A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

  "So," Cezhar Ghytteve breathed, adding more loudly, "A peaceful resting-place, Council Lord of Ykhave."

  "Hrrmph-huh." As Venykhar jerked upright, his cane slipped from his hands to clatter on the pavement. "Gracious, you startled me, boy. I must have dozed off." Stiffly, the old man bent to retrieve his cane. His eyes never left the Ghytteve's knees. As his hand closed around the metal shod foot, Venykhar saw him tense to spring. He brought the weighted head of his cane up sharply, cracking the younger man viciously under the chin. Cezhar staggered. With a spurt of adrenaline born agility which would cost him dearly, Venykhar followed up his advantage with a hard rap to the temple. The Ghytteve crumpled.

  Venykhar limped quickly away, thinking feverishly. His mouth was chalk. Antryn. But the Ghytteve hadn't told him anything specific enough to be helpful. They thought they had him—'That trap will hold'—but how? What use to send Ferret or one of the others hot-foot to tell Antryn he was in danger? They were all in danger. Even his own reputation for disinterest in Court intrigue was jeopardized—destroyed, actually, if that Ghytteve hound were only stunned. It wouldn't take a mastermind to make a plausible connection between Antryn Anzhibhar-Ykhave and the Ykhave Councilor. And what was happening to Owl?

  "Ven!"

  "Arre," he greeted her.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes full of visions.

  "I knocked him out: Cezhar Ghytteve."

  She released pent breath. "I dreamed more than one ending to that encounter. Oh Ven, thank God you're all right."

  "Antryn's in trouble. The Ghytteve think they have him trapped."

  Arre pressed three fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes; but after a moment she shook her head, defeated. "I can't make it come clear." She closed her hand around one wrist, rubbing it as though it ached. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't concentrate."

  The old lord's gaze sharpened on her hands. "Owl," he said, touching her forearm. "Elkhar broke Owl's wrist."

  "What?" Her eyes unfocused briefly; when clarity returned to her gaze she shook her head ruefully. "He's strong, Ven. He's not even awake and he's projecting his pain. Ven, we mustn't stand about, talking. It's not safe."

  "You've a notion what we should do next?" At her nod, he gestured grandly. "Then lead on."

  ***

  Cezhar Ghytteve, with a discolored lump on the side of his face and a mien grim as winter, stood stiffly upright while Elkhar's tirade roared over him like surf. His head thrummed like a struck anvil and his eyes didn't want to focus; and the way the Lady studied him, as though he were some repellent curiosity, made him almost wish Ghobhezh-Ykhave's blow had finished him. He forced himself to pay attention; Elkhar was winding down. If the Lady started in, she would expect sensible answers.

  "It does rather cast Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave in a different light," Ycevi remarked. "I would never have thought him enough of a fighter to best one of my hand-picked, specially trained bodyguard. How indiscreet were you and Rhan, Cezhar?"

  "We spoke mostly in generalities, Lady. I do remember mentioning Antryn's name; Ghobhezh-Ykhave might well have deduced his kinsman's danger, but we gave no hint from what quarter the threat would come."

  "Was his attack unprovoked, or were you going to kill him?"

  "I had that intention."

  "Why—if you hadn't been dangerously indiscreet?"

  "Because of the connection," Cezhar explained. "It had never occurred to me, until I saw the Ykhave Council Lord so suspiciously there, that Antryn Anzhibhar-Ykhave could be involved in anything but a lone-wolf plot or counter-plot. And as there was no one else in the gardens, no way to link his death to House Ghytteve, it seemed a perfect opportunity. My mistake was speaking to him first; but it was dark. I couldn't see his face. I didn't want to risk a dangerous error."

  "And you thought him old and feeble," Ycevi said. "Did he know who you were? Did Rhan use your name?"

  Cezhar thought back. "Yes. I think he did."

  "Gods," Lady Ycevi snarled. "At least you didn't wound him—or did you?"

  "No, Lady."

  "Then he's unlikely to make formal charges, since we have such a clear line of defense: he struck you unprovoked. Remember that, Cezhar."

  "Yes, Lady."

  "And Elkhar? Be extremely circumspect. Spring the trap on this 'Sharkbait,' but be careful. I'm not looking for elegance: wring him dry and kill him."

  "I had thought," Elkhar offered, "to use him as a lure for the thief, Ferret."

