A Parliament of Owls

  She nodded. "I think so, though it's only speculation."

  "So." He hooded his eyes as he thought. "Someone made an attempt on Owl's life. Who? Do you know?"

  She shrugged. "Adythe Dhenykhare."

  Sharkbait looked startled. "Where do you get your information, my sweet thief? Thantor's agent would have puppies on the spot if he heard you make such an unvarnished assertion. I'd heard of her suicide, of course; did she really try to kill Owl—and why?"

  "Why is the real issue," the thief assured him. "Or possibly: under whose direction. She used a poisoned needle in a piece of jewelry—and fed Owl some story about needing him to safeguard it. Haceth and thekheth, both; she didn't want to fail. But why? Even if he'd died, she couldn't have gotten away with it."

  He smiled sardonically. "I notice you haven't answered the other part of my question: about your source of information."

  "What? Jealous?" she teased. "Kerigden told me."

  Sharkbait worked it out and nodded. "Haceth. Seers. Magic. If they weren't my friends..." He trailed off with a shudder.

  Ferret touched his hand. "It's a strange world, love, where priests and courtiers make less savory associates than thieves and subversive dock workers."

  "Ferret," he chided. "I'm a guildmaster; I'm nearly respectable. Besides, I've always insisted that courtiers are trouble."

  "You should know," she retorted. "But seriously, do you think you can find out who Vekh was working for?"

  He rose with the swift grace of a fighter. "Seriously, I'll try."

  "Sharkbait," she murmured as he started away. "Be careful."

  He gave her the mocking sketch of a courtly salute and said, "Watch your back." Then, he was gone.

  ***

  While the Emperor waited for further comment on the issue at hand, he looked around the table at his assembled Councilors. As usual, Rhydev Azhere was hiding behind his steepled forefingers and an enigmatic expression; Guildmaster Dharhyan and Ymlakh Glakhyre were glaring at one another, as though the force of their gaze could erode the other's resolve; Prime Minister Zherekhaf had the look he wore when he was hiding the pain of his illness; Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave seemed to be listening to some inner music; Cithanekh looked exhausted; Bishop Anakher of the Horselord Temple toyed with his heavy, episcopal ring, glancing up occasionally at Dhyrakh Dhenykhare, who watched him; Enghan Mebhare's expression was politely attentive, though Khethyran suspected he had practiced with a mirror until he could maintain the look, no matter where his thoughts ranged; Khycalle Ynghorezh-Ythande stroked her kestrel's breast feathers, cryptic as cipher; the Khyghafe Councilor, known as the Warlord, drummed his fingers softly; and Mylazhe Ambhere studied the grain of the table as though she could read the future in it. When the silence had stretched far enough, the Emperor broke it. "Very well. If there is no other business—"

  Dhyrakh Dhenykhare, subdued in his garb of unrelieved black, lifted a hand. When the Emperor acknowledged him, he said, "There is the matter of appointing a successor to Admiral Varykh."

  "I had not intended to intrude upon your House's grief," the Emperor began.

  Dhyrakh shrugged. "The Navy needs a leader, Your Majesty; my House's grief is surely secondary to the needs of the realm. In any case, the Dhenykhare have conferred. I am prepared to present a list of names for Your Majesty's decision."

  "It is traditionally the Dhenykhare's prerogative," Zherekhaf murmured in the Scholar King's ear, "to select the Admiral, just as the Commander of the Cavalry comes from the Khyghafe."

  The Emperor nodded, then whispered, "What if I can't abide their choice?"

  Zherekhaf's shrug was nearly invisible. "Technically, it is your appointment; in light of the preponderance of Dhenykhare shipmasters in the Navy, it would be rash to flout them. It sounds as though Dhyrakh intends to offer you more than one candidate."

  "Very well," Khethyran told Dhyrakh. "Proceed."

  The Dhenykhare Duke cleared his throat. "We were not able to reach a unanimous decision, Your Majesty; instead, we have three candidates, any of whom would be acceptable to us. We leave the final decision to you. Myrhaf Dhenykhare; Akhatheraf Dhenykhare; and Morekheth Dhenykhare."

  The Emperor bowed politely, hoping that his face showed none of his dismay. Myrhaf was probably twenty years older than Varykh—and (rumor had it) growing senile. If he were Admiral, the office could only be titular; the active command would be administered by others, and Khethyran knew better than to imagine he would choose the cabal which ran the Navy. Akhatheraf, though younger, was dissolute, with a nasty reputation and a propensity for quarreling. And Morekheth was a question.

