The sacrifice of children must not go unsung, nor unavenged. There is power in friendships, Owl; and power in you; and hopeless causes do not always fail. Tell Kerigden that. And remember: I keep faith, though my ways are inscrutable. Sleep, she ended, gentle, and be rested.
A surge of music swept the dreaming haven into darkness. Owl's breathing changed as sleep claimed him; the hand in Cithanekh's relaxed. No dreams troubled the boy, but later, he stirred in his sleep, slipping his cupped hand under his cheek; he did not move again until morning.
***
Exhausted though she was, Arre kept vigil while the Scholar King worked. The sweet ripple of her lute encouraged the breeze from the garden, drawing coolness and moonlight into air thick with the scent of old leather bindings. Arre watched him work, observed his peaceful intentness as though memorizing it: the crease of concentration between his brows—not quite a frown; the scratch of his quill as he made notes in his distinctive handwriting; the inkstained fingers raking his dark, unruly hair. So dear. The music under her fingers ached with longing. Khethyran looked up, met her eyes through the golden lamplight, and smiled tenderly.
"Tears, Arre?" he asked, rising. He took her face gently in his hands. The lute faltered to silence.
"I love you." She leaned into his touch.
He smiled sadly. "And yet, you refuse to be my Queen."
"Oh, Kheth," she replied, pained. "Your Council Houses would eat me. Surely we've been over this often enough."
"Indeed," he agreed. "Forgive me; I don't mean to wound. But Arre, there's you, whom I love and cannot marry; and there are the pampered darlings of the Council Houses—sleek as sharks, all of them—one of whom I must wed." His face clouded with pain and despair. "By the gods above and below, why, why, why did this come to me?"
She caught his wrist before he could turn away and pressed a kiss into his palm. "Because, my dearest love, you are strong enough to bear it."
He considered then said, with a wry smile, "I could wish that the gods had made me rather weaker."
She answered his look with tenderness. "And who would shepherd your people then?"
"The wolves of the Council Houses," he replied. "And yes, I realize wolves make very poor shepherds indeed. I know I cannot reject my destiny, Arre, but I do wish it were other: vineyard-tending, perhaps; or teaching at the Kellande School."
"I know," she whispered. As her eyes darkened briefly with the burden of her visions, Khethyran stroked her hair; he kissed her and went back to his research.
Much later, Khethyran's murmured exclamation roused Arre from reverie. "I've found it," he told her. "Come see."
She looked over his shoulder: an architectural plan of the Royal Palace—missing the accretions of later centuries, but recognizable—complete with the network of hidden passages. Arre put her bard-trained memory to work as she tried to make sense of the intricate drawing. There: that would be the Ghytteve complex.
"Strange," she said, pointing. "That passage looks as though it leads beyond the Palace walls. I wonder if it's still usable; it would come out in the Upper Town, now, though it would have been park or forest when this plan was drawn."
Khethyran nodded. "It's probably not usable; I suppose the tunnel opening was destroyed when the Upper Town was built. Unless—"
Their eyes met. "Unless they built a house over it, to hide it," she finished for him. "Kheth, does Ycevi Ghytteve own a house in the Upper Town?"
"I've no idea. If she does, no doubt the Prime Minister knows of it; but I'm not sure I want to ask him."
"Or that he'd tell you the truth," Arre added sourly.
The Scholar King made a gesture to acknowledge her hit. "Shall I copy the plan for you?"
"What, tonight? Gods, Kheth; don't you ever sleep? Surely the morning is soon enough."
He directed her attention to the map, to the part depicting the library itself. "And if, by some mischance, we are observed?" he breathed.
She stifled a shudder; she felt as though the walls were leaning inward to listen. With a sigh, she picked up her lute again, while Khethyran began his painstaking copying.
Chapter Twenty-two—Salvage
A whispered breath of name roused Sharkbait. He leapt up, wolf-quick, to find one of his longshoremen keeping wary distance. The faint light seeping into the abandoned warehouse proclaimed it close to dawn.
"There's a thing you should see, Sharkbait." The man's voice shook. "Happen you'll not like it."
Sharkbait scrubbed hands over his face. "Show me."
