"I'd best go back," Mouse said heavily. "My parents..."
"Be careful," Donkey said. "He knows you're Mouse; happen he means you mischief."
She nodded and slipped back into the taproom. A subdued hum of conversation had resumed, though there was an island of silence around Dedemar and his unconscious friend. Mouse slid into her chair; her parents eyed her anxiously but did not question her.
After a time, Zhotar groaned feebly. Dedemar hurried to help him.
"Ded?" His voice was thready with desperation. "Ded!"
The Temple Watchman murmured soothingly.
"No, listen—I should know." Zhotar shook off the soothing. He whispered, in the sort of tone that carries, "Run! Flee! Escape while you still may! She'll eat your soul. She ate mine; chained—and then devoured at her leisure. This is a bad business, Ded. There's no good in it. Elkhar's killing children. Cyffe's dead—now me."
"Zhotar, Zhotar. Calm yourself. All is well."
"All's not!" he retorted, sharp. "The Windbringer's in it—and the witch. Heh!" he laughed mirthlessly. "The witch. In khacce, the Sorceress moves sideways through time. They say the Emperor's witch sees the future. If that's so, surely the Lady will fail."
Dedemar laid fingers across Zhotar's mouth. "Be still; it tires you to talk."
"It worries you," he said, slightly muffled. "It should. You don't belong in this, Ded; you're too pure. The blood of children—" He coughed, rackingly. "Even the puppy," he gasped after a moment. "Even the puppy has conscience enough to find it filthy—and he stands to gain, if anyone does besides her." He fixed Dedemar with clear eyes and said with powerful intensity, "Do as I say: get out of it, before she damns you." Coughing convulsed him. With a last shudder, the breath rushed out of him. Dedemar held him a moment longer before he eased him gently back to the table. Zhotar was dead.
Dedemar folded Zhotar's hands on his breast and closed his eyes. With a long, speculative look at Mouse, he resumed his seat. Covertly, she returned his regard and vowed to keep him in sight. As the night aged, however, Mouse found it impossible to remain wakeful. When she woke, Dedemar was gone.
Chapter Nineteen—Danger
Elkhar hauled Kitten out of the waterfront, past the shuttered shop-fronts of the mercantile district. When they reached wealthier neighborhoods, the avenues came to life. Litters and carriages conveyed merrymakers to and from parties; inns and gaming clubs catered to a variety of appetites; they passed a theater, where the evening's entertainment was about to begin. Kitten eyed the crowds, wondering whether anyone would be moved to help her if she made a scene. As though reading her thoughts, Elkhar's hand tightened on her arm. She hissed in pain.
"Please," she whimpered. "You're hurting me."
"It's a warning. If you make trouble, I'll break your arm."
"Trouble?" she queried innocently. "You're taking me to see Owl; it's tremendously kind of you. Why would I make trouble?"
Elkhar smiled sardonically. "You waste your breath trying to melt me, Kitten. I sold my heart for meat long since."
"Well, I hope you got a good price for it," she snapped.
He laughed, but the sound was bitter. "Not particularly. Tell me, Kitten: what is Owl to you, really?"
"He's my friend—if you know what that means. We used to beg together, before he disappeared."
"And did Ferret beg with you, as well?"
"Ferret's a thief," Kitten responded automatically; then doubt assailed her. "How do you know Ferret?"
"I don't know Ferret, but Owl has spoken of her—and of Mouse, Squirrel, Donkey—and you, of course. I'm very eager to meet you all; he speaks so warmly of his friends."
Kitten suppressed a shiver. There was something intensely menacing in the bodyguard's manner. Abruptly, he halted and swung her to face him, gripping her other arm.
"Tell me what you know about Cyffe Ghytteve's death," he gritted, cold eyes noting every fleeting expression on her face.
"Who?"
"My sister, Cyffe Ghytteve. She was killed on the waterfront: knifed. What do you know about it?"
"Naught! Not a thing! I never met your sister."
"Your friend Ferret killed her."
"Dinna be silly; Ferret doesn't go armed." Kitten's heart began its drubbing anew. The conversation was like a nightmare game of khacce: too much at stake, and not the faintest notion how even to move the pieces.
"But she has friends who do," he purred, dangerous, "no?"
"I dinna know as she does," Kitten replied carefully. "But happen I've not met all her friends."