  "Thank you, Duke Dhyrakh," he said formally. "We shall consider your kinsmen and make Our decision." He gathered them all in his gaze as he rose. "This meeting is adjourned."

  They went, as always, in twos and threes, conversation and politics swirling around them like a miasma. He caught Cithanekh's eye and gave him their private signal: stay. It took skill on the part of the young Ghytteve Councilor to detach himself from Rhydev Azhere without seeming rude, but when he was free, he came back to the Emperor's side and raised his eyebrows.

  "Akhatheraf and Myrhaf," Cithanekh repeated the names incredulously. "What is that barracuda thinking of?"

  "And Morekheth. Gods, Cithanekh; what can I do? Zherekhaf as good as told me it would alienate the Navy to remove it from Dhenykhare hands, but I doubt Myrhaf has the strength to resist Dhyrakh's control; and Akhatheraf..." He trailed off with a heavy sigh.

  "Wasn't Akhatheraf the one who, several years ago, was accused of offering youths from Lower Town 'appointments' in his service—and then selling them to the brothels in the smaller port towns?"

  "The very one," Khethyran agreed. "He never understood why it upset me, either. He wouldn't care if he were Dhyrakh's puppet as long as he was paid. How could I possibly turn the Navy over to him?"

  "You can't. No doubt Dhyrakh figured as much. In spite of reservations, Morekheth Anzhibhar-Azhere Dhenykhare towers above the others as the best choice." Cithanekh sighed. "It looks like a trap, doesn't it? How could you choose anyone else? But I can't help wondering whose idea it is: is Dhyrakh thinking he'll control Morekheth; or is Morekheth maneuvering for his own ends?"

  "Or," the Emperor added, "is Morekheth the Dhenykhare's real choice, and the other two candidates Dhyrakh's effort to retain control."

  Cithanekh walked to the window and leaned against the sill. The garden was nearly empty in the afternoon heat. "Is House Dhenykhare so divided?"

  "I don't know. Thantor thinks Dhyrakh is having his difficulties, that some of his people were seriously angered by his treatment of Rhyazhe."

  "Wait. Rhyazhe? Was that the niece, the one he tried to marry to Rhydev?"

  "Yes. Thantor believes that Dhyrakh was driven to that step because she was standing against him. She had help, running away—that's fact. Varykh always maintained she would make a better leader than any of the males in her or Dhyrakh's generation."

  "You could propose her for Admiral."

  The Emperor smiled wryly. "Not and survive the aftermath—though it would be fun to watch Dhyrakh and his cronies have apoplexy at the idea. Actually, I'd rather propose her for Dhenykhare Councilor—or Duchess in her own right—but I'd have to take Thantor's advice and resort to murder to make an opening. Cithanekh, a great deal hinges on this, on the appointment of the next Admiral. Varykh was an ally; the thought of having an unknown quantity—or an enemy—leading the Navy frightens me. Will you talk to Owl about it? Is he strong enough, yet?"

  "I'll talk to him," Cithanekh promised. He turned to face the Emperor suddenly, his expression troubled. "Why would Adythe Dhenykhare try to kill Owl? It's what I can't understand. She couldn't possibly have gotten away with it. In khacce, it would be a classic sacrifice play; but noble women aren't casually discarded. It makes no sense."

  "Did you see her? Are you certain it was Adythe Dhenykhare, and not someone claiming to be her?"

  "No, I didn
't; and no, I'm not. She was veiled; no one saw her face, but Owl—and Lynx, too—both said her voice sounded like one of the women he'd met in the Queen's garden that afternoon. They played some kind of guessing game: he tried to tell each woman something about herself." He smiled wryly. "He said he accused Yverri Ambhere of setting lures for me."

  "That wouldn't be a bad alliance, Cithanekh," the Emperor interjected. "Yverri is amusing and pretty; and the Ambhere are rich."

  "So are the Ghytteve," Cithanekh replied, without heat. "I don't need a wife—not even a rich one. Anyway, the woman who attacked Owl didn't volunteer her name in the garden; at first, Owl thought she might be the Admiral's wife, but she denied it. But it was Adythe Dhenykhare who was found dead—wasn't it?"

  "Yes. Without doubt. Dhyrakh requested me as one of the three noble witnesses. Adythe Dhenykhare is dead, but..." He trailed off and then sighed. "I shall have to talk with Celave. I didn't think Adythe habitually waited on the Queen."

  "Be careful," Cithanekh advised. "If the woman who attacked Owl is not Adythe, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to confuse the issue."