As he moved to follow his man, Ferret joined him. On the weathered quay below the warehouse they found a clutch of longshoremen, focused on something by their feet. They moved aside for Sharkbait and Ferret. It was a body; a child's body, sprawled face-down. Premonition chilled Sharkbait; he knelt beside the child and with trembling hands, turned her gently over. It was Kitten.
He heard Ferret's sharply indrawn breath; he swallowed hard. Kitten's torturers had left brutal marks upon her—and something else: a silver brooch, etched with the stooping hawk of House Ghytteve, pinned to her ragged shift. Kitten had told the Ghytteve everything before she died. The way they had left her body like a flung gauntlet where Sharkbait couldn't help but find it left no doubt.
He looked up at the thief. She was still and white and cold; only her eyes glittered fiercely. There was nothing he could say to her. He bowed his head, and brushed Kitten's cold cheek with a gesture like apology; then he rose. With peculiar, dreamlike detachment, he noted the horrified faces of his men and their murmurs of recognition and distress. "Bury her," he commanded. "Ferret," he began, but the thief cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"Happen Kerigden should know; I'll go. And you: get down to the Trollop and take the others to the Temple. If Kitten told them about you, she told them about the Trollop. Get them out before the Ghytteve find them."
"Ferret," he tried again.
But she had turned away and didn't answer.
Someone produced a shroud of tattered sailcloth. Sharkbait watched them wrap her; their gentleness stung tears from him, dragged his feelings out of their numb shelter. "Oh Kitten," he whispered, fierce, "in the sight of all the gods this I swear: the Ghytteve shall pay for what they have done!"
***
In the gray dawn, Donkey rose. He lit the fire, set water to boil, then ground the coffee beans needed for breakfast. The rhythmic sound of the grinder, rather like snoring, didn't rouse Squirrel. While the coffee brewed, its aroma doing its work, he slipped outside to test the temper of the morning.
The streets were quiet, but it was a tense hush—a lull, not peace. The dead and injured had been carted off, as though the streets had been scoured by some avenging god; but groups of bravos, like hunting sharks, drifted by. The Slums were tinder, and clearly, Ybhanne and Khyzhan still struck sparks. He hurried back to the Trollop.
The scent of coffee had roused Squirrel, who filled cups and loaded trays for the tavern master. Stirring porridge, Arkhyd cast a stern glance in his nephew's direction as Donkey fell in with the breakfast preparations. When the tavern master went out with the last of the trays, Donkey dished out two bowls of porridge, while Squirrel poured coffee.
"Are the streets quiet?" he asked Donkey.
"Strung tighter than harp strings."
Just then, Mouse came in bearing a tray laden with soiled dishes. "Dedemar's gone," she said, skipping greetings. "He slipped out during the night."
"Did he take his friend's body?" Donkey asked.
Mouse shuddered. "No."
"No wonder your uncle's looking so sour," Squirrel remarked. "What will Arkhyd do with a body, Donkey?"
"Whose body?" Sharkbait asked harshly from the alley door.
They all jumped.
"Why, good morning, Sharkbait," Mouse greeted him waspishly. "How nice of you to drop in. It was a friend of Dedemar's; a man named Zhotar."
Sharkbait came into the kitchen, fast. "Zhotar? Another Ghytteve bodyguard dead? Good." T
he word was vicious.
"Sharkbait, what's wrong?" Squirrel demanded, alarmed.
Rage died in his face, leaving sorrow like bitter ashes. "They killed Kitten." His voice caught, trembled. "They wrung her dry and cast her off like refuse; they left her on the waterfront, where I would find her. My men buried her."
The others exchanged stricken looks. Mouse's hand crept up to cover her mouth. Squirrel pounded the table with his fist.
"Kitten," Mouse sobbed.
Donkey wrapped the girl in a comforting hug; tears streamed like rain on his cheeks. For several moments, no one spoke. Then Donkey asked, "Where's Ferret?"
"She's taken word to the Windbringer's Temple. I'm to bring you there."
"To the Windbr—" Squirrel began. "Sharkbait, why?"
"My parents—" Mouse protested.
"All of us?" Donkey asked.
