Ferret eyed them dubiously. "I'd best go back to the Trollop and tell Sharkbait to keep his distance for a while."
"You can't do that," Venykhar said. "The Slums are aflame with Guild war."
"Guild war," Ferret repeated. "Thieves Guild war?" At their nods, she swore. "Gods and fish; it was Ybhanne—must have been. But that just means I have to go back. They're fighting over me, over who betrayed me, and all; happen Khyzhan will cool things if he knows I'm safe and not much damaged."
"We can't let you—" the flute maker began.
She cut him off with a feral grin. "You canna stop me, Lord Venykhar. See here," she added more gently. "I'm a Journeyman in the Thieves Guild. I know I play young-and-stupid most of the time, but I'm older and smarter—and a good bit more ruthless—than I act. A Guild war's dangerous; but I know the Slums, and I willn't be careless."
"She's right," Arre said, her gaze distant. "She's needed."
Kerigden touched Ferret's wrist. "Listen: if you or your friends need a place to hide, a place of safety, come to me here. Once the Guild war burns itself out, come anyway. If Elkhar Ghytteve is really bent on combing the Slums for you and Mouse, it would surely be wise to be elsewhere."
"I will, then," she said. She got to her feet, and including them all with her eyes, thanked them and bade them farewell.
Chapter Seventeen—Guild War
The streets were worse—far worse—than Ferret had anticipated. Not only were there knots of bitter factional fighting, there were bands of hunting bravos bent on running down anyone they could flush out of cover.
She wound deeper into the Slums, making for the Trollop's Smile. As she slipped past the mouth of a shadowed alley, warning came to her on a breath of fetid air. She turned just in time to see movement, deep in the shadows; so she was sprinting for her life before the two men broke cover.
They were fast; she didn't think she could outrun them. And her quick ears caught the noises of fighting all too close. She darted down a side street and clambered up the scarred face of an abandoned tenement. He pursuers did not follow.
Before she could catch her breath, she realized she was not alone: three men moved with deliberate menace toward her perch. Ferret thought fast. They thought she was cornered; they were between her and the side of the building which leaned closest to its neighbors. On the clear side, there was a ghastly long jump to a second building, fire-scarred and derelict. One of the men drew a knife; they were laughing. They didn't expect her to try the jump—or to survive it.
Ferret sprinted away from them. There wasn't time to think, just to leap, and pray she'd make it and that the roof tiles would hold. She made the distance, but the agonized complaint of the roof beams drove her on. She raced lightly over the raddled tiles, made a second, easier jump to a sturdier building, and scrambled down a gutter-spout to rest, panting, in the space between a pile of refuse and a shadowed doorway.
From her hiding place, Ferret watched her earlier pursuers running their current prey. He wasn't as fast as she had been, but he was larger: a solid, blond foreigner who did not seem so much frightened as affronted. He stopped with a curse, and drew his knife. The two bravos circled in, intent and deadly.
Ferret recognized the thieves, though the foreigner was a stranger. The bravos were Ybhanne's; Khyzhan held grudges against both of them. They were good, and they often fought as a pair. The foreigner hadn't gotten his back to the wall, and though he certainly knew how to use his knife, one of his attackers was inching his way around to his back.
Sudden anger filled Ferret. Not only was it unfair, but when they killed the foreigner, they would be all too close to her hiding place; and even the rooftops weren't a safe haven, now. She didn't want to be trapped between death on the ground and death on the roofs. There was a loose cobble by her foot. She picked it up and hefted it, judging its weight. She chose her moment with care and flung the stone into the fray. It caught one of the bravos an ugly smack on the jaw. He staggered; and in the instant's surprise that gained him, the foreigner killed his other assailant. Then, he whirled and dispatched the second thief before he could recover.
Ferret heard more running footsteps. "Hsst! In here," she breathed to him; the foreigner was winded and bleeding. "Quick."
He dove into the shadows beside her an instant before a troop of hunters came around the corner. Ferret and the foreigner held still, not even daring to breathe, until they had moved on.
"It's my life I owe you," he whispered. "I thank you."
Before Ferret could reply, they heard cries: they had been spotted from above, and the ground hunters were being summoned to the chase. "Gods and dead fish!" she swore. "Split up—and go to ground." Without waiting to see whether he followed her advice, Ferret sprinted away.
