A Parliament of Owls

by Beth Hilgartner

  "Some. I'm not good enough, yet, to need her skill, so mostly I work with Yrhazh or Yrhenne."

  "It must be different being here instead of thieving. Are you bored?"

  "Gods, no!" she laughed. "Everyone has been so good about teaching me things; the bodyguards help me with fighting; Effryn shows me how to manage household accounts, plan meals and order food; you and Cithanekh let me sit in on the politics and intrigue; and if I'm ever at loose ends, Pazhref can always find something for me to do in his kitchen. Indeed, I'm not bored—and I don't miss the Thieves' Guild, though I do miss some of my friends. I do hope I'll be good enough, by the time you don't need me as a decoy any longer, to stay on as one of the bodyguards."

  "If you want to stay on, Vixen, we'll find a place for you: bodyguard, assistant steward, whatever you'd like to do. We're rather deeply in your debt, you know."

  "I don't see it that way—I'm honored to help—but thank you. Can I get you something? A cool drink? Coffee?"

  "A cool drink would be nice, if you don't mind."

  "I'll be back," she said and slipped out the door.

  The latch clicked behind her, and without warning, Owl's mind was full of images: a pockmarked servant in a cell, shadows—two shadows—leaping crazily in the light from the lantern in a guard's hand; the Queen, her expression obdurate, arguing with Captain Ysmenarr; a crystal decanter with two fingers of brandy in it; Ancith talking with one of the Queen's Guard; Klarhynne Dhenykhare, pacing and wringing her hands; a carefully manicured hand pouring from a vial into the brandy decanter; a red-faced Dhyrakh Dhenykhare shouting at Cithanekh; disputing priestesses of the Dark Lady seated around a heavy, mahogany table; Rhyazhe Dhenykhare placing a lighted candle at the feet of the weathered statue in a rough, roadside shrine; a prowling tiger, beautiful and deadly; the hand, pouring from the vial; one of the priestesses, leaping to her feet and striking the table with her fist; the Dhenykhare judge, listening to Ysmenarr; the rack in the dungeons; the pockmarked prisoner, braiding strips of cloth; a man he didn't recognize, dressed in the stiff brocades and furs of the Federated States; the Emperor, deep in thought, pain and worry in his eyes.

  "Owl?"

  Vixen's voice pulled him free. "Yes?"

  "Here's your drink. Are you all right? You're very pale."

  "I'm all right, Vixen—just vision-ridden."

  "Anything I can help with?"

  "I don't think so." He gave a one-sided smile in her direction. "My visions are rather like fragments of a mosaic. Sometimes, I have an idea where things fit and each vision makes the pattern more complete; other times, like today, my Gift just dumps a cartload of pieces I didn't realize I would need to incorporate, and everything is jumbled and baffling." He sipped the drink, which was cool and mint-scented. "This is good. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Effryn wanted me to ask whether you wanted your lunch now, or if you'd rather wait for Cithanekh. The Councilor said he'd be late."

  "I'll wait," Owl told her, "unless you and Arre are starving."

  "Arre's gone out, and I'm not hungry. I'll tell him you'll wait." And without waiting for an answer, she departed on her errand.

  ***

  "I told you, Your Majesty," Captain Ysmenarr repeated, trying to keep his rising exasperation out of his voice, "the man Tharhyll turned himself in. You've seen the report. He said he couldn't live with himself, and that he hoped his testimony would prevent Owl Ghytteve from corrupting someone else to his nefarious schemes."

  "Yes—and that's the part I question, Ysmenarr," Queen Celave responded firmly. "It comes down to a matter of this Tharhyll's word against Owl Ghytteve's, doesn't it. It is, of course, reassuring to discover that the pastry cook poisoned the marzipan, but this accusation against the Seer doesn't make sense."

  "Surely, Your Majesty, that's a matter for the Fourth Court to settle."

  "Unless you have something utterly irrefutable against Owl Ghytteve, I don't want this to go to the Fourth Court at all. Don't you see it? If the Dhenykhare judge finds against the Emperor's pet Seer without overwhelming evidence, it's liable to push Khethyran too far. He'll reform the courts—and revoke the Council Houses' prerogative of judicial appointments."

  "He wouldn't dare!" Ysmenarr blurted. "That is, Your Majesty, surely the Emperor realizes how unpopular such a move would be."

