He woke, some time later, as the door opened. He smiled welcome: Cithanekh. The young lord closed the door, then tossed something to Owl.
"Catch."
Owl's beggar reflexes plucked the posy out of the air. He buried his nose in the flowers to hide his sudden prickle of tears. Cithanekh ruffled his hair.
"I asked Ycevi if I could take you down to the Temple Gate this afternoon, but she said no. So I did the best I could." He produced a sticky bun, carefully wrapped in oiled paper, a reed pipe festooned with braided ribbons, and a round package, wrapped in a piece of green silk and tied with a bow.
"Thanks," Owl said, his voice a little tight. "I was feeling sorry for myself."
His lips twitched. "I wonder how I knew you would be."
Owl scrabbled open the paper on the sticky bun and broke it in half. "Share with me?" he invited. "Or are you already full?"
The young lord took the proffered bun. "A fair isn't much fun if you're on your own."
"Don't you have friends among the other lords?"
Cithanekh's expression hardened, though he managed to keep his tone light, slightly mocking. "No. My acquaintance is neatly divided into those who think I will make a useful tool to their hands, and those who would like to be a useful tool in mine."
"Which am I?" Owl asked, troubled.
Cithanekh brushed a strand of hair off Owl's forehead. "You," he said at length, "are in a category all your own."
"Is that why they keep me locked in the library?" Owl asked dryly.
Cithanekh's unguarded laughter lit his face. "Must be," he agreed. "Now, won't you open the package?"
Owl did. Nestled in the shimmery green folds was a bracelet: ivory, carved very cleverly into a pattern of birds and grape vines. The birds were of two kinds, hawk and owl. The owls' eyes were chips of topaz, the hawks', jet; and nestled under the leaves were clusters of amethyst grapes.
"I've never seen anything so beautiful," Owl breathed.
"Two things: let me show you." Cithanekh's long fingers found the hidden catch, and the bracelet sprang open on a nearly invisible hinge. "This is one you can put on and take off at will, Owl; and then, there's this. First hawk, third owl," he said as he pressed them gently. With a faint click, a panel on the inside of the bracelet slid aside, revealing a narrow chamber. "It was so clever, and so beautifully made, I couldn't resist it; but I don't really know what you could use it for." He demonstrated how to close the compartment, then handed the bracelet back to Owl, who put it round his right wrist and pushed it up his arm so that it was hidden by his sleeve.
"I could hide poison," he whispered, fierce, "for Ycevi."
"You mustn't jest about that," Cithanekh warned. "It's damned tempting, but it's been tried—and never with satisfactory results."
"I wasn't jesting—I was wishing; I'll stop if it worries you. No one has ever given me a beautiful thing before. Thank you." His hand felt the hard shape of the bracelet through the fabric of his sleeve. "Will they really let me keep it?"
"If they don't," he responded, his brilliant eyes narrowing, "they'll regret it."
Cithanekh's threatening mien reminded Owl uncomfortably of Lady Ycevi. He shivered and looked for something to take his mind off the memory. "Show me how to play the pipe?" he asked, holding it out to the man.
Cithanekh demonstrated where the fingers went, and played a twittering tune. When Owl tried, it shrilled like a mad thing. He laughed. "It doesn't like me!"
"You're blowing too hard. Pretend you're whispering."
After some experimentation, Owl managed to coax a passable tone from the thing; he put it away, tucking it behind a row of heavy books, promising to practice when he was alone.
"I'll drive them all crazy: Myncerre and Elkhar and all the rest who guard me—and it will serve them right."
As he turned away from the bookcase, he felt a swooping behind his eyes. The room disappeared. His vision was filled, suddenly, with the hot, red glow of coals: a brazier; and beside it, rows of wooden-handled silver implements. Elegantly manicured hands arranged the implements over the hot coals. A sense of menace grew in Owl like the need to scream. The winking of a sapphire ring tugged at Owl's memory. Then, the focus of his vision widened. It was Rhydev Azhere who sat before the brazier, intent upon the heating implements. As Owl watched, the Council Lord selected one and approached his victim...
"No," Owl whimpered, shaking his head from side to side as though physically to dislodge the vision. The victim would not come into focus: only a bared, thin arm, strapped to a chair. The glowing tip of the implement approached, appallingly; then it kissed the skin. "NO!" Owl cried and his vision went fuzzy.
