A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

"Tell me everything you can about Owl's brother."

  "Zhazher?" she asked, baffled.

  "Is that his name?"

  She nodded. "He sold Owl into slavery for a lot of money and some Dream's Ease. He—he—Owl, I'm sorry: Zhazher's dead. He took too much of the drug, right after you disappeared. Ferret and I found him."

  Owl covered his face with his hands; the loss was still fresh enough that the tears were real. Cithanekh perched beside Owl, patting his shoulder consolingly. Elkhar looked from the boy to Kitten and back.

  "Kitten," he said. "I asked you earlier about my sister Cyffe's death. Why don't you tell me the truth, now? What do you know of her murderers?"

  "Naught," Kitten protested. "I told you: I never met your sister."

  Elkhar drew his jeweled dagger and began meditatively to pare his nails with it as he leaned against the bedstead. "So you never met Cyffe; I suppose that could be true. And perhaps you didn't know her name. Nonetheless, I'd wager you have met her murderers—or is a murder such a common thing to your friend Ferret that she wouldn't mention it to you?"

  He studied her narrowly, and she swallowed hard. "Ferret had naught to do with it!" she snapped.

  "Are you sure? And are you sure that's what you should say? House Azhere questioned your Ferret, you know—and then, they sent what was left of her to House Ghytteve."

  Secure in the knowledge that Ferret had escaped, Kitten managed a challenging tone. "If that's true, then why bother with me at all?"

  Elkhar buffed his trimmed nails on his tunic then admired them. "It's common practice, in interrogations, to verify information through a second source."

  Owl stirred uneasily; Cithanekh's hand tightened warningly on his shoulder. The silence was charged.

  "But I dinna know aught," Kitten said.

  Quick as a pickpocket, Elkhar seized Owl, laying his dagger against the boy's throat. "Then make something up," he advised, "or I'll kill him."

  As Kitten hesitated, Elkhar changed the angle of the blade, and a thin line of scarlet beaded Owl's throat. He was intent as a bloodhound, suspicious; and Kitten teetered on the brink of a chasm full of damaging admissions.

  "Stop it, Elkhar," Cithanekh cut in, forestalling Kitten's panicked revelations. "You know you can't really hurt him—the Lady would flay you. And as for Ferret, Rhydev didn't hurt her very badly and I let her go. They're just children."

  Elkhar released Owl; his narrowed eyes pinned Kitten. "You aren't surprised; you knew she was free. How?"

  "She came back to the Trollop. I didn't see her; but Donkey said she was safe."

  "Yes." Watching even more intently, Elkhar said with ominous clarity, "The Lady's puppy let Ferret go."

  Kitten's face showed an instant's recognition at the name; her eyes darted to the young lord's face, before she thought to turn her expression to a puzzled frown. "The Lady's puppy? What an odd thing to call someone."

  Owl wanted to slump in despair; he could almost hear fragments of conjecture meshing in Elkhar's brain.

  "Odd, indeed," Elkhar purred. "And memorable. Where did you hear it before, Kitten?"

  Kitten tried an airy laugh. "I dinna know what you mean."

  "I think you do," he contradicted, softly. "Tell me."

  With all his heart, Owl willed her to deny all knowledge, to stick to her pretended ignorance; he realized that if she changed her story now, Elkhar would push her on all her answers.

  Kitten licked her lips, nervously. Elkhar's menace was like a sharp taste. He shifted toward her, toying meaningly with his dagger. "I dinna know," she squeaked.

  Elkhar landed on her like a diving hawk; he splayed her left hand against the table, pinning her little finger just above the knuckle with his dagger. "Think again," he whispered.

  "I dinna—" The blade bit; they all heard it snick into the table in the instant before Kitten screamed. Owl buried his face in Cithanekh's chest while the young lord held him tightly.

  "Pay attention," Elkhar advised. His voice cut off Kitten's shrieks; she subsided to gulping sobs as his knife moved to herring finger. "Who killed Cyffe Ghytteve?"

  "Sharkbait."

  "Who is Sharkbait?" Elkhar demanded.

  "A—a longshoreman."

  Elkhar and Myncerre exchanged speculative glances. Despair seethed in Owl's stomach. "Why did this Sharkbait kill Cyffe?"

  "I dinna know!" Kitten wailed.

  "Why?" He bore down slightly.

  "I dinna know, I dinna know, I dinna—" Kitten's frantic denials peaked in a scream as the blade snicked through. Owl and Cithanekh clung to each other in horror.