  "It doesn't make sense; it's grasping at shadows, surely, to think it wasn't Adythe. For one thing, if she didn't attack Owl, why would she kill herself?"

  "Maybe she was murdered. After all, Adythe was Morekheth's only real tie to the Dhenykhare. Perhaps she was killed to undermine his position." He stopped himself. "Forgive me, Majesty: I'm maundering. I've been too long at Court; I'm beginning to be as suspicious as my cousin Ycevi."

  The Emperor smiled sardonically. "She survived a long time, Cithanekh, before you and Owl brought her down. It's not a bad thing if you've inherited her gift for intrigue. But now, go back to Owl—and get some rest."

  Cithanekh bowed and left the Council Chamber to the Scholar King's sole possession. Khethyran rested his elbows on the windowsill and gazed out over the garden while he slowly turned events and conjecture in his mind.

  "Thantor?" he said at last.

  There was the faint click of a latch and the Emperor's spymaster emerged from his listening post behind the paneling. "Your Majesty."

  "What do you think?"

  "Appoint Akhatheraf Dhenykhare Admiral and outbid Dhyrakh for his control."

  The Emperor raised eyebrows. "Do you think it would be possible to outbid Dhyrakh?"

  Thantor nodded. "At heart, Dhyrakh is a miser; besides, you could promise Akhatheraf your eldest daughter in marriage."

  "Thantor, Khecelle is only four years old!" the Emperor protested.

  "Plan a long betrothal. You can always change your mind, or rescind the offer if he doesn't behave. My point is you could command Akhatheraf 's loyalty (such as it is) for a price; it may be a safer course than either of the others."

  "I'll consider it," he said heavily. "Not betrothal, but another form of bribery. What about Adythe Dhenykhare's death?"

  "It was a noble alliance, not a romantic marriage; no surprise there. Beyond that, everyone I've questioned swears that Morekheth was good to her, and that she seemed content. Shall I determine whether Adythe was with Her Majesty the day Owl visited?"

  "I'll find a way to ask Celave. If she hears of your interest—and she does have her own network, I'm convinced—it will alarm her. Thantor, what do you think of Morekheth?"

  "I am—withholding judgment, Your Majesty."

  "Fair enough. Any progress on Owl's silver signet?"

  "None," Thantor said with the barest flicker of exasperation. "Besides Lynx's naming it the emblem of the Xhi'a'ieffth, I've found nothing. Of course, I've had to be discreet; we don't want the owner of the ring to get wind of our interest—but even so, I should have turned up something. I've even put out feelers among the Ykhave artisans, to see if any of them remember the making of such a piece. At this point, if the inquiries I've initiated among the Temple District bear no fruit, I will be at a standstill."

  "My incomparable Thantor at a loss?" the Emperor asked, gently teasing. "If Owl weren't so worried about this signet, I could almost wish you'd taste failure—for once."

  "Especially if you bet on it?" Thantor retorted with the twitch that was his smile. "But Owl is worried, Majesty; and so am I. Is it possible, do you think, to plant false images in a Seer's mind?"

  Khethyran shivered. "What a thought! Thantor, find out."

  "Yes, Your Majesty: at once." Then, the spymaster bowed; the Emperor hardly realized he had moved until he was gone.

  ***

  "Where's Owl?" Cithanekh asked Effryn when he arrived back in the Ghytteve apartments after the Council meeting.

  "In the library."

  "Is he alone?"

  "Lynx is with him," the steward told him. "Shall I send up some food? He didn't eat much lunch."

  Cithanekh nodded. "Fruit and cheese, perhaps; and some coffee. Thanks."

  When he opened the library door, he heard music: intricate harping, with a clear voice weaving counterpoint in a foreign tongue. He froze, listening. The music was dark and full of grief; but it was also beautiful. It ended with the voice, unaccompanied, in a high, aching phrase that faded without resolution, like unshed tears. There was a silence, while the music settled into their hearts; then Lynx said, "Hello, Cithanekh."

  Owl smiled. "Are you done with the Council, already?"

  "Already?" Cithanekh laughed. "It seemed a long session, to me. Did you pass a pleasant afternoon?"

  "Yes. Did anything interesting happen at Council?"

  Cithanekh sighed. "Dhyrakh Dhenykhare proposed three possible successors to Varykh. The Emperor would like your opinion. Myrhaf Dhenykhare; Akhatheraf Dhenykhare; and Morekheth Anzhibhar-Azhere Dhenykhare."

