A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1)

  "We passed him in one of the galleries. He was making music with the Emperor's foreign mistress. The boy called him by name. He offered me seven Royals for Owl."

  "Five," Owl corrected.

  Anthagh pierced Owl with a poisonous look, but his tone was mild. "You need to learn to hold your tongue."

  Lady Ycevi laughed. "No! That's his appeal. He's innocent, honest, forthright—and vulnerable. Surely an irresistible combination for the purposes I have in mind. My congratulations, Anthagh. What's your price?"

  "Twelve Royals."

  "Are you worth twelve Royals, boy?" the woman asked Owl.

  "They paid my brother a fentarre of Dream's Ease and twenty Guilds. Twelve Royals seems an indecent profit to me."

  "To me, also," she agreed. "But the good will of one's business associates is an important consideration." Her gaze sought the slaver's. "I'll give you ten." At his bow, her lips quirked in a rueful smile. "I daresay you'd have taken seven."

  He spread his hands. "I'd have taken five—but you've bought quite a lot of good will, most gracious Lady."

  "Find Myncerre on your way out; she'll see you're paid," she said by way of dismissal; her attention focused on Owl, calculating. "Yes. Oh, yes." Her avid smile chilled him. "You are—irresistible. That poor bastard doesn't stand a chance."

  Chapter Six—Councils

  Ferret and her friends didn't start to worry about Owl until the second morning after the slaver had taken him. It was Kitten whose insistence drove Ferret to seek out Zhazher. They went together. Kitten had wanted to bring Donkey with them, but he, having returned to Arkhyd's good graces, wasn't free to leave the Trollop.

  "This isn't like Owl," Kitten said for the thirtieth time. "What if Zhazher really hurt him?"

  When they reached the hovel, Ferret turned to Kitten. "You wait out here—whistle if anyone comes. Happen Zhazh isn't here, but if he is, he's apt to be surly."

  Kitten nodded. As she positioned herself, alert for trouble, Ferret went inside. The hovel was dim; she waited inside the doorway for her eyes to adjust. The place stank of Dream's Ease and filth. Her quick ears caught no sounds of breathing. When she made out a huddled shape beside the rude table, she hurried to his side. It was Zhazher—dead. She cursed softly, then examined him. There were no wounds, no signs of struggle. Too much Ease. She searched his clothes. She found an oily paper wrapper which reeked of the drug—a scrap large enough to wrap a whole fentarre of the stuff. She folded the paper and tucked it into her shirt, then went on with her search. Her hand closed on a clutch of coins. "Gods," she said aloud.

  "What?" The younger girl appeared in the doorway.

  "Dinna come in—I'm coming out," Ferret said. She joined her friend on the street; she was pale. Ferret showed Kitten the fat handful of Guilds. "I fear I've a notion what happened to Owl. Zhazh is dead. He must have taken a whole fentarre of Ease. I found these in his clothing."

  Kitten pressed her hands to her heart. "Oh, no," she breathed, anguished. "The bastard must have sold him!"

  Ferret nodded somberly. "Happen it's so—but we must find out for sure; and Kitten, if it's possible, we'll buy him back."

  Kitten nodded solemnly.

  "Let's go back to the Trollop and gather everyone. Happen together we can decide what we'd best do next."

  ***

  Sharkbait was late. He arrived at the Ivory Comb half expecting that Venykhar would not have waited for him; but the old lord was in his usual place, nursing a glass of wine.

  "I had almost given you up," he greeted him.

  "Sorry," Sharkbait replied. "I didn't check your message drop until a few minutes ago; I didn't expect you to need me again, so soon. What's wrong?"

  "You know little Mouse's friend, Owl, don't you?" At Sharkbait's nod, the lord continued slowly, "I saw him at the Palace, last night. He was in the company of Master Anthagh."

  Sharkbait paled. "Sweet, weeping gods. That bastard Zhazher must have sold him. Do you know who bought him?"

  "No; not yet. The slaver told me he was already spoken for when I tried to buy him; but he didn't say who his client was."

  Sharkbait looked surprised. "You tried to buy him? Why?"

  "I don't know. Because he was mutely begging me to do something. It didn't do any good. I offered Anthagh five Royals for him, but he wasn't interested." He went on before Sharkbait could overcome his astonishment enough to speak. "I'm worried. Arre says the boy's important, that there's something brewing at Court and Owl is a piece of it."

