After a moment of indecision, Donkey crept along the passage, trying to keep the Lady under surveillance. He flitted from spyhole niche to listening place, always on the edge of losing her. The secret way branched twice; and at each fork, Donkey took careful note of the symbol carved on the wall. It slowed him down, but it would keep him from losing his way.
At the next spyhole niche, he looked in on a spacious room lined with books. A slight figure in Ghytteve livery sat alone at the khacce table, fingering the carved pieces. With a start, Donkey recognized Owl. He heard the door open. As the Lady entered, Donkey saw Owl's expression change to wariness. She studied Owl, her back to Donkey. Whatever Owl saw in her expression turned his wariness to fear. "Lady?" the boy whispered.
She was silent for several heartbeats; then she said, "Your little friend Ferret is causing me difficulties. Can you imagine why that might be?"
Owl raised his head, his face pale and set. "Elkhar killed Kitten," he said steadily. "I expect that earned her enmity."
Donkey couldn't see the Lady's face, but she stiffened. "Kitten was a Slum-rat."
"I was a Slum-rat—gods, Lady! Ferret is a Slum-rat; but she has friends, and loyalty, and feelings; and she's brave and determined, and no doubt angry."
"And are you angry, and brave, and determined, Owl?" the Lady asked; the silken threat in her voice made Donkey tense.
"I'm frightened," Owl whispered, bitterly. "And I am your slave."
The Lady turned her back on Owl. Donkey shivered as he caught sight of her face: cold; utterly ruthless. "My little Owl," she said, mockingly. She whirled back to face her slave. "What do you most fear?" Her hands were raised like talons.
Owl cringed away from her, but did not speak.
She seized him, shook him. "Answer me!"
Visibly, Owl mastered his fear. "Lady, I am your slave; I have no choice but to dance to your piping. What I fear most is that I will forget to resent it."
Donkey held his breath. He was sure the Lady would strike Owl. But to his amazement, she began to laugh. It was a chilling sound. She brushed Owl's cheek with a claw-like finger. "No fear," she promised in a tone which froze blood. "I will find ways constantly to remind you to hate me." Then she went out.
The color drained out of Owl's face. He staggered to the khacce table, gripping the table until his knuckles whitened. His eyes were wide and staring, as though he saw things no one else could see. "No," he whispered, anguished. "Oh Lady, no." Then he crumpled to the floor.
While Donkey was riveted with shock, he heard—altogether too close—a breathless curse, then hurried steps: approaching hurried steps. He pressed into the spyhole niche, cursing silently as he remembered the woman Myncerre's mention of a guard for Owl. The steps drew closer; he held his breath. He felt rather than saw someone rush past. The faint click of a latch heralded a blinding oblong of daylight. The watcher had opened one of the secret access panels. He pushed into the library and shut the panel behind him. Donkey wanted to stay to see whether Owl was all right, but this might be his best chance of escape, while the watcher was busy. The memory of Ycevi's face decided him; as silently as he knew how, he fled.
***
Owl lay on his back, staring at the ceiling over his bed. The room was only dim; Myncerre had drawn the curtains, but the afternoon light filtered stubbornly in. He wasn't tired; he was lonely and frightened. After he had fainted in the library, the Lady had brought him back to himself with nasty smelling-salts (every bit as effective as cold water, but not as messy, the Lady had said with satisfaction); then, she and Rhan had grilled him about what he had seen in his dreaming fit. He shuddered. Among other things, he had seen riots. He had told the Lady that—it seemed safe enough; and riots were enough of a nightmare for a Slum-rat that he thought it would explain his distress. He hadn't dared to tell her the rest: that he had seen—in the strangely hazed visions he was coming to dread—a big man going after Ferret with a spar, or Mouse sinking her teeth into Rhan's wrist. (Rhan—who was there, questioning him!) He had managed not to vomit, this time, but when the Lady was appeased, she had banished him to his bedroom and instructed Myncerre to drug him into sleep. He had refused the drugged wine, even though the steward had assured him it wasn't haceth; he had promised to sleep—or pretend—if she didn't force him.
