"I'm a Seer, Lady Yverri. Or are you of the opinion I am a charlatan?"
"I'm sorry. I've made you angry—and I didn't mean to." She sounded very contrite.
Has she managed tears, yet? he thought sourly to Lynx.
I think she is trying not to cry. If it isn't genuine, she's a consummate actress.
Most of them are—the noble ladies.
"My cousin Mylazhe is forever telling me that my curiosity will get me into trouble. I hope you can forgive me, Lord Owl."
"I'm not angry," Owl told her. "But—as the Duke alluded—I've had considerable experience with manipulation, which has not fostered in me a particularly trusting nature. When people attempt to assess the extent of my Gift, my reflex is to wonder why they are interested, and whom they plan to tell."
Her hand tightened convulsively on his sleeve. "Oh," she said, her voice small, abashed. After a moment she added, "I think I would rather you were annoyed at me."
Owl's smile was wry, but when he spoke, his voice was more gentle. "You ought to be able to manage that, Yverri, if you're serious."
She laughed, then, relief easing into her tone. "Perhaps if I don't annoy you, Owl, I can prove that I'm safe to trust—over time, of course."
"Perhaps. But why would you bother?"
She gave a startled gasp. "Why? If you were sighted, I'd tell you to look in a mirror. Don't you have any idea how attractive you are?"
"The Emperor is attractive, but you aren't hanging on his arm."
"He's the Emperor, and he's married, and he wouldn't be interested."
Owl smiled faintly. "Well, clearly I'm not the Emperor, nor am I married—but there are other similarities."
"Oh, cruel," she laughed. "Well, at least we can flirt outrageously and give everyone something new to gossip about."
Before Owl could frame a reply, a stir swept the room. Beside him, Yverri gave a little gasp and murmured, "Gods…"
Lynx?
Rhydev Azhere and his young lover just came in. The boy is rather flamboyantly dressed, she added.
An image streaked through Owl's inner vision: the Azhere Councilor, suave and elegant as always in his favorite blue, with his Councilor's chain prominent among his jewelry. But on his arm was a vision in crimson and gold. Instead of a tunic over trousers—by far the most common style for men—Ancith wore a knee-length open vest of rich crimson, over a loose shirt of cream and gold and a pair of tight gold trousers. The shirt, open to the middle of the chest, gave a glimpse of a worked gold and ruby collar; his hands were heavy with rings; rubies and diamonds adorned his earlobes and wrists; even his hair was braided with gold and pearls. The eyes that looked adoringly into Rhydev's face were rimmed with kohl, while Rhydev, gazing back, was cool, smug, and possessive.
Owl sighed explosively. "Cithanekh will have puppies when he sees his brother dressed up like brothel bait."
Would you could see the look on Yverri's face, Lynx marveled.
Oh dear: I forgot. 'Brothel bait' is Slum cant—and rather crude.
"How—I mean—er—That is Councilor Cithanekh's brother? Surely not." She faltered to a stop as the room fell silent. "Oh, my," she breathed almost reverently.
"Well," a familiar voice broke the silence: Amynne Ykhave at her most poisonous. "Ancith. I rather thought that's what you meant, yesterday; but I hardly expected you to dress the part in public." She paused for a ripple of smothered amusement to pass, then went on in a confiding—but perfectly audible—tone. "A friendly word of advice, most gracious Lord of Azhere: even if you dress your little conquests up as…expensive…brothel bait, you still look ridiculous parading about with someone thirty-five years your junior on your arm."
Over the more audible gasps and sniggers, Rhydev's young companion blurted, passionately, "It's only thirty years difference—and I don't see what business it is of yours!"
There was more laughter—quickly stifled; no one wanted to miss a word of this scene.
"Don't you? I didn't tell you this yesterday, but I teach at the Free School. As well, I do my best to protect the young and innocent from all kinds of predators. Your Rhydev and I have spoken before."
"Yes." Rhydev's voice, stripped of its customary urbane charm, sounded dangerous. "I believe I cautioned you then about your indecorous behavior."
"You can attend the Emperor's Reception with that on your arm and chide me for indecorous behavior? Honestly! Have you lost your mind—or are you trying to convince us all—or him—that you're really in love, this time?"