  "I do want them both," the Lady admitted. "Very well, use your discretion, Elkhar—but take no unnecessary risks." She rose, and with a last, exasperated shake of the head at Cezhar, left the chamber.

  Cezhar braced for another round of recriminations, but Elkhar merely rolled his eyes at his lieutenant. "Go. Mend your head—but send Evvan and Ynteth to me."

  Chapter Twenty-nine—Parry and Riposte

  There was no sign of Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave, when Mouse rose to greet the day; and none of his servants knew where he was. Though no one else seemed concerned, his absence worried her. After breakfast, she took her sketching case and went into the garden to look for him.

  The garden hummed with gossip. Mouse scanned the crowd searching for Arre or Venykhar. She found neither of them, but she recognized Cithanekh Ghytteve, gray with strain, parrying the gibes of an assortment of court ladies. The haunted desperation in young lord's eyes made Mouse angry on his behalf. She rendered, in charcoal, a viciously satirical version of the scene: Cithanekh, looking noble and patient, at the center of a pack of silly lapdogs—each of whom resembled, with unflattering clarity, one of the ladies. When the drawing was done, she walked idly past the group; as she passed Cithanekh, she let the paper fall. With reflexive courtesy, he retrieved it. "Young Ykhave," he began, then spluttered into helpless laughter. Curiosity piqued, a lady twitched the page out of his fingers. Mouse serenely ignored the outraged yapping in her wake.

  Mouse settled on a bench and began another drawing: a detailed sketch of one of the garden's flowering shrubs. A gentle touch interrupted her concentration. It was Cithanekh.

  "That was clever," he said. "You've badly offended a third of the marriageable daughters of the Council Houses, but no one will wonder at my speaking with you. You must be Mouse; Owl's told me of you."

  She nodded. "Amynne Ykhave. And you're Cithanekh Ghytteve."

  He bowed slightly. "What with yesterday and this morning, you are fast becoming the Court's latest sensation." He gestured toward snickering courtiers knotted around a sheet of paper. "Be very careful."

  Concern lit her eyes. "Is aught wrong? You look troubled."

  Cithanekh told Mouse of Squirrel's near capture and its aftermath. Mouse shared her concern over Venykhar's absence, and the young lord promised to find out what he could.

  After Cithanekh left, Mouse had no quiet, for the courtiers plagued her for sketches. She patiently obliged them with polite little portraits until her hand ached. Even after she was sure she'd drawn every face in the garden at least twice, they would not leave her alone. With vexed determination, she began to put away her things. "That's all," she said firmly.

  "But no," a cool voice responded. The speaker was an elegant old woman, whose dark eyes were burningly intent. "You absolutely must not stop until you've done my portrait."

  "No," Mouse said bluntly. "I've been drawing all morning and I'm tired."

  The woman shook her silvery hair back with a laugh like shattered crystal. "Have I failed to make my wishes clear? You will make my portrait."

  Her arrogance wound Mouse's temper. "Very well," she said crisply. She assessed the woman swiftly, then drew: not a simple likeness, but a stunning drawing nonetheless. Mouse captured her vibrant, unbending pride in a creature more hawk than woman: sleek feathers in place of coifed hair, aquiline features subtly exaggerated, posed with one arm raised imperiously, the hand a raptor's hooked talons. The likeness was inescapable, and anything but flattering. As Mouse wordlessly gave the
sheet to the woman, she noticed the heavy, gold chain of office around her neck. Belatedly, she recognized the stooping hawk of House Ghytteve blazoned on her Council medallion.

  Ycevi Ghytteve studied the page; the courtiers who stole glances at the drawing tensed to anticipation. A contagion of silence spread from Mouse and the Lady. Cithanekh, hurrying to tell Mouse what he had gleaned of Venykhar's encounter with Cezhar, froze in consternation.

  "Why insult me?" Lady Ycevi whispered.

  "You annoyed me," Mouse responded steadily.

  "Annoyed you?" the Lady repeated, with real puzzlement.

  "You canna even bring yourself to say 'please.'"

  "'Please?'" Outrage rattled Lady Ycevi's tone.

  Supporting hands gripped Mouse's shoulders; the Scholar King's voice, bright with irony, said, "Permit me to define it for you, Ycevi: the word 'please' is used to express politeness or emphasis in a request."

  Lady Ycevi regained her composure. "Thank you, Your Majesty. But have you seen the drawing this horrible child made of me?"