Suddenly, the boy felt hands on his shoulders. Cithanekh was shaking him. "Owl?"
Owl lowered his hands and opened his eyes.
"Owl!" Cithanekh's worried face was inches from his own.
"Oh, gods," Owl whispered, white.
"What? Owl, are you all right? What frightened you?" He breathed the last three words.
"I don't dare tell you. What if they're listening?" Owl replied in a careful, dismayed whisper.
Cithanekh pulled him into his arms. "We'll tell them you're homesick," he murmured against Owl's ear. "Pretend to cry."
It was no pretense. Owl was so afraid and unnerved that when he loosed his control, weeping overwhelmed him. Cithanekh held him, let him cry. The door opened to admit Myncerre.
"Poor Owl," she said softly. "Is he sick again?"
"Homesick," Cithanekh said; then suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Sick again. What do you mean?"
"He was ill during the night," the steward explained. "He's not used to such rich food."
"Haceth. Oh, gods." His voice was heavy with pain. Suddenly it rose to an angry cry. "That bitch!"
"Cithanekh." Myncerre was urgent. "It's not haceth." She laid an open palm over her heart. "Blood and honor, not haceth."
Owl trembled in his arms. Cithanekh gentled him, pressed his cheek against the boy's hair. His gaze met Myncerre's, his face chill with bleak understanding. "She means to use him to control me," he stated. For a tense, watchful instant, neither of them moved. Then the young lord closed his anguished eyes and his shoulders slouched in defeat. "And it will work."
Owl pulled away enough to look into Cithanekh's face. "You mustn't let it work," he said, his voice rough with tears, but his expression determined. "She can't kill me; she'd lose her hold entirely. And I'm used to beatings."
"She's ruthless. If beatings don't serve, she'll use torture: hot irons and broken bones."
"You do what you must," Owl said steadily, "and I will bear whatever I must."
Cithanekh took Owl's face in his long hands and searched the boy's eyes. "And when she comes to me and says, 'You will do as I say, or I will pluck out his eyes,' what shall I do?"
"Do what is right, and I will bear what I must. I don't want to be blind, but still less do I want to be the knife at your throat."
"Oh, brave," Cithanekh murmured. "You shame me."
"I don't mean to shame you," Owl said, fierce. "I mean to give you hope."
As she listened, Myncerre's eyes, bright as jewels in the mask of her face, filled with tears. She turned away, so that neither of them would notice. Her movement drew Cithanekh's attention. "The Lady's faithful ears," he commented in a tone which flayed feelings. "What will you make of this, in your report?"
Almost against her will, she jerked back to face him. Tears streaked her cheeks; she saw his surprise. "I will answer what I am asked," she said, bland as milk, "as I must." Then, she stalked out, locking the door behind her.
In the silence the steward left, Owl murmured, "Why must she control you?"
Cithanekh looked unutterably weary, sad and bitter. "She means to make me Emperor, and she intends to hold the leash."
Doubt clutched his stomach with chill talons. "You don't want it, do you?" he managed.
"Want it?" Cithanekh demanded, with passionate scorn. "Gods, Owl, I'd rathe
r die cleanly." The fire faded from his face, leaving misery. "I need to talk with you where we won't be overheard," he added in an undertone.
Owl nodded solemnly. For a moment, both were silent, then Owl managed a small, hopeful smile. "Will you help me with my reading?" he asked in a normal tone. "I tried on my own, earlier, but it's hard without a teacher."
Cithanekh fetched down a book. "Tomorrow," he said reflectively, "I'll bring writing tools with me. For one thing, it's easier to practice writing on your own—and it's a useful skill."
Chapter Fifteen—Interrogation
Ferret swam back to awareness through swells of aching dizziness. The light in the room pulsed in time to her head's throbbing. She focused on a candle flame and tried to adjust to the earth's slow spin. Her stomach rebelled with a wrenching heave. A hand steadied her head, another shoved a basin under her mouth.
"Spare the carpet," an ironic voice suggested.
When she was done, he wiped her face with a square of linen. As Ferret managed to sit up, she fixed the man with an accusing glare. He was handsome, his dark hair silvered at the temples; a neat, pointed beard accented clean features. And she recognized him: the man who had been in the Replete Feline with the Lady's puppy. She reached for his name; her mind felt thick; the spark failed to catch. She wondered if he remembered their brief, chance encounter. A score of questions assailed her but she bit them back. Let him ask, since he'd gone to this trouble.
