A Parliament of Owls

by Beth Hilgartner

  "Doesn't he make you uneasy—the Seer?" Klarhynne asked with a little shudder. "I would find it unnerving to think he might know more about me than I told him."

  "Where's you're sense of adventure?" Yverri laughed. "I think it just makes him more interesting. I like him. But you know, he may be too young to be thinking of marriage. I don't believe he's over twenty for all that he seems older."

  "He's eighteen," Klarhynne said.

  "Now, Klarhynne, how do you know that?" Centyffe demanded. "Are you nurturing a secret passion for the dashing Seer?"

  "Don't you remember? Her Majesty asked him how old he was, that day he visited, and I remembered, because he seems so much older than that."

  "Personally," Zhylande put in archly, "I don't think either one of them is thinking about marriage, Yverri."

  "And you wouldn't want to be married to someone who preferred men, surely?" Pakhrielle queried.

  "Why not?" Yverri asked. Though she tried to keep her tone light, there was an undercurrent of bitterness in her words. "It might be better than the alternatives. There's a good chance I could at least be friends with either Owl or Cithanekh—which is more than one can say about many noble marriages."

  "You don't believe in the romantic ideal, Yverri?" Lady Azhine asked.

  "No." The word was stripped of her usual easy humor. She met Lady Azhine's eyes and a look of shared understanding flashed between them, before Yverri went on more carefully. "No one asks us women what we want in a husband—they just assume they know. I don't imagine I'll love the man I wed, but I am optimist enough to hope that he and I will have something in common—even if only the ability to laugh at the same things and enjoy similar music."

  There was a silence as the other women studied Yverri. The married ones—Lady Azhine, Ceghorre Khyghafe Glakhyre and Elyrrothe Ythande Mebhare—had looks of sympathetic understanding, while the younger ones mostly looked shocked. Yverri managed to smile as she looked around at them all.

  "I didn't mean to throw a pall over the evening," she said—with a tolerable approximation of her usual light tone.

  "I always took you for a romantic, Yverri," Pakhrielle admitted.

  "Yes," Zhylande agreed. "It was fun to tease you when I thought you might be falling in love with those gorgeous Ghytteve men, but now…it sounds so calculating."

  "That isn't fair, Zhylande," Klarhynne said unexpectedly. "It doesn't have to be one or the other. You can dream a little, but still be realistic in your heart of hearts. If Owl Ghytteve were to fall at your feet, Yverri—"

  "He won't," Yverri insisted with a little smile.

  "How do you know?" Centyffe asked. "After all, maybe he's catholic in his tastes. He's quite friendly with the Emperor's foreign witch."

  "And that bodyguard," Averhacce said, raising an eyebrow. "He goes everywhere with her. One sees Councilor Cithanekh with a variety of his people, but Owl never takes a step without that eldritch creature of his."

  Yverri thought about Lynx for a moment, remembered seeing from across the room the impossibly quick interception of the serving platter Ancith had thrown at the Seer. "She's good. If I thought my life were in danger, I wouldn't want to go anywhere without her, either."

  "Oh, Yverri," Pakhrielle said in some dudgeon. "You can't possibly believe anyone would want to assassinate Owl Ghytteve! He isn't even a Councilor; he's only a very minor—adopted!—member of the Ghytteve."

  "Pakhrielle, where have you been?" Centyffe snapped. "He's a Seer, trained at the Kellande School; he's friends not only with the Emperor's strongest supporter on the Council, but with that foreign witch and the High Priest of the Windbringer. He's not only important, he's influential; and there are probably twenty nobles (including my cousin Rhydev) who would poison him in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself. Of course he's in danger."

  "But he's under the Emperor's protection," Pakhrielle insisted. "Who would dare to harm him?"

  "Under the Emperor's protection," Yverri said lightly, "and defended by a truly impressive bodyguard. You're right: he's safe as houses, Pakhri."

  "Where do you suppose he found that bodyguard?" Klarhynne asked. "Is she Fytrian, do you think—like Talyene's priest?"

  Yverri shrugged, but to her surprise, the youngest of the Queen's ladies, Lyssemarhe Ghytteve, spoke up timidly. "My sister Marhysse says she's an Eschaddande."

