***
All it took, Squirrel found, was confidence and a Guild to get past the guard at the Temple Gate. The man looked him over, asked his destination, took his money and waved him through. Squirrel didn't notice the second guard—though the man saw him, and the sight made him frown.
The Temple of the Windbringer was a square, marble building, graced by a profusion of columns, like tree trunks supporting the gently pitched roof. At the peak of the Temple roof stood a statue of the Windbringer: a woman in a windblown cloak, holding a harp. Squirrel could barely make out the statue as a paler bulge against the heavy sky. The boy mounted the steps to the great double doors, standing open, which led into the main sanctuary.
He gained admittance without trouble. The sanctuary was lit by sconces of candles and several hanging oil lamps. By the fitful light, Squirrel made out the figure of a man, whom he approached.
"Excuse me, Your Holiness," he began.
The man turned. He was young, not very tall; and he had hair of a startling copper color. "What may I do for you?" he asked.
Squirrel produced the note. "Could you please give this letter to Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave? I understand he comes most days to make music, and it is very important that he receive this."
The priest took the note, and with a bow and murmured thanks, Squirrel turned away. As he started across the shadowy hall, he thought he saw movement by the door; but the light was too uncertain. He hurried back to the Temple Gate where Donkey waited.
The Temple Watchman followed Squirrel back to the Gate, and watched the boy join his friend. He narrowed his pale eyes, and stroked his mustache. He thought he knew what was in the letter; and though part of him was well-pleased to have the old flute maker warned of his peril, the sight of the two boys made him wonder, rather uneasily, whether Elkhar might not have some justification for his suspicions, after all.
***
Silence fell in the Trollop's kitchen after Donkey and Squirrel left. After a minute or two, Kitten rose. "I'm off, then. You want to walk with me, Mouse?"
Mouse shook her head. "My father's coming for me."
"Ferret?"
But the thief shook her head, too.
With a shrug, Kitten said, "Goodnight, then," and slipped into the rain-washed streets.
"If you want to sleep," Ferret said to Sharkbait, "go ahead. I'll fix things with Arkhyd when he comes in."
"Ferret," he said. "Do you believe me? That I'm not using you?"
It was an odd question; and he asked it simply, without his habitual ironic armor, as though the answer mattered. "Should I?"
"Do you?"
She met his gaze, then, looking for challenge or mockery, but caught instead something vulnerable and pleading. It rocked her and she moved to his side. "Are you all right? Are your wounds hurting you?"
His mask snapped back into place: a faint, mocking smile. "No worse than expected. How solicitous you've become."
"How old are you, Sharkbait?" The question surprised them both. Ferret had never thought to wonder, before, and from his startled, wary response, she realized he was younger—much younger—than she had assumed.
"Old enough to resent your asking, child," he retorted, recovering himself, "though not quite in my dotage."
Mouse came over to them. Her intent, wise eyes had watched the entire exchange. "Council House politics steals childhood as surely as poverty," she said softly. "I never knew that."
"Mouse." It was a plea; it made Ferret shiver. But Mouse only smiled enigmatically and brushed her hand down the scarred side of his face.
"For what it's worth," the younger girl told him, "I believe you."
His haunted, amber eyes shifted to Ferret's face, and an unguarded question leapt at her. She nodded, then. "You should rest," she told him.
"Yes," he agreed, and for an instant, naked exhaustion showed in his face. Then, he rolled carefully onto his uninjured side and closed his eyes. Mouse returned to her corner while Ferret stationed herself near the doorway to await Donkey and Squirrel's return.
Chapter Twelve—Threats
The Watch had found the murdered woman's body at dusk. Identification had been complicated by the fact that one of the Watch had pilfered the silver earring which bore House Ghytteve's seal; but even so, it was only a matter of hours before the news of Cyffe's death was broken to the Lady. By midnight, the juicy tidbit was common knowledge, and the Palace rumor mill was grinding out reasons—each less plausible than the last—for the bodyguard's death.
Rhydev Azhere sat at his desk, facing a Watchman. He fingered the silver earring contemplatively. "A heart thrust and no—mmm—other wounds?" he mused. "And yet, you found a spatter of blood on the wall? What do you make of it, Falkhan?"
