A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

by Beth Hilgartner

  Surprise erased all traces of amusement from the slaver's face. "Do what?" he asked.

  "Move against Ycevi Ghytteve."

  Anthagh crossed his arms and glared at Ferret. "The Kerigden I know doesn't meddle in politics."

  "Just how well do you know the High Priest of the Windbringer?" Ferret countered. "I wouldn't think you'd have much in common—given your trade." A movement by the balcony doors caught her eye. The draperies were drawn back to reveal a man, silhouetted against the light.

  "What message?" he asked.

  She couldn't see his face. "Are you Dedemar?"

  "Aye."

  "Very well. The child you sent to your Ghytteve masters—Kitten—was tortured and killed by Elkhar Ghytteve. Happen you need an opportunity to atone."

  "'Elkhar's killing children.' You would have me, perhaps, betray the Ghytteve? Their arms are very long," Dedemar said bitterly, moving into the room.

  Ferret saw his face; her eyes widened. It was the foreigner she had saved from the bravos. "You!"

  He looked closely at Ferret, then swore in his own language. After a moment, he said, flatly, "Tell me, then, what you would have me do." He collapsed into a chair. "I will not be of much use, I fear. I have nothing to give for your dead friend. I am not—deep in their whispering. They have little trust of me. They tell me watch; so I watch. They tell me listen; so I listen. They send me with a message; so I go."

  "Even so, it would be useful if we knew who the Ghytteve want watched, and what you hear, and where they send you."

  Dedemar's eyes widened. "You want me to return to them? I am not clever like Elkhar. They will hear lies in my words."

  "Think of Kitten," Ferret said, cold. "Your task isn't meant to be easy—or safe. We know the Ghytteve plan to kill the Scholar King and put Cithanekh Anzhibhar-Ghytteve in his place. What we dinna know is when—or how."

  "Cithanekh," Anthagh exclaimed—almost a laugh. "But that's mad, even for Ycevi. Cithanekh is twice as stubborn as the Scholar King. How does she mean to control him?"

  "She will use the boy you sold her: Owl," Ferret said.

  "Owl," Dedemar whispered.

  "But she told me," Anthagh protested, "she meant to dangle him in front of Rhydev Azhere—to leverage some concessions out of the silk clans."

  "She lied. Does it surprise you?"

  Before Anthagh could respond, Dedemar held up a hand. "But how can I return? I am absent without leave from my company of Temple Watch. Did I return, there would be—unpleasantness."

  Ferret shrugged. "The Windbringer High Priest would excuse you, if you were committed to working against the Ghytteve."

  Dedemar was silent; and Ferret's attention was drawn to Anthagh's face, contorted with alarm.

  "Dedemar!" the slaver cried. "Do you seek to atone—or to die? Are you completely mad? Ycevi Ghytteve will eat you!" When Dedemar did not instantly respond, he rounded on Ferret. "Do you know what you are doing? Or are you merely a khacce piece in your betters' fingers?"

  "Do you care?" she challenged.

  He rang a table cymbal. "Not particularly. But I do wonder. If you are a mere piece on the gameboard, you are not much regarded; for to send you here is a sacrifice play. But if you know what you are doing, you are either very foolish, or very brave—or, I suppose, both." The door opened for two of Anthagh's men; one held a coil of rope. "Bind her." Then Anthagh turned to the Temple Watchman. "If you're fool enough to go back to the Ghytteve, my friend, then you'd best take them a gift."

  "No," Dedemar said sharply.

  But Anthagh ignored him. He moved closer to watch as his men bound Ferret. Suddenly, he stiffened. "What's this?" he demanded, gesturing to the healing burns on her forearm.

  "What, squeamish?" she mocked. "It's betrayal and Guild war, Council House intrigue and secrets."

  "Anthagh, let her go."

  The slaver ignored him while he studied Ferret silently. She sensed the calculation behind his cool eyes, but she was not sure how to influence it. She answered his assessment with impassive patience. "Which Council House?" he asked at last.

  She shrugged. "Azhere."

  "Ah. Ybhanne's patron. Did you know?"

  "I'd guessed," Ferret replied. "Patron, but not protector. Ybhanne's dead, Master Anthagh. Happen we're all expendable."

  "What are you?"

  Ferret shrugged again. "Loyal friend; Journeyman thief."

