"I learn fast. Do you want anything else, or should we go?"
Donkey heard the scrape of chairs as they rose. He padded back to the sink, in case either of them looked in before they left. He would have liked a look at the one called Elkhar, but it wasn't worth the risk. They hadn't sounded like they would tolerate being overheard; and words like 'assassins' and 'kill' were enough to give even Donkey pause.
He chewed on the conversation most of the afternoon. That they were talking about Squirrel's murdered customer seemed certain; but he did wish he could identify a few more of the references.
Chapter Seven—Dreams
Myncerre pursed her lips. "Come now, Owl; you must eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense. A growing boy like you?"
He sighed. He knew that look: totally unyielding. She wouldn't ease up until he'd done as she said. He took a piece of bread and chewed a corner of it. He wasn't hungry—or not terribly. Besides, the food was highly spiced and tasted odd. He ate another bite of bread; it was so soft and pale that it seemed almost tasteless, but that was preferable to the strange spices.
"Eat some of the meat, boy," Myncerre insisted.
Dutifully, he choked down a few bites. The spicing bit at the back of his throat, made his tongue feel thick and slippery. He shoved the plate away. "I dinna—"
"Don't," the steward corrected.
Owl sighed. "I don't want any more."
Myncerre studied him, then smiled commiseratingly. "Tomorrow I'll ask the cook to make you something less highly spiced." She handed him a glass of wine. "Here; drink this."
"I'd rather have water," he told her. His head had begun to spin sickeningly.
"Drink it," she repeated.
He swallowed some of it. It was bitter; it choked him. As he coughed, he knocked the glass over. The red stuff pooled like blood on the creamy linen cloth. Owl stared at it as he caught his breath. Then, he noticed some small, dark granules, like dregs, left where the liquid had soaked into the cloth. He pinched a few off the table cloth and rolled them between his fingers; they were hard, sharp edged little crystals, and they were blue. His heart lurched as his vision blurred for an instant; he swayed in his chair, then caught himself. His frightened eyes fastened on Myncerre's face. "You've poisoned me," he said, reproachful; then he slumped forward, unconscious.
Myncerre sprang into action, sudden worry on her face. She lifted Owl and carried him to his bed; she loosened his clothing and wrapped him in blankets. It shouldn't have been enough to make him react like this! Fear tightened her lungs. How could she have miscalculated so badly? Lady Ycevi would flay her if the boy died. She rang the table cymbal to summon a servant.
"Fetch a pot of coffee," she ordered.
Before the servant returned, Owl began to moan. Myncerre felt a flicker of hope. It would be bad. The boy would likely spend the night thrashing and screaming; but in her experience, the ones who made noise didn't die of the drug.
***
Owl was trapped in his dreams. Images surged in his brain like storm wrack: Zhazher crumpled in their hovel, too still. Ferret, arguing heatedly with a tight-lipped Khyzhan. A man he didn't know, slight, dark-haired, with beaky features and fierce, speedwell eyes; he wore a ring with a great, green jewel on his long fingered hand. The Scholar King at the head of a long table, surrounded by the Council of Advice—and familiar faces: Rhydev Azhere, and beside him, Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave. There was something important about this scene, something Owl had missed. He tried to cling to it, but the drug's undertow pulled him away. He fought for air; he was drowning! He thrashed and screamed, but the thundering surf pulled him down, down...
***
"How much did you give him?" Lady Ycevi's voice was deadly.
"Only a little, Lady. I used half an anthitarre—and he only had two bites of the stew, and not half a glass of the wine. It shouldn't affect him like this." Myncerre pinned Owl's shoulders with her hands as another spasm of thrashing took him.
Lady Ycevi looked from her steward to her slave, annoyance marring the arch of her eyebrows. "Haceth is a subtle substance. Keep him alive; if you can get him to drink some coffee, that would be beneficial—but don't drown him with it. Zherekhaf asked to speak with me this evening, and I'd rather not call his attention to the boy; so keep him as quiet as you can and don't come running to me with any news. I'll return once the Prime Minister leaves."
***
Arre sat up with a hiss of indrawn breath. Her hands gripped the edge of the table while her eyes grew wide and unfocused.