  The Emperor studied the drawing, then said seriously, "Oh, Amynne. That was terribly naughty of you."

  Mouse studied one toe in contrition. "Yes, Your Majesty." She looked up at Lady Ycevi, winsome. "I'm sorry, Lady Ycevi. Please forgive me."

  Their eyes met; cynicism stole into Lady Ycevi's face. "What sort of a monster would I appear," she remarked, "were I to reject such a winningly offered apology?"

  An answering sardonic spark caught in Mouse's smile. "And in front of the whole Court, no less."

  "Amynne," the Scholar King warned under his breath.

  "Precisely," Lady Ycevi said, wry. "You wretched child. I think I shall choose to find you amusing."

  Mouse inclined her head. "My Lady is most gracious."

  "Indeed," she replied, moving off. She had not taken three steps before she spun back. "Is he your brother: Owl?"

  "No," Mouse answered calmly. "I dinna have a brother, gracious Lady. Has a Healer seen his wrist?"

  Ycevi's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon? Waste a Healer's talents on a careless slave's injury?"

  "Was it Owl who was careless, Lady Ycevi, or Elkhar?" Mouse persisted. The Scholar King's grip tightened on her shoulders.

  Lady Ycevi made the two-fingered gesture of one conceding a hit. "I would send the Healer with your compliments, child, if only I knew your name."

  She met Ycevi Ghytteve's sly challenge squarely. "It's Mouse," she said. "At least, that's my nickname. Happen you'll know me as Amynne Ykhave."

  Ycevi studied the girl in silence before she smiled very faintly. "Definitely, I shall choose to find you amusing, Amynne Ykhave." Then she glided off in a whisper of silk.

  Only Mouse was near enough to hear the Emperor's slowly expelled breath. She looked up at him curiously. "Do I make you nervous, Your Majesty?"

  "You take such appalling risks," he said softly as he guided her out of the gardens. "You do know that, don't you?"

  Mouse nodded. "Happen it's only a bold stroke will save us, now, Your Majesty. Lady Ycevi guessed who I was—else why mention Owl? She canna bear to look the fool. There was no hiding. At least now, she knows I know she knows who Mouse is—and so do you."

  The Emperor gave a lopsided smile. "And to think I once believed it was only the Council Houses who had intrigue bred in their bones. But Mouse, knowledge is not enough to protect you—nor even my interest and favor—if Ycevi finds you alone and vulnerable."

  "I know it. I'll be careful."

  "See to it, child, that you are careful enough."

  ***

  Sporadic violence raged in the waterfront district. Brawls broke out in more than one dockside tavern; three of Sharkbait's longshoremen were mobbed and beaten by Shippers' Guild goons; and then, toward evening, a Guild warehouse was torched.

  Ferret saw the smoke from the fringes of the Slums, where she was taking her turn at peace-keeping duties. She eyed the smudges which marred the sunset with deep misgiving; fire on the waterfront was likely to mean the loss of property: Shippers' Guild goods. Destruction of property would embroil the Watch in waterfront troubles. Further, the Shippers' Guild were the principal opponents of Sharkbait's organization. They would use this opportunity against him.

  When Ferret spied one of Khyzhan's bravos, she hailed him. "Ho, Akhenn. Did you come from the wharves? What's burning?"

  "Ho, Ferret. A right mess, it is. Shippers' Guild warehouses: fire's spread to three of them. Loaded with exports, to hear Master Ghankh tell it. Mobs willn't let the bucket brigade through. They've called out the Watch."

  Ferret cursed. "Happen I'd best get down there. Take my watch, Akhenn?"

  He shrugged. "Go. But you owe me."

  The waterfront was in seething turmoil. Ferret followed the smoke and crowds and was soon in the thick of the tumult. People armed with buckets milled aimlessly in the face of a thin line of cudgel-bearing toughs.

  "Let the cursed goods burn!" one of the toughs harangued. "Let us pay the bloodsuckers in their own coin! It is they who grow fat on our toil! They eat richly while our children starve!" At the alarming growls of agreement, both from the toughs on the line and from some of the watchers, Ferret's mouth turned to dust. "We've been patient with them. Even now, we're too gentle with these merchant scum!" he railed on. "Gentle! It's only their goods which burn now, but it's our children who burn up with fever!"

