"I have a message for Mouse," Elkhar repeated.
"For who?"
"For Mouse." Elkhar's temper began to fray.
Squirrel opened his eyes wide and put on his best alert and willing face. "I'm happy to carry messages, sir. I charge five Commons a trot, and I'm fast. Just tell me how to recognize this Mouse person and where to find him."
Elkhar lifted Squirrel so that the boy's face was level with his own. "It's no good, boy," he said, with the careful diction of someone really furious. "I heard you, when you came in. You said: 'Mouse sent you flowers.'"
Squirrel's face lightened. "But I didn't say 'mouse.' I said 'Ma.' My mother. 'Ma sent you flowers.' She always does, for Ythykh-Fair. No one else remembers, and he likes the smell, and the colors."
Elkhar didn't reply, only stared into the boy's face. Squirrel looked at the floor below his dangling feet, then raised his eyes to the man's cold scrutiny.
"Sir?" he said. "Do you... Do you think you could put me down, sir? Please?"
The bodyguard set the boy on his feet but didn't release him. "What's your name?"
"Effryn," Squirrel told him. Definitely not the time to tip the balance with the name Ferret had given him.
Elkhar regarded him silently for at least an eon; then, he let him go and strode out of the tavern. Neither Donkey nor Squirrel dropped the characters they had assumed for a solid five minutes. Then, Squirrel sidled over to the bar, raised an eyebrow and looked expectantly at his friend.
"Good thing you're quick," Donkey remarked. "That fellow's no friend. Name's Elkhar—Ghytteve's man, Sharkbait said. And it sounded like he plans to do Mouse's nobleman some sort of mischief. You'd best find Ferret—but be damned sure you're not followed." Suddenly, Donkey grinned. "'Ma sent you flowers,' indeed. Squirrel, you're a wonder."
"I willn't complain if I'm never dangled in the air like that again," Squirrel admitted with a shudder. "Gods. I thought he was going to break me into bits."
"Near thing," Donkey agreed. "Go on; we need Ferret."
***
Owl gazed out the window at the courtiers who strolled among the bright, scented shrubbery in the formal gardens. They were too far away for their voices to carry to the boy's ears, so he amused himself by inventing their conversations. Those two were flirting, he decided of an elegant pair by the hibiscus bushes; the three men by the fountain were discussing horse racing; the flock of lace trimmed ladies were gossiping about the lone young lord by the marble bench. Something familiar about the man by the bench struck him and he craned out the window to see better. He was right: it was Cithanekh. As though he sensed the touch of Owl's curiosity, the young lord looked up; Owl saw the flash of a smile and his cautioning gesture.
Owl drew his head back inside, still watching, as the ladies moved toward Cithanekh in a wave of dizzying color. Owl frowned slightly; he was convinced the ladies were teasing Cithanekh in that mannered way the nobles had. He was distracted, then, by another familiar presence: Rhydev Azhere, deep in conversation with an older man whose rich dress was all in shades of russet and brown. Affairs of state, Owl decided, wondering briefly who the other Councilor (for he could see the glint of a golden chain of office) was.
A movement caught Owl's eye, and simultaneously, a wave of stillness swept the garden; conversations everywhere broke off as people stared at the newcomer. It was Arre. She smiled and nodded to people; but no one returned her greeting. Owl felt a surge of kindred loneliness at the sight of her straight back and hard won unconcern. He leaned out of the window again.
"Ho! Arre!" he called, waving.
She raised her head at the sound of her name; as she caught sight of the boy leaning from the upper window her face eased to a smile and she waved back. Then, she continued on her way.
Owl came back inside and shut the window, suddenly thoughtful. She must have recognized him; and yet, she hadn't called his name. He wondered if he had done a foolish thing by hailing her. He lifted his chin. It didn't matter; he didn't care! She was lonely—and the courtiers were horrible!
But the watching game had lost its appeal. Owl flopped down on one of the carpets, and pretended to amuse himself by picking pieces of lint out of the nap. Misery pounced on him; his eyes were awash with unshed tears. Gods knew it was bad enough being a slave, but did it have to be so boring?
The sound of the door opening spurred him to batten down his feelings. He bit his lip and willed the tears away. Footsteps approached, slowed, stopped. Owl wouldn't look up. A gentle hand patted the center of his back. "Ho, Owl."
"Cithanekh!" He sniffed hard as he scrambled to his feet. "What were the ladies teasing you about?"