  "Instrument of judgment and the keeper of my life and honor," Dedemar said, coming to the slaver's side. "Let her go!"

  Anthagh looked up at him, shocked. "Keeper—"

  "She saved my life, in the Guild war. Let her go."

  Anthagh stared at the other man, motionless, until Ferret asked, "Who fuels the Guild war, Master Anthagh, and why? Ybhanne's dead, and Khyzhan's no fool."

  "Who is fighting?" the slaver responded, coming back to life and movement. He bent to Ferret's bonds, his thin fingers working loose the knots.

  Ferret thought back to her conversation with her Master. It wasn't thieves; and Khyzhan had intimated it wasn't merely another deadly turf-war among the small drug runners. "House Azhere controls the silk trade, no?" The slaver hinted at a nod. "What does Ghytteve control?"

  "Coffee and liquor—officially."

  "Drugs," Ferret whispered. "Then the Ghytteve are keeping the Slums in turmoil. But why?"

  Dedemar answered her. "Among my people there is a saying: 'In chaos is change.'"

  The knots holding her yielded. Anthagh straightened. "What will happen, do you think, if the Guild war fails to cool?"

  Ferret considered. People were tense; supplies were short; tempers were frayed. "Riots," she breathed. She closed her eyes on memories: the choking ash, the trampling tide of people, the clatter of weapons, the pelting hail of stones, screams, terror, death; it had taken the Watch and finally the Army to restore, with brutal force, a cowering calm. Most of the burned out husks of buildings had been torn down or repaired in the intervening six years, but the fear was graven deep in Ferret.

  The slaver and the Temple Watchman watched remembrance flit across the thief's face. When Ferret opened her eyes, there was something steely and determined in their depths. "'In chaos is change,'" she quoted softly. "The Scholar King willn't send the Army to quell a riot; he'll go himself."

  "Presenting an irresistible opportunity for his enemies? His advisors would talk him out of such a suicidal course."

  "Happen he wouldn't listen. He came down to the Slums once before, right after his coronation. I remember. He gave a speech about being all the people's Emperor. It was very stirring."

  "Madness," Anthagh said dismissively.

  "But such wonderful madness. We must avert this riot."

  "We, little thief?" the slaver laughed. "Dedemar may have a conscience (and a debt), but I disposed of mine many years ago. And I don't owe you a thing."

  "You sold my friend Owl to the Ghytteve," Ferret accused. "Happen you'll not acknowledge the debt, but it's there."

  Anthagh smiled wryly. "It's my trade, Journeyman thief. Perhaps it's not pretty, nor admirable, but it was certainly in my interests to sell Owl to the highest bidder. Even were I in a mood to do you a good turn, the fate of the Scholar King is nothing to me. Less than nothing. The Emperor Khethyran has discussed with the Council banning the slave trade. With the Ghytteve, I know I can bargain."

  Ferret laughed. "And what's said in the Council is common knowledge? Who told you the Scholar King spoke against slavery? And was it in their interests to have you hostile to him? The Scholar King is idealistic, but not stupid."

  The slaver was silent, but Dedemar clapped his hands in slow, ironic applause. "You are lazy in your cleverness, Anthagh. The little thief makes you think." He turned to Ferret. "If it were 'we' to avert this riot, what would you have us do?"

  Ferret chewed her lip, thinking fast. "If the Slums erupt into riot it will be over food and fear. The thing we have to do is get the Slum markets open, and the people confident enough to us
e them." She met Anthagh's eyes. "Happen we'd keep control if we organized people to keep the peace: maybe some of your people; the Thieves' Guild, certainly; and the other Slum-Guilds ought to be willing to help. The only people who could want riot are the Ghytteve, and they willn't have to live through it."

  Anthagh studied her in silence. "Very well," he said at last. "I'll summon the Masters of the Slum-Guilds to a meeting; they'll come—albeit reluctantly—at my whistle. But it will be up to you, little thief, to convince them."

  Chapter Twenty-six—Eavesdropping

  "You know, Ferret," Anthagh said as the door shut behind the last of the Slum-Guild Masters, "I would never have believed you could get us all to work together like that."

  "Happen it's the only way we can survive," she retorted.

  "No. It's the only way we can all survive. The strong can weather even riots; and according to the commonly held mores of the Slums, the weak deserve to perish. Yet, by some feat of arcane reasoning, you've gotten us to agree to a rule of law—swift and brutal Slum-law, true, but still! I never thought I'd see Slum-denizens work together to open and patrol the markets, and to enforce a curfew."