  "That's not possible," Klarhynne said, far more emphatically than she usually spoke. "No Eschaddande could—" She stopped, then went on more tentatively, "That is, everything I've read leads me to think that the people of Eschadd are far too proud to work as servants to foreigners."

  Yverri stared at Klarhynne for an instant. She wouldn't have thought the woman had any opinions, let alone the backbone to express them; and she could not remember ever having seen her with a book in her hand.

  "I'm only repeating what Marhysse said," Lyssemarhe mumbled. "Maybe I remembered it wrong. All those foreign places are only names on a map to me." She sighed.

  "Would you like to travel, Lysse?" Yverri asked quickly. It was so rare for Lyssemarhe to talk at all that she wanted to draw the girl out.

  "I would." Her expression softened. "I want to see all the far places I've only ever heard about." She paused, but none of the others interrupted; Yverri made an encouraging gesture and the girl went on. "I used to pester Owl to tell me all about Kalledann, and he would spend hours trying to portray its sounds and smells. I asked him to visit the Dragon's Lair—the great cave where Andrutil's dragon was supposed to have lived—and he went. He described it for me: the damp and chill, the quiet except for the drip of water somewhere deep within. He brought me a stone from there." She fished in her pocket and produced a plain, gray piece of rock, worn smooth by water. She held it on her palm for the others to see, before her fingers closed over it. "It is my most prized possession, since it came from—from a place I can only dream about."

  "Have you told your kin how you feel?" Lady Azhine asked, very gently. "Wouldn't they let you travel, if you asked?"

  Lyssemarhe shrugged. "I told my father I wanted to train to be a bodyguard, like Marhysse. But he said one of his daughters ought to behave like a proper lady. When Her Majesty asked for a lady in waiting from the Ghytteve, Papa sent me so I could see a bit of the world." She smiled wryly. "I don't think he had any idea how circumscribed our existence is."

  "But—" Yverri began.

  Lyssemarhe cut her off. "Don't worry about me; I'll have my chance. I'm only fourteen. When I've been here two years, I'll tell my father I want to do something different. And if he won't listen to reason, I'll go to the Duke. It's very simple, really." With a smile half-wistful and half-mocking, she added, "Unless I fall in love, of course. Then it will be complicated."

  "It sounds as if you're more that a bit in love with your cousin, Owl," Klarhynne observed.

  "I do love Owl," she admitted calmly, "but I'm not in love with him. He's like the elder brother I never had. And he and Cithanekh are so well-matched, I couldn't wish anything other for them."

  "Then why are you so sure it will be complicated if you fall in love?" Klarhynne pressed.

  She hunched one shoulder—a gesture Yverri had seen Owl use. "Because chances are good that I wouldn't fall in love with someone suitable. I'm not an important Ghytteve—but still, I am Ghytteve. Surely you know what I mean, Klarhynne; I should think you live in the same cleft stick."

  "Well!" Klarhynne bristled, and the others laughed. Then the conversation moved on, and Lyssemarhe dropped out of it. Yverri stopped paying attention, too, as she mulled things over. She heard again in her mind Klarhynne's comment in that curt, unfamiliar tone, and she wondered what could breed such certainty in a woman who spent her life trying to bend to the—often contrary—whims of those more powerful than she.

  Yverri emerged from her musings to realize that the ladies were getting up, preparing to retire. She rose with the rest, said her good nights, and turned her steps toward her bedchamber. She paused b
y the archway to take the lamp from its stand. Her room was at the end of the hall, and the corridor would be dark. As she started down the hallway, Klarhynne touched her arm. "Yverri?"

  "Yes?" Yverri turned to face her. The lamplight touched the other's plain face and cast her shadow on the creamy wall.

  "Do you think the next time you see Owl Ghytteve you could ask him where his bodyguard is from? I don't think Lysse could possibly have it right, but I didn't want to make her feel badly when she was just starting to come out of her shell. I am very curious about the bodyguard, though: she's so exotic looking. Will you ask?"

  A motion caught Yverri's attention. The shadow behind Klarhynne seemed suddenly to split into two; one was exactly as one would expect, but the other shadow waved its arms and shook its head, as though trying to tell Yverri something. Yverri made herself look at Klarhynne. "I can try," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to ask Owl things; he doesn't like people being too curious about him. But if I can work it into the conversation in some way, I will."