  "Wait. Who is Arre?"

  "The Kellande Seer."

  "Oh. The Emperor's foreign witch," Sharkbait responded. "And she thinks Owl's involved in some plot?"

  "She has dreamed of him. She thinks he's a mere piece on some Council House's khacce board."

  "But which Council House?"

  The old man shrugged. "Does it matter?"

  "Ven!" Sharkbait cried, exasperated. "Yes, it matters! You offered to buy the boy; that's enough out of character for you to cause comment at Court, even if Owl's not an important part of some House's gambit. If your friend Arre is right, whoever bought Owl is going to wonder why you're interested in him."

  "You're seeing ghosts in the shadows, my boy," Venykhar tried to reassure him. "How will anyone know I offered for him? There was no one there but Arre, and she'll keep her counsel."

  "And the boy; and the slaver. Anthagh will tell his client, if only to drive his price up." Sharkbait sighed. "Don't you have any pressing business in Khavenaffe?"

  Venykhar eyed Sharkbait indignantly. "You think I'm going to make a hash of this."

  "Ven, intrigue is hardly your element. Why did you really offer to buy Owl?"

  "I told you: he's little Mouse's friend, and I was sorry for him."

  "Five Royals worth of pity? None of the other Council Houses will believe that."

  "So what should I do?" Venykhar snapped. "Spend the next few months leering at little boys until my reputation is an utter shambles?"

  "That has possibilities," Sharkbait replied, snidely. "In the meantime, try to figure out who bought him—but don't ask any questions; just watch, and notice what color livery Owl shows up wearing." The longshoreman sighed. "I'll have to tell Mouse and Ferret and the others. They'll take this hard."

  "I've thought of sending to Khavenaffe—to ask the Duke for permission to commit enough House resources to acquire the boy, but I doubt the amount of money Ykhave could raise would tempt Owl's purchaser; and I really can't justify the kind of concessions I'd need to grant in order even to pique their interest." He raised a sardonic eyebrow at Sharkbait's surprised approval. "Intrigue may not be my element, my boy, but I'm not an utter fool."

  "I didn't mean to imply you were," the younger man said smoothly. "I'm just worried for you, Ven; I know what sharks some of the other Councilors are, and I'd hate to see you hurt. You'll tell me what you manage to discover about Owl, and whether he looks well and reasonably happy?"

  The old lord smiled faintly. "You'd spend five Royals out of pity for him."

  Sharkbait smiled sadly. "I'd spend fifty, if I had it; but then, I risk my life and spend my energy agitating for better wages for a pack of illiterate commoners." He rose. "Good night, Ven."

  ***

  It was very late that night, when Ferret and her friends gathered in the scullery of the Trollop. The last of the revelers had been lighted home, and even Arkhyd had gone to bed. They were a sober group. Mouse had been crying. Squirrel and Ferret were angry; and Kitten had gnawed her fingernails to the quick. Donkey refused to show any emotion, but sat with deceptive placidness among his friends.

  "I did some snooping this afternoon," Ferret began. "Anthagh bought Owl from his brother; and according to rumor, he sold him right off. I decided to find out who bought him, but when I went to Anthagh's headquarters, his toughs warned me off. I visited several pleasure houses, but no one would tell me aught. So I went to Khyzhan. I had to argue with him; at first, he'd have naught to do with my inquir
ies. He said Anthagh's the closest thing the Slum has to a Council Lord—independent and untouchable. So I told him if he wouldn't help, I'd go to Ybhanne—that's one of his rivals—and see if she'd be more use. I half expected him to call my bluff, but he didn't. He went rather still, then said if I was that stupid or that desperate, happen he'd best go along to minimize damage. He took me to some contacts he had in the Slave Market. They were abuzz with hints about a beggar child who had been sold to one of the Council Houses, for an outrageous sum. We heard everything from five to twenty Royals."

  "Lady of Sorrows," Kitten whispered. "Oh, Fret; we'll never raise twenty Royals."

  "It's not fair!" Squirrel burst out. "Owl was worth a hundred of that brute Zhazher."

  "He's not dead," Mouse protested. "Dinna speak as though he were."

  "Did you leave word for Sharkbait?" Donkey asked. "Happen he'll have some ideas."

  "I didn't," Ferret began; but then, the kitchen door opened and Sharkbait slipped in.