  "Curfew!" Ferret exclaimed, then swore passionately. "How will I get home?"

  The slaver chuckled. "You're welcome to stay here."

  "Oh, aye," she said with a glint of sarcastic amusement. "But will I be welcome to leave, come morning?"

  Anthagh raised his hands in a warding-off gesture. "The merciful gods forbid that I should so court the wrath of the Thieves' Guild!"

  "You've some idea they'd be angry? I'd have said the Guildmaster thinks I've overstepped."

  "The Guildmaster no doubt does," the slaver agreed. "But Khyzhan will back you far beyond the dictates of his self interest; and he's a dangerous enemy."

  A tap at the door interrupted their conversation. One of Anthagh's men looked in. "Master, Cezhar Ghytteve wants a word with you. Shall I tell him you're otherwise engaged?"

  "No. But first, send Marrekh and Thozh to me—I'd rather not meet him alone." As the man bowed and departed, the slaver glanced at Ferret. "If you'd like to listen, hide yourself."

  Ferret's lungs tightened; it smelled like a trap. But she dared not leave for fear she'd meet the Ghytteve on his way in. She chose a draperied window. At least then, if the slaver betrayed her, she could chance an escape to the roof.

  She watched, breathless, from her hiding place while Anthagh's two men—clearly bodyguards—took up their places at the ready. Then, Cezhar Ghytteve came in. He moved with the lithe grace of a fighter. His handsome face was marred by a whip-cut scar across one cheekbone.

  "Why were the Slum-Guild Masters here?"

  "We were negotiating to avert riots."

  His eyebrows rose. "Ycevi Ghytteve wants Slum riots."

  "Ycevi Ghytteve doesn't live in the Slums."

  "Scuttle the agreement, Anthagh. She'll make it worth your while."

  "I'm not convinced that she can."

  He laughed, disbelieving. "Are you trying to imply you have a price in something other than gold?"

  "I don't think you realize, Cezhar, that history was made here, tonight. The Slum-Guild Masters have never before agreed to work together, to share strengths and resources. Ultimately, the effort may fail; none of us has much practice cooperating. But I won't intentionally work against this."

  Cezhar's dark eyes narrowed. "Ycevi will be displeased."

  The slaver spread his hands, deprecatingly. "Ycevi is only one of my many customers. But this—this place, these people. It is where I both work and live. If the Slum-Guild Masters can overcome their antipathies to work together, then perhaps I am not as untouchable as I have always believed. You do understand, I'm sure."

  Cezhar Ghytteve was silent for several moments, his face unrevealing. "Who dreamed up this—cooperation?"

  "A Journeyman thief by the name of Ferret."

  Ferret's heart slammed against her ribs, but an instant's reflection told her Anthagh could really have done nothing else. Too many people knew of her involvement for it to remain secret; and the Ghytteve were already displeased with Anthagh.

  "Ferret!" he exclaimed. "Journeyman thief? Whose?"

  "One of Khyzhan's."

  He mouthed the Master Thief's name silently. "We'd buy this Ferret, if she happened to fall into your hands. Two hundred Royals."

  Anthagh laughed. "Ghytteve would be bidding against Khyzhan—and he pays his debts in blood. If Ferret fell into my hands, Cezhar, the touch would burn me. Your Lady must catch her without my aid."

  Cezhar gave a faint nod. "Then I have no further business with you, Master Anthagh."

  The two men exchanged polite bows. Ferret did not breathe freely until the Ghytteve had left in the company of Anthagh's toughs, and the door was firmly shut behind them.

  ***

  Mouse's charcoal stick flew along the smooth page. Her clever fingers froze the courtiers' interesting faces in lines on vellum. Venykhar was busy being the Ykhave Council Lord: talking to various courtiers in the great meeting hall. She had swiftly grown tired of trailing in his wake, and with his permission, had faded to the room's ornamented edges to sketch in the book he had given her. She had tucked herself into one of the recessed window seats, a vantage point which let her see much of the hall while she nestled, inconspicuous, among the draperies. As she worked, absorbed by the translation of reality to images, furtive voices caught her attention.

  "News, Ghorran?"

  "I've done as you asked, Lord. The Ghytteve have posted a reward of a hundred Royals for the longshoreman known as 'Sharkbait.' Ybhanne is dead, yet the Slums won't quiet; rumor has it the drug runners are reapportioning territory."