A flicker of surprise glinted in his cobalt eyes, but he merely shrugged. "The usual things. How do you know—Arre?" He said the name as though it had an unfamiliar taste.
Owl hunched a thin shoulder. "She's a friend of Ferret's."
"Your thief friend?" At Owl's nod, Cithanekh's eyebrows rose. "I suppose it would be pointless to inquire how they became acquainted?"
Ferret had told Owl the story of her encounter with the Kellande Seer, but he didn't feel it was his tale to share; instead, he smiled wryly. "Knowing Ferret, she probably tried to pick Arre's pocket."
"No doubt. But speaking of picking things, Owl, what were you doing to the rug?" He eyed Owl's collection of lint bits.
"Oh, that. Well, when I'd gathered enough, I was going to spin it into yarn, then braid the yarn into a rope, and climb out the window to freedom." The flight of fancy fell a little flat, and he smiled apologetically. "Truthfully, you have no idea how bored I get. They leave me here for hours at a time, and if I so much as venture to poke my nose into the hallway, Cyffe or Elkhar or Cezhar or Myncerre or Zhotar is there to chase me back inside."
Cithanekh scanned the walls with a disbelieving eye. "Bored, Owl, in a roomful of books?"
Owl's golden eyes widened as he stared at the young lord. Cithanekh returned his blank look. Finally, Owl sighed. "How many Slum-rats do you know who can read?"
A complex array of emotions skimmed across Cithanekh's face and resolved into determination. He fetched a thick volume, then settled on the sofa, motioning Owl to his side. "I know one who's going to learn how," he told the boy. "Come on, lad. I may not be able to do much for you, but I can teach you to read."
Later, when Myncerre looked in, they were still at it, heads bowed close over the page while the boy puzzled out words. The steward watched, feeling an odd catch in her own throat. She closed the door without even a click to disturb them.
Chapter Eleven—First Blood
Squirrel ran Ferret to earth at the Beaten Cur. When she had concluded her business with Khyzhan, he drew her aside to tell her about the afternoon's events.
She frowned, perplexed, when he was done. "I canna make it figure," she complained. "What do they want with Mouse?"
"I dinna know," Squirrel replied. "I canna figure why they're after Mouse's nobleman, either. Happen they think there's a plot where there isn't."
Ferret nodded; then her eyes narrowed. "Or happen we're part of a plot we dinna know about. We'd best gather—with Sharkbait, if we can. We must warn Mouse that Ghytteve's tracking her, and get word to her nobleman." Ferret considered. "I saw Kitten begging on the wharves; you fetch her and Mouse. Happen I can find Sharkbait."
They separated. The thief had been in and out of a dozen waterfront taverns before she noticed she was being followed. She pretended she didn't suspect and headed for the Star and Sextant. Instead of entering the common room, she slipped into the shadows of a side alley, to watch her back trail. For several minutes, no one came. Ferret began to fear her tail was aware of her subterfuge; but as deeply ingrained caution held her motionless, her patience was rewarded. Her shadow slipped out of hiding and made for the tavern door. Ferret got a good look: a slender woman with dark eyes, strong features, brown hair braided flat to her skull. She wore good clothes, breeches and tunic; a dangling silver earring hung from her left ear.
She moved with a gliding grace that spoke of deadly intent and competence. As her long-fingered hand reached for the latch, a voice spoke out of the darkness at Ferret's side.
"Cyffe." Sharkbait. He moved past Ferret into the light, with only a quick hand-signal: wait, to show that he knew she was there.
Surprise sparked in the woman's eyes. "Antryn. So. I've wondered what became of you. I didn't expect to find you mixed up in Council House plotting."
"I'm not," he gritted. "And it's 'Sharkbait.'"
Her eyebrows rose. "So you're the one organizing the longshoremen. That I should have guessed. You've been busy. I don't like the scar, by the way. It ages you."
"Why are you here, Cyffe?"
She laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Why do you think? Don't look so owlish; I'm ferreting out your secrets."
"Not very cleverly," he whispered. His dangerous tone made Ferret shiver. "If I were you, Cyffe, I'd shriek for the Watch; that may be your only chance for getting out of here whole."
Her smile was half snarl. "I don't like the Watch." Then, with feline grace, she drew a knife and sprang.