"I've sparred with Cyffe," he said. "She was damned fast. If she cut her assailant, she could as easily have killed him. It doesn't follow."
Rhydev considered. "No doubt she didn't want him dead. But why not—mmm—summon the Watch?"
Falkhan's laugh was harsh. "She hated interference. 'Sides, it's more than likely she started the fight."
"So: we're looking for someone who is wounded, whom Cyffe Ghytteve would have thought important enough to capture rather than kill. Anything else?"
Falkhan nodded. "I did some asking—on my own. Cyffe had been tailing a Slum-rat girl, reputed to be a thief."
"Guild connections?" Rhydev asked, interest quickening.
"Likely. No one would give me her name, though I flashed enough silver."
"You don't think the girl killed Cyffe?"
Falkhan shrugged. "Could be she helped—especially since the assailant was wounded." At the Azhere Council Lord's impatient gesture, the Watchman elaborated. "Cyffe—there aren't many good enough to best her. Even holding your own's more than most could manage. Her assailant was cut; wounds slow you down. And the heart-thrust; that's risky. Cyffe knew half a dozen lethal counters to that move. Her assailant would almost have to know she didn't mean to kill him, or else have her so badly off balance that he didn't fear her counter-strike."
"Or both," Rhydev mused.
"Aye."
The Azhere Council Lord sifted information. His face gave nothing away; he raised his eyes to the Watchman's. "Falkhan, catch me a thief. Ghorran will help."
The man looked doubtful. "The Guild won't like it."
"I'm more concerned with Ghytteve. I want that girl alive. I want to know who's moving against House Ghytteve, why, when, and how; and I want to know yesterday. Find the girl, Falkhan. Bribe the Guild if you have to; use my hold over Ybhanne, if nothing else will serve. Understand? I want that girl!"
"I understand, my lord. I'll find her."
***
Owl woke. The nightmare left him gasping; he smothered his tortured breathing in his pillow. This was one dream he did not want to explain to Myncerre. Another wave of terror and nausea pounded over him. Sharkbait, Ferret, Cyffe; an alley; knives; death. It couldn't be true—but what if it were? He fought his rebellious body. He hadn't liked Cyffe (who could have liked the cold, sarcastic woman?), but memory of Sharkbait's heart thrust, and Ferret—Ferret!—businesslike and deadly, turned his world inside out. Nausea surged back, stronger. He clutched both hands over his mouth, retched, then swallowed determinedly. No good. He rolled out of bed heading for the garderobe across the hall. As he entered the hallway, hands closed on his shoulders.
"Owl? Owl!"
Myncerre. He turned his head away before he spewed. She held him through the wracking heaves, wiped his face with her handkerchief.
"Oh, poor Owl."
The pity broke tears out of his fear and queasiness. He let himself cry; it was easier than talking. With the corner of his mind given to noticing things, he heard rapid footsteps, then voices. Elkhar.
"The Lady said no more drugs," the bodyguard accused.
"I swear there was nothing in his food but spices."
"Who has been alone with him, today?"
"Me," the steward
replied. "And Cithanekh; but the puppy wouldn't poison him."
Elkhar drew Owl out of the shelter of Myncerre's arms and studied him. "What did you take, and who gave it to you?"
"Nothing. No one. I'm just sick." He tried to turn away, but the man held him firmly. "Leave me alone."
Elkhar's grip tightened savagely. Owl hissed in pain and shock. "Tell me what you know about Mouse," the man gritted out.
Real confusion clouded his face. "Mouse?" he repeated; his mind had been on Ferret, on Sharkbait. Seeing Elkhar's doubt, Owl clung to bafflement.
"Or Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave?"
"The Council Lord for House Ykhave," he responded promptly.
Owl blanched as Elkhar's grasp tightened again. Myncerre placed a restraining hand on the bodyguard's shoulder. "I've been coaching him on the Council Houses, Elkhar," she said.
Elkhar glared at Owl but eased his hold to the point where it was no longer painful. Then, with a lift of his chin and hint of a sardonic smile, he looked over Owl's shoulder and said, as if in greeting, "Cithanekh."