"How dare you!" Ancith shouted. "You have no right to speak to any noble in that tone! You were raised in the Slums—a child prostitute or a beggar, doubtless. And no matter what you do, you'll never be more than a lowborn commoner aping your betters."
"At least I'm aping my betters," Mouse returned with deceptive mildness. "What did you take as your model?"
"I have the blood of Emperors in my veins," he grated.
"Indeed," Mouse agreed. "So why don't you sashay over to one of those mirrors and take a good, clear look at yourself? And when you're done, come back and tell me if you honestly believe you're doing credit to your Anzhibhar heritage."
There was a long, breathless silence, before Rhydev Azhere spoke again. His voice had not recovered its suaveness, though he spoke quietly. "Someday, Amynne Ykhave, you will go too far."
"No doubt you're right, Rhydev Azhere. But if I go too far in defense of innocence, or justice, or the Crown, or any cause in which I fervently believe, I will whole-heartedly accept whatever punishment or martyrdom I earn."
"I should like to be there to see it," he murmured.
"I'll add your name to the list," she retorted easily. "Good afternoon."
Owl heard her footsteps moving away before the whispers of renewed conversation covered the sound.
"My!" Yverri said. "She's amazing. Mylazhe told me a bit about her, but I've never been privileged to see her in full spate before. You know her, don't you, Owl." At his nod, she added, "Would you introduce us? She's coming this way."
"Ho, Mouse," he said reaching a hand toward her. "Are you all right?"
Mouse gripped his hand hard. Her own was shaking. "Ho, Owl. My temper got away from me, a bit. Could you hear it all?"
"Oh, yes. Mouse—Amynne—I want you to meet Yverri Ambhere. Yverri, this is Amynne Ykhave. Mouse and I grew up together, in the Slums. Just so you'll know, I was the beggar; Mouse's parents are flower sellers. They have a shop in the Waterfront district."
"I'm honored to meet you," Yverri said. "I've heard a great deal about the Free School, and I'm very impressed with its work."
"Thank you," Mouse said. "I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Yverri."
"Just Yverri—please. I was wondering if there is any way I could help the School. I know my family contributes, but is there anything else I might do?"
"Walk with me," Mouse suggested, "and we'll talk." She gave Owl's hand a final squeeze.
"Stop by the apartments when this is over, Mouse," Owl told her. "I'd love to visit with you, but this clearly isn't the venue."
"I will," she said as the two women moved away.
"That was neat," Lynx remarked. "I wasn't sure how you were going to get rid of your new admirer." Whom do you want to see, now? she added silently.
I'd better meet the candidates for the Admiralty, if we can make it look natural.
Lynx scanned the crowd and then guided him in a direction that would intercept Akhatheraf Dhenykhare's ambling path. It's Akhatheraf, she told him. I think he's drunk. His bodyguard seems to be helping him stay upright.
"Good afternoon, my Lord," Owl greeted him.
"Good afternoon. Can't say I know you, though. I'm Akhatheraf Dhenykhare. You must be Ghytteve—judging from your bodyguard's livery."
"That's right: Owl Ghytteve. I'm honored to make your acquaintance, Lord Akhatheraf." He extended a hand which the other man took in a clammy grip. Images seared through Owl's mind: a dissipated nobleman dicing in the red-curtain
ed public rooms of a brothel, an attentive boy draped over his shoulder, his fingers twining in the hair at the nape of his patron's neck as he watched the play; the same nobleman arguing with Dhyrakh; a sealed letter lying on a desk, addressed to Rhyazhe Dhenykhare at an address in the northern port city of Cynteffarhe; an elaborate hookah and a small package of ghyar.
"Pleasure's mine, Lord Owl. I've heard of you: the Ghytteve Councilor's b—uh—um— adopted kinsman. You've been away, no? Are you back to stay, then?"
"Oh, yes. I've finished my schooling, now. Permit me to offer my condolences on your family's tragic losses."
"Thank you. Very kind of you. Varykh is a loss, certainly, though I never had much use for that rabbit Adythe—scared of her own shadow, and far too weak to bear her husband heirs." He broke off. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to say that: shouldn't speak ill of the dead and all that; besides, Rhyazhe loved her so she must have had some good qualities. Forgive me. The Emperor's brandy is more potent than I thought."