  As his diatribe went on, the mob's responses grew angrier. Ferret realized if she didn't act quickly, events would escape her entirely. She pushed into the open space before the cudgel wielders, fists on her hips. "If you've lost a child to hunger, happen I'll eat my tunic," she challenged the leader. "You speak like a noble. What are you after starting? A riot? Happen you've no idea the damage that does! Happen you've never lost a family member to mob violence—or to fire! There's tenements—where people live!—not half far enough away from here. I dinna give a damn about merchants' goods, either—but there are people's lives at stake." She turned away to gather the onlookers into her outrage. "There canna be more than thirty toughs—and there's hundreds of us. We canna stand idle while people burn!"

  A few growled agreement; but most shuffled awkwardly. With a sinking heart, Ferret realized her reasoning wasn't volatile enough to inflame them. For most of the bystanders, it was neither their homes nor their families at risk. They needed more to stir them up, more to enrage them. Before she could dream something up, her thief's instincts flashed danger. She spun to face the leader of the toughs, and by sheer luck, dodged the blow he had aimed at her head.

  "For shame!" a voice cried. "She's a child!"

  The man's return swing connected crushingly with her ribcage. Though she tried to ride the force of the blow, she landed winded and gasping on the cobbles ten feet away. Through dizzying pain stars, Ferret saw the start of his rush; but she couldn't even scramble away. Dimly, she heard a voice raised in fury: a familiar voice, a dear voice. And even more dimly, she realized that somehow, the mob had surged between her and her attacker. Strong arms hoisted her away from trampling feet; but the new pressure on her punished ribs pushed her into darkness, and she remembered nothing more.

  ***

  Milling chaos, surging crowds, anger, smoke and shouting resolved finally, under the direction of Sharkbait and his longshoremen, into a ruthlessly efficient bucket brigade. As soon as it was possible, Sharkbait began to search for Ferret. But for all his frantic effort, he found no sign of her.

  "She must have crawled out of the crowd," Sharkbait said for the tenth time—as much to reassure himself as for any other reason. "She must have."

  "A brave lass, yon Ferret," his man said. "Happen you'd planned yon mob-turning, the two of you—it went so slick."

  Sharkbait tried to smile. "She's reckless and rash, if you want the truth—but she has the Windbringer's own luck. By the names of all the gods, let her be safe."

  "You ought, more properly, to be concerned for your own safety, Antryn."

&nb
sp; Sharkbait spun: Elkhar—and a lot of men. Sharkbait grabbed his boot knife, but Elkhar's gesture froze him. "You wouldn't want harm to come to your companion, now, would you?"

  Another Ghytteve bodyguard held a knife across the throat of Sharkbait's man. Sharkbait hesitated. If he fought, he might force them to kill him; but a fight would doom his man. He dropped his knife and spread empty hands in surrender.

  They were efficient and took no chances. When Sharkbait was disarmed and bound, Elkhar turned to the Ghytteve holding his man. "Leave no traces for that little thief; she's damned clever. Kill him."

  Sharkbait flinched as they opened his man's throat. Elkhar smiled nastily. "You should have fought, Antryn. You might have forced us to kill you cleanly. Death won't come easily, now."

  Sharkbait said nothing. Around him, the crowd worked to control the fire; hentes of Watch moved through the mob tensely, but without drawn weapons. He could shout for help—but the waterfront still tottered on the brink of riot. His capture might overturn the balance. Two of Elkhar's men unrolled a stretcher; they pushed Sharkbait down onto it and covered him with a blanket. They made jostling progress away from the noise and the smell of burning.

  ***

  Donkey leaned his broom against the wall of the Windbringer's Temple and sat down on the stone step. Though it was daylight—his hours of vigil in the walls—after Squirrel's near capture, Kerigden, Venykhar and Arre had unanimously forbidden the usual watches. The two boys had been sent to the Temple District for safety; Donkey had taken on chores to keep busy. He stifled impatience with his dullest, most obtuse face.

  While he sat on the steps, the picture of a lazy dullard, he watched the Temple Watch on their rounds. One of the men looked familiar; it was Dedemar. Donkey remembered that Ferret had persuaded the Fytrian Temple Watchman to spy on the Ghytteve. Suddenly, Donkey realized Dedemar was coming toward him up the great stone steps. He rose, retrieved his broom and—the image of someone caught at his loafing—went back to work. As Dedemar approached, the guard regarded Donkey with a frown of concentration. Donkey moved into the Temple Watchman's path, gaped at him, then said, in the blankest tone imaginable, "Ma sent you flowers."