  "Thank you. I know I shouldn't ask you, but…thank you." Klarhynne turned away, but not before Yverri had seen a flash of something rather unnervingly like triumph in her eyes.

  "You're welcome," she responded automatically, watching the other woman and her shadow—now perfectly normal—as she walked away down the corridor. Finally, she continued toward her room. She was remembering Owl's words, lightly etched with acid, '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.' Yverri thought that the next time she saw Owl she would be quite careful to tell him all about Klarhynne's peculiar curiosity and uncharacteristic certainty—and the shadow: that had truly been strange. Yverri realized that she had a nasty, suspicious nature, after all—or perhaps such an attitude was contagious, and she had caught if from Owl. However it came about, though, she found that she did not like what she was thinking one bit.

  ***

  It was perhaps two hours before dawn when Ancith woke. Rhydev was still asleep, sprawled over a good two thirds of the bed. Ancith extricated himself carefully and padded silently to the window. Rhydev's bedchamber had the best view in the apartments—straight over the city to the harbor. Ancith leaned his elbows on the wide stone sill and gazed out into the darkness. The watch fires on the arms of the harbor were small, glowing eyes, guarding the sea. The moon had set, but the stars glittered against the black velvet like jewels on a courtesan's gown. Here and there, lights showed in city houses, mute testament to guilty consciences or pressing anxieties.

  Behind him, Rhydev rolled over and sighed. Ancith looked back and smiled wryly. In the faint glimmer of the night lamp by the door, Ancith could see that Rhydev had appropriated the second pillow.

  A breeze stirred, like the breath of a sleeper. It carried the faint tang of the sea, and the stronger smells of the city. Ancith frowned. At the Duke's house in Kharymasse the air was clean, unsullied by the odors of human occupation. The seat of the Dukes of Ghytteve was located inland, surrounded by the coffee plantations upon which the formidable wealth of his clan was founded.

  He didn't miss it, he told himself firmly, as he tried to remember one of the pithy things Rhydev had said: something about there being greater things for him to do than watch coffee beans ripen. Ancith knew he was capable of great things; he had a mind, a host of strengths and talents, and ambition—more ambition, certainly, than his brother, who was rising very fast in Court circles even without it.

  He saw his brother in his mind, as he had seen him at the Emperor's reception, from across the room. Cithanekh hadn't come to speak with him—no! He had expected Ancith to come to him. He tried to work himself into umbrage, but instead, he recalled his brother's face: thinner than he remembered, and shadowed with anxiety. Owl had looked drawn, too, now that he thought of it. Maybe they weren't so well suited, after all. Or maybe, his thoughts ran on, without his direction, maybe it was more taxing to chart the course of power than Rhydev seemed to promise.

  He sighed silently. Somehow, everything didn't seem quite as easy as it had when Rhydev had been explicating the political process over coffee laced with brandy. But Ancith didn't understand why it should be difficult for him. It hadn't been hard for Cithanekh to achieve eminence. He was the powerful Ghytteve Councilor—more influential, even, than the Duke. And it had all been handed to him. Cithanekh had never bothered to find himself a mentor and study the ways of intrigue; he had simply been appointed to Council on the Emperor's whim. It wasn't fair. But the image of Cithanekh's drawn face pushed against Ancith's indignation like the first stirrings of doubt.

  Ancith realized, then, that he wasn't going to go back to sleep. He retrieved his dressing gown from where it lay, carelessly discarded, on the floor and put it on. Then, he made his way silently through the chamber to the door and let himself out. The corridor was empty, though the lamps at either end of the hallway had been tended recently. On his way to his own room, Ancith came upon one of the servants.

  "Are the fires lit, Hassyn?" he asked. "Could I have bath water brought to my room?"

  "Of course, sir," the man replied. "At once."

  Ancith graced him with a smile. "Thank you."

  Later, as he soaked in the steaming, scented water, his thoughts went back to last night's painful incident and the argument that followed. It was easier to think about it when Rhydev wasn't distracting him. Perhaps his mentor had in truth miscalculated; or perhaps that was merely the explanation he thought Ancith would accept.