  "Why did Sharkbait kill Cyffe?" The dagger moved to the next finger.

  "She knew him," Kitten gasped. "And she was trying to take him prisoner."

  Elkhar frowned. "How did she know him?"

  "He used to spend time at the Palace."

  "With whom?"

  "How would I know?" Kitten cried.

  "Think fast," he warned, pressing. "With whom?"

  Resistance left her. "House Ykhave," she said dully.

  Myncerre's eyebrows arched in surprise; Elkhar nodded with grim satisfaction. "Antryn," they said, together. Cithanekh shut his eyes in pain.

  "So explain," Elkhar instructed. "What is Antryn Anzhibhar-Ykhave to you and your Slum-rat friends."

  "I dinna understand," Kitten told him, flat. "He's just Sharkbait. He helped us find out what happened to Owl; but he wouldn't do anything else. He said he didn't want to get mixed up in the Council Houses' endless intrigue."

  "He's mixed up now," Elkhar retorted, vicious. "I'll kill him for this."

  "You'll try," Cithanekh said, cold. "Cyffe was faster than you, Elkhar; and this Sharkbait is no child for you to terrorize."

  For an instant, it seemed that Cithanekh's words would goad Elkhar to violence; but instead, he turned to the steward. "Take the puppy and the brat away. I have more answers to extract from our little Kitten before the Lady comes."

  Myncerre moved to comply. Owl got up shakily, leaning on his friend's steadying arm. "Kitten," he whispered, pleading.

  "Dinna leave me! Owl!" Terror rasped in her voice.

  "Kitten!" he wailed. Myncerre took the boy by the arm and propelled him to the door. He flailed uselessly against her. "Kitten! Let me help her. Let me go! Kitten!"

  Myncerre and Cithanekh herded him inexorably away. They were in the secret passage, probably half-way back to the Ghytteve apartments, when another wave of visions took Owl. Brutal images swept him like flotsam in a mill race; he clung to Cithanekh, weeping hysterically.

  "He's going to kill her. He's going to kill her! Hurt her, and then kill her. Oh, Kitten!" Owl turned to the steward, then, struggling for calm. "Oh, please. Please, Myncerre. Stop him. Please. You must."

  She studied him silently. As if eluding her conscious control, one hand reached toward him; but the hand dropped, like an abandoned tool, before she touched him. "Did your visions say that I could?" she asked.

  Though Owl sensed some momentous resolve lurking in her, the import she gave his words bound him to truth. "No."

  For an instant, Myncerre's face melted to apology, before it hardened to aloofness. "Lady."

  "What's all this?" the Lady asked. With a finger cold as a talon she tilted Owl's face to the inadequate light. "Tears?"

  "I'm sick," Owl told her. "No doubt Elkhar will explain."

  The Lady's lips quirked. "No doubt he will. Put the boy to bed," she added crisply, "and one of you stay with him until I come."

  Cithanekh stayed with Owl. For a long while, Owl stared at the ceiling in silence. Finally, he turned to his friend.

  "I don't want to sleep," he whispered.

  Cithanekh smoothed the hair off the boy's brow. "Oh, Owl. I feel so helpless. I wish there were something I could do."

  Owl sighed. "We are helpless—khacce pieces in Ycevi's game, frozen into our stiff, unchanging roles. How I wish someone would come and overturn her board—even if it meant I were broken in the fal
l. Gods, I'm frightened, Cithanekh. She has such power over us. If we can't get free of her, then late or soon, we'll become in truth the khacce pieces she wants. Like Elkhar: blind to everything except the web of suspicion and intrigue Ycevi has taught him to see; or like Myncerre, who turns to stone before my very eyes. I don't want to be blind and lifeless, unfeeling as alabaster: a perfect little khacce piece, flattered by the touch of her hand. No."

  Cithanekh cupped the boy's bruised face carefully as he met his eyes. "That will never happen to you, Owl. Never. If you live here a hundred years, she will never freeze your heart. As soon chill the sun to ice. And Myncerre: it's not that she turns to stone before your eyes; she's been stone as long as I've known her, impervious as marble. Owl—my dear, amazing Owl—it's that she turns to flesh in your presence."

  They searched each other's faces, beyond words; Owl's eyes swam with tears. "Kitten," he moaned. "Oh, gods, poor Kitten."

  "Oh Owl," Cithanekh murmured. His own eyes stung as he held his friend gently and let him cry.

