"The Slums are aflame with Guild war, Lady. Is the message worth the danger?"
"Ah. No. I don't want to risk any of my bodyguards." She considered for a moment. "Send Dedemar."
Elkhar bowed, and at her dismissal, left the library.
Lady Ycevi studied them for a long moment, her bright eyes narrowed. Finally, she turned toward Myncerre. "Watch the boy," she instructed. "Cithanekh, come with me." And in a swirl of costly silk, she swept out.
After the Lady was gone, Myncerre came to his side. She gently probed the reddening welts on Owl's face. "You're in for more bruises, Owl. I'll get you some ice."
Owl hunched a shoulder. "Why bother? I'm used to beatings. Myncerre, what will she do to Cithanekh?"
The steward shrugged. "Threaten him, probably."
Owl's eyes filled with sudden tears, and he clutched Myncerre's wrist before she could rise. "What should I do?"
She gently pried Owl's fingers open. "Do whatever the Lady tells you to do—both of you." Then she got up and went out.
As he heard the key turn in the lock, Owl covered his face with both hands. "But it's wrong," he whispered.
Chapter Eighteen—Desperate Ventures
The taproom at the Trollop's Smile was full of people, but for all that, it was fairly quiet. People ate and drank but sparingly, and there was none of the roistering gaiety one associated with a tavern full of people. Mouse and her parents sat at a table, nursing cups of ale and picking at bread and cheese. Donkey—restored to his uncle's good graces by necessity—was behind the bar, while the tavern master bustled to and from the kitchen. From Arkhyd's sour expression, Donkey could tell that he was muttering imprecations.
The door swung open suddenly, and a large, blond foreigner stumbled through, slamming it shut behind him. He was pale and clearly winded; a makeshift bandage, soaked with blood, was tied around a forearm, and there was a crusted cut across his brow. But even under the blood, and without his uniform, Donkey recognized Dedemar.
Dedemar came to the bar. As Donkey passed him the mug of ale he ordered, he leaned casually toward him and pinned the boy's wrist with one hand. "Donkey," he said in a low voice; there was menace in his tone, though he kept his expression pleasant. "I know you are not as stupid as you pretend. I have a message for you, and for Ferret, Squirrel, Kitten and Mouse. It is from the Lady Ycevi Ghytteve, and it is about Owl. If I tell you, will you tell the others?" When Donkey remained silent, his face blank, Dedemar's grip tightened painfully in warning. "Answer."
Donkey nodded.
"Very well. The Lady bids me tell you that Owl is not for sale—not for any price. You must give up any hope you cherish of freeing him from House Ghytteve. Do you understand? Answer."
Donkey nodded again.
"Good," he said. Still pinning Donkey's wrist, he picked up the tankard in his other hand, drained it, and shoved it back across the counter to be refilled. When Donkey complied, Dedemar took the cup to a table near the kitchen door. He sat there, deep in thought, for several minutes before he took several objects out of his pockets and put them into a leather pouch. Donkey tried to see what he was doing, but the man was too far away. The next time Arkhyd bustled out of the kitchen, Dedemar stopped him. They spoke together, too softly for Donkey to hear; then, Arkhyd went back into the kitchen and Dedemar followed him.
***
While Donkey was receiving Ycevi Ghytteve's message in the taproom, Donkey's uncle Arkhyd grumbled around the kitchen. Squirrel had made himself useful and was slicing bread and cheese at the counter, while Kitten tried to squeeze into one corner of the room, out of the tavern master's notice.
"A bad business, Guild war," Arkhyd groused. "The place is full of people bent on staying out of the way of the bravos; they're not hungry; they willn't drink; and I canna turn them out." He glowered at Squirrel. "Slice that cheese thinner, boy: happen only the gods could say when we'll be able to get more from the market." He grumped into the taproom.
"Happen we could escape to Ferret's lair," Kitten suggested for the fiftieth time. "Arkhyd's getting— He'll never let us spend another night here."
"Kitten, he just said he canna turn people out; he'll let us stay. Besides, even if we made it to Ferret's, there'd be naught to eat—and no Slum markets are open. I hope my father is safe," Squirrel added. "Mouse is lucky; at least her parents are here."