Tears crept across his temples and into his ears. He needed to know whether his friends were safe; he wanted someone to talk with; he wished Cithanekh were here. The visions alone were bad, but coupled with Ycevi and Elkhar, and the constant danger, he felt frayed as an old rope. He wanted Cithanekh. Why couldn't he touch Cithanekh's mind, instead of two foreigners he barely knew and a goddess?
A goddess. Wonderingly, he touched the gem; Cithanekh had found him a leather pouch on a string, so he could wear her token around his neck. But what did it mean? He wished—
He only barely stopped himself from exclaiming aloud. Kerigden might be able to tell him what it meant. He made himself concentrate on the dreaming haven; and then he called.
Owl! The answer was almost immediate. The High Priest's attention blazed across Owl's inner vision like a falling star. What is it?
Quickly, he explained what he had done: how he had used the calling which Kerigden had taught him to summon Talyene, what she had said, and what she had given him.
When he had finished, the priest's mind-voice sounded puzzled. But that was after she bid me into this; oh Lady, what moves you in this? A wager? And with whom? Owl, listen: keep the stone with you. I suspect my Lady means it to protect you.
I will. Can you teach me a way to control my dreaming fits? They come on me so suddenly; and they make Ycevi suspicious.
She knows you're Sight-Gifted? Kerigden demanded, alarmed.
I had to tell her something after I fainted at her party. But now, when I have a fit, she questions me afterward; it frightens me. I dare not tell her much, but I mustn't let her realize I'm hiding things from her.
I wish I could help, Owl; but control on that level takes years to learn. Some of Owl's desperation must have been apparent to the priest, for he added, I can tell you that your friends are well. Mouse (that is, Amynne) is at the Palace with Venykhar; you might see her. He's adopted her into House Ykhave.
Owl's heart lightened a bit. Lucky Mouse. Doubtless I won't see her (Ycevi keeps me shut up and under guard), but tell her I'm glad for her. And Kerigden, my thanks.
As the mind touch dissolved into memory, Kerigden raked his fingers through his fiery hair. "Lady, why?" he murmured. "What do you see in this which makes you act?"
A distant wisp of harpsong teased his memory, but he couldn't place the tune. "If that is a hint, I'm too thick to catch it," he said, rueful. When he heard no more distant harping, he shrugged and straightened. "Ah, well. You will make it clear, in time—or you will not."
Chapter Twenty-seven—Confrontations
To Ferret's secret amazement, the Slum markets opened the next morning, just as planned. Contingents of peacekeepers moved among wary Slum-dwellers, but trade was brisk. Ferret watched the activity for a while before she went to find Sharkbait.
One of Sharkbait's men was reporting on the situation in the Slums when Ferret entered the warehouse headquarters. She listened to his terse recital with embarrassment; credit for the peace in the Slums was being entirely ascribed to her intervention. When the man finished his report, Sharkbait sent him off and beckoned to her.
"So," he murmured. "You promised to be careful."
She thrust her chin in the air. "I was careful: it worked."
"But the risk... Ferret," he added, beseechingly.
She gestured sharply. "The time when being careful meant staying out of sight is long gone, Sharkbait. Our best chance is to play this out boldly. Happen we've kept the wolf of riot from the Slums; odds are the Ghytteve aren't best pleased. You and I, we're both marked. Cezhar Ghytteve offered Anthagh two hundred Royals for me." At Sharkbait's wordless protest, Ferret's smile went feral. "Anthagh wouldn't take it. Told the Ghyt
teve they'd have to bid against Khyzhan, who pays his debts in blood. Happen we can trust the slaver—for now. It would have been very easy for him to give me to them; I was hiding in his draperies."
"Ferret, the Ghytteve don't know how to accept defeat. If they can't spark riot in the Slums, they'll try the wharves. And late or soon, they'll find someone whose greed outweighs his fear and you and I will be taken."
"Happen it's so," she agreed. "But I'll toss the ysmath bones on the chance you're wrong. Sharkbait, the stakes are high—but there's no safe retreat. Later, I'll go up to the Temple District and tell Kerigden what I've guessed: that the Ghytteve plan to create turmoil among the commoners in hopes of luring the Emperor someplace where it would be easy to assassinate him. If the Scholar King has any sense, he willn't allow himself to be drawn by their ruse."
"He hasn't that sort of sense—even warned. He's idealistic to the core."