He arched an elegant eyebrow, mocking, as though he read her resolve. "So. You're Ferret—the youngest Journeyman in the Thieves' Guild. Hardly what I'd expected, given your—mmm—reputation; but I suppose anyone would appear to disadvantage, vomiting over a basin."
"Reputation? I daresay it's naught but a pack of lies—to drive your Watch's price up."
"What makes you say they're Watch?" the elegant man asked, his calm slightly flapped.
"Any Slum-rat can smell the Watch thirty yards off." She raked him with scornful eyes, noting the heavy gold chain of office round his neck. She made out the device on the medallion: a butterfly within a six-pointed star. The piece clicked in her slow brain. This was Rhydev Azhere; Council Lord for House Azhere, Sharkbait had said. Azhere, not Ghytteve. And those two Houses were often at one another's throat. She wondered if this were cause for hope. "What do you want with me, Lord Azhere?"
The flicker of surprise her question caused was gone so swiftly, she wondered whether she had imagined it. "Rhydev," he corrected, suave. "You must call me Rhydev. We're going to be friends; we mustn't stand on—mmm—ceremony."
"What do you want with me, Rhydev?" she repeated, refusing to be sidetracked by his hints of friendship.
"I'd like to know why you killed Cyffe Ghytteve."
"I knew this was all a mistake," Ferret said, disgustedly. "I'm a thief, not an assassin; I've never killed anyone."
"I have testimony that Cyffe Ghytteve was tailing you. She was observed following you from the Whistling Pig to the Landlubber; after you left the Landlubber, she followed you toward another tavern: the Star and Sextant. She was found dead—knifed—in a nearby alley. You never made an appearance in the Star and Sextant. It seems a reasonable guess that you were the last person to see her alive. Believe me: it is to your—mmm—advantage to tell me what you know about all this. Even if you didn't kill her, it seems probable that you know who did. Mind, I have neither need nor desire to serve as an—mmm—instrument of Ycevi Ghytteve's revenge, but the Watch wants answers. The rule of law survives on the waterfront, where it doesn't in the Slums. If you won't tell me what you know, young thief, I will have no choice but to turn you over to the Watch and their—mmm—ungentle questioning."
Ferret shuddered. She had heard tales of the Watch's interrogation methods.
"On the other hand," he continued, turning a studious gaze on his neatly manicured fingernails, "there may be room for—mmm—collaboration between us. House Azhere is no friend of Ghytteve. I'm inclined to be grateful for Cyffe's demise—however it came about. If you were to confide in me, we might find one another of mutual use."
Ferret's mind churned ponderously through implications and shades of meaning. She didn't think she wanted to be of use to him, and she was determined not to implicate Sharkbait. "I canna tell you what I dinna know, Lord Rhydev," she said, taking refuge in feigned ignorance.
Rhydev Azhere tapped steepled forefingers meditatively against his even front teeth while he regarded Ferret. Finally, he sighed. "I'm too softhearted, I fear. It makes me quite—mmm—sad to think of you with the Watch and their hot irons. Their current Interrogator is rather a butcher—no finesse, and such scars." He shook his head regretfully.
Ferret flinched. "How can I tell you what I dinna know?"
"Whom do you seek to protect?"
"Protect?" she demanded. "Gods and fish! I've no way even to protect myself!"
"You could start by telling me what you know."
"I dinna know aught!" the thief countered indignantly. "Happen you want me to make something up?"
"Remember," Rhydev Azhere warned, cool. "I have testimony. Cyffe Ghytteve was known to be following you."
Ferret kept her face impassive while conjecture heaved in her sluggish brain. Testimony. That meant someone in the Guild had betrayed her. She battened down her outrage, and spun lies and truth together as fast as she could. "You've been paid in tin Nobles, no mistake. I know naught of this Cyffe Ghytteve, but I do know I've rivals in the Guild. No one makes Journeyman as young as me without putting thorns into some tender prides. If you got your information from Ybhanne, or any of her people—or from Theffeth, for that matter—they're just trying to make me trouble." She chose her names with care: Ybhanne had a spreading organization, and she hated Khyzhan; and Theffeth, as the Guildmaster's right hand, held his cloak over a vast number of minor Masters and Journeymen. "It's true enough," she went on, "that I was on the waterfront. I was doing an errand for my Master; but I completed it at the Landlubber, and then went home. No one was following me; I am a Journeyman, and I would notice. Happen it was convenient I was there, for whoever's spun yon yarn, but I wasn't this Cyffe's quarry."