With an irrepressible spurt of hope, Owl looked over his shoulder. There was no one there. As he turned back to Elkhar, the bodyguard released him.
"Send him back to bed," Elkhar told Myncerre. "I'll get someone to clean up the mess."
"Do you need anything?" the steward asked as she tucked the covers in around Owl. "A drink of water?" At his nod, she went out; when she returned with the glass, Owl's eyes were closed. She set the cup down and tiptoed out. Elkhar and the Lady were both in the hall. Myncerre eased the door closed behind her.
"Well?" Lady Ycevi demanded.
"He's asleep. It couldn't have been poison; there was no opportunity." She shrugged. "He isn't used to rich foods."
Ycevi turned to Elkhar. "And are you satisfied that he's free from the taint of association?"
Elkhar shrugged. "Judging from his reaction to your puppy's name, he couldn't dissemble well enough to fool me, if he really had connections to this mysterious Mouse. Of course, that means some of our other information is incorrect, for Anthagh reported that Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave said the boy was 'Mouse's little friend.' Someone is lying—or mistaken."
Inside his room, Owl knelt beside the door, his ear pressed to the keyhole. What could they think Mouse was up to?
"Perhaps," the Lady mused, "Owl knows this 'Mouse' by some other name."
"That's possible," Elkhar agreed. "And I suppose it is also possible that he is not aware of the whole of this Mouse's scheme. It bears watching, though for the moment, I am inclined to think the boy is no immediate threat."
"Very well," Ycevi said. "But who killed Cyffe—and why? What was she doing on the waterfront?"
"I'd sent her seeking Mouse. She must have uncovered some trail, some connection. Clearly she found something more—interesting—than what I found in that child, Kitten."
"Kitten, Mouse, Owl," Ycevi mused. "It reeks of collusion."
"But children are like that," Myncerre said. "They make up stories and play games. Lady, it could all be coincidence."
"Except," said Elkhar, "that Owl doesn't know Mouse."
"In any case, I don't believe in coincidence," the Lady snapped. "Not where there's more than one Council House gathered. Elkhar, I want answers, and I don't much care how you get them. Try to be discreet—but if it comes to killing, I'll back you."
Some instinct warned Owl; he scampered across a mile of floor, dove under the covers, turned his back to the door and forced his breathing to slow. His ears, strained to aching, caught the click of the latch; quiet footsteps approached, a swish of silk, the breath of perfume: the Lady. He was sure she would hear his thundering heart. He rolled over, with a little, murmured groan. The light from her oil lamp scorched across his eyelids; he felt their betraying flutter, so with another sleepy moan, he opened his eyes.
The lamplight cast Ycevi Ghytteve's face in odd shadows, emphasized different planes than the kinder light of day. She looked so sinister, so implacable, that Owl couldn't stifle a whimper of alarm.
"Yes," whispered. "You should fear me, boy. I hold your life in my hands, and ever shall. Yet, there's room for comfort, even happiness, if you serve me well. But if you betray me, then—" the menace in her voice sent fear writhing down his spine— "then I shall make you wish you had never been born."
Owl found his voice; it shook with tears. "I don't even know what you want me to do. How can I serve you well?"
A smile, more frightening even than her grimness, stretched her mouth. "You will see. In time, you will see." Then, she left him, closing him in darkness.
Against the pressing blackness, he saw a vision, vivid as day: Kitten, eyes dilated with terror, looking back over her shoulder as she fled through deserted, fog-shrouded alleys of the waterfront district.
"No," he breathed. "Oh, no." Fear overwhelmed him. Visions pelted him, as wild and terrifying as the haceth nightmares. The images were hazy, indistinct, as though he watched through a silvery scrim. He saw burning buildings; an angry mob on the waterfront; Elkhar, his expression feral and triumphant; Arre, unconscious. Arre! He seized on that, remembered what she had said about finding the peaceful place, the haven from his visions. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on the memory of music. The frantic rush of visions slowed; he felt a hint of the peace of the haven place and a rush of surprise. He didn't let the startlement shake him; instead, he used the peace like an eyelid for his inner vision. He drew it closed, and in the vision-free stillness, he slept.