"Arre!" The startled edge in Khethyran's voice jarred words from the Seer.
"Piantele Doma," she whispered, forcing gasping breaths in and out of her lungs. As her eyes regained focus, she leaned her brow against one palm.
"Arre." Kheth grabbed her shoulders, shook her gently. "Arre, what is it?"
"Haceth."
"Haceth?" Kheth's voice spiraled toward panic. "Someone gave you haceth?"
"Not me. Owl. They gave Owl haceth." She managed a deep breath. "God, he's strong. I've got to help him."
"Owl?" He shook her a little harder. "Arre, for the love of the gods, make sense!"
She looked into Khethyran's strained face and forced herself to speak clearly. "They gave Owl haceth."
He took her chin in his hand. "By the gods above and below, who is Owl?"
"A boy; the boy in my visions. He—begged—in the Temple Gate; now he's a Ghytteve slave. He has Sight Gifts, untrained, very strong. And someone gave him haceth." She shook her head. "God, he's strong. He nearly pulled me in. Kheth, I have to help him."
"Help him?" the Scholar King whispered. "How?"
"I'll lead him out of his nightmares. Otherwise, he'll die—or go mad."
"Lead—? I've spent enough time at the Kellande School to know this sounds suicidal. You've no anchor; you're not in physical contact with the boy; he's untrained and strong."
"Two things you need to understand," she said gently. "One: I've dreamed of him; he's important. I'm not sure, yet, how he fits, Kheth, but he's part of something and we need him. Second: he nearly pulled me under with him, just now. I'm trained; I was neither tranced nor sleeping, but I nearly joined him. If House Ghytteve is determined to addict him to haceth, if they keep dosing him with it, he could take me with him into madness. I can't be on guard all the time; and if I had been tranced, or sleeping—or even overtired, Kheth!—I might not have been able to hold on. I must lead him out, Kheth; at least, I must try."
Khethyran took her face in both hands, studying her as though he would engrave her features on his mind. "Be careful, Arre," he whispered at last. "I couldn't bear to lose you."
***
Down, down... The drug swept Owl into nightmares: the wailing ghost of Zhazher, '...your fault...all your fault...' Kitten, terror on her face, hands around her throat, choking, choking... The Lady Ycevi, smiling as she metamorphosed into a screaming hawk, talons ripping at his eyes... The slaver, Anthagh, chasing him and laughing...
Then, he heard music: the ripple of a lute. He flailed after it, and the music shattered into meaningless fragments. He caught one, held it in his mind; he used the chip of sound to build the image of the woman, Arre: a hedge against his nightmares. He pictured her, pictured the brilliant banks of candles; and there... There was the music again. He followed more gently, this time. Claws of nightmares raked him, but he nursed the thread of lute music in his mind. The drug flung his deepest terrors into the sea of his dreaming, but he fended them off, like flotsam, while he let the lute music act as a current, pulling him out of danger.
His breathing eased. His dreaming mind was no longer awash in a storm churned ocean. The imagery changed: a vast stone building. Tree-like columns supported a ceiling of shadows. Light at the far end of the hall drew him. Owl walked toward it, as the peace of the place seeped into his soul. As he neared the source of the light, he saw it was a candle, and in its pool of light sat the woman, Arre. Her lute whis
pered under her hands, but when he reached her, she gently stilled its voice.
"Owl," she said.
"Arre."
"You have a very strong Gift," she told him.
"I din—don't understand."
"Your dreams, the visions you have; they are a special talent you have been given. In my country, we call them Sight Gifts. Sight Gifts are rare; ones as strong as yours are rarer still." Arre's face clouded. "My people would teach you and cherish you, not bind you as a slave to a cruel, ambitious old woman."
Owl was silent.
"We haven't much time," Arre said. "Listen: try not to let them feed you haceth again; it is the bitter stuff you tasted in the food and wine. Your Gift makes you too sensitive to it. If they force it on you, remember this place; do what you did to build the image of me to bring yourself here. This is a place of peace, and if you are able to shelter your dreaming mind here, you will be able to withstand the worst of the drug."
"Is everything I dream true?"
She shook her head. "Especially not with haceth. The drug unlocks your innermost fears, and then casts them at you as though they were truth. Owl, can you tell me what Ycevi Ghytteve intends for you? Do you know?"