  "Unpopular, Ysmenarr, with the nobles. I'm not convinced the nobles' opinion is a consideration that weighs very heavily with our beloved Emperor. Now, think about your little pastry cook. If you test him under torture and he still holds to his story, that makes it a little stronger—I'm not sure it's enough, but it would surely be a start. Other than that, can you think of any ways to corroborate his accusations of bribery? If they are not unassailable, Ysmenarr, I want the charges against Owl Ghytteve withdrawn."

  "Withdrawn? But Your Majesty—"

  "Withdrawn," she repeated, her voice hard.

  "I can't suppress evidence, Your Majesty," he protested.

  "Indeed you will, Ysmenarr—or I might see to it that allegations of corruption and bribery are made about you. Do you understand me?"

  He drew back; with effort, he kept his discomfiture out of his expression. "I understand what you require, Your Majesty," he said, keeping his tone bland. "What I do not understand is why you're suddenly protecting that charlatan."

  "I'm not protecting Owl Ghytteve," she said. "I'm protecting Klarhynne Dhenykhare—and you should make it clear to whomever owns your loyalty that I will not permit her in any way to be hurt or sullied in this sordid matter."

  "Klarhynne," Ysmenarr repeated softly, speculation bubbling in his brain. "So. It was directed at the foreign witch, after all. Did you know, Your Majesty?"

  Her smile was small and prim. "Of course not; but Klarhynne has always been protective of me—and I of her. See to it, Ysmenarr—unless you'd prefer that I have a little chat about you with Commander Bhenekh?"

  He bowed. "As Your Majesty commands."

  ***

  "Thank you for seeing me, Uncle Zherekhaf," Rhydev said as he seated himself at the place laid for him on the Prime Minister's table.

  "I'm always delighted to see my favorite nephew," the old man replied. He looked very tired, and gray; and he didn't sound particularly delighted. They chatted about inconsequential matters, Court gossip, and the silkworms' production, while luncheon was served by Zherekhaf's efficient staff. Finally, when the servants left the room with the last of the dishes, he said, "So, what can I do for you, Rhydev?"

  "Please don't misunderstand me, Uncle Zherekhaf. I am not trying to—mmm—insinuate that I think your faculties are failing, but it is obvious you're not as—mmm—robust as you once were. If you have not yet begun to think about laying aside the burdens of statecraft you have borne so faithfully and long, I would be much surprised."

  "You don't need to be so circumspect with me, Rhydev. Of course I have noticed I'm dying. So. What can I do for you?"

  Rhydev blinked as the carefully rehearsed phrases of his request unraveled to tatters at his uncle's unexpected frankness. "When you retire, Uncle Zherekhaf, I should like to be appointed Prime Minister. Would you—please—recommend me to His Majesty?"

  The old man leaned back in his chair and fixed his nephew with keen dark eyes. "Rhydev, I will not." He held up a hand to forestall the Azhere Councilor's protests, but Rhydev was too stunned to speak. "Forgive my bluntness, Nephew. I'm old and ill and tact is an effort for which I haven't the strength. You are very well placed where you are. As Azhere Councilor, you are perfectly positioned to protect the Silk Clans' interests—a task you do admirably, with great delicacy and finesse. But as Prime Minister, I fear you would try too hard to influence Khethyran's policies; you would want to shape, and sway him, to tangle him up in the webs of your intrigues until you felt he was the puppet and you the puppeteer. But the Scholar King is not susceptible to your methods; he would discern your ulterior motives and learn to distrust all your advice. I have too much respect for both
of you to bring you to such a pass."

  "Have you recommended someone else to succeed you?" Rhydev managed finally.

  Zherekhaf shook his head. "Khethyran has not asked my opinion—and I have not volunteered it. I suppose I shall have to speak to him, soon. Rhydev, I'm sorry, but truly, I think such an appointment would be disastrous—to you, to him and to the Empire."

  "Don't apologize, Uncle," Rhydev said. "I appreciate your—mmm—honesty—and your kind words. I am flattered by your praise and honored by your frankness."

  As the old man began to answer, he started to cough. When the coughing fit continued, Rhydev leapt up from the table. "I'll fetch you some brandy, Uncle," he said, and going to the sideboard, poured a glass from the crystal decanter. By the time he got to his Uncle's side, the old man had mastered the coughing. He wiped his mouth and eyes. "Thank you, my dear. Pour yourself a glass as well."