Their desultory complaints were cut off by Arkhyd's return; he came through the door speaking over his shoulder. "...you can ask them—though if they've any sense, they'll refuse."
The tavern master came into the dingy kitchen, towing a stranger. "This gentleman is looking for a messenger. Happen none of you is fool enough, and so I told him, but he insists on asking." Then, as though eager to be free of the whole transaction, Arkhyd pounced on a tray of bread and cheese and returned to his taproom.
Suddenly, the kitchen seemed very close, very stuffy, to Squirrel. Anxiously, he regarded Arkhyd's gentleman. Tall, flaxen haired, with the muscular build of a fighter, he filled the kitchen with his presence; even without his Temple Watch uniform, Squirrel recognized Dedemar. Kitten, who had never seen him, was unaffected.
"I require the services of a messenger," he announced.
Squirrel found his voice. "In the midst of a Guild war? Thieves are out there, slitting one another's weasands and filling the gutters with blood. Happen you're mad!"
"Not mad," he contradicted as he spilled a chime of silver onto the scarred tabletop. "Desperate."
Kitten's eyes riveted on the pile of coins: mostly Nobles and Half-Nobles—more money than she would see in an entire year. "Where?" she asked. "You want your message taken where?" Squirrel trod squarely on her foot. When she glared in reproach, he shook his head. She pursed her lips in annoyance.
"To a tavern on the waterfront," the man replied. "The Star and Sextant. There will be three men there; one has a scarred face. They will sit at a table near the door. Give them this." He removed a leather pouch from his shirt.
"It's too dangerous," Squirrel hissed. "Even for the money."
"No one would harm a little girl, surely," Dedemar soothed.
"And I'm fast," Kitten said. "And the money...Yon—" she gestured to the heap of silver— "yon would pay my apprentice-fee to a real trade."
"What good's the money if you're killed?"
"I'll be careful," Kitten promised airily. "And once I've delivered the message, why, Sharkbait'll look after me."
"Dinna go," Squirrel begged. "Please dinna go."
Kitten ignored him. "The Star and Sextant; three men—one with a scarred face—at a table by the door; and you want me to give them yon pouch?"
Dedemar pressed the pouch into Kitten's hands. "Go. And hurry, for it is vital my friends receive this."
Kitten tucked the pouch away and pushed the silver coins toward her friend. "Look after the fee for me. Happen I'll breathe easier knowing it's safe." Then, while Dedemar looked on, Kitten slipped out into the dusky alleys.
More than once, pure luck saved Kitten. On three occasions, she was forced to trust her slight weight to very corroded gutter-spouts in order to elude bloodthirsty bravos; but the gutters and the questionable roof tiles held her. At long last, she reached the relative safety of the waterfront district and made her way to the Star and Sextant.
The tavern was packed. She scanned the trade for Sharkbait and his two friends. When she saw no sign of him, she wondered for the first time whether Sharkbait really was the scarred man to whom the foreigner had referred. On her second scan of the room, she noticed a man with a scar like a whip cut across one cheek. He was with two others, and though they were not seated, they had grouped themselves between the entrance and the nearest table to it. Kitten's breath froze in her lungs: each of the men wore a single, dangling silver earring—just like Elkhar's.
Kitten's heart drubbed her ribs as possibilities leapt and plunged. They had to be Ghytteve; and if they were, they might well be entangled with Owl, or with the plot on the Em
peror's life. Kitten forced herself to behave casually as she slipped back outside. She had to know what was in the pouch. What if it were a clue, and she tamely handed it over? In the spill of light from the doorway, Kitten untied the drawstring. The pouch contained several delicately carved khacce pieces: a Sorceress; a Swordsman; a Clanlord; an Assassin, broken in two pieces; a Priest; and a Page; and four polished round stones. One was a deep blue, two were gray, the fourth, white. Kitten stared unhappily at the meaningless collection. She tipped the things back into the pouch, retied the string, then returned to the tavern to deliver the message. Perhaps if she got close enough to the men, she would overhear some clue.
The three men were exactly where she had left them. Kitten made a play of looking around the room, before she approached. She spoke to the man with the scar. "Happen I have a message for you, sir. Do you have a foreign friend, with hair like straw?" At his short nod, she produced the pouch. "He sent this."