"No. She said I was irresistible, and that 'the poor bastard doesn't stand a chance,' but I don't know what—or who—she meant. I told Rhydev Azhere I thought I was intended as bait; but I don't know for whom."
"Bait," Arre repeated, frowning.
"Arre, can we talk like this again?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think so. I hope you won't be given any more haceth, and without the impetus the drug provides, or proper training, I doubt you have the strength to touch my mind." Suddenly, the dream world shuddered around them. "No more time," she said. "Remember: no haceth."
Owl coughed and sputtered as someone poured warm coffee into his mouth. He turned his head away, struggled weakly with the encircling arms that held him in a sitting position—then blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He was awake.
"Drink the coffee, Owl," Myncerre said. "It will help."
"Is there more haceth in it?" he asked. His throat hurt, and his voice was hoarse.
Myncerre started slightly. "No. There isn't. But tell me: how do you know haceth, Slum-rat?"
Owl thought fast. "My brother is addicted to Dream's Ease. Once, when I was little, one of his friends thought it would be funny to dope me up. He gave me haceth. I nearly died. Zhazher—that's my brother—said some people are very sensitive to haceth."
"I didn't give you very much," Myncerre said slowly.
"It wouldn't take much to kill me."
"Well, there's no haceth in that coffee; drink it."
Owl complied. The taste reminded him of the stuff Ferret occasionally brewed for him. He saw the thief in his mind's eye, laughing as she shared a joke with him. The memory brought sudden, painful tears.
"Owl?" Myncerre queried anxiously. "What is it?" There was more tenderness in her voice than she usually allowed to show.
"I want to go home. Please, Myncerre. I want to go home." At her pitying expression, Owl's control broke. He buried his face in the pillow and wept as though the world were ending.
***
Arre returned to awareness of her surroundings to find Khethyran holding both her hands. He was waxen.
"It's all right," she said quietly. "Sweet God, I'm weary."
"And this Owl?"
She shrugged. "He'll live."
"This time," the Scholar King added for her. "Arre, I could go to Ycevi and demand that she give the boy up to me. I'm not sure it would be politically wise—the Council Houses are jealous of their prerogatives, and I'm sure they'd cast my meddling in an unfavorable light; but if it will make you safer, Arre, I'll do it."
Arre's gaze went distant for an instant; her inner vision was hazed with the silvery shadows which meant she was seeing the future—or possible futures: swift images of trouble and Council strife. "No," she whispered. "He's important, our Owl; but he's important where he is. I think—I think he is meant to work against Ycevi." She worried a knuckle with her teeth. "Oh, I wish I could make it come clear!"
"Give it time," he suggested. "You're back safely; the boy is neither dead nor mad; let's concentrate on one miracle at a time."
"He said he was bait," she mused.
"Bait?" The Scholar King's attention sharpened. "Arre, have you seen him? Is he beautiful?"
"Well, yes, even though he was looking rather the worse for wear the night Venykhar tried to buy him."
"Venykhar did what?" Kheth nearly yelped. "I mean, he's so upright; he has quite a reputation for prudery among the other nobles—about slaves and boys. Why would he—?"
Arre was laughing. "Owl's a friend of that child, Mouse; the little artist. Ven said it would ruin his reputation, but he didn't seem very concerned."
"Bait," the Scholar King mused. "If we leave Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave off the list of those for whom such bait might be intended, Rhydev Azhere's name springs to mind."
"No. There's more to this than Ycevi Ghytteve trying to lever concessions out of the silk clans." Arre was decisive. "I'd sooner suspect—" She broke off suddenly as an image crossed her inner eye: a fine-boned, manicured hand wearing a green-gemmed ring. "Who wears a green gem? Rhydev's is blue."
The Emperor shrugged. "You'd sooner suspect whom?"
"Oh. Zherekhaf. Your Prime Minister."
Khethyran raised his eyebrows. "Anything is possible. Arre, it's late. Let's go to bed."