He yanked her onward with angry energy. Kitten was out of breath by the time they stopped at a small gate in a stone wall beside an opulent house. Elkhar took her through a dark garden to a humble door—a servant's entrance, Kitten surmised. A man in green and silver livery answered Elkhar's knock.
"Where's the puppy?" Elkhar asked.
"Still at the Palace." He gestured toward Kitten with his chin; a silver earring glinted with the movement. "Mouse?"
"Kitten," Elkhar informed him. "Find her someplace comfortable to wait while I go report."
"Where's Owl? When may I see him?" Kitten asked, winsome.
Elkhar raised one eyebrow. "Surely you're cleverer than you pretend, Kitten."
"But you said—"
"Stow it. I'm out of patience." He shoved her roughly into the other man's hands. "Varhynn, deal with her." He went out.
"He promised," Kitten wailed, then burst into tears.
Unmoved, the servant herded Kitten up a flight of stairs into a small bedroom. "Are you hungry?"
She nodded. He locked her in. As his footsteps faded, Kitten hurried to the single window: barred. She grabbed the grill, tried to rattle it; it fit snugly. She leaned her forehead against her gripping hands and sobbed in real fear and despair. She was still standing there when Varhynn returned with a tray. Without a word, he laid out the meal on the small table and went away. It was a long time before Kitten, even hungry as she always was, could bring herself to eat.
***
When Elkhar arrived at the Ghytteve quarters, he was discomfited to find the rooms full of courtiers. The Lady was holding one of her impromptu gatherings. He scanned the gaudy crowd. Owl, in the green and silver Ghytteve livery, stood stiffly between Cithanekh and Myncerre; the Lady, exquisite in gold silk and pearls, chatted with the Prime Minister Zherekhaf. Elkhar noted the other Court powers present: Rhydev Azhere; Bishop Anakher, of the Horselord's Temple; Lady Mylazhe Ambhere; Commander Bhenekh of the Imperial Guard; young Enghan Mebhare, looking as though he'd be more at home with a herd of cows; Ymlakh Glakhyre, toadying up to Azhere as usual; a host of lesser luminaries. His eyes narrowed as he considered who was not present: Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave; neither the Emperor nor his witch; no one from the other Temples, neither from the Windbringer (which didn't surprise him) nor from the Dark Lady's Temple (which did); no representatives from Houses Khyghafe, Dhenykhare, or Ythande. As he watched, he saw Rhydev neatly detach himself from the Council Lord of Glakhyre and approach Owl. Elkhar slipped closer to listen.
"Why Owl," Rhydev began. He brushed a feather's touch across the boy's purple cheek. "You collect bruises. Are you—mmm—overly fractious?"
"I must be, most gracious Lord of Azhere," he replied, studying his feet.
The Council Lord ran one finger along Owl's jaw to his chin, which he lifted to make the boy look at him. "Rhydev," he insisted; the tone was charged with unspoken things.
Owl stiffened. He wanted to pull away, but Cithanekh put a steadying hand between his shoulder blades. The boy searched Rhydev's unrevealing eyes. Across the room, Owl saw the Lady and her companion, strangely intent on Rhydev.
Owl wet his lips. "Who is the man with the Lady, Rhydev. And why are you performing for him?"
Surprise arched his brows; then he smiled. "Ah, beautiful and clever. Does Ycevi guess? It's the Prime Minister, my uncle Zherekhaf. But are you sure I'm performing?" He released Owl's chin to caress his hair; th
en, after blowing the boy a kiss, he melted into the press. Owl followed him with troubled eyes before he turned anxiously to Cithanekh.
"What was that about?" Owl asked the young lord.
"Bastard," Cithanekh spat; then he eased his tone. "He's just playing his damnable games, Owl; pay no heed."
"He likes you," Myncerre offered, bland.
"Likes me?" Owl choked. "He makes me feel like a fish, and he's a very hungry heron. Cithanekh, must we stay? Couldn't we get away from all these courtiers?"
Cithanekh noticed Elkhar then, saw the bodyguard shake his head emphatically. The young lord sighed. "No, Owl. I'm sorry."
"It would be rude to leave," Myncerre added, "just as the Prime Minister is coming to meet you."
"Oh no," Owl breathed.
"Courage," Cithanekh whispered.
Elkhar caught the Lady's eye, then, and she nodded summons. He made his way to her side.