  It was thus the Lady found them, when she came. Cithanekh saw her satisfied smile; with effort, he kept the despair and anger off his face. She gestured imperiously.

  "Leave him and come with me, Cithanekh."

  Owl's arms tightened, a wordless entreaty, and the young lord hesitated.

  "You can come back when I've finished with you," the Lady said, knowingly.

  "Courage, Owl," he murmured, and the boy let him go.

  Owl listened to their retreating footsteps. When he heard the door close behind them, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and built, step by painstaking step, the dreaming haven Arre had taught him.

  Chapter Twenty-one - Night Work

  The dreaming haven was a place of twilight, mysterious with shadows. Owl followed the pale glitter of distant light, and the faint music; but he didn't find Arre sitting in the candles' glow. It was a man: a fire-haired man in the gray robes of the Windbringer's sect. He remembered him: Arre's friend from that day at the Temple Gate. Kerigden.

  Yes. Arre and I are working together. We want to help you.

  Can you save Kitten?

  There was grief in his mind voice. No.

  Then what can you do?

  I want to teach you something: a way to call me, or Arre.

  It's not enough just coming here? Owl asked, surprised.

  It is if we are listening for you, but if we weren't tranced together, we would not know you wanted us. Now, relax; think of nothing, and I will try to put this in your mind. It isn't words: it is more a feeling, a need.

  It was hard to think of nothing, but Owl tried. After a long moment, he felt the thing Kerigden showed him.

  Try it, Kerigden instructed; and Owl did, pouring into his attempt all his grief and fear and helplessness. Kerigden flinched slightly, and for an instant, his image wavered. Yes. That's it exactly. If you need one of us, call like that; then, we can meet you in this dreaming haven.

  But you can't save Kitten, he said, with pain rather than accusation.

  No. Owl, I'm sorry.

  Then I shall have to find someone to avenge her, he said, grim with resolve; and he broke the tenuous contact.

  When Owl opened his eyes, he found Cithanekh had returned. The young lord sat beside his bed; Owl took his hand but did not speak. For a long time, he lay thinking, trying to remember. When he was very small, before his mother had died, she had used to tell him stories. She had had a fund of tales and histories, and the ones he had loved best were about the Windbringer. She was an unpredictable goddess, who championed odd causes for obscure reasons. His mother had told him the goddess loved children, and every night it was her ritual to kiss her son's brow and to whisper, "Windbringer guard you."

  Now, Owl considered. The ancient names of the gods were said to have power; he and Cithanekh had been reading about them in that dry book. Favrian; Vasgrifallok; Kherhane; Celacce; Talyene: strange names, some of them foreign sounding. But there were no use-names, no way to tell which (if any) of the names belonged to the Windbringer.

  "Cithanekh, what is the Windbringer's ancient name?" he asked.

  "Talyene," he responded. "Why?"

  "Just thinking."

  The young lord took his free hand and brushed Owl's hair off his brow. "You should sleep," he suggested, very gently. "I'll stay right here."

  Owl's grip tightened for an instant. "I know. I'll try," he said, and obediently closed his eyes.

  ***

  Arre found the Scholar King in his library. His welcoming smile metamorphosed into a look of concern when he saw how wan she looked.

  "What have you been doing with that Windbringer priest?"

  She sat down opposite him and shoved one hand through her hair. "Mind work. We wanted to try to touch Owl's mind—to see what he knows, and to find out how we can best help. We succeeded in contacting him, but in the process, we discovered that the Ghytteve have captured and tortured one of the children—Kitten. We don't know how much the child knows, but whatever information she has, no doubt the Ghytteve will have it by morning."

  "Captured and tortured a child?" Khethyran demanded angrily. "By all the gods, they court my intervention!" He stood up with such energy that his chair scraped, protestingly, across the polished floor. Then, abruptly, he checked his temper. "Is it a trap for me, Arre? Am I intended to rush in to rescue the child, thereby incurring the other Houses' wrath?"

  "I don't think so; though were you fool enough to do that, no doubt, Ycevi would use the opportunity. Kheth, I don't think they see the poor as people at all—just pieces to be used and discarded at will." She went to his side and put her arms around him; her tone was gentle. "Besides, even if you instantly sent in the Imperial Guard, it's too late. The Ghytteve move quickly, and we did not have any warning."

