A Parliament of Owls

  Marhysse smiled a little crookedly. "I'm off duty. If you like, I'd come with you."

  Lynx considered, then she nodded. "As you wish. Thank you."

  They set out. When they arrived at the squalid tavern, it was very quiet: long past the noon rush and well before the dinner hour. Lynx scanned the few patrons for Ferret, but she did not see her. She did see one of Ferret's people: the one called Vixen. Lynx started through the taproom toward her, and Marhysse followed.

  "It's Vixen, no?" Lynx greeted her. "I'm looking for Ferret."

  Vixen looked her up and down before she answered. "She's not here. Can I help?"

  "Possibly," Lynx said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Marhysse followed suit. "She mentioned having a good information network; I wanted to ask her advice about setting up my own."

  Vixen laughed. "Ferret doesn't give advice like that. I know you're a foreigner and can't know out ways, but information is a commodity—like coffee or drugs—that isn't usually passed from person to person without some kind of…payment. If there's something in particular you want to know, you can tell me and I'll pass it on to Ferret. She'll be able to tell you whether she can find out what you want, and what her terms are."

  "Ah. But you see, I do not know precisely what I am looking for—but I do know where I want to look."

  Vixen shrugged. "Sounds like a fool's errand to me, but I suppose you'd better see Ferret. I'll go see if I can find her." Vixen got up slowly, giving Lynx a strange, unreadable look; then she moved off into deeper into the tavern.

  "You probably should have given her money," Marhysse whispered.

  Lynx shrugged. "I haven't any."

  "You came trolling for information without money?" Though Marhysse's voice didn't rise, she managed to convey her astonishment.

  "I'm not trolling for information, Marhysse," Lynx told her. "I'm seeking contacts. And I am not certain I want the kind of contact who must be bought with gold."

  Marhysse looked surprised, but before she could reply, Vixen returned with Ferret. The Master Thief studied both women for a moment before she took a chair. "What can I do for you?" she asked, finally.

  "I need a contact in the Temple District," Lynx said.

  "Owl knows Kerigden," Ferret said. "Why not use him?"

  But Lynx was shaking her head. "I have met Talyene's High Priest. I need someone who has more access to what is going on in the other sects' Temples."

  "Why?" Ferret asked sharply.

  "There is something afoot—something I cannot define, but do not like. I wish to do a little—" she fished for a word— "research; but I do not wish to be caught at it."

  "And you think this may have something to do with Owl?" Ferret pressed.

  Lynx shrugged again. "Perhaps not directly; but I fear it is important. And in matters like these, I very much dislike surprises."

  Ferret nodded slowly. "I quite understand. I dinna operate much in the Temple District, but one of the Temple Guards owes me. I expect he could be helpful to you. He's a foreigner—Fytrian."

  "Ah; that one," said Lynx. "I've seen him. Dedemar."

  Ferret nodded. "That's the one."

  "Vixen suggested that you require payment for help given," Lynx added with a sidelong glance at Marhysse.

  Ferret shrugged and shook her head. "We can play on credit. Just make sure I hear whatever you find out."

  Lynx nodded and rose; Marhysse also got to her feet. "Thank you, Ferret."

  Chapter Ten—Followers of the Bone King

  At the faint tap on his door, Rhydev Azhere languidly set his wineglass down and turned away from his young companion. "What is it?"

  His man, Ghorran, put his head in the open door. "I've news, your Eminence; I fear you won't like it." At the Councilor's impatient gesture, he continued, "It went as you planned: they sprang the trap on the Kalledanni Bard, and the Seer showed up—just as you said. But word leaked into the Slums. One of the Thieves' Guild Masters interfered: Ferret. She came onto the scene with enough muscle to scare off your catspaw—and word's out, in the Slums, that you've been outbid for the young Ghytteve."

  "That wretched Slum-rat is no Ghytteve," Rhydev's companion said sharply, "no matter what the Duke decrees."

  "I know how it galls you, Ancith," Rhydev said soothingly, "and the day will come when we—mmm—eradicate the insult he represents; but for now, my dear, let Ghorran finish his report."

  The younger man subsided, albeit sullenly.