  He took one look at their faces and sighed. "You've heard about Owl, then. I'm sorry. It's an evil place, this empire where they sell children."

  "What would a Council House want Owl for, Sharkbait?" Mouse asked, tearfully.

  "How did you find out he was bought by a Council House? Do you know which House?"

  Mouse gestured to Ferret, who shrugged. "Khyzhan introduced me to a couple of his contacts in the Slave Market; but they didn't know (or wouldn't say) which House bought Owl."

  "Khyzhan helped you," Sharkbait marveled.

  "You haven't answered my question, Sharkbait," Mouse pointed out.

  "No," he agreed.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  He spread his hands, helplessly. "How can I say? To some extent, it depends on which Council House bought him. But Venykhar—who told me about Owl, by the way; he'd seen him at the Palace—Venykhar has promised to try to find out who bought him, and whether he's well." The longshoreman studied each of them in turn. "It needn't be disaster for Owl, you know. Think: he'll have regular meals; and he won't have that brute Zhazher beating on him. Maybe it's good luck for Owl."

  "And happen he's been sold as catamite to some disease-ridden nobleman?" Ferret asked, bitterly. "I canna imagine that even Council Houses pay twenty Royals for a page boy. If it's good luck, Sharkbait, we'll wish him well in it; but we must know. Surely you see that?"

  "I see," Sharkbait said sadly. "The only scrap Ven could offer was something the Emperor's foreign witch—Arre—said: she's dreamed of Owl; she thinks he was bought to be used in some Council House scheme; and she says that there's something brewing at Court. There always is something brewing (usually poison), so that's not very helpful."

  Mouse caught her breath. "The plot on the Emperor! Owl spoke of it."

  "And he dreamed of Arre," Ferret added. "He told us."

  "You know," Sharkbait warned, "there's not going to be anything we can do about Owl's situation, no matter what Venykhar tells us."

  "Nevertheless," Ferret said firmly, "we would know the truth."

  "Very well. It will probably take a few days." He looked around at them all. "I am sorry; Owl doesn't deserve that treacherous brother."

  Ferret looked at him sharply. "Zhazher's dead. An overdose of Dream's Ease, I think."

  Sharkbait grunted in surprise. "That's poetic justice, if you like." He rose. "I'll talk to you when I know more. Good night, children."

  They watched him go, all but Donkey, who was studying the young thief's face. "Ferret," he said at last, "what are you thinking?"

  Her face was inscrutable. "That Sharkbait's wrong when he says there will be naught we can do. I predict we'll be up to our ears in this mess."

  "We're Slum-rats!" Kitten protested.

  "Happen that's so," the thief responded. "But when Arre met me on the wharf, she knew me; and she said she had dreamed of me, too."

  ***

  Owl fingered the slave band they had fastened around his left wrist. The silver bracelet, locked on, was engraved with the symbol of House Ghytteve: a stooping hawk, its cruel talons extended, circumscribed by a diamond. It wasn't that it was uncomfortable, but he hated what it stood for; it was the bars of his cage, and he carried it with him always.

  He had already learned how the bracelet marked him. As he trailed in the wake of the Ghytteve steward, Myncerre, he saw the dismissive looks other servants gave him. He knew, cleaned up and dressed in the new clothing Lady Ycevi had ordered for him, he didn't look like a Slum dweller; but the fine lawn shirt he wore under his tunic was cut shorter in the left sleeve than the right, so that the sign of his bondage would be instantly visible.

  Myncerre looked back and clucked her tongue to hurry Owl along. She was a quiet, capable woman—neither unkind, nor warm. It had fallen to her to take Owl in hand, teach him how to go on in the vast, complicated Palace. Firmly, she drilled forms of address and endless rules of protocol; and she dragged Owl with her in all her duties, so that he could observe and mimic. Noting the glint in her eye, Owl hurried to catch up.

  "Now," she said. "Say you were to run across one of the Council Lords. What would you say?"

  "Naught—"

  "Nothing," she corrected.

  "Nothing unless spoken to," he replied dully.

  "Yes. And if he spoke?"

  "I would answer politely, and if I were certain I recognized him, I would add 'most gracious Lord of' and give his House name. Else, I would simply call him 'Your Excellency.'"

  "No! 'Your Eminence.' 'Your Excellency' is for Bishop Anakher or the Prime Minister. Now, say you were sent with a message for House Ambhere; how would you tell their steward?"