Thankfully, the Trollop wasn't far. Ferret flew through the refuse-scattered streets to the kitchen door. She dove inside, slammed the door and leaned against it, panting.
"Ferret!" Sharkbait cried. He strode to her side and reached to grip her shoulders.
"Gently," Ferret warned, holding her bandaged arm out of the way. "I'm more than glad to see you, too." She swept the kitchen with a glance: Sharkbait, beside her; and Donkey, patiently slicing bread—but grinning in spite of himself. "Where are Kitten, Squirrel and Mouse?"
"Taproom," Donkey said. "Kitten and Squirrel are serving—I'm in disgrace—and Mouse is with her parents. Ferret, what happened? And how did you escape?"
She told the tale, leaving out only Sharkbait's relationship to the Emperor, and the details of her wild trip through the Guild war's lines. When she was done, Sharkbait spoke from his corner. "Donkey, don't tell the others."
"Why not?" Ferret demanded sharply.
"The Ghytteve are looking for you, for Kitten (whom they know by name and sight) and Mouse (by name). If they should chance to find any of you—may all the gods forfend—what you've just told us is enough to doom Owl. The Windbringer Temple, Venykhar, Arre, and I are all helping you; one doesn't need to be Elkhar Ghytteve to find that suspicious. You asked me once, Ferret, if I were using you; I said I wasn't, and I'm not. But there isn't a Council House noble alive who would believe me (or you) now, if they knew how many—and how disparate—are your allies."
"But—" Ferret began, before Donkey interrupted.
"No, Ferret; Sharkbait's right. Happen we'll tell them when this Guild war cools and we take refuge with yon Windbringer priest. But not yet. You kept Sharkbait out of it with Azhere; but do you honestly think Kitten could do the same? Or Squirrel?"
"Or Mouse?" Sharkbait put in.
Donkey looked at him, the shrewdness showing through his mask for an instant. "Mouse might. She's clever and stubborn."
"And brave," Ferret added. "All right; I dinna like it, but happen it's best—for the moment. Tell them I was here, and that I'm all right. Make something up, if you need to, about my getting away. I'm off to find Khyzhan."
"Wait," Sharkbait said. "I'll leave with you; I'd best be off to the waterfront."
"But you're hurt," Donkey protested.
"I'm better than I was. Besides, I'm a danger to you—and to Owl—if I stay." He came to Ferret's side; she noted that he was moving almost normally. "Ready?" At her nod, they slipped into the streets.
It took Ferret hours to find the Master Thief. When she finally ran him to earth, though he was glad to see her free and not permanently damaged, he would make no promises concerning the cooling of the Guild war.
"I want Ybhanne's organization destroyed," he said wolfishly. "She's overstepped; and from what you tell me, she's belonged to Azhere for a long time. The Guild willn't have it; we canna tolerate treachery. But Ybhanne knows that, and she's fighting for her life. There will be no quarter asked nor given until one of us is dead."
"May it be her and may it be soon," Ferret replied. "Guild war is hard on everyone."
"Indeed." Khyzhan looked at her suddenly. "Do you need a place to go to ground, Ferret?"
"Thanks, but no, Mas
ter. I have my own boltholes."
"Well, have a care for your skin, Journeyman."
She departed from the Master's temporary headquarters and made for the Trollop. But the bravos were thick in that quarter, so prudence forced her out of the Slums. Sharkbait had told her of one of his places: a waterfront warehouse. She arrived at the door just as the waning moon cleared the horizon.
One of Sharkbait's longshoremen let her in and sent her into a room full of bales of wool. Ferret made herself a nest and went to sleep. Much later, footsteps woke her. She jerked up to find Sharkbait, a small lamp in his hand, coming slowly toward her.
He stopped before her, studying her silently. Ferret stared back, while the last sleepy cobwebs were scoured from her mind by a deep unease. "Sharkbait?" she whispered; and when he did not respond, she said, "Antryn."
"They told you," he said, finally. "And don't say: 'What?' I can see it in your face."
"I haven't told anyone else," she said. "Not even Donkey. It's still a secret."
"Do you see why it matters? Think of Cithanekh."
"You dinna want to be used," Ferret said simply. "Happen I can understand that."