  "There's not much else, your Eminence. Ferret's muscle included Slum and Waterfront—a goodly number of longshoremen mixed in with her bravos; and Sharkbait was there. It indicates ties—possibly injudicious ones—between the new Longshoremen's Guild (which is trying so hard to be respectable) and the Thieves' Guild. Other than that, I've had word that your catspaw sailed on the afternoon tide."

  "Damn. If she doesn't mean to make a second attempt, we shall have to come up with an—mmm—alternate plan." Rhydev turned his attention back to the younger man, stroking his forearm lightly with carefully manicured fingers. "Perhaps you can help me think of a—mmm—suitable stratagem." With his free hand, he gestured Ghorran away, and the door clicked softly shut.

  "Owl doesn't belong here," the younger man began. "I don't understand why he came back from Kalledann in the first place. Surely he isn't fool enough to think he's welcome among us—a guttersnipe Slum-rat, aping his betters!"

  Rhydev shrugged. "He has the Emperor's ear, Ancith; and possibly Councilor Cithanekh offered more—mmm—sensual lures. Whether or not he belongs here isn't the issue; what we need is to find a way to rid ourselves of him. Have you heard anything? Is this merely a visit, or has he returned to stay?"

  The younger man hunched one shoulder. "No one has mentioned him leaving again. There's a rumor that he's found his own bodyguard: a foreign woman called Lynx." He looked up suddenly at the older man. "Had you heard that, Rhydev?"

  The Azhere Councilor caressed the youth's face gently, then slid his fingers into the dark hair at the nape of his neck. "I had not. Where did she come from, this foreigner? Did you find that out, my clever treasure?"

  "She's from Eschadd—the rumors say." He leaned into Rhydev's touch.

  "Interesting. Is she loyal, do you think, or could she be—mmm— suborned?"

  "I don't know. Rhydev, did Rhyazhe Dhenykhare smell a trap, or was she just scared off by this Ferret?"

  "It is impossible to say. You see, we don't know what Owl said to her. Ancith, do you think you could find out for me whether Owl is in control of his gift, and how much—mmm—insight it gives him?" His hands began moving more insistently.

  The young man's lips parted in a soundless sigh. "How?" he asked at last.

  Rhydev drew him into his arms and kissed him. "Devise some stratagem," he murmured against his ear. "You could talk to Cithanekh, or some of his people, if you thought they'd gossip."

  "I don't—Cithanekh doesn't know I'm here; and he only keeps people who will tolerate that Slum-born—"

  "Consider it a test of your mettle," Rhydev whispered, a touch of some steely determination mixed somewhat incongruously with the titillation of lips and breath at Ancith's ear. "You've had the benefit of several months of my—mmm—tutelage: put it to use."

  "Rhydev—" he began, half a protest; but then, his lover's touch distracted him and he sighed. "Very well; for you."

  ***

  The late afternoon shadows lengthened in the Windbringer's sanctuary, while music—faint as an echo—drifted through the open corridors and bead curtains like a breath of cooler air. Between the great services, few worshipers disturbed the place, so the Emperor's spymaster had the leisure for uninterrupted introspection. He had sent a message to Kerigden; the High Priest would see him when he was free.

  Thantor found the not-quite quiet of the place peculiarly soothing—a contrast from both of the other sects' temples. For all its opulence, when empty the Horselord's Temple felt like a deserted arena: dead and somehow forlorn; an
d the smoky, fetid dimness of the Dark Lady's tabernacle—empty or full—was rank with menace. Here, the constantly moving air seemed somehow like the goddess's sleeping breath, the whisper of music a cryptic fragment of her dreams. Thantor found it conducive to thought.

  He had been busy, but the results of his efforts were not reassuring. Adythe Dhenykhare had not been with the Queen, the afternoon before the attempt on Owl's life; and though he had found no sign of the onyx and silver signet ring Owl had described, there was the brooch—and the unsettling coincidence that the knife Adythe had turned on herself was decorated with a black gem set within a pattern of twined brambles. The Dhenykhare woman who had been with the Queen was a minor branch cousin named Klarhynne—the sort of relative who would be married off to a social-climbing merchant to fortify familial assets, or selected as a chaperon to a more elevated cousin. She seemed harmless, and yet Owl identified his assailant as the woman who had been with the Queen. And there was the unanswerable question: if Adythe Dhenykhare had not made the attempt on Owl's life, why had she killed herself?

