"Gods, Arre," he murmured against her hair. "Bhenekh said you weren't hurt. Are you really all right?"
"I'm really all right," she assured him. "Donkey—I mean Thantor—said he told you about the precautions I've taken. Do you approve?"
He nodded. "Doubtless it will give the gossips fodder for their speculations, but I'd rather have you with Cithanekh and Owl than anywhere. Now, tell me how Kerigden is and what—if anything—Owl learned through his meditations."
They kissed again, then he released her and they sat in the comfortable chairs. He poured wine, a cool white from the vineyards of Kalledann, and she sipped it as she told him, with a shiver of awe, what Owl had learned from the goddess Talyene. She ended with her intention to look for buildings in the Upper Town that fit the image Owl had given her. The Emperor listened without comment, his brows drawn together in a faint frown. When she had finished, he drained his cup and set it down.
"You'll take some of Cithanekh's people?"
She nodded. "I will be careful, Kheth."
He got up and reached a hand to her. She came to his arms, and they held each other for a long moment. Then, she tilted her face up to his kiss, and they left thoughts and worries to drift away in a tide of tenderness and desire.
***
Ancith was still up, prowling restlessly around the sitting room, when Rhydev came in. It was late and the Councilor was a little drunk; but he was in a good mood. He'd won quite a lot of money, gambling with Ymlakh Glakhyre and a few other nobles.
"Where have you been?" Ancith demanded. "I was worried."
"I told you: I was gaming and drinking with the Glakhyre Duke and some others. I won. You should be glad for me."
"I would be shocked if you hadn't won against Ymlakh Glakhyre. The man is an idiot. But it's very late. I didn't think you'd be out so long."
"Why didn't you go to bed? Did I ask you to wait up?"
"No, but—Rhydev, I need to talk to you."
Rhydev suppressed his irritation with effort. He was just drunk enough to resent the cool calculation that guided his actions, but not quite so far gone as to dispense with it. He knew better than to alienate his young lover—even when the boy seemed utterly determined to be a nuisance. "And you've been waiting and fretting the whole evening? My poor treasure." He let the door fall closed behind him and held his hands out to the younger man.
"Rhydev, I need to talk," he repeated, not responding to the invitation.
Rhydev sighed very faintly and let his arms fall. "Then talk."
"Do you know someone named Amynne Ykhave?"
The warm wine-haze deserted Rhydev. "Yes," he said, chill and curt. "Why?"
"I met her this evening. She was sketching in the garden and I challenged her when I realized she was drawing me. Rhydev, what's the matter? She said she's the Ykhave Councilor's ward. Isn't it true?"
"It's true. She's also one of Owl's little urchin friends: Mouse. Venykhar adopted her for her artistic talent. What did you tell her?"
"Not—not much, Rhydev. I told her I was Ancith Azhere; I told her I was connected to your household. I was as evasive as I could be without drawing suspicion."
"Ancith Azhere. Hmph. Did she believe you?"
"I don't know. Why wouldn't she? She did say I reminded her of someone but she couldn't think whom. She asked if I had a brother at Court, but she didn't really want an answer. I think—It's likely that she has the impression we're lovers."
Rhydev raised his eyebrows. "How could you have been so indiscreet?"
"She—Do you know what she's like? She asked me—in a sort of snide and knowing way—what function I served in your household; and then, she added, with a poisonous smile, 'Never mind. Clearly it's none of my business.' And I blushed. I—I couldn't help it."
"No," Rhydev agreed waspishly. "It's a pity you can't control that reflex. Think how useful it would be if you could blush on command—and only on command."
"Rhydev, I didn't mean to—"
"I know. I know," he interrupted, forcing warmth and sympathy into his tone. "I do know what she's like, my treasure; if she put all her—mmm—energies into it, she could probably make me blush. I hate that little Ykhave bitch, and her insinuating malice. If I sounded angry, it's because she infuriates me; I'm not angry with you, my dear. It doesn't matter what she knows or suspects. After all, we're going to the Emperor's reception together, tomorrow, and even I won't be able to keep your presence a secret after that. Did you happen to notice Amynne Ykhave talking to anyone else besides you?"
"She…Yes. She left me rather abruptly to talk with one of the Dhenykhare bodyguards."
"Which one?"
Ancith swallowed and thought back. "She called him Pezh. He asked her about classes."
"Yes. She teaches at the Free School. Pezh—he's one of the—mmm—former Admiral's men. What did they talk about?"
"I didn't listen. They moved out of earshot, and I thought it would be conspicuous to follow them."
Rhydev swallowed his sigh and managed a warm smile. "Well, no matter." He held out a hand to the younger man, and this time, Ancith came to him. He slipped his arm around his shoulders. "You did well; it's just that all of those former Slum-rats make me nervous. Forgive me. I didn't mean to—mmm—alarm you."
"Wait," Ancith said, pulling slightly away. "Wait. 'All of those former Slum-rats?' Are there more of them at Court than Owl and this Mouse?"
Rhydev stifled irritation at himself; he had to remember that Ancith wasn't stupid, just young. He mustn't drop things, if he didn't want his young protégé to pick them up. "Oh, yes. Your brother Cithanekh's steward, Effryn, is one of them. They used to call him Squirrel. And the Emperor's man, Thantor—"
"The spymaster?"
"That's the one. He was Donkey. And of course, there's Ferret—though she's not at Court; she's a Master in the Thieves' Guild."
"That's bad, but it isn't as heinous as passing them off as nobles. At least Effryn and Thantor are filling servants' roles."