Ferret held her breath. Though nearly silent, they fought ferociously. Knives glinted in the uncertain light, bright flashes like fish in murky waters. Circle, close, scuffle; lunge, strike, leap aside. Ferret heard Sharkbait's hiss of pain and muttered curse. A spatter of dark drops hit the wall by her head as the longshoreman dodged. The woman pursued, close—so close—to Ferret's hiding place. Ferret heard Sharkbait's labored gasps, in sharp contrast to the woman's even breathing. Understanding the risk, but unwilling to stand idly by while Sharkbait fought to his death, Ferret acted. She rushed the woman's unguarded back, hooked a leg around the woman's feet, planted both hands in the small of her back and shoved. It knocked Cyffe off balance. Sharkbait seized the moment. His desperate lunge sent both his opponent and his ally sprawling. As Ferret picked herself up she heard the unmistakable sound of a blade driven home and a faint, gurgling gasp. Sharkbait snatched Ferret's wrist and towed her along as he set off in a shambling run. They were out of the waterfront district and well into the Slums before he stumbled to a walk.
"How badly are you hurt?" the thief asked steadily.
"She marked me twice," he gasped. "Shoulder and thigh. I'll live if the wounds don't fester. I don't suppose you have any clean bandaging in that rathole you call home?"
"Happen you're not fit to climb up there," she retorted. "We'd best go to the Trollop."
"But Arkhyd—"
She snorted rudely as she flashed a clutch of silver. "Arkhyd is practical. Sharkbait, who—was—that woman?"
"Ghytteve," he said shortly. "Get me to the Trollop, and I'll tell you the whole."
The thunderclouds, which had brooded sullenly all afternoon, chose that moment to have their tantrum. The thief and the longshoreman struggled through pelting rain, he leaning heavily on her. They arrived in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted against a flash of lightning. The others were waiting; Arkhyd was minding the taproom. Donkey took in Sharkbait's condition—blood, rain, and pasty face—rekindled the cookfire, set water to heat, and began tearing several clean linen towels into strips.
"What happened?" Kitten breathed.
"Knife fight," Ferret responded, as she peeled torn clothing away from Sharkbait's wounds. They were messy but not deep. When the water was hot, she and Donkey ruthlessly washed the cuts and bandaged them. Sharkbait endured it, his jaw clenched and a glint of some appreciative emotion in his amber eyes.
"I promised Ferret an explanation," he said when they were finished. "But perhaps I should wait my turn?"
Ferret nodded. "Donkey, tell us about this afternoon."
With unhurried detail, Donkey repeated the overheard conversation, Squirrel's run in with Elkhar and the conclusions the two boys had drawn. When he had finished, Kitten spoke.
"Happen I've done a bad thing," she confessed, and related her encounter with the Ghytteve man. Sharkbait groaned.
"Well, he knows Owl," the girl defended herself.
"Of course he knows Owl," Sharkbait snapped, "since Ghytteve bought him. And he was looking for Mouse—but he'd never heard of you, Kitten. I don't like it. If Owl trusted Elkhar well enough to mention Mouse, he would have told him about the rest of you." He narrowed his eyes. "I wonder what he's thinking, now."
"Oh Sharkbait, you worry too much," Kitten said. "Why would he be thinking anything at all? He was looking for Mouse, and he didn't find her."
"No," Sharkbait responded, exasperated. "He didn't find Mouse, he found Kitten—who knew enough about his business to ask which Council House had bought Owl. That's enough to make Elkhar suspicious; and suspicious means dangerous." He looked around at their puzzled faces. "The Council Houses don't have to be certain before they take action; and their suspicious don't have to be correct to make them deadly."
They were silent for a moment, then Donkey asked, "So what happened to you?"
"Cyffe was tailing Ferret," Sharkbait began.
"You knew?" Ferret interrupted.
Sharkbait nodded. "I was shadowing you both."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Squirrel interjected. "Back to the beginning. Who is this Cyffe? Donkey, you said that Elkhar mentioned a Cyffe."
"'Tomorrow I'll send Cyffe to you,'" Donkey quoted. "He wanted Cyffe to know about Mouse's nobleman's movements."
"Cyffe was one of Ycevi Ghytteve's bodyguards," Sharkbait explained. "The Ghytteve bodyguards are almost legendary—a cross between House troops and spies."
"Was?" Squirrel demanded. "Cyffe was a bodyguard?"
Sharkbait hunched his uninjured shoulder. "She lost the knife fight, Squirrel." He looked around at their stiff faces. "Haven't I been telling you, all along? This isn't a game and it's dangerous."