  Thantor abandoned his musing and rose as one of the Windbringer's priests came to conduct him to Kerigden's presence. The room in which the High Priest received Thantor was one of the few in the complex that had a regular door instead of a glass and wooden bead curtain. Thantor's escort opened the heavy door with a slight flourish and closed it with a definitive thump.

  "Have some coffee," Kerigden invited, gesturing to the samovar.

  Thantor poured himself a cup. "Did you manage to turn up anything about the Xhi'a'ieffth?"

  "Actually, yes—or rather, not about the ancient cult, but rumors of a modern—" he fished for a word—"embodiment of the teachings. The rumors aren't pretty. Many of the stories come out of the Federated States; knowing how hostile the Amartans are to mindwork and magic, they are probably heavily embellished. Nonetheless, the crowned horse's skull figures prominently: the Bone King's Mount, the bringer of ill dreams. The brambles signify something like loss or desolation; in their woven pattern, they are sometimes called the Net for Memories. There are several archetypal totems—reminiscent of the bharhanni of the Khyghafe. Instead of Starchaser, there is Dreamstalker; Peacebringer becomes Memorythief; Foalmother is replaced by Blooddrinker; and so on. It is rumored that all the major sects have secret, darker societies—called, generically, followers of the Bone King—which attempt to appropriate and corrupt their sect's lore to the pursuit of dark power. Since no such secret company operates within Talyene's sect, I dare not say for certain that there is any truth in this claim. The Amartan federation is, after all, a proselytizing theocracy; it is in their interest to discredit other faiths." He smiled wryly. "If I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that secretly, I'd like to believe the Horselord and the Dark Lady's sects are guilty of this corruption—if only because I so dislike Anakher and Thyzhecci; but this is only rumor. One thing all the rumors agree upon, though: the followers of the Bone King originated in the forests of Ythande."

  Behind his unrevealing expression, Thantor absorbed the High Priest's information. "So is the thekheth proof of the followers of the Bone King's involvement, or a decoy intended to convince us to believe in them?"

  Kerigden shook his head. "I am grateful it's your responsibility—and not mine—to sort truth from fantasy in this one, Thantor. The stories credit the Bone King's Adepts with powers from shape changing to calling lightning. I can't help but think if they were that much more powerful than mages from the known schools (like Kellande), we would have felt their presence before now."

  "In the stories, can they plant false images in people's minds?"

  Kerigden froze with his cup halfway to his lips. "Now what made you ask that?" When all the reply Thantor gave was his barely perceptible shrug, Kerigden went on. "Curiously, followers of the Bone King are rumored to have a great deal of power over others' minds and memories; they can both remove—or steal—true memories, and plant false ones. One of the more compelling tales deals with a woman who was driven to suicide by a series of false memories; the Adept made her believe she had betrayed her husband with another man, and she leapt from a tower. It was more complicated, of course, but the point was that the Adept was immeasurably strengthened by her freely sacrificed life force."

  "Do the stories tell you how to protect yourself?"

  "They are Amartan stories, Thantor. They advocate the summary execution of anyone who uses mindwork or magic."

  Thantor sighed. "Too much to hope they'd offer a less comprehensive solution. You've been extremely helpful, Your Grace; thank you."

  "Donkey," the High Priest countered, half exasperated and half cajoling. "Do you mean you're not going to tell me who's having memory trouble: recalling things that never happened, or forgetting things that did?"

  "It's nothing so obvious as that, Kerigden. But when I could find no sign of this black and silver signet ring Owl was so sure about, I began to wonder whether a false image could be planted in a Seer's mind."

  "Do you still think it's a false image?"

  Thantor shrugged. "Don't know; I doubt it, now. Thank you, Kerigden."

  ***

  As the sunset painted vibrant colors in the west, courtiers like fireflies began to gather in the gardens. Ladies in diaphanous silks floated beside gallant gentlemen, and everywhere voices and laughter were bright against the muted background of crickets and water sounds. Servants had kindled lamps, which lined the paths and lit the fountain courts; their soft luminance struck gleaming sparks from gems and gold.

  When Owl and Cithanekh, flanked by Lynx and Cezhar, joined the gathering, little whorls of silence followed them as they moved through the maze of paths. "Odd," Owl commented. "I remember how they used to do this to Arre. Am I really so notorious?"