  "You seem—mmm—skeptical."

  "There are two more dead Ghytteve in it: Gholekh and Mynekhe."

  The first man laughed, a sharp, amazed sound. "Ycevi must be livid, and Elkhar—mmm—dangerously annoyed."

  "Yes, Lord. But none of my contacts have found anything pointing to the Emperor's foreign witch—other than her association with the Windbringer Temple and House Ykhave."

  "Yes. You understand, Ghorran, that we need only innuendo. Even an extremely—mmm—circumstantial attachment could rouse Elkhar to violence."

  One of them snapped his fingers. "Lord. This is tenuous at best, but perhaps it will serve. The thief, Ferret: Cithanekh Ghytteve gave her into the hands of the witch—and Ghobhezh-Ykhave, and the Windbringer High Priest."

  "Ah," the first man said with satisfaction. "That is useful. Very good. Do you know: does Ycevi know?"

  "She may; I'm not sure."

  "Well, if you can do it—mmm—gracefully, pass the information on. Ferret," he added, in a musing tone. "It seems we were both wrong about her."

  "Indeed, Lord; and I do feel the fool. The fact she was Journeyman (young as she looked) and Khyzhan's (who's as shrewd as the Guildmaster, and several times more ruthless) should have alerted me. But I was taken in—you'll admit she was good. Elkhar Ghytteve let it slip that he believes she helped Sharkbait take Cyffe out."

  "Elkhar lets nothing slip without cause. But this—mmm—longshoreman, 'Sharkbait?' Who is he?"

  "He's been organizing the dock workers—trying to form a guild; he's made enemies. More rumors than Elkhar's link his name with Ferret's."

  "Find out more. The link with Ferret sounds—mmm—promising."

  "Very good, Lord."

  Mouse heard footsteps moving off. She edged around to get a good look at the speakers. If she drew recognizable portraits of them, Venykhar could tell who was plotting against Arre. She got a clear view of each, and added their faces to her page of courtiers' portraits. Then, she turned her attention to a robed man whom she supposed to be the High Priest of the Horselord's Tem- ple. She was still fussing with the drape of his rich clothing when Venykhar summoned her away.

  ***

  The network of secret passages, spyhole niches and listening places soon became familiar territory to Squirre
l and Donkey. They quickly grew adept at manipulating the shuttered lanterns Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave provided; and their natural caution served them well as they kept their secret watch on the Ghytteve. The only problem was, Donkey reflected sourly, that much of it was so dull. At the moment, he watched a woman who wrote in a leather-bound ledger. Occasionally she would sigh, raise her head and stare off into space. If you're bored doing the work, Donkey thought, think how I feel, watching you.

  He heard the room's door open. The woman looked up, then set aside her quill. "Lady," she murmured.

  Donkey squirmed cautiously to get the newcomer in sight. She was an elegant old woman: from Venykhar's description, Lady Ycevi herself. He strained to hear.

  They discussed the accounts on which the younger woman—Myncerre, the Lady called her—worked. Donkey's attention snagged briefly on the phrase: "payments to the small runners," but he could make no sense of it. After several minutes, the Lady turned away and Myncerre picked up the quill again.

  "Where's Owl?" the Lady asked.

  "In the library," Myncerre said. "Rhan is guarding him."

  "And Cithanekh?"

  "He went out. Evvan will report his movements when they return. Lady, has Cezhar returned?"

  She nodded. "He's sleeping. He made his report, first. You'll never guess who is behind the Slum-Guilds' cooperation: Ferret! It has become evident that she is not as innocent as our little Owl seems to believe. Cezhar offered Anthagh two hundred Royals for Ferret, if she should fall into his hands; and do you know what he said? Anthagh said, 'If she fell into my hands, the touch would burn me.' Anthagh—who I would not have said was afraid of anyone. Well," she added, in an effort to banish her temper. "With the price we've set on his head, I daresay it is only a matter of time before someone betrays Antryn—"

  "If it is Antryn," Myncerre warned.

  The Lady smiled; it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Always the doubter, Myncerre. In any case, it is only a matter of time. Slum friendships won't withstand the temptation of a hundred Royals." She shrugged. "And even if this Sharkbait isn't Antryn, he may still be useful."

  Myncerre went back to the accounts.