"When I was a child, my father often told me I had to live up to my heritage: 'Antryn,' he'd say, 'you must prove yourself worthy of the blood you bear.' But it wasn't true. The blood I bear is nothing but trouble. It makes the schemers see me as a tool or a threat, and the toadies see me as a master. And always—always!—it puts my friends into danger.
"Last night—gods! Last night was awful. I thought you were dead, Ferret, that Azhere would kill you. I started the Guild war; Kitten saw you kidnapped, but I reported it to Khyzhan. And through it, I kept thinking I should run, hide; you'd tell Rhydev about 'Sharkbait' and he would remember Antryn—and all my vain attempts to excise my heritage would be undone. But I couldn't do it; I couldn't run." The lamp flame jumped as his hand clenched and trembled. "I thought nothing mattered to me more than freedom—survival on my own terms; I thought I'd safely cauterized all dangerous sentiments. But there I was, as helpless as I've ever felt—like a nightmare, where you see yourself doing stupid things but are powerless to stop." His head came up, then, and turned, listening. The gesture put the scarred side of his face in shadow; it made him look impossibly young, and very vulnerable.
"What hurt you?" she breathed. "Whom did you lose?"
He shot her an unreadable look. "How do you do that?" he demanded, exasperated. "Am I that transparent? He was nobody important—except to me: an Ykhave cousin. But someone put a stiletto between his ribs because his presence was inconvenient. I made a vow, after he died, that I wouldn't be used, that I would do anything to safeguard my independence, my anonymity."
"Happen I can understand that, Sharkbait, as long as you didn't also swear never to care for anyone else."
"Caring," he said bitterly, "weakens one."
"No. Sharkbait, you're wrong. Caring makes you strong."
Sharkbait was silent so long that Ferret wondered whether he would ever speak again. Then, very quietly, he asked "What is it that you care for, my sweet thief, that makes you so strong?"
Ferret laughed. "My friends. What did you think?"
Sharkbait turned away. "I didn't know. That's why I asked."
***
"'...And thus it came to pass that when the great lamps of heaven were completed, burning in the field of the sky by day or night as the gods had decreed, the Company of the Gods bethought upon what next to undertake. And strife arose among the Company over which aspect of their handiwork on the face of the world was most nobly done, and most fitly answered the challenges of Kherhane.'" Owl paused in his reading, his index finger stalled beneath the next word, and looked up at Cithanekh. "The Company of the Gods spends a great deal of time in strife."
Cithanekh smiled wryly. "Rather like the Council Houses."
"It seems a waste; and it slows down the story, rather. I saw the Canticles of Creation done by a traveling puppet troupe. It was much more exciting."
"What, are you finding this dull? When I was congratulating myself on having found something livelier than A Treatise on Herbs and Their Properties?"
"It is an improvement," Owl admitted. "Just not enough of one. But never mind. I'm told I'm terribly difficult to please."
"And I'm far too lenient," Cithanekh responded. "I ought to have brought a whip to crack."
Before they could return to the lesson, Lady Ycevi interrupted, Elkhar beside her. Though her elegant features gave no hint of her state of mind, Elkhar looked wrathful. Owl was close enough to hear Cithanekh's alarmed indrawn breath.
Ycevi looked down her nose at the two of them, the only hint of her temper the slow clenching and unclenching of her left hand. "Where's the thief, Cithanekh?" she asked at last, with as little emphasis as an inquiry about the weather.
"Thief?" he repeated, bland.
"From Azhere," she prodded.
"Oh. The lass. I let her go."
There was an inarticulate growl from Elkhar; the Lady restrained him with an upraised finger. The lift of an eyebrow goaded Cithanekh to elaborate.
"It was perfectly clear: Rhydev wanted you to do his dirty work. She couldn't have known anything useful. He'd never have parted with her if she had."
"Rhydev is known to be squeamish," the Lady said, cold.
"He'd used force: I saw the burns," Cithanekh replied evenly. "My Lady, it seemed likely that Rhydev intended to use the girl to embarrass you. Tell me: how did you learn of her existence? Did he ask you about her publicly?"
She was silent, considering. "At Council," she replied. "He asked me if I had learned anything useful from Ferret."