"Ah." Interest sparked the man's eyes. "Shall we see what Dedemar has to say?" When he saw that Kitten still stood there, he tossed her a coin. "Run along."
Kitten could have screamed with frustration. Dedemar! That must have been why Squirrel had tried to warn her off. By reflex, she caught the coin, and with a little bow moved toward the bar. Perhaps she could sneak back within earshot if she made it look innocent. She bought a mug of foul ale, then angled herself with apparent aimlessness toward the door. Using the edges of her field of vision, Kitten watched the men empty the khacce pieces and stones out of the pouch. She edged closer, then closer still.
"I'm confused," one of them was saying. "The Priest?"
"And a white stone: Windbringer."
"That can't be right. That fop's never bothered with politics."
"Ded dealt us the witch. Could it be she's hooked him in? They're friends."
"The Page, the Swordsman, two grays; what is he hinting at?"
"Dedemar should have come himself," the scarred man said. "The message can be read too many ways. Zhotar, find that child; I want to send word back to him."
Kitten's heart nearly stopped; she was far too close; surely they would realize she had been spying on them! To cover her terror, she buried her face in her tankard. When the man's hand closed on her shoulder, she choked.
"Here, lass," he said, thumping her back. "We want you to carry a message back to our friend."
She widened her eyes. "I'd not planned to go back into the Slums tonight. The Guild war's hot. It's not safe."
"We'll make it worth your while, of course," the scarred man said cynically. "Just tell him—"
"Why, good heavens," a new voice cut in. "It's Kitten."
Kitten jumped. The new speaker was Elkhar. Her stomach rolled queasily, but she summoned a bright smile. "Elkhar! Do you have a message from Owl for me?"
The scarred man snapped his fingers. "Owl! Of course. That's the Page."
"I may have," Elkhar replied. "Come; sit with us." He pulled her to the table and pushed her down onto the bench beside him. "What's this?" he asked the scarred man.
"A message from Dedemar in the khacce code; but it's not clear. It can be read too many ways."
Elkhar studied the pieces and stones on the table. While he was absorbed, Kitten edged to the end of the bench. Maybe she could slip away while he was occupied.
"You're right," Elkhar said. "It isn't clear; but I don't like it. If he means the Page for Owl, it would seem the boy's mixed up in Cyffe's death, after all."
Kitten slid off the bench, but Elkhar caught her by the scruff of her neck. "Not leaving us, were you?"
"I must go home. If I dinna get back soon, my people will worry."
"Your people? But I distinctly remember your telling me you have neither kith nor kin."
Kitten laughed. "That's beggar's patter. Surely you dinna take it all for fact."
"Wouldn't you like to see Owl?" Elkhar asked her.
Kitten swallowed. Though the man's words and expression were cajoling, there was an avid flicker at the back of his eyes that made her shudder. "Another time," she said firmly.
"No. Tonight. Now."
The man called Zhotar protested. "We were going to send her back to Dedemar; his message isn't clear."
Elkhar took Kitten by the arm. "Go yourself," he ordered. Come along, little one; we mustn't keep Owl waiting."
"Wait!" Zhotar insisted. "Child, where was Dedemar when he hired you to carry his message?"
"A Slum tavern," she replied. "The Trollop's Smile."
Then, as irresistible as the tide, Elkhar towed the little beggar out into the night. "You canna do this," Kitten said. "My people will worry."
Elkhar halted. "You have a choice, Kitten: walk beside me calmly and quietly; or I'll truss you up and carry you. Which is it to be?"
"I'll walk," she responded weakly.
"Very wise. This way." They sank into the shadows as Elkhar, ruthless as a current, dragged her toward the Palace.
***
Mouse gnawed the stale crust of her bread and scanned the taproom of the Trollop yet again. Her parents had succumbed to sleep, their heads cradled awkwardly on their arms; but Mouse was wide awake. She longed to draw the people around her, to capture their worried faces, their fear—and by concentrating on their emotions, to escape her own. But she knew better than to call attention to herself in a tavern so thick with tension. She couldn't even chat with Donkey, since Arkhyd had sent him back to the kitchen a few minutes ago.