***
On the other side of the Palace, Arre came to herself with a shake of her head. That was decidedly odd; someone had called her name, mind to mind. Owl, she thought. But then, instead of talking to her, he had wrapped his mind—and hers, for a moment—in stillness. He hadn't felt desperately frightened, nor had she sensed haceth driving his visions; but Owl shouldn't be able to do anything so controlled—not without training. She had described what to do if they dosed him with haceth again, and it was the basis for a controlling trance; but she remembered how long it had taken her to learn the skill, even with constant coaching. If Owl was picking it up on his own, he must be fantastically talented. Or someone had worked with him, though that seemed terribly unlikely.
She shook her head again. She wanted to talk to the boy—needed to, in fact; but she didn't know how to manage it. She'd only seen Owl, once or twice, pacing solemnly behind the Ghytteve steward—and talking to him under those circumstances would only put him at risk. With a sigh, she picked up her lute and began to play.
Chapter Thirteen—Secrets
There were relatively few courtiers in the garden, that morning, as Arre made her way to the stone fountain where Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave waited. She and the old flute-maker were going to the Windbringer Temple together, to make music with Kerigden.
As they left the garden, Arre noticed that the courtiers buzzed with some interesting gossip—so much so that they neglected their usual game of be-rude-to-the-foreigner. She speculated about what the news might be, but she couldn't guess; it was possible, she thought with jaded hope, they might simply have tired of making sport of her.
The King's City was full of people dressed in holiday finery; Ythykh-Fair was upon them. Arre and Venykhar made their way through the press to the haven of the Windbringer Temple. When they reached their destination, they were shown to one of the inner chapels, where Kerigden, the High Priest of the Windbringer, played quietly upon a small harp.
He was not a large man, but he was imposing nonetheless, with his fire bright hair, clear green eyes and his undeniable presence. Even in repose, his features were vivid, and his smile of greeting lit his face.
"Arre. Ven. Good morning." He reached into a fold of his robe and produced a folded piece of paper. "I have a note for you, Ven."
"What does it say?" the Ykhave Council Lord asked as he reached for it.
The priest smiled and gestured them to stools. "I didn't read it. Sit."
"I
t's not even sealed," Arre observed, laughing. "No wonder the Council Houses don't know what to make of you, Kerigden. What does it say, Ven?"
But Venykhar didn't reply. Instead, frowning, he pushed the note into Arre's hand.
As Arre's fingers touched the paper, her inward vision flared warning. She held the note gingerly, her eyes closed, while her mind pursued the images: a weathered signboard, crudely painted, with a smirking woman in a reddish gown; a boy with a still, placid face, but watchful brown eyes—briefly overlaid by the patient, gray muzzle and long ears of a donkey; the thief, Ferret, and a man, his scarred face mostly in shadow; one of the Ghytteve bodyguards, unmistakably dead. As the storm of visions subsided, she opened her eyes, remembered to breathe, and read the note. 'Please tell Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave that he has earned the enmity of Ghytteve. They are at least watching, and possibly planning him harm.' It was signed with a symbol—neither a name, nor an initial—which was meaningless to Arre.
"Do you know who this is from?" she asked him.
"Yes."
"Do you know what it is about?" she probed, with an edge of exasperation.
"It must be because of Owl. The Ghytteve have no doubt heard that I was interested in the boy, and they are seeing counterplots in the shadows."
"Owl?" Kerigden asked; and between them, Arre and Venykhar told him what they knew about the former beggar, and his entrapment in Ycevi Ghytteve's schemes.
"Elkhar Ghytteve is the most intensely suspicious individual I have ever met," the High Priest mused. "But Ven, wanting to assassinate you for showing an interest in a slave seems extreme, even for him. What else could be contributing to the situation?"
"One of the Ghytteve bodyguards—Cyffe—is dead," Arre said in an almost toneless voice; her eyes grew unfocused as her inner vision was again assaulted by visions: the Prime Minister and his nephew, Rhydev Azhere, deep in conversation; Owl, Ferret and a third girl sitting on the Waiting Wall at the Temple Gate; Elkhar Ghytteve gripping the same girl by the wrists; a thin fingered hand with a green-gemmed ring resting on Owl's shoulder; the unknown girl again—overlaid briefly by a kitten's face.
A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Page 10