"It's forgotten," Owl assured him. "Rhyazhe? Is that your daughter?"
He laughed a bit too loudly. "Oh, no. She's only a cousin to me—one of Khavyrh's brood. Pity she's a girl; she has a better head than her brothers or Dhyrakh's pestilent sons."
"Some clans let their women have a greater role in things," Owl observed.
"Like the Ykhave wench? I'd have paid good money to see Rhydev Azhere put in his place half so well—and we all got the show for free—but all the same, no good will come of it. Women belong in one place—"
"As bodyguards," Owl interrupted with a nod at Lynx.
"That wasn't what I was going to say."
"I know, " Owl replied. "But it might have been the brandy talking again. Good afternoon, my Lord," he said politely as Lynx guided him away.
Well? Lynx asked.
Owl sighed in answer. I suppose I'd better meet the others.
They found Myrhaf Dhenykhare seated in one of the chairs; he appeared to be asleep, under the watchful eye of his personal servant or bodyguard. As they waited to see whether the old man would rouse himself to speak with them, Owl's Gift gave him an image: an old man in a chair, with puppet strings attached to his hands, feet, and head; above him, Dhyrakh held the puppeteer's harness.
He's ancient, Lynx observed.
Yes. He is Varykh's uncle, and he's eighty if he's a day. Oh well. Can you find Morekheth?
He's by the refreshments table with Rhydev and Ancith. Maybe we should wait.
Owl considered. Actually, I think I'm hungry. Can you take me over and see whether there are any of those sausage rolls?
Lynx sighed but guided him toward the food. A moment later, she held a small plate of dainties for him and described each one as he touched it. He had just taken one of the stuffed mushrooms when Ancith bumped his elbow.
"Hello Ancith," he greeted him.
"That's Lord Ancith to you. I've never made you free with my name."
"Hello, Lord Ancith," Owl repeated politely. "Have you spoken with your brother, yet? I know he'd like to talk with you."
"I'm not fool enough to give my sanctimonious brother the opportunity to lecture me. Besides, I'm not speaking to him until he has come to his senses and repented of the shame and calumny he has heaped upon his House by consorting with lowborn guttersnipe Slum-rats and foreigners with questionable morals."
"I didn't realize my morals were questionable," Lynx remarked to Owl in a perfectly audible, if slightly puzzled, tone.
"I don't believe he means you, Lynx," Owl explained. "Likely he's referring to Arre."
"Thus giving us a comprehensive demonstration of how efficient the Azhere rumor mill is; I see. Is this a calculated move or a foolish slip?"
Owl shrugged. "You might be able to tell by Rhydev's face—but possibly not. He is purported to have persuasive acting skills."
"How dare you!" Ancith cried.
"Ancith—Lord Ancith," Owl said, managing to sound as calm and rational as the other sounded shrill. "You really must devise a more compelling rebuttal than that if you want to have a prayer of stopping anyone from saying whatever impertinence comes to mind. Whatever you may think of my background, breeding or experience, I am not ashamed of it. Cithanekh and the Emperor, himself—both men whom I love and revere—treat me with courtesy and respect, so how can you possibly expect to intimidate me into tugging my forelock and groveling to you on the strength of your Anzhibhar blood? Truly, I have no wish to antagonize you. I know that Cithanekh is fond of you, and for his sake I would as soon forget the enmity between us. But I know—even if you haven't figured it out, yet—that no amount of groveling from me will be enough to appease you if you are unwilling to grant that I have the right to stand with your brother and my Emperor."
"You," Ancith said trenchantly, "are a commoner. How can you talk about the right to stand with my brother and the Emperor? You should be prostrate before the Emperor. And as for my brother, if he enjoys a little adventure with rough trade, there's no accounting for tastes—but that certainly doesn't give you any rights or status. If Cithanekh had an ounce of common decency, he would toss you back into the gutter and step over you, instead of dressing you up in jewels and taking you to parties."
"Given what you're wearing, Lord Ancith," a new voice remarked, very dryly, "I think that last was a mistake. I don't know whether you remember me, Lord Owl. I'm Morekheth Dhenykhare."