Her scanning eyes paused on the Temple Watchman, Dedemar. Out of uniform, he seemed furtive, more foreign. He hunched, morose, over a pewter tankard at a table not ten feet from Mouse's. As she watched him, she heard a commotion outside: the thud of running feet, a skirl of cries; then, the tavern door was flung wide as a man staggered in. The door slammed. He took two steps into the room, and like a tree falling, crashed to the floor. A knife's hilt protruded from his back.
Shock silenced the taproom. In the breathless hush, the scrape of a chair was loud as a drum roll. Dedemar ran to the fallen man's side with a cry. "Zhotar!"
"Ded?" The man lifted his head with effort; a silver earring glinted in the lamplight. He coughed. A spatter of blood stained his lips. "Elkhar sent me. Your message was unclear."
Dedemar found Arkhyd in the crowd, glared at him commandingly. "Fetch hot water and clean linen." As the tavern master moved to obey, he turned back to the wounded man. "I didn't think Elkhar would be there; but why did he send you? Wouldn't the child have served better?"
"Elkhar took her; seems she's a friend of Owl's, and he's been itching to question someone ever since the puppy let the thief brat go." He coughed again. Dedemar steadied the man, supporting him gently. "Ded?" His hand sought the Temple Watchman's, closed on it hard. "Did you really mean the Windbringer Priest?"
"Aye."
"But he has no interest in politics; he can't be in it. He—" Coughing interrupted him. Dedemar held his shoulders.
"Breathe, Zhotar; don't talk."
Arkhyd returned with a steaming basin and several clean towels. Under the directions of the Temple Watchman, a trestle table was cleared, and the injured man was lifted gently onto it. Then, Dedemar carefully removed the knife and tended the wound; Mouse watched him, absently admiring the competence of his clever hands, while she turned and sifted his words. What child? Surely none of them would have been fool enough to go out into the middle of a Guild war. But 'a friend of Owl's'? She was frantic for more information, but she dared not call attention to herself.
The one called Zhotar did not look well, despite Dedemar's ministrations. When the Temple Watchman had finished, he settled his friend for sleep. Zhotar's breathing was shallow, and his skin was very pale.
"Will he live, do you think, sir?" Arkhyd asked in a low voice as he loaded a tray with soiled rags and basins.
Dedemar's face was bleak as the moon. "I doubt it; the lung was touched. He is strong, but that is a dire injury."
The tavern master looked worri
ed. "Here: be useful, Mouse." He gestured to the laden tray. "Take that out to Thantor, and bring in a tray of clean tankards on your way back."
Mouse obeyed, noting the sharpened interest in the foreigner's eyes. "You call her 'Mouse?' Like the vermin?"
Mouse escaped to the kitchen.
"Gods!" Squirrel greeted the sight of the bloody cloths. "What happened?"
"A friend of Elkhar Ghytteve and that Temple Watchman Dedemar got himself knifed."
"Is Elkhar Ghytteve out there?" Squirrel squeaked.
"No. Just Dedemar." Mouse searched the kitchen shadows anxiously. "Where's Kitten?"
"She took a message for Dedemar," Donkey said, grim. "Squirrel tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen. Mouse, what?" he asked, seeing the anguish on the younger girl's face.
"Elkhar has her," Mouse told them; and then, before she could relate the rest of the overheard conversation, Arkhyd poked his head through the door.
"Mouse! I need those tankards!"
She snatched up a tray. "I'll be back."
Squirrel and Donkey exchanged worried looks. "So where's Sharkbait?" Donkey said.
"And Ferret?" Squirrel demanded. "I thought she was coming back after she saw Khyzhan."
Mouse returned with a tray of dirty mugs. As she and Donkey washed them, Mouse told her tale. When she had finished, Donkey relayed Dedemar's message about Owl.
"It worries me," he ended. "The Temple Watchman knew all our names, and made a point of using them so I'd know. Happen the Ghytteve put some pressure on Owl to make him tell them about us."
"But if Owl told them about us, he would tell them we're all just friends, and they wouldn't be so worried, surely," Squirrel said. "Why would Elkhar take Kitten, then?"
"Happen the Ghytteve dinna believe Owl," Mouse put in. "Happen they want to question Kitten to be sure he told them the truth."
"But he did tell them the truth."
Donkey nodded. "But Kitten knows who killed Cyffe Ghytteve: Sharkbait—and Ferret."
They were silent as the implications unfolded.
A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Page 15