him on. "Move," she urged.

  He hesitated.

  "Come on; let's run."

  "Run?" he repeated, starting to move. "Gods, Ferret. You didn't!" Then, they were pelting for the twisting alleys of their home ground.

  When they had put some distance between them and the tavern, they slowed to a walk. In the pallid light of the waning moon, Ferret saw the glint of Sharkbait's watchful eyes on her. She grinned, unrepentant.

  "Yes: I picked his pocket," she answered his look. "So? I'm a thief."

  "So much for being inconspicuous."

  She hunched a shoulder. "He was going to remember us, in any case. Who is he, this Cithanekh?"

  Sharkbait shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.

  "Does that mean, 'I have a guess I'm not telling you?'"

  "Yes." A deadly silkiness invaded his voice. "And you've pushed me as far as you will tonight, my sweet thief. Go back to the Trollop and send the others home."

  "While you do what?"

  But Sharkbait had already melted into the night.

  ***

  Much later, Rhydev Azhere sat in his comfortable study, nursing a solitary brandy and thinking. He thought he had all the pieces, now, if he could just construct the puzzle... The boy, the beautiful Owl, was bait. The obvious inference was that Ycevi meant to use the boy to leverage some concessions out of him; but somehow, that was too obvious, too crude for a woman of her subtlety. So if not him, then who? He'd heard the rumors: Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave offering five Royals for the child; but Ycevi had nothing to gain from House Ykhave. She wouldn't need expensive bait to lure the Council Lord of the artisans. The boy could be aimed at the Prime Minister; but if so, he doubted her ploy would work. Old Uncle Zherekhaf was truly unlikely to sacrifice his eternal, convoluted scheming for a fleeting passion, be the boy ever so appealing. No. He had another theory—and he thought he was right. Ycevi's young kinsman, Cithanekh, had the proper bloodlines; and—judging from his behavior this evening at that tavern—he was compassionate enough to be vulnerable, whatever his proclivities. Unless he was very much mistaken, the boy was aimed at Cithanekh.

  It was a beautiful plan; it might even work. But if it would work for Ycevi, it would certainly work for him. The ticklish part was how to get the boy. After that, it would be a fairly simple matter to eliminate rival claimants and engineer a disaster for the Scholar King. The whole would take delicate conniving, but Rhydev was confident of his ability. He smiled very slowly. If he were particularly skillful, he might even enlist his uncle's support—and that truly would be an elegant piece of deviousness. Pleased with himself, Rhydev tossed off the rest of his brandy and went to bed.

  Chapter Nine—The Lady's Puppy

  Owl sampled, with elaborate caution, the breakfast Myncerre served him—a fact she couldn't fail to notice. After the third time he broke one of the savory cakes into tiny pieces, Myncerre clicked her tongue.

  "The Lady forbade me to dose you with more haceth. You might as well enjoy your meal."

  Owl nodded. "And if she had given you orders to poison me gain, no doubt you'd say exactly the same thing."

  Myncerre winced. "I daresay I deserved that."

  Owl went back to dissecting breakfast cakes with great attention. After several silent minutes, Lady Ycevi herself swept into the room in a swirl of pale blue silks. Owl froze in outrage as she swooped over to him, and planted a scented kiss on his brow.

  "How are you feeling, my poor, sweet boy? Why, you've hardly eaten any breakfast."

  "Do you blame me?" Owl demanded.

  Lady Ycevi's mouth hardened. "I paid ten Royals for you. I'm unlikely to poison you intentionally. If you hadn't proved sensitive, the haceth wouldn't have been harmful."

  Owl did not reply, but the skeptical assessment in his clear eyes flustered even Lady Ycevi. She picked at the hem of one flowing sleeve. "Have you finished your meal?" she asked, then at his nod gestured for him to follow her. He obeyed, trailing the requisite three steps in her wake.

  At the door of the library Lady Ycevi paused and said, with a little moue of irritation. "I've left something in my chambers. Go amuse my guest until I return."

  "May I not fetch it for you, most gracious Lady?"

  "Do as I say," she instructed. She opened the door, sent him through with a gentle push, then she shut it behind him; he heard the scrape of a key as the lock snicked home. A man stood by the tall windows, looking out across the sheltered gardens; as he turned toward the boy, Owl's breath caught. He had dreamed of this man: young, thin, with aquiline features, a green-gemmed ring on his hand. As they studied one another, the man's expression ran the series of changes Owl remembered from his dream. With a very faint smile he gestured for Owl to approach. The man put fingers under Owl's jaw and turned his face to the light, much as the Lady had done. He brushed the greening bruise.

  "Did Ycevi do that? Or order it done?"

  "No. My brother beat me."

  "Brother?" Surprise widened the man's impossibly blue eyes; his gaze darted to the slave band on Owl's left wrist.

  "Before he sold me."

  "What are you called, boy?"