Owl fought to stay calm. Ferret? And Rhydev? And burns?
"It's possible," she added grudgingly, "you had my interests at heart."
"I wanted her!" Elkhar burst out. "She was our link to Cyffe's murderer. You had no right to let her go!"
"You can't get blood from cheese, Elkhar," Cithanekh said, maddeningly reasonable. "She didn't know anything. You'd have taken her apart for nothing—and then, how would the Lady answer the Emperor's searching questions?"
"It was there, you treacherous bastard. I'd have found it."
"Or murdered the girl trying, no doubt."
"Murder?" Elkhar snorted. "She's a Slum-rat."
"Do you think that is a consideration which weighs with the Scholar King?" Cithanekh responded.
The bodyguard seized Owl by the front of his tunic and dragged him upright. "What do you know about Ferret?" he demanded. His barely contained rage terrified Owl. "And Kitten? And Mouse?" He shook him sharply. "Answer me!"
Owl was afraid to reply. He knew Elkhar would never believe that Ferret, Mouse, Kitten and the others were simply his friends, members of a childhood secret society who looked out for one another. So he held his tongue. Elkhar struck Owl a hard open-handed blow across the face.
"I want an answer," Elkhar said, chillingly calm. When Owl did not instantly respond, he struck him again.
"Leave him alone!" Cithanekh leapt to his feet and rushed the bodyguard. Elkhar thrust Owl aside with force enough to send the boy sprawling as he took a fighting stance.
Ycevi's voice froze them all. "Stop. Elkhar. Cithanekh. "She turned to Owl. "Now, boy; you will answer my questions—won't you?" She pinned him with a hawk-bright glance. "Owl, we know that Kitten knows you: she told Elkhar she misses you. So tell us what you know about Ferret, and Mouse, and Kitten."
"Ferret, Mouse, Kitten, Donkey, Squirrel, and Owl; those are the special names Ferret gave us. We're just friends. We live in the Slums. We look out for each other."
"Who is the leader?" Ycevi pursued.
"It was Ferret's idea—but we don't really need to be led. We help each other out when we're in trouble—you know: friends!" Owl caught Cithanekh's fleeting wistful grimace.
"For whom do you work?"
"As a group? We don't work for anyone. Kitten and I beg—or Kitten begs, and I used to;
Squirrel runs messages. Donkey is a potboy in his uncle's tavern; Mouse's parents are flower vendors and she helps them. Ferret's a thief. We're just friends—Slum-rat children."
"Donkey," Elkhar said. "At the Trollop's Smile? And Squirrel's real name is Effryn?"
Owl's heart chilled, but he nodded faintly.
Ycevi turned to Cithanekh. "How old is this Ferret?"
He shrugged, prevaricating. Owl had said she was sixteen, but she was small. It would be a natural mistake, and a younger age might allay some of the Lady's fears. "Thirteen; fourteen, perhaps."
A movement by the library door snagged Owl's attention. Myncerre was there, silent, observant; as their gazes crossed, Owl thought he saw a smile flicker in her dark eyes.
Ycevi turned to Elkhar. "Well?"
"It sounds plausible," he replied. "But Cyffe is dead."
"Cyffe was not without enemies," Cithanekh put in. "Surely it is possible that her murder had nothing to do with Ferret."
"I don't like coincidences," Ycevi said tightly. "But you are right: it is possible. Owl?"
"Lady?"
"Is there anything you are neglecting to tell us?"
"I don't think so, Lady," Owl lied with outward calm.
"What do you think your friends did, when you disappeared?"
"No doubt they worried, and asked some questions. Ferret's persistent. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd found out that I was sold to House Ghytteve. They're probably trying to raise money to buy me back."
She looked skeptical but said, "We must send them word you're not for sale—not at any price. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand." He saw the truth in her cold eyes. She would never let him go, never sell him; and if he failed to be useful, she would see him dead. Yes. Owl understood.
As though what she read in his face pleased her, the Lady smiled faintly. "Good. Cithanekh." Her voice hardened again. "If I find you have lied to me, you won't suffer for it: Owl will. Do I make myself clear."
"Yes," the young lord whispered.
"Excellent. Elkhar: send word to this Trollop's Smile. I want Ferret and her friends to know that I will never part with Owl."