Doubt knit Rhydev Azhere's brow—quickly smoothed away. "Innocence is no defense against pain," Rhydev warned.
"Innocence is useless," she said bitterly. "And clearly, ignorance is dangerous. And pain..." She shivered. "Suffering is stupid. Dinna you think I'd tell you if I knew aught?"
Rhydev Azhere was silent, inscrutable. Then he rose, went to the desk and struck the small table cymbal there. When in answer, a man in blue and silver livery appeared in the doorway, Rhydev said, "Bring a brazier, and send Ghorran to me."
The servant bowed. After he had gone, Rhydev removed a rectangular wooden box from a drawer in the desk and opened it. Slowly, he removed a series of wooden-handled silver implements. Some were long and thin, like darning needles; others had flat disks on the end; one was shaped like a tiny trident. As Rhydev laid them out on the desk in a ritualistic pattern to glint with candlelight, the servant returned with the brazier. Rhydev arranged the metal implements, one by one, over the hot coals. Sweat broke on Ferret's brow.
An unremarkable man, plainly dressed, entered then, and bowed to the Council Lord. At Rhydev Azhere's small nod, he took Ferret by the arm and propelled her to a wooden chair. With strength born of terror, she fought him, twisting and biting in his grip. But it was no use. In a trice, her wrists and ankles were lashed to the chair.
Rhydev Azhere removed a skewer from the brazier and approached Ferret. Her eyes seemed irresistibly drawn to the glowing tip of the implement.
"Now," Rhydev said softly. "Tell me what you know about Cyffe Ghytteve's death."
"I told you: naught!"
"You've told me nothing," he agreed quietly. "But you must tell me something." The glowing tip of the skewer descended toward her forearm. "Can't you remember anything?"
"I dinna know aught!" she cried, frantic. She could feel heat as the skewer hovered over he
r skin. It bit, searing. She gave a gasping cry. Rhydev withdrew the skewer and moved it half an inch toward her wrist. "I dinna—know—aught!" Ferret repeated unsteadily. It stung again and she shrieked.
"For whom are you working?" Rhydev asked, replacing the skewer in the brazier and removing one of the tools with a disk on the end.
She shot an apprehensive look at the glowing disk, then wet her lips nervously. "I'm one of Khyzhan's," she whispered. She could almost hear her Master's voice, advising: 'Misdirect with truth, whenever possible.'
"Against Ghytteve?" the Lord pressed.
"I know naught about Ghytteve!" she cried passionately.
The flat disk hissed against her arm; she screamed. After an eternity, Rhydev replaced the implement in the coals.
"What errand was it which sent you from tavern to tavern on the waterfront?" the Azhere Council Lord asked. His hand hovered indecisively over the handles of his silver tools; finally, he removed the trident.
"I was seeking one of Khyzhan's bravos," she said dully.
"Why?"
"I had a message: Guild business."
The glowing trident surged nearer. "What was it?" he purred, deadly.
"Khyzhan wanted his man to tail a fellow posing as a foreign sailor; the Guild suspected the stranger of operating within its bounds without sanction." It was a common enough tale. She hoped it would deflect the lord's questioning.
"And Khyzhan's man's name?"
"I canna tell you that," she protested, shocked. "It's a Guild secret."
Three pronged pain blazed up her arm; he had jabbed deeply. "His name?"
"Rakhazh!" she screamed.
The other man nodded. Rhydev withdrew the trident. Tears ran down Ferret's cheeks; she made no effort to check them. Rhydev studied her for several moments, then turned to his man with a shrug. "Well, Ghorran?"
"Could be true: it's a common enough story. And Rakhazh is one of Khyzhan's. But by the same token, it could be a clever lie." He picked up a skewer and brought it slowly toward Ferret's cheek. "So tell us about the girl who followed us after we nabbed you: the pretty little beggar lass who works the crowd in the Temple Gate."