Sharkbait held up one hand. "Just the bones for now. Kit—" his voice caught on the name, "Kitten will have told the Ghytteve about the Trollop; your scent must be cold when Ycevi's hounds come hunting. Kerigden—the Windbringer's High Priest—helped Ferret to escape Azhere, and he offered to shelter all of you. So we're going." Suddenly, his gaze sharpened on Mouse. "You said Zhotar is dead. How?"
It fell to Mouse to relate the events of the past night, including Dedemar's message to all of them, and the conversation she had overheard between the dying bodyguard and his friend. When she had finished, Sharkbait looked thoughtful.
"And now, Dedemar is gone," he said softly. "I wonder whether he's taken his friend's advice—and how we can make use of this tangle." As Sharkbait narrowed his eyes in concentration, Arkhyd came bustling back into the kitchen.
An unwelcoming frown settled on the tavern master's face. "You're back? What do you want, now?"
Inspiration drew a bitter smile from Sharkbait. "I understand," he drawled, "you have a bit of a disposal problem. Perhaps you'd like my help with it?"
Arkhyd's expression teetered between relief and suspicion. Suspicion won. "Happen you'll explain why you're so helpful of a sudden."
"I've a score to settle with the Ghytteve. He was one of their bodyguards; did you know?" Sharkbait's words turned Arkhyd's face the color of putty.
"I run a respectable tavern," the tapster bleated. "Do you mean to ruin me?"
"No, merely to save your skin. The Ghytteve are full of rage and bloodlust; they believe they have reason to connect a number of us—Ferret and her friends—with foiling some scheme of theirs. It's nonsense, of course; but deadly nonsense. Arkhyd, they murdered Kitten; she was tortured. It's likely she mentioned the Trollop. You don't want to have the corpse of a Ghytteve bodyguard in your possession—no matter how innocently acquired—when Ycevi unleashes her hounds."
Arkhyd's gaze touched each of the children in turn. "Are they in danger?" he asked.
Sharkbait nodded. "And their presence here is a danger to you. Let me hide the children. I believe I can keep them safe."
"Mouse's parents—" Arkhyd began, but shouts and the clash of weapons from the street interrupted.
"Explain to Mouse's parents," Sharkbait suggested. "In private. For now, put the body in your wine cellar, and turn a blind eye to the fact that the children and I have disappeared from your kitchen."
The tavern master looked alarmed. "Happen that's the Ghytteve in the streets, now? What then?"
"Whenever you meet the Ghytteve, Arkhyd, remember this: they won't believe you're ignorant—or innocent. Your best course is to tell them—right off—yes, Sharkbait uses the Trollop as a meeting place—and pays you well to do it. Say you can't predict my movements, but invite them to post a watcher on the premises—for a suitable fee. The Ghytteve understand trade, and betrayal. And they don't believe in compassion, charity or loyalty. Offer them a business proposition, Arkhyd; it's safest."
The tavern master swallowed audibly. The noises from the street had moved into the distance. "Go. I'll explain to your parents, Mouse. Thantor—" His gaze reached through an illegible scrawl of emotion to touch his nephew's face. "I never knew what your father was thinking, either," he whispered. "Go, lest I start asking questions—and I'd best not know aught else."
They went. Sharkbait led them with a woodsman's skill past hunting bravos. At the Waiting Wall, he gave them a fistful of silver and sent them ahead to the Windbringer's Temple. Then, with a promise to meet them before the morning was over, he melted back into the Slums' labyrinth.
***
Ycevi Ghytteve regarded Elkhar over the rim of her shell-delicate porcelain coffee cup. "Let me be sure I understand you. The child, Kitten, told you that Cyffe was killed by 'Sharkbait'—whom you surmise to be Antryn Anzhibhar-Ykhave."
"By Sharkbait and Ferret," Elkhar corrected, "when I pressed her on it."
The Lady raised her eyebrows. "So the little thief was clever enough to dupe Rhydev—or this Kitten was fabricating things to appease you. What else?"
"She mentioned Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave, but she called him 'Mouse's nobleman;' she didn't connect him with Antryn (or Sharkbait) at all, and when I asked her why he was 'Mouse's nobleman,' she said he was impressed with Mouse's skill at drawing. She said that Owl had told her—before we ever saw him—the Emperor's life was in danger, and that he had dreamed of the Emperor's foreign witch. (She called her by name.) Even pushed—and I pushed hard, Lady: trust me—she maintained they were all just 'friends;' but this Sharkbait started a Guild war when Azhere kidnapped Ferret. There's more moving here than the child knew—I'm certain of it. Dedemar's message indicated that the Windbringer priest and the Emperor's foreign witch are somehow involved, but Kitten knew nothing about it."