  "Owl."

  "Owl? Why Owl?"

  "Ferret named me. She said I had owl's eyes." Unbidden, the whole memory surfaced: a younger Ferret, brash, laying out the rules. If you're to be one of us, you need a new name. Like me: I'm Ferret, not Frycce. You're Owl. You've an owl's eyes—and you've an owl's vision, too. Owls see in the dark; you see into the soul's darkness. It makes you good at begging—you recognize those prone to pity.

  The memory stung. As his eyes swam with tears, he bit his lips together, determined not to cry. The man's face clouded with concern, and he smoothed a strand of Owl's tousled hair. "Oh, Owl," he murmured sadly.

  It was the tenderness that undid him. As his tears spilled, the strange man drew Owl gently into a comforting hug. Owl fought down his tears and pushed the comfort away. Without comment, the man handed him a handkerchief.

  Owl wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "I'm not usually such a baby," he said with disgust. "Sorry."

  Cynicism glinted in answer. "I'm not usually such a soft touch. My name's Cithanekh. How long have you been here, Owl?"

  "Four nights and three days."

  "Before your brother sold you, what did you do?"

  "I begged in the Temple Gate."

  His eyebrows rose. "You clean up nicely, for a Slum-rat." A sneering edge sharpened Cithanekh's tone. "You must enjoy this newfound ease—enough to eat, new clothes, a comfortable bed."

  "And such beautiful jewelry to wear," Owl retorted, displaying the slave band. "I hate it! Even when the food isn't drugged, it's too highly spiced; the bed's so soft, it smothers me; and the clothes itch. I'd far rather be at home, even with the filth and vermin. Happen life's hard in the Slums, but here, I'm naught but a piece of expensive Ghytteve property. And you think I enjoy it? Gods!" He spun away and stalked off. Halfway to the door, he stopped. "I canna even stomp out in a huff," he added, as wry amusement won out over anger. "She locked us in."

  Suddenly, they were both laughing. "Oh, don't leave, Owl; and don't be hurt. I apologize. My cousin Ycevi is a gifted manipulator. I hate feeling used; I can't imagine why I thought you wouldn't mind." Cithanekh held out his hands. "Come sit with me, and tell me all about life in the Slums."

  Owl took one step toward the man, then froze. He covered his mouth as he raised stricken eyes to Cithanekh's face.

  "Owl. What is it?"

  "Rhydev Azhere asked me what role I thought I'd play in House Ghytteve; and I told him I thought I was intended as bait. He laughed, and he said, 'Very likely; but for whom?' She must mean to use me against you."

  He crossed to the boy, laid a gentle hand on his thin shoulders. "Heavens, Owl; that was obvious from the moment she sent you in here. But if you're not her willing tool...why, perhaps she's miscalculated."

  Owl met Cithanekh's eyes
, serious. "I'm not her willing tool—but I am her slave," he whispered. "And I'm frightened."

  The young man's face softened. "So am I," he breathed. "Ycevi petrifies me—but it would never do to let it show. So come and sit down—and tell me about your friend, Ferret."

  ***

  Lady Ycevi moved away from the spyhole, satisfaction molding her lips. It was progressing just as she had planned: the trap was set; the prey was nosing the bait. Now to wait, to proceed slowly; she must do nothing to alarm her prey. Late or soon, Cithanekh would take the bait, and then—then, he would be well and truly caged.

  In a susurrus of silk, she moved into the hall where one of her bodyguard waited. "Elkhar."

  "Most gracious Lady," he responded with a slight bow.

  "Does Cithanekh know that he was observed with Rhydev Azhere last night?"

  "I don't believe he saw me, most gracious Lady."

  "I want him told—and I want him frightened. Filter the information through Dedemar. Also, see what you can uncover about Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave. I want to know how he knows Owl, and why he's interested. Five Royals is a lot of money for House Ykhave—especially since they don't trade in slaves."

  Elkhar bowed again. "As you command, most gracious Lady."

  ***

  The Prime Minister Zherekhaf fingered his chain of office as he considered his nephew through narrowed dark eyes. The younger man bore the scrutiny calmly: Rhydev Azhere was no stranger to the game of intrigue.

  "Let me be frank," the Prime Minister said at last.

  Rhydev hid a smile; his uncle Zherekhaf was never frank.

  "You recognize, I'm sure, that my first consideration is and must be the health and strength of the Empire."

  "Indeed," Rhydev agreed, cynically amending the statement...the strength of that bloodsucker's place in the Council.

  "Undue upheaval..." Zherekhaf frowned gravely. "There is little benefit in a change in leadership if the people suffer."

  Meaning, of course, Rhydev thought, that when one starts a purge, it's easy to get purged in the process.

  "I have, of course, heard some of the rumors and the rumblings; there is growing discontent with the Scholar King among certain Houses. But I am not convinced that the time has come to take direct action."