  As Rhydev went back to the sideboard, he slipped a small vial out of his pocket and palmed it. He filled his glass quickly, keeping his movements hidden from the old man by his broad, impeccably tailored shoulders. Before he replaced the stopper in the decanter, he tipped half the contents of the vial into the remaining brandy. When he returned to the table, he was perfectly poised.

  He did not stay much longer. They drank their brandies, and when Rhydev rose to leave, Zherekhaf did not try to convince him to remain.

  "I know you're tired, Uncle," Rhydev said. "So I shall leave you in hopes that, once I've gone, you'll lie down for a rest."

  Zherekhaf smiled crookedly. "I must look terrible for you to be so solicitous, Rhydev. Perhaps I shall have a nap. Good day."

  "Good day, Uncle."

  Rhydev left the dining room briskly, but his steps slowed as he walked through the adjoining chamber. Behind him, he could hear one of his Uncle's servants getting the old man up and fussing over him.

  "Let me pour you another glass of brandy, sir, and then I'll help you to your couch."

  Rhydev smiled to himself. The dose of ghyar he had used would bring heavy sleep to a healthy man; but in an old, ill, frail man, the drug suppressed the breathing enough to summon sleep's more permanent cousin.

  ***

  In the dungeons, there was a great deal of activity the prisoner could observe. They had put him in a cell near the main duty desk, and there were guards—Queen's Guard, Imperials and even the occasional Watch officer—coming and going constantly. They gossiped incessantly, too, and from the gossip, the prisoner learned (among many other things) that Owl Ghytteve was not being held in the dungeons at all. That information was annoying, though not alarming. When the guards began to talk about torture, the prisoner began to worry. One of the men on duty noticed that the prisoner was listening, so with a malicious leer, he gave him the details.

  "You see, your accusations against the Ghytteve fellow are just your word against his," the guard told him. "So the Captain decides your testimony will carry more weight if you stick to it under torture. The Captain's gone off to see if he can get the necessary orders from the judge in the Fourth Court." He laughed with sly cruelty. "Are you finding it too warm in here? You're sweating of a sudden."

  The prisoner turned away and went back to sit on the meager bed. Much later, when the shift had changed and there were fewer guards on duty, he removed his tunic and began methodically to tear it into strips.

  ***

  When Cithanekh returned for his late lunch, several hours after noon, he brought Arre and Thantor with him.

  "Did you pass a pleasant day, Owl?" he asked as Effryn brought in the chilled cucumber soup.

  "Not bad. And you?"

  Cithanekh laughed a little ruefully. "Pleasant isn't precisely the word. Khethyran asked me to practice some of my powers of persuasion on Dhyrakh. One of Thantor's agents turned up one of Dhyrakh's hired Waterfront agitators—paid to escalate the conflict with the longshoremen again—and the Emperor thought I might be able to make my colleague come to a more reasonable frame of mind."

  "Did you manage it?"

  "Well, no. I wouldn't say he's reasonable. But with the proof that the shipbuilders have been inciting violence, the Emperor felt it was justifiable to lay the responsibility for Waterfront peacekeeping on the Dhenykhare. It gave me considerable satisfaction to inform that conniving bastard he would be fined—and heavily—if there's any further unrest on the docks."

  Owl smiled. "Good work, Donkey."

  "It wasn't my work—just one of my agents. Speaking of work, Owl, I've had one of the Imperial interrogators trying to pry more detail out of the pastry cook. One of the times he said he met you coincided with a time you were out with Lynx and Arre; and a second was a time when you were out with Lynx and Cezhar. Of course, someone will raise the point that you and Arre are supposed to have cooked up this scheme together, so her testimony may not be conclusive, and the Fourth Court will treat Cezhar's testimony as suspect on principle, but it's a help that Tharhyll didn't happen to mention someone being with you in addition to Lynx."

  Owl nodded. "I'm not concerned about how the evidence will play at the trial—the Fourth Court judge will have been bought, in any case. Is it enough to allay the Emperor's fears?"

  "I don't know. I wanted to talk with him this morning, but he was meeting with the Prime Minister—so I went to the Temple District, instead. I haven't had a chance to discuss it with him."

  "He really doesn't doubt you, Owl," Arre said. "He's just looking for a way to clear you that doesn't involve him stifling charges."