The Lady frowned. "The khacce code is ambiguous; perhaps Dedemar didn't mean the Windbringer High Priest was involved. Kerigden has spent years impressing upon us his disinterest in politics. Might he have meant a priest of the Windbringer?"
"It's possible," Elkhar admitted. "I sent Zhotar to seek clarification of him—" Suddenly, Elkhar stiffened. "I sent Zhotar to the Trollop's Smile; and he hasn't reported in, yet."
"The Trollop's Smile?"
"It's the tavern where those children congregate. If harm has come to him, I'll—"
"Yes," she cut him off. "But Elkhar, what's the connection? What part do you suppose Owl is to play in all this—if any? What possible value can he have to people as different as Ghobhezh-Ykhave and the Emperor's witch? Not to mention Antryn and Kerigden, if they are in truth involved." She drank her cooling coffee with irritation.
"I told you about his visions. He must be part of Antryn's plot—or counterplot. Perhaps they are leagued to thwart us, Lady. For all that I can't bear the creature, I have difficulty imagining the Emperor's witch plotting against him." Elkhar fell silent as he sorted scraps of fact and surmise. "Get rid of Owl, Lady; that boy is dangerous."
"No. No." Ycevi's calm facade frayed. "We can't. If fatal harm comes to Owl, I won't have a prayer of holding Cithanekh—and all our work would be undone."
"Kill them both, then," Elkhar urged, "and start over with Ancith. He'll be of age in three years—and a Regency could work to your advantage." As the Lady began to shake her head, he gestured imploringly. "I know he ought to be perfect—but what use is 'ought' if your puppy turns out to be a wolf, after all? You've planned so carefully; don't throw it away."
"It's Owl," Ycevi snarled. "It's always Owl. He's the grit in the flour. He seems so innocent, and flawless for my purposes; but he's trouble—always trouble."
"Get rid of him," Elkhar repeated. "It would be a simple matter to poison..."
"Elkhar," the Lady's crisp tone recalled him to duty. "No. I do not wish to consider such measures. As for the rest, you've made a satisfactory beginning—but it is only a beginning. I want that thief: Ferret; and Sharkbait, if you can trap him."
"May I bait the trap with the boy?"
"No. Not if it will risk him. Go."
"As you command, Lady."
After Elkhar left, the Lady pondered fo
r several minutes. Reaching some inward decision, she rang her table cymbal. When Myncerre answered the summons, Ycevi said, "Fetch Owl."
"I'm not sure he's up yet, Lady."
"Wake him."
Myncerre returned shortly with Owl who was wrapped in a silk robe too large for him. He was heavy eyed and pale. The Lady studied him silently for several moments.
"You remember, no doubt," she began at last, "that I said you were not for sale? Not at any price."
"Yes, Lady. I remember," Owl replied with flat politeness.
"I may have spoken too soon. Rhydev Azhere would pay a lot of money for you—a lot of money." She watched his face closely, saw his spasm of dread. "Wouldn't you like that?"
"Why?" Owl's question was faint as a breath.
Her smile reminded the boy of Elkhar—the same feral eagerness. "I don't trust you, boy. You're too clever. Clever tools make me uneasy. Come here. Give me your hands."
The Lady saw panic flash across Owl's face. As he struggled with the too-long sleeves of the robe, she reached over and imprisoned his wrists. At her touch, his face went stiff. She set his forearms on the table before she peeled back the extra inches of sleeve to reveal each hand. His left was clenched. She tapped it imperatively. When he opened his hand, the Lady caught her breath. In his palm lay an opal the size of a wren's egg: of blues darker than midnight, its heart of fire glinted, elusive, in its depths.
"Where did you get that?" the Lady demanded.
"I found it on the floor in the library," Owl lied. "It must have fallen off the khacce table; but it was so pretty I... Lady, I meant to put it back."
"That never came from my khacce table, boy," she said, holding out her hand. "Give it to me."