  "I only know Morekheth," Owl said doubtfully. "What are the other two like?"

  Cithanekh told him, adding a summary of the Emperor's concerns. As he finished, Owl's face stilled as his inner vision began to show him images: hands lifting a chain of office, its identifying emblem glinting in the light as it spun; a crystal glass, overturned, the wine pooling like blood on the creamy linen; Arre talking with a luthier, gently touching the rounded belly of one of his instruments; the Queen and her ladies; a young woman who wore men's garb in Dhenykhare colors, and a black armband, standing on the deck of a peculiar looking ship; Lynx in a fighting crouch, a knife glinting in one hand; Rhydev Azhere's young lover, arguing passionately with Cithanekh; a thrown knife, spinning out of capable hands; then, a dizzying barrage of faces, most unfamiliar. Owl shook his head sharply to break the flow.

  "I don't know," he said irritably. "How can I have an opinion about two men I've never even met?"

  "Just do the best you can, Owl," Cithanekh said. "Maybe—"

  "Perhaps you should meet them," Lynx suggested. "Isn't there some place where courtiers congregate? They cannot stay away from one another all the time, surely."

  Cithanekh stirred uneasily. "You wouldn't recognize them."

  "No," Owl agreed, "but Rhan or Cezhar would. It might work, Cithanekh. I learned a goodly bit from the Queen's ladies—and this would likely be easier, since I wouldn't need to tell them anything."

  "They won't frequent any of the usual gathering places until the deepest mourning period has passed," Cithanekh said. "After that, perhaps the Emperor could invite them to one of his gatherings."

  Owl could hear the Councilor's deep reservations, but Effryn's arrival allowed further argument to be postponed. The steward laid out food, and Owl surprised himself, eating with relish the fruit and cheese Cithanekh sliced for him. Unexpectedly, a mental cry streaked through his mind. Owl! It was Arre's mindtouch, bolstered by the impetus of her real fear. His Gift gave him an imperative image: the bard set upon and outnumbered in an alley near the Temple Gate. He choked on his coffee.

  "Arre's in trouble," he said, when he could speak. "Fetch Cezhar and the others. There isn't much time."

  Chapter Nine—Parry and Riposte

  "Let me send for the Imperial Guards," Cezhar said.

  But Owl shook his
head. "No. There isn't time and—they lack subtlety, Cezh. Arre's still alive; but if we don't play this right, we'll get her killed."

  Cezhar cast Cithanekh a look as close to pleading as his hard face could get; but the young lord shook his head. They were in the Palace halls already: a small troop of guards in Ghytteve livery, shielding Owl and Cithanekh. Courtiers and servants saw them pass; they trailed gossip and speculation like a ship's wake. Cithanekh saw the curiosity, knew the consequences; but time, Owl insisted, was short.

  The long, hot afternoon was winding its lazy way toward evening. The streets were not crowded; only the folk who could not afford to take refuge from the sun were out, pursuing their elusive livelihoods. Rhan, who recognized from Owl's description the alley where Arre had been waylaid, led the group by the shortest route. They crossed the plaza known as the Temple Gate and headed into the Slums. As they entered the alley, a woman's voice cried: "Owl!"

  She ran toward them: Amynne Ykhave—Owl's old friend, Mouse—and the bodyguards parted to let her approach.

  "Mouse!" he said, before she flung her arms around him, startling and unbalancing him. Lynx steadied him, and only Cezhar saw the glint of steel as she returned her ready knife to its sheath.

  "Gods! I'm glad to see you. Arre's been taken."

  "I know. There were Free School students with her, weren't there? Did any of them follow?"

  A child, waiting at the alley's shadowy sidelines, said quietly, "There were three of us. Ghysse went to find Sharkbait; I went for 'Mynne; and Eghan followed. He left chalk marks." She pointed.

  "Let's go, then," Owl said. "If your Ghysse finds Sharkbait, no doubt he'll send more muscle. How many were there?"

  "There were eight that I saw," the child reported. "They were dressed like sailors. She was still alive, last I saw. I could hear her cursing in Kalledanni."

  They set off, following the trail of chalk marks deeper into the Slum's maze. They had traveled for perhaps ten minutes before a hissed signal stopped them all. A small boy slipped out of a stinking alley mouth and gestured them into his questionable cover. He pointed to a derelict structure—in better days a tenement, but sadly dilapidated and listing—and said, "They took her in there. On the way, I saw Vixen and sent her after Ferret. Arre was alive when they took her in there; I could hear her cursing them. Didn't Ghysse find Sharkbait?"