  "I know that," Owl said, managing to smile almost normally. "It's just that it would have been nice to be able to sit in one of the fountain courts on a day as hot as this one."

  They were nearly done with the meal when Cezhar came in, Commander Bhenekh on his heels.

  "I apologize for interrupting," the Commander said, "but the Emperor sent me to fetch Thantor and Councilor Cithanekh to his presence immediately."

  "What has happened?" Arre demanded. "Can you tell us?"

  "Prime Minister Zherekhaf died very peacefully in his sleep this afternoon."

  "Poor man," Cithanekh murmured as he pushed his plate aside and rose to leave. "He's been failing visibly, these last few weeks. I'm glad it was peaceful."

  "His death may have been peaceful," Thantor muttered, "but the political aftermath is likely to be anything but. Thanks for lunch, and I'm sorry to run off."

  "I'll see you later, Owl," Cithanekh said. "If I'm not back for dinner, don't wait for me."

  Owl nodded absently in answer—so as not to alarm his friend—but his mind was swamped by images: Zherekhaf's chain of office, lying on a polished table; the tiger, lashing its tail; the decanter, all but empty; a rope of braided strips of rough cloth; the Queen, talking earnestly with Councilor Enghan Mebhare; Captain Ysmenarr, printing crude letters on a scrap of bad paper; the Admiral and his bodyguards, set upon by ruffians; Ancith, his eyes narrowed in fury; Klarhynne, pacing; two of the Dark Lady's priestesses, shouting at each other while the others watch; Rhyazhe Dhenykhare, counting coins into a black leather satchel.

  Arre's hand closed gently on Owl's shoulder. "Steady there," she said. "What are your visions telling you?"

  "That it's not over," he murmured.

  "I knew that," Vixen quipped, "and I'm not even Sight-Gifted. Come on, Owl. You should at least try the sherbet; Pazhref and I spent all morning squeezing the limes for it."

  Chapter Thirty-six—Propositions

  Commander Bhenekh brought them to the door of one of the smaller meeting rooms near the Council chamber. At his gesture, the two Imperials on guard opened the door and ushered Cithanekh and Thantor into the Emperor's presence. Khethyran was seated at the table, both elbows on the polished surface, and his chin in his hands. He looked up as they entered and made their obeisance, but his grave expression did not lighten.

  "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Cithanekh said quietly. "Zherekhaf was a good man and I know you relied upon him."

  "Yes. It's a blow,"
the Emperor replied. "Of course, I knew it was coming—but not so soon. I saw him only this morning. He advised me to reform the courts." Khethyran smiled sadly. "It's a shame he didn't live to see me do it—or to try."

  "You've made up your mind, then?" Thantor asked.

  The Emperor nodded. "The Council Houses will scream, but Zherekhaf seemed to think that they could be brought to accept the reforms."

  "Some of the Council Houses will scream. The Ghytteve will support you—and the Ykhave will, as well," Cithanekh assured him.

  "I know you'll support me, Cithanekh, but do you honestly think Duke Alghaffen won't even murmur to lose the right of judicial appointment?"

  Cithanekh's face brightened into an almost mischievous smile. "The last time he had to appoint a judge, he wrote me five letters full of names and complaints. If he so much as whimpers, I'll remind him of how much he enjoys the appointment process."

  "Speaking of your esteemed Duke, I have a letter here that I've drafted to him." Khethyran pulled a letter out of a stack of papers and slid it across the table toward Cithanekh. "I'd like your opinion—yours, too, Thantor."

  Cithanekh held the sheet so that they could both read it. It was written in the Emperor's own, distinctive handwriting. After the salutation and some polite inquiries into the Duke's health and affairs, it read:

  By the time this letter reaches you, you will no doubt have heard of the death of Our much beloved Prime Minister, Zherekhaf Azhere. In the strictest confidence, you should understand that it is in Our mind to promote to that high office your kinsman, Cithanekh, who has served the Empire and Us well and faithfully these last six years. Since this would leave the Ghytteve Council seat vacant, We write at this time to ask for your recommendations for that position. While it is certainly true that there are many Ghytteve clan members who would serve admirably on the Council, one of your kin, Owl Ghytteve, has come to Our attention. We have been most impressed by his wit and discretion, and have great cause to be grateful for his work upon Our behalf, so if there is no superior candidate for the Council seat in your mind, We would most gladly honor Owl in this way.