  "I would make the small bow and say, 'Esteemed sir, I bring word for your most gracious Lady Mylazhe Ambhere from my respected mistress the Lady Ycevi Ghytteve.'"

  "Yes," Myncerre said; before she could pose another question, someone hailed her.

  "Why, my esteemed Myncerre."

  She and Owl both turned. The man who had spoken was richly dressed, a Council Lord's chain of office bright against the deep blue of his tunic. A small, pointed beard accented the narrow elegance of his features. His dark hair had silvered at the temples, lending an air of age and wisdom. His tone was dry to the point of insolence.

  "Most gracious Lord of Azhere. How may I be of service?" Myncerre's answering tone was almost flippant.

  "So—mmm—formal? I've told you to call me 'Rhydev.'"

  "Yes, your Eminence; but I must set a good example for the boy."

  Rhydev Azhere's attention shifted to Owl. "Ah," he said. He took Owl's left arm and looked at the engraving on the bracelet. "A new—mmm—acquisition? So, boy: what role do you suppose you're to play for House Ghytteve?"

  Owl appraised the man frankly before he responded. "Your Eminence, I suspect I'm intended as bait."

  Myncerre rounded on him in outrage. "Owl!"

  But Rhydev Azhere laughed. "Very likely. But for whom?"

  "I dinna—I don't know yet, your Eminence."

  The Azhere Council Lord brushed Owl's cheek with his fingertips. "When you find out, Owl, I'd like to know." Without waiting for a response, he sauntered off.

  "How could you say such a thing, Owl?" Myncerre demanded.

  "You said I was to answer politely."

  "You should have politely said, 'I don't know what you mean, your Eminence.'"

  "But I did know what he meant."

  "The requirement is a polite answer, not a truthful one, you foolish boy." She shook her head, then smiled faintly. "But you made him laugh. Not many can say that. Hurry, now. We've wasted time enough."

  ***

  Arkhyd came into the scullery after the noon rush and untied his apron. "I'm off to the market, Thantor. Finish the pots, and keep an ear to the taproom. There's a pair of customers, still. They've paid their reckoning, but if they want aught else, I told them to shout for you."

  Donkey nodded slowly. As his uncle bustled off, he propped the door open. The pots were sc
rubbed, and the afternoon stretched ahead, stiflingly hot and boring.

  To amuse himself, he began to eavesdrop. It was a common pastime for him; after he had overheard a few scraps of conversation, he would invent far-fetched situations to go with them. This pair was promising. The two men were whispering, but Donkey's ears were keen; and there was something furtive in their manner. He edged a bit closer to the doorway. He was instantly rewarded.

  "...made the kill, just as planned; it couldn't have gone more smoothly—but the wallet wasn't on him. The Lady's angry—money for the assassins, not to mention the...evidence; she wants some answers, and she wants them now." It wasn't a Slum voice; this man had a cultured accent.

  "If only I had answers." The second man spoke the Bharaghlafi language as though it didn't quite fit his tongue. "It is—mysterious. The Sea Hawk had the wallet, for I gave it to him myself; why he did not have it when the assassins struck, I have no idea."

  "Well, you'd better come up with an idea, Dedemar; the Lady has begun to wonder whether you might not have been unduly tempted by the...evidence."

  "I swear not," he said. "Tell her, Elkhar: I keep my word. I tell no lies."

  The first speaker laughed, with bitterness. "She'll never believe that. In her world, there's no such thing as honesty—only expediency and credulity. Look, Dedemar: she's not happy and it's in your interests to make her happy. Can't you throw her a bone?"

  Donkey shifted carefully, trying to get a look at the speakers. There was a pause, as though the man called Dedemar weighed his words. Donkey caught a glimpse of the foreigner: a tall, pale haired man in the livery of the Temple Watch; but the other man was ought of sight.

  "Tell her," Dedemar said at last, "her puppy is meeting Rhydev at the Replete Feline tonight, after midnight. If she is aware, well enough; if not, could it be her hound turns feral?"

  "The Replete Feline? A tavern on the Slum edge of the waterfront? I know the place. Good. If she wants you to spy, how can I get word to you?"

  "I'm on duty. If she wants him watched, she must send someone other."

  Elkhar made an approving grunt. "So you're showing some sense. There may be hope for you, after all."