"My faithful Elkhar. You're big with news."
"Dedemar sent a very obscure message to the Star and Sextant—in the khacce code, and quite ambiguous. It seems he's trapped by the Guild war. But he sent the message with a little Slum-rat child: Kitten. I left her with Varhynn. I thought you might want to question her."
"Ah. Good. Anything else?"
"Lady, I know you think me—obsessed—with this, but you were watching Owl with Rhydev."
"I was. Were you close enough to overhear?"
He nodded. "Owl accused Rhydev of performing for Zherekhaf." At her startlement, he took courage. "Lady, he's too damned shrewd to be innocent. Intrigue is his element. Rhydev sees it. 'Beautiful,' he said, 'and clever.' Please, Lady; he's dangerous, and I am charged with your safety. Get rid of him."
"Get rid of him?" Her tinkling laugh was brittle as crystal. "Don't be ridiculous. I paid ten Royals for him; he's supposed to be good."
Elkhar bowed. "And the girl?"
"I'll be by, after my guests leave. Now, go rescue Owl from that snake Zherekhaf, before he swallows him whole."
As it turned out, Owl didn't need rescuing; the Prime Minister, looking very thoughtful indeed, had walked off before the bodyguard was close enough to overhear. Cithanekh and Myncerre struggled to hide amusement, but Owl looked baffled. As Elkhar covertly studied him, the boy's face went blank, then contorted in pain. Fear bleached Owl as he turned toward Cithanekh.
"No, oh no," Owl whimpered, distraught.
Cithanekh shook him gently. "Get hold of yourself, Owl; it's all right."
Owl focused on his friend's face. "It's not: not all right," he said distinctly, through his strange abstraction. "Kitten's in trouble."
"Not here!" Cithanekh whispered urgently.
"No," Owl agreed. "Not here. In a room with a barred window, and a man in green and silver livery. Green—" he repeated, looking down at his own sleeve. "Oh, gods."
Elkhar's hands closed hard and insistent on Owl and Cithanekh's upper arms. "Shall we go someplace private," he suggested, deadly, including Myncerre with a look, "for a little chat?" Feral eagerness lit his eyes. "About Kitten—and where you get your information."
Owl stared, appalled, at Elkhar's terrible face. Darkness spun on the edges of his vision. Air did not reach his lungs; a deadening wave broke over him and swept his mind away.
***
In the Temple of the Windbringer, Arre and Kerigden sat opposite one another at a small table. Kerigden's open palms lay against Arre's, and between their joined hands sat a pale blue crystal on a silver stand. They had spent long hours discussing the theory of mind work and magic, before they had decided on this particular experiment. Both traditions taught the use of a focus stone; and they hoped that by working together they could raise enough strength to call Owl and then to hold his untrained mind.
They were breathing in unison, now: smooth, deep breaths, while their concentration deepened. Then their minds touched. Sweat broke on Arre's brow; the Windsinger priest's power glowed like a bed of embers, wanting only a breath of wind to stir it to fire. Arre opened her tranced mind to listen for a whisper from the boy; it was late. With luck, he would be sleeping, susceptible to their gentle touch.
Suddenly, like a towering wave, foreknowledge and terror swept over them both. Arre's hands tensed, and Kerigden gripped them in response. Something was wrong; Owl was desperate, panicked, and Arre felt her careful control swept beyond her reach, like a stick in a millrace. She would have cried out, but Kerigden was there, solid, steadying; a phrase of music echoed in their minds, anchor and safety. Then, the priest drew calm and darkness from their joined memories and wrapped Owl's torment in it.
The bright center of the boy's dreaming gift shone like a sliver of the sun. Arre touched him, felt his terror, his need.
The dreaming place, she thought at him. The safe haven.
And he did it; he built the precarious shelter she had taught him. Arre? Arre! Help me.
I will; I am. What is it?
They've caught Kitten; and Elkhar knows that I know. But I can't know. I don't know how I know. He's going to kill me!
Then, something broke the contact; Arre and Kerigden were thrown out of their trance like storm wrack on the beach. They stared at one another, pale and breathing hard.
"Is he dead?" Kerigden asked.
"We'd have felt that—I think," she replied.
"What should we do? Try again?"
Arre's vision hazed with an image of the future: Elkhar with a knife; the child Kitten; and Owl, appalled and helpless.
"Later," she said, her voice thick with horror. "He's going to need us."