  Cithanekh murmured assent.

  "Notorious, mysterious, beautiful, and in the company of the powerful and eccentric Ghytteve Councilor," Cezhar added. "And they're all trying to figure out how to approach you without appearing interested. The first rule of courtier etiquette is that boredom is the only acceptable social attitude."

  "I didn't realize you were such a cynic, Cezh," Owl remarked.

  "Cezhar isn't cynical," Lynx put in unexpectedly. "But risk makes him testy."

  Both Cezhar and Cithanekh shot startled glances at the foreigner, but Owl said, "You don't really think this is dangerous, do you, Cezh? A walk in the Palace gardens?"

  "I don't imagine there are assassins lurking in the shrubbery, but it does seem rather like taking one's stalking goat out for the evening air," he responded.

  "M-m-a-a-a-a-h," Owl bleated with a smile. "Well, why not. Even stalking goats like to get out, once in a while."

  "Here comes the first of the tigers," Cithanekh said lightly. "Yverri Ambhere."

  "She's more interested in the goatherd than the goat, I think," Owl murmured. "Don't worry: I'll protect you."

  For the next several minutes, Yverri Ambhere flirted expertly but impartially with them both. She made them laugh, and in spite of himself, Cithanekh found himself remembering the Emperor's assessment of her: amusing, rich, pretty; not a bad alliance. When she left them, he said quietly to Owl, "Khethyran thinks I should marry her." When Owl made no comment, he added, "What do you think?"

  "Perhaps I should marry her," Owl responded after another moment of silence. "I haven't any money of my own, and she's rich."

  The force of his reaction surprised Cithanekh, but he kept himself from objecting aloud. When he felt he could manage a bland tone, he said, "I didn't realize it bothered you: not having your own money. I could speak to the Duke."

  Owl heard some overtone in the voice which made him smile faintly. "What bothered me was the fleeting instant I actually believed you were serious."

  Cithanekh squeezed Owl's hand. "Point taken." Then he stiffened. "Lady Khycalle! You startled me. Owl, have you met Lady Khycalle Ynghorezh Ythande?"

  "Honored," Owl murmured, extending a hand which was pressed ligh
tly by cool, callused fingers.

  "I have heard of you, of course," the Ythande Councilor said in a lilting, faintly sibilant voice. "Will you walk with me? I would like—as they say—a word to your ear, Lord Owl."

  Owl felt Cithanekh's grip tighten for an instant, but whether in warning or reassurance, he couldn't tell. "Cithanekh, will you excuse me?" he asked, hoping that the conventional words would convey his own reservations. His gift was stubbornly inert. Even the Lady's touch had not given him her face, nor a hint of her motives. Lynx? he thought, but the bodyguard did not answer.

  As Cithanekh transferred Owl's hand to Lady Khycalle's arm, Owl said, "Lynx?"

  "I'm with you," she said, a note of strain in her tone.

  The Ythande Councilor turned her tattooed face to the Eschaddi woman and studied her for a moment, enigmatic and completely expressionless. "Bodyguard?" she asked, and Lynx nodded. "Perhaps we are—as they say—spirits with kinship? My sept name, Ynghorezh, means 'panther.' Another," she added, seeing Lynx's bemusement, "of the big hunting cats." The kestrel on her shoulder bated and she soothed it absently.

  "A big cat with a bird for a familiar?" Owl asked in the bantering tone of a courtier as they moved away down the stone path.

  "Is not the word 'pet'?" she asked.

  "If you like. What did you want to tell me, Lady Khycalle?"

  "Wait. We are still on one of the main paths; we could be overheard here."

  Lynx, he called again; but his mind voice seemed stuck inside his head. Lynx?

  There was no reply. He stopped short. Lynx! But he recognized the feeling, then; something kept his mind voice trapped in his own head. There had been training at the Kellande School, techniques for blocking mind voices, but this was subtle—and strong. It frightened him.

  "Lord Owl?" the Ythande Councilor said softly, "is something wrong?"

  "What are you doing to me?" he demanded, his voice sharp and high.

  "Patience. All will—as they say—come clear," she murmured. "Come."

  "Lynx," he whispered, and felt her hand on his shoulder and heard her murmured reassurance.