  Ancith thought back over their discussion, noting the questions Rhydev hadn't quite answered. Ancith remembered asking for whom Rhydev had been demonstrating his power over him—and Rhydev had denied that interpretation and taken the discussion in a different direction. But thinking back, Ancith was pretty sure he'd been close to at least one of Rhydev's objectives with that insight.

  He moved in the bath, sending a cloud of scented steam up as the water coursed around him. The problem with Rhydev was that it was never simply one thing; the man thought in spider webs of possibility. It was conceivable that he had meant everything he said to Ancith—but it was also more than likely that Ancith's interpretation had occurred to Rhydev as well, and been anticipated. So…for whom would Rhydev have been demonstrating?

  Who could possibly care whether Rhydev's current lover was fool enough to do whatever he asked? Put that way, Ancith had to admit that either he was wrong, or he simply didn't know enough about the convoluted motives of the other courtiers. Or was it simple, after all? Had Rhydev been hoping to goad Cithanekh?

  Bitterness twisted Ancith's expression, even though there was no one present to see. If that had been Rhydev's intent, Ancith could have told him not to bother. Cithanekh wouldn't care about his younger brother's private life; Cithanekh hadn't even offered to help Ancith find his way at Court—even though he had done his best to hint at it on those rare occasions Cithanekh had made the trip to Kharymasse. It still rankled, the way Cithanekh had ruffled his hair and said, "You can't know how much I envy you the clean air and simple life at Kharymasse, Ancith. I suppose you'll have to come to Court one day—but not yet! Enjoy your freedom, lad."

  Freedom, Ancith thought sourly. Freedom was a poor substitute for power and influence. He shifted again in the bath and reached for the towel. It was time he was up and doing; it was high time.

  Chapter Twenty-two—Schemes and Schemers

  It didn't take Ferret long to identify the owners—at least the owners of record—of the four Upper Town addresses Thantor's agent had supplied. One house was the property of the Dark Lady's order, used (according to Ferret's informant) by the upper echelon of priestesses, when they wanted more privacy than the Temple District complex could afford. Thyzhecci stayed there quite regularly, Ferret was told; and how her bravo, Rhodh, managed to infuse such innuendo into the simple words was almost a p
uzzle in itself. The second house belonged to the Ambhere. The Councilor's Palace apartments were far too small to accommodate the unending procession of her kin who had legitimate business in the King's City; the mines in Ambhere lands were rich, and their trading partners were far flung. The third house belonged to a merchant from the Federated States, one Lerestallon Antarines, who had a Bharaghlafi wife with social climbing aspirations. And the fourth house belonged to Anthagh, the slaver.

  Ferret frowned at that. Anthagh was a powerful figure in the rough world of the Slums—owner of half a dozen exclusive brothels and profitable gaming houses; extraordinarily astute dealer in human livestock; resourceful, perceptive and ruthless, Anthagh was the closest thing the Slums had to the Lord of a Council House—and the riptides of intrigue and influence that surrounded him were enough to daunt anyone of sense. As she raised her eyebrow, goading Rhodh to elaborate, he shifted uncomfortably.

  "He rents the property out," he explained, "but no one wanted to say more than that. He takes particular pride, I was told, in the privacy he affords his clients."

  Ferret nodded. "Thanks, Rhodh. I'm glad you didn't take stupid risks. I'll talk to Anthagh."

  "Master Ferret—" Rhodh started to protest, but Ferret cut him off with a poisonous smile.

  "He owes me; I'll just collect a bit of the debt. See if you can find out more about the Amartan merchant's wife. Is she noble—and if so, which House?"

  The man nodded and went out. Ferret sat for a moment longer, thinking, before she, too, left the Beaten Cur striding purposefully toward the largest of Master Anthagh's establishments.

  She found him on the first try. To her ironic amusement, his bodyguards showed her in to the opulent sitting room he used for his wealthier clients, and left her with a samovar while they went to find their master. She did not drink any of the coffee. Instead, she positioned herself where she could see the door, and waited. After a few minutes, one of Anthagh's men looked in on her; she raised an eyebrow at him and glanced pointedly at the untouched cups, and he went out again. A moment later, Anthagh came in.