Chapter Twenty—Disaster
Owl choked and spluttered back to consciousness through the slap of cold water. He lay sprawled on the stone floor of one of the upper galleries. Elkhar loomed above him, empty bowl in his hand and retribution in his eyes. Cithanekh knelt protectively beside him; and Myncerre observed.
"Now," Elkhar growled. "An explanation."
Owl floundered helplessly, baffled. "What am I supposed to explain?" he asked meekly. Nausea writhed in his belly.
The bodyguard's words were clipped with sarcasm. "You might begin by explaining how you learned that your friend Kitten is in trouble, and how you are able to describe so accurately the place she is being held."
Memory and fear returned. Owl fought drowning terror, fought to think, to come up with an explanation to satisfy Elkhar; but no inventiveness answered his need. To buy time, he sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. When he dropped his hands he was caught, like a bird before a snake, by the murderous look on Elkhar's face. "I just know," Owl gasped, desperate. "We're that close: I just know."
"You just knew about the room with the barred window and the man in the green and silver livery?" Elkhar asked, scathing. "You must do better than that, Owl."
"What will you do with Kitten?"
Elkhar's smile was unpleasant. "You'd be better served to ask what I intend to do with you. Owl, I want an explanation."
The boy swallowed hard against his rising gorge; there seemed no choice but the truth. "I have Sight Gifts, Elkhar. Visions just—come over me, sometimes. About people I care for. I can't control it; it just happens. I saw Kitten in my mind, and I knew she was in trouble."
Elkhar studied Owl silently, then he turned to Cithanekh. "Have you anything to add? Did you know about these visions?"
"Yes," Cithanekh said calmly. "Owl's had these attacks before; they are very disorienting."
Elkhar looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowing. "Somehow, I don't think you're being entirely honest with me." He twisted Owl's wrist painfully. "Are you?"
"Ow! Yes! I've told you the whole!"
Elkhar levered Owl to his feet by the tortured wrist. "Now why don't I believe you?" he purred as the boy paled.
Owl's gut rebelled. In surprise, Elkhar released him; Owl collapsed to his knees as he retched. The bodyguard grabbed a generous fistful of Owl's hair and dragged him upright.
"What did you see, Owl, that ni
ght you were so sick; the night Cyffe was killed? What did you see? Tell me! What?"
Owl struggled with his fuddled mind; the whole story would never do. "My— my brother," he began; he remembered Ferret's advice: mislead with truth. "My brother dead of too much Dream's Ease." His eyes filled with tears. "I don't want it to be true."
"And is it?" Elkhar asked, cold.
"I don't know," Owl wailed. "How could I know for sure? Nobody passes me messages."
Elkhar frowned at Myncerre. "Well?"
She shrugged. "Do you suppose this Kitten would know whether Owl's brother were alive or dead?"
"What good would that do, knowing?" Elkhar demanded.
Myncerre replied with the toneless care of one explaining the obvious to the obtuse. "Judging from Owl's information about Kitten, his visions are accurate. If Kitten confirms the brother's death, it might be an indication that the boy has told the truth."
Elkhar's shuttered face revealed none of his thoughts. Finally, he turned to Owl. "Shall we go see Kitten?" He propelled Owl along. Cithanekh and Myncerre fell in behind him. The bodyguard took them through a concealed door which opened on a narrow passage; it was inadequately lit by oil lamps in metal brackets fastened to the cool, stone walls. Though Elkhar's painful grip disturbed Owl's concentration, the boy was vaguely aware of a number of branching corridors and a long, uneven flight of descending steps, before they finally paused in front of an iron bound door. Elkhar rapped: a distinctive rhythmic pattern. He was answered, after a few moments, by the rasp of a drawn bolt. The door was hauled open by the green and silver liveried servant of Owl's vision.
"The girl?" Elkhar asked.
The doorman gestured upward. Elkhar dragged Owl up a flight of stairs, trailing Cithanekh and Myncerre. He unlocked a door and thrust Owl inside, abruptly releasing his arm; the boy staggered as Kitten flung herself at him.
"Owl! Owl!" Her voice was frantic with tears. "Make them let me go!" Then she noted his bruised face. "Oh, Owl!"
Elkhar shoved Owl down on the bed while he seated Kitten at the table. "Answer some questions, Kitten," he ordered.
She gulped and nodded.