Mouse answered for them. "You have, and we believe you. But Sharkbait, yon Elkhar is already looking for me; and he's planning some nastiness for Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave. You canna imagine they'd leave us out of their schemes just for our asking."
"More's the pity, no," he responded grimly. "But back to the story: Cyffe came hunting on the waterfront; when I noticed her, she was tailing Ferret. So I tagged along, to keep Ferret out of trouble and to see whether I couldn't find out what scent Cyffe was tracking. Ferret made for the Star and Sextant, by which I guessed she knew she was being followed; there's such a convenient cul-de-sac there. So I slipped ahead of them and confronted Cyffe. We fought, and here we are."
"How do you know Cyffe?" Ferret asked.
Sharkbait shot Ferret a level, inscrutable look. "I used to spend time in the Palace; I had friends, like Venykhar, in House Ykhave; the Ghytteve assigned Cyffe to track my movements."
"You were important enough to follow," Ferret said softly. "Why? And you dinna seem very surprised that the Ghytteve are hunting Mouse and tailing me. Is it common practice, then, for the Council Houses to concern themselves with a pack of Slum-rats—or are you using us?"
"Using you? Gods! I'm trying to protect you. And as for not being surprised... Well, I know the Ghytteve. The pieces of your encounters fit together into a peculiar but coherent whole if one knows Ycevi Ghytteve bought Owl. That woman is always scheming; and Elkhar, the chief of her bodyguards, is one suspicious bastard."
Ferret said nothing. After a moment, Kitten broke the silence. "But I don't understand," she said, plaintively. "What possible use would House Ghytteve have for Owl? If it's nobles' plotting against the Emperor, why do they need a Slum-rat beggar lad for a page? It doesn't make sense."
"Happen there are pieces missing yet from the puzzle, Kitten," Ferret replied. She fixed Sharkbait with a piercing look. "What do you think?"
"That there are too many pieces missing."
"What will House Ghytteve do when they find this Cyffe dead?" Squirrel asked.
"I don't know," the longshoreman answered. "But I'd wager we won't enjoy it. Ycevi is bound to be—displeased. Cyffe has been with her a long time, and was fanatically loyal."
&n
bsp; "Would she really have killed you?" Kitten asked.
"If she'd meant to kill me, I'd be dead," Sharkbait said harshly. "She was trying to disable me—to take me prisoner."
"Why?" Ferret demanded.
"To question me; because they think I'm mixed up in some damned plot against them."
"And are you?" Ferret pursued.
"No! Gods, Ferret!" His face was haunted, anguished. "I ran away from Court because I couldn't bear the incessant conniving. I am neither a khacce piece, nor a player; so my only recourse was to leave the table. Whatever the Ghytteve think, the only 'plots' I'm involved in are trying to get the longshoremen organized into a guild, helping you find out about poor Owl's fate, and—against my better judgment, I might add—some random snooping on your behalf about 'the Lady's puppy.' But the nobles see intrigue in every shadow; the Ghytteve are adding things up and getting wrong answers." With an effort, he controlled his temper. "This is why I hate dealing with the Council Houses. If you're suspicious enough, everyone is a threat. That's why I'm worried about Venykhar. He really is harmless—and guileless. He would never imagine that anyone could think him dangerous. I would be very grateful if one of you would take him a letter from me, warning him that he's drawn House Ghytteve's interest. I'd go, but I'm not exactly fit..."
"To the Palace?" Kitten asked. "How would we get in?"
"Windbringer Temple," Donkey suggested. "Yon Dedemar said he was there every day. He makes music with the priests. Happen they'd deliver a letter."
"Very good," Sharkbait approved. "Mouse, may I have a sheet of your paper?"
Several minutes later, Sharkbait folded his note and handed it to Squirrel. "Give it to one of the priests, and be sure to tell them who it's for."
Squirrel nodded and started toward the door. Donkey picked up a torch. "Light you to the Temple Gate?"
"If you can keep a torch alight in this downpour, my good Donkey," Sharkbait drawled, "I'll be tempted to eat it."
"That hungry?" Donkey said, bland. "Rain stopped a while back. I noticed."
Their eyes met; Donkey's were placid and unrevealing. Approval gradually warmed Sharkbait's expression. "I'm glad you're on my side, Donkey," he admitted. "Be careful, Squirrel—and thank you. Venykhar is far more interested in his flutes than in the ceaseless Council politicking. He's very dear to me—and extremely vulnerable."
A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Page 9