  The Emperor was silent for a moment. "I hate this worst of all. I am the Emperor—and yet, my Council Houses hold me nearly powerless in matters like these. There should be laws to protect children like Kitten; checks on people like Ycevi Ghytteve. There should be justice for all my people; the nobles should uphold the rule of law, not rule by whim and caprice."

  Arre's arms tightened as she whispered, fiercely, "You must survive, my dearest love, in order to establish such justice."

  "Indeed," he agreed. "Dear gods, poor Kitten. She doesn't deserve to be sucked dry by those filthy leeches. Arre, this could put you in danger, if Kitten knew that you'd helped Ferret to escape. I suppose there's not much chance you'd agree to disappear until all of this is over?"

  "None whatever," she replied with determined smile. "But we need to be thinking ahead. If Kitten knows much of anything, the Ghytteve will be after the rest of those children, especially Ferret; and they'll want Antryn. Kerigden will give them sanctuary—"

  "What?" the Scholar King interrupted. "Why?"

  She hunched a shoulder. "The Windbringer wants him involved, apparently. Don't ask me, Kheth," she added in the face of his puzzled astonishment. "Even Kerigden can't explain why she's interested. All the same, we need to think. We need a way to know what the Ghytteve are up to. I'd ask Owl to watch and report, but—" She broke off, shaking her head. "His position is so precarious."

  "Are you sure I cannot intervene?" Khethyran asked. "Should I commandeer the boy—or are you still convinced the boy needs to stay where he is?"

  "More than ever," she said. Her mind clouded with a string of her silvery future images: Kheth speaking with the Lady Ycevi; Elkhar Ghytteve with a garrote around Cithanekh's throat; the Ghytteve steward holding a silver cup to Owl's lips. "No. They'd kill him if you showed any interest." She smiled sadly. "Now, if you had a troop of fanatically loyal spies..."

  "Spies," the Emperor repeated, musingly. "There's your thief, Ferret; and Antryn. He's rumored to be more than competent, if he's the one organizing the longshoremen. Arre, you know that the Palace is riddled with secret passages, spyholes and listening places."

  "True," she agreed. "But we don't know
the secret ways; and we can hardly ask that snake Zherekhaf to make us a map."

  Khethyran smiled. "No. But Arre, there might be a map—or not a map, precisely; but we might be able to construct a map, if we could find the original architectural drawings of the Palace."

  "But surely they were destroyed," she protested. "Weren't they?"

  "Possibly," he agreed, rising. "But one of my Anzhibhar ancestors took an interest in architecture and building; his collection is quite extensive and includes a number of exceedingly rare works. He would certainly have wanted documents pertaining to his own house. It's not inconceivable that somehow, he acquired plans—or reconstructed them. I'll look; it should only take a few hours."

  ***

  Owl built his dreaming haven. He drowned all extraneous thought in the mysterious shadows of the place; and then, he did what Kerigden had taught him. He poured his pain and rage, his grief and uncertainty, into the call. Talyene. TALYENE!

  The name resounded through the dreaming haven like distant thunder, before the ageless silence returned. Then, on the very edge of Owl's awareness, there was a sound like a plucked harpstring which trembled in his mind. Stealthy as dawn, the sound grew into music, tender, infinitely gentle, and a woman appeared. Wrapped in a rain gray cloak, she played a small harp. Her wild, black hair was a mane lifted by phantom winds. She studied Owl out of silver eyes, inscrutable as fog, as the music spun webs around them both.

  You called me? The question was amazed, not annoyed. How?

  Owl replied, I used the call that Kerigden taught me.

  Ah! Understanding lit her silvery eyes for an instant. Then I have wagered well, and need not fear my brother, after all. Did he tell you to summon me?

  No.

  No? Then why did you call me?

  Owl answered, I need you. And then, without warning, his control wavered; his eyes filled with tears, and the images of Kitten's brutal torture surged into his mind.

  Talyene extended a hand, inviting. Owl, she said. Tell me.

  But Owl could not answer. Though he strained like a fish gasping for water, something held him mute. His memories burned like acid; tears scalded his cheeks. Anguished, desperate, he seized Talyene's hand. Her touch opened his heart. Memories streamed out of him: Kitten with Elkhar; Anthagh the slaver; the Lady Ycevi; the repetitive round of his life with the Ghytteve; Ferret and his friends. Anger, grief, fear spilled away as the Windbringer shared his memories, his pain. When the memory-flood had abated, the only sound in the universe was the slow plash of Talyene's tears. She caught one, opalescent, in her fingers, then pressed it into Owl's palm. It was hard as a gem and warm.