***
Much later, after Owl had cried himself to sleep, Lady Ycevi returned. The scratch of Myncerre's quill, as she made notes in the household ledger, provided counterpoint to the boy's calm breathing. Lady Ycevi moved the lamp so a little light spilled onto the boy's pillow; his face was serene with sleep, despite the old track of tears. She turned to her steward. "Well?"
"You saw what he was like, earlier. That went on a long, long time. Eventually, he calmed down. I got some coffee into him and he woke. He drank another cup, and seemed much better. Lady, he knew the drug. He asked me if there was more haceth in the coffee. He told me he was very sensitive to haceth, and that even a small dose could kill him. Then he went to sleep."
Ycevi raised her brows. "And the tears?"
"He said he wanted to go home; and then he cried himself to sleep. 'Please, Myncerre,' he said. 'I want to go home.' I've never felt like such an ogre."
Lady Ycevi smiled cynically. "He's good."
"I'm not sure he's play-acting."
"Of course not. That's what makes him so wonderful. It's a pity about the haceth; I had hoped to have that extra control—but it isn't worth the risk. Will he be better tomorrow? It's time he met Cithanekh."
***
In the gray hours before dawn, Owl dreamed again of the thin man with the green ring. In the dream, the man sat at a table in a shabby tavern; another person joined him: Rhydev Azhere. The two were locked in serious conversation, but though he was curious, Owl could not make their voices come into his dream. Just before he woke, the scene shifted. The man with the green ring was still there, but now he was standing by the tall windows in Lady Ycevi's library. The man turned—as though at the opening of a door—and in the dream, Owl watched the changes in the man's expression, as he looked at someone for the first time. Then, Owl woke.
He was alone. On impulse, he rose and dressed. He crept to his door and tried the handle. It wasn't locked. Using all his stealth, he slipped through the servant's dining room, down a flight of stairs, through the empty library and into the entrance hall. Then he froze. Elkhar and Cezhar, two of Lady Ycevi's bodyguards, stood by the door. Cezhar started like a hound catching a scent and turned to the boy. Lamplight traced a scar like a whip cut across his cheek. At first, Elkhar took no notice of Owl. He lounged against the door while he cleaned his fingernails with the point of his dagger; then Cezhar looked a question at him—in the unmistakable attitude of a subordinate to a superior. Elkhar shrug
ged. As he raised his head to meet Owl's eyes, the single silver earring he wore glinted.
"Good morning, Owl," Elkhar greeted the boy.
"Good morning, Elkhar, Cezhar. I thought I'd go out for a walk before breakfast."
"Think again," Elkhar suggested.
Owl smiled ruefully. "I think I'll go back to bed until everyone else gets up."
"Much better."
Owl started away. Suddenly, he looked back at the men. "One of you could come out with me, to be sure I didn't run away."
"And leave our posts?" Elkhar shook his head. "The Lady might forgive you, but she'd flay us."
"Do you like her—the Lady, I mean?"
"Owl, go back to bed."
There was enough warning in Elkhar's tone to send Owl back upstairs. He crawled back into the mound of covers he had forsaken. Though he was sure he would be unable to sleep, the next time he opened his eyes, it was really morning.
Chapter Eight—Hints
Mouse was alone in the Trollop's scullery when Sharkbait slipped inside. The noise from the taproom was deafening; Donkey assisted with the rush. Squirrel was out, lighting someone's way; and Kitten and Ferret hadn't arrived yet. Mouse was putting finishing touches on a pen and ink portrait of Owl. Sharkbait watched her work.
"I must show you how to sign your name," he said, striving unsuccessfully for a light tone. "Gods. Poor Owl."
Mouse looked up at him, solemn. "How did you scar your face, Sharkbait?"
"With a knife."
"In a brawl?"
"Drop it, Mouse," he advised.
Mouse studied him in the disconcertingly intense way which made one certain she was storing the image for later use. Then she opened her leather case, removed three drawings, and laid them side by side on the dead hearth. Sharkbait's breath caught as he looked at them.
"Oh, child," he whispered. "You play a dangerous game. What will happen to you when you stop looking so sweet and harmless?"
Silently, Mouse picked up the middle sheet and held its edge to the lamp flame. The paper blazed up, curling and blackening. She held it until there was only a corner not burning, and then dropped the flaming sheet into the cold ashes in the grate. "Did you scar yourself?"