"Of course I do," Owl said, extending his hand. "We met at the party my Duke gave after he adopted me."
"I'm flattered you remember," Morekheth said, shaking Owl's hand.
At the touch, a single image burned across his inner vision: the black and silver signet ring, strung on a fine chain. He released the other man's hand. Lynx. Is he wearing anything around his neck? Can you see? It would probably be under his shirt, not in plain view.
I can't tell. His shirt has a high collar and it's fastened all the way up.
It figures, he thought grimly.
"Permit me to offer my heartfelt condolences on the death of your wife—and of the Admiral, too, of course."
"Thank you." His voice was tight, but after a moment he went on. "It would have been easier, I think, if Adythe had died of a fever or in an accident. The thought that something was troubling her enough that she would take her own life, and yet I did not know of it, torments me. Surely, I should have seen; surely, I should have known. You would know, wouldn't you, if there were something so dire on Councilor Cithanekh's mind?"
"I hope so," Owl said gently. "But sometimes we hide things from those we care about—because we do not want to worry them; because we would shield them from the agonies we feel. Perhaps she did not tell you because she loved you too well."
Morekheth drew a shuddering breath. "Thank you for that," he whispered. "I have not found much to take comfort in. Please. Excuse me."
"Of course," Owl said; and Morekheth's steps moved away.
"Well, that was brilliantly done," Ancith remarked acidly. "Stir up the poor man's grief in public so that he can't put a brave face on it. Though why anyone would grieve the loss of that whey-faced—"
"Hold your tongue," Owl snapped.
"Don't take that tone with me!" Ancith cried, and snatching up a plate of savories, he flung it at Owl's face.
Lynx moved faster than thought. She caught the plate before it struck the Seer. Owl stood still in a harmless rain of pastries while Lynx set the serving dish carefully back on the table.
"Ancith," Rhydev said mildly, "no matter what the provocation, it is undignified to throw food. Apologize, if you please, and then we'll be going. You must have had more drink than you can manage."
"I'm not drunk—and I will not apologize," Ancith said mutinously.
Rhydev turned to Owl. "Permit me to apologize, then, on his behalf. I had no idea my young —mmm—protégé would disgrace himself with such a show of drunkenness and childish temper. I'm terribly, terribly sorry."
"Never mind," Owl said. "There's no harm done."
>
"You are graciousness itself. Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon."
As the two moved off, Ancith protested, "Rhydev, you—"
But the older man cut him off, in a tone that brooked no disobedience. "That's enough, Ancith."
Owl shuddered. Where's Cithanekh?
He's talking to Enghan Mebhare.
Better not interrupt that. Where's Arre?
She's with the Emperor at the far end of the hall.
Is the High Priestess Thyzhecci here?
Lynx scanned the gathering; it took her several moments to locate the woman. Yes. She's not alone. In addition to her attendants, Dhyrakh Dhenykhare is there.
Well, let's amble in that direction and see what happens.
Lynx threaded their way through the crowd. Snippets of conversation swirled around them like litter in a windstorm. "—I told him he'd never—" "—anyone with half an eye could see the mare was—" "—dicing and drinking 'til all hours—" "—there'll be no saving her if the child has blue eyes—" "—illness in the Windbringer's Temple—" "—what could Rhydev have been thinking?" "—strangest effect, as though she had two shadows—"
Owl slowed his steps as he tried to tease one conversation out of the tangle of voices. "…pouring coffee as serenely as ever while the shadow on the wall behind her leapt and danced like a mad thing…" "…an effect of the lighting? Sometimes, a badly trimmed lamp or a windblown candle…" "I'm sure you're right—but it was odd; and she's so calm and deliberate in her carriage."
Can you see them, Lynx? Do you know who they are?
See whom?
But the two women's voices had stopped, or dropped too low to be heard.
"Owl Ghytteve," a familiar voice greeted him.
"Khycalle Ynghorezh-Ythande. What a pleasure." The image of the Ythande Councilor, her bird on her shoulder and the whorls of tattoos on her face, flashed across his inner vision.
She fell in step beside him, laying a light hand on his arm. "I hear," she said very softly, "that you've been lucky again."
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