"Well, I'll not leave him the excuse of ignorance!" she retorted. "If he chooses to act anyway, it's on his head. What will you do in the meantime, Sharkbait?"
The longshoreman sighed. "I've my work cut out to keep peace on the docks. There've been a number of—apparently—random beatings; my guess is that the Ghytteve have begun to foster unrest along the waterfront."
Ferret raised eyebrows. "Where are the Watch in this?"
"The Watch are curiously absent," he told her.
She caught his wrist, squeezed it. "Happen the Ghytteve mean to smoke you out, Sharkbait. Have a care."
He covered her hand as he arched a sardonic brow. "Such sage advice, sweet thief. Mind you heed it."
She managed a laugh. "Me? I'm always careful."
***
Arre was being followed. The Palace was full of watchers, but this was different: specific attention to her movements, not the watchfulness her presence generally caused. She laid a trap for her shadow, leading him ever deeper into the maze of inner Palace corridors, away from the galleries and gardens full of courtiers. She eased into the mouth of a narrow spiral staircase and waited. When the man came within reach, swift and unexpected, Arre pounced; she levered his arm painfully up his back.
"Now," she said evenly. "Why?"
"Why what? Let me go."
She twisted his arm a bit tighter. "Why are you following me? For whom are you working? Answer."
But the man shook his head. "You won't hurt me—not like my employers would, were I false to them."
"I don't need to hurt you," Arre said in a soft, almost purring sing-song. "I have other means of arriving at answers." Still holding him, she slipped half into her dreaming trance. His fear was foremost: bright and pulsing like a caged hare's heartbeat. "For whom are you working?" she asked again.
"Not likely I'll tell you, is it?" he said. Beneath his words an image formed in her mind: the Azhere Council Lord.
"What do you hope to find by following me?" she asked.
"Give it up. I won't tell you anything." Again, under his words an image formed: a baited snare.
"Am I the bait or the trap?" she whispered.
A spurt of pure fear answered her; then, several rapid, confusing images: Elkhar Ghytteve; Owl; Ferret, bound and disheveled, facing the glowing point of a heated awl; Rhydev; the Prime Minister; Ycevi Ghytteve.
"I have an idea what the Ghytteve are after, but what's Azhere's stake in all this?"
"Witchcraft!" His mind was pure white with terror. "You're taking answers out of my mind!"
"Yes," she replied, matter-of-fact. "It's far more effective than heated implements, and does no lasting harm. What does Rhydev Azhere hope to gain from me?"
The image that answered her question was a building in roaring flames; she bit her lip in frustration. The man had summoned some childhood terror to deflect her questioning. She jerked his arm upward; the inferno vanished in a scarlet spurt of pain. "What does Rhydev Azhere hope to gain from me?"
There was a flash of bright image: a hand spinning a lure for a hawk; then the raging inferno reappeared. There were shadows moving within the smoke and flames. "A lure for a hawk," she mused aloud. "A hold on the Ghytteve." As though in answer, Elkhar Ghytteve's face, savage with fury, was superimposed on the fire scene.
"Who are you?" she asked him. But only the blazing building answered her. "Was it your home that burned?"
The white of terror blanked everything again. Arre strained to hold her half trance; this was tiring her. Suddenly, the approach of footsteps intruded on her concentration. She yanked her captive into the spiral stairway and, with the last of her strength, imposed silence on him. The walker passed, a man in the livery of House Mebhare: not a threat. Spent, Arre abandoned her half trance. She searched her captive and relieved him of a brace of throwing knives and a garrote. Then, she pushed him roughly into the corridor. Briefly, she regretted that she was too spent to impose forgetfulness on him.
The man regarded her for a moment; then he touched the hollow at the base of his throat. "This is the easiest kill with a thrown knife," he told her, calm.
"I don't kill," she said, disgusted.
"Then how will you keep me silent?"
She laughed. "You're perfectly free to tell your master Rhydev anything you choose—but none of it reflects well on you, does it?" Then with a flick of her wrist, she sent his weapons spinning down the stone corridor away from them both; as he went after them, she sprinted up the stairs and away.
***
Mouse sat on one of the stone benches in the garden. The sketchbook Venykhar had given her was open on her lap; the Ykhave Councilor was deep in conversation, ten paces away, with the Council Lady of House Ambhere. Something to do with mining and raw materials for House Ykhave. Venykhar had promised to ask one of his kinsmen to help her experiment with paints, but she knew she would have to wait until he had finished his business. She suppressed a sigh, and began to sketch the Palace itself. There was a series of windows on the third floor...
After several minutes, the book was taken from her. She glanced up, expecting Venykhar; but the man flipping through the pages was a stranger. He looked down at her, a mocking smile on his lips; she noticed the dangling silver earring he sported.
Mouse wanted to stamp her feet and demand that he return her book; but the way he looked at her warned her off. She knew he would be suspicious of her Slum accent. She eyed him with outward calm, as she listened in her mind to the accents of the nobles and remembered the mannerisms of the people she spent so much time watching. She extended one hand in an imperious gesture, and said, in the crisp consonants and rounded vowels of the privileged, "If you're quite finished..."
His eyebrows rose. "But I'm not. There's quite an amazing collection of portraits, here. Do you know who they are?"
"No," she lied. Venykhar had identified almost all of them.
His smile shaded toward condescension, which stung Mouse's temper. "What are you called, small Ykhave?"
"Amynne. Please return my book."
"Oh, I shall," he drawled, "when I am quite finished with it. I mean to show it to my Lady, first; she is intrigued by curiosities." He shut the book and started away.
Mouse's temper escaped her. She leapt up. "You canna do that. Yon book's mine. Give it over, do."
He turned back to face her, his smile broadening into triumph; but Mouse didn't notice. She stamped hard on his instep and used the surprise she gained to snatch the book out of his hand. He moved then, fast, and caught her by the wrist.
"I'll take you along, too. My Lady is interested in children."
"Let me go!" Mouse cried; but when he merely towed her along, she bit him.
A knife glinted lethally. Mouse froze.
"Now come quietly," the man purred.
"You canna knife me in a garden full of courtiers."
"Try me—and you're dead. My Lady will back me. Come along, Mouse—or is it 'Shrew?'"
At his insistence, Mouse stepped toward him, playing the cowed child; then, with desperate strength, she butted her head i
nto his stomach. She yanked free of him, and dove into a roll. She scrambled to her feet in time to see him, his face contorted with rage, preparing to spring at her.
"Rhan Ghytteve, drop the knife!" The command in the voice silenced the courtiers' murmuring. Rhan Ghytteve, in a fighting crouch, spun toward the voice. Mouse looked on, horrified. The Scholar King and the Ghytteve bodyguard faced each other across an empty stretch of lawn. "Bare steel in your Emperor's presence?" the Scholar King demanded. "Drop the knife, Rhan, and perhaps I'll be lenient with your treasonous behavior."
Mouse pressed a fist against her mouth. Couldn't he see it? The Ghytteve's eyes were narrowed like an animal's; there wasn't much human reason behind their maddened glitter. But the Emperor stood with perfect calm, unarmed in the face of an assassin.
The garden was utterly hushed, frozen in precarious balance. No one was close enough to intervene; no one dared move. Only the Scholar King seemed unperturbed, his hand held out as expectantly as a schoolmaster confronting an errant boy. Rhan Ghytteve rose out of his fighting crouch, closed the distance between himself and the Emperor with two, fluid strides, and thrust the knife, hilt first, into the Emperor's hand.
"Thank you," the Emperor said softly. "Now, get out. I don't want to see your face again at Court."
Rhan Ghytteve stared at the Scholar King for a full half-minute. Then, he made a profound bow, turned on his heel, and sauntered off. The Emperor turned his attention to Mouse.
"Are you hurt, child?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Amynne," Venykhar said, hurrying to her. "Are you all right? What happened?"
At the sight of the Ykhave Councilor, the Scholar King understood. "Ah. 'Mouse's nobleman,'" he said, very softly.
"He took my book," Mouse explained, "and it made me angry. Then he tried to drag me off to see his Lady. So I bit him, and he lost his temper. I'm sorry I caused a fuss."
"Don't apologize," the Emperor said, trying to hide a smile. "Someone has to make things interesting. But I think, young Ykhave, we need to make it quite clear that you're not to be threatened in the future. Come with me," he said, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder and including Venykhar in the invitation. "You're too young for brandy, but I need a drink."
A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Page 22