"Oh my dear," Rhydev whispered; it was almost a growl. "Don't underestimate Thantor's—mmm—influence. Or his competence. But there: it's late, and tomorrow I want you looking your best. Let's go to bed."
"About tomorrow," Ancith said as they started toward the bedchamber. "How do you want me to play it?"
"I haven't decided," Rhydev admitted. "How do you think we should play it?"
"How should I know?" Ancith protested. "I'm not familiar with any of the players. I suppose I couldn't just go as your bodyguard?"
"Since the Emperor invited Ancith Anzhibhar-Ghytteve, I think it would be—mmm—unwise for 'Ancith Azhere' to make an appearance. How else could you play it?"
"I would far prefer to be guided by your experience, Rhydev."
Rhydev stopped walking to study the youth's face. He let the tiniest crease of worry pull at his eyebrows. "I want to teach you what I know, Ancith," he said carefully, "not make you dependent upon me."
"But you're the one who has taught me the folly of planning beyond one's experience," Ancith replied steadily. "I don't know any of these people."
"You know your brother. How will he react to finding you in my company?"
"He won't like it. He thinks I'm a child. He'll lecture me. He'll say I'm too young, and you're too old."
"Perhaps," Rhydev responded, his expression noble and a little sad, "perhaps he has a point. I am a good deal older than you. He won't be the only one to think that I might be exploiting your—mmm—inexperience."
"I'm old enough to know my own mind," Ancith said firmly. "And we both know you aren't like that."
Rhydev's expression warmed as he studied Ancith. "Oh, my treasure," he whispered. "You honor me with your trust. We needn't decide, now, about tomorrow afternoon. Let's—mmm—sleep on it and talk more in the morning."
Chapter Nineteen—The Emperor's Dreaded Reception
The Emperor's Dreaded Reception was held in one of the function rooms near the great audience hall. The room, p
aneled in carved and polished rosewood, carpeted with soft rugs of deep colors and intricate, subtle patterns, hung with costly, gilt-framed mirrors, and lit by hundreds of fine, beeswax candles, would be a perfect setting for the elegant crowd that would gather. The lavish refreshments, laid out on a long table at one end of the chamber, were presided over by an efficient flurry of Thantor's hand-picked people. Pairs of Imperial Guards in full dress uniform stood erect and resolute at all the doors. Chairs, low tables and divans were artfully arranged along the walls under the high windows which admitted tendrils of the cooling late-afternoon breeze.
Thantor surveyed the preparations with a critical eye while he waited for the guests to begin to arrive. His agents, attired in the livery of the Emperor's personal servants, were primed to circulate with trays of food and drink—and to listen to the conversations around them. It was a tactic that often yielded very interesting information, since most nobles were quite accustomed to ignoring servants. Not that anyone would say anything personally incriminating, Thantor reflected a little sourly, since even the fools were nursed on intrigue; but nonetheless, it was surprising what information nobles would trade with one another under the rubric of "innocent gossip."
A stir at one of the doors drew Thantor's attention. The Emperor came in, cast a rapidly appraising glance around the room, and strode to the spymaster's side. Thantor started to bow, but the Emperor's hand on his shoulder forestalled the obeisance.
"You've outdone yourself, as usual," Khethyran greeted him.
"I'm delighted to have pleased Your Majesty," Thantor replied in his best toneless courtier voice.
"What time with they begin to arrive?"
The younger man shrugged. "Any moment, I should think. Do you want to be here waiting for them, or would you prefer a grand entrance?"
The Emperor made a face. "No grand entrances." His eyes, which had continued to scan the room, caught a glimpse of a familiar figure: the Prime Minister, looking frail as he walked slowly across the carpets. "Excuse me," Khethyran murmured as he started purposefully in Zherekhaf's direction.
Thantor inclined his head politely as the Emperor moved away. Then, watchful and unobtrusive as always, he resumed his post.
On the far side of the Palace, in the Ghytteve apartments, Cithanekh, Owl and Arre met in the library, dressed and ready for the Dreaded Reception. Owl was soberly resplendent in a silk brocade tunic of deep green and dark gray over shirt and trousers of dove gray. His jewelry—a pendent earring of emerald and gray pearls, his ivory bracelet, a ring of braided gold—was, by Bharaghlafi standards, restrained and added to the effect of subtle elegance. Cithanekh wore, over pearl-colored trousers and shirt, a tunic of a brighter green, overworked with intricate gold embroidery. His jewelry, which included the heavy gold Councilor's chain of office, a wide cuff of worked gold, emerald and diamond ear studs, and his green ring, was flashier than Owl's adding to the impression that he was in the sunlight while his lover moved in the shadows. Arre had come as close to skirts as she ever did, in a calf-length tunic of deep red over loose, black trousers. She wore no jewelry at all, although the hem and neck of the tunic were bordered with a wide band of gold thread embroidery and seed pearls, and her hair was swept up and held off her shoulders by a clip of ivory and garnet.
"Are we ready?" she asked them. "You look wonderful, both of you."
"So do you," Cithanekh assured her and she made a face.
"It's a lot of nonsense," she muttered.
"Exactly what I said," Owl told her. "But Effryn and Cithanekh had gone to so much trouble between them, I felt obligated to acquiesce."
Cithanekh only smiled. He took Owl's arm and handed him his cane. "Shall we go? Our escorts are doubtless waiting for us in the entrance hall."
They picked up their bodyguards, Lynx, Cezhar, and Marhysse, and made their way to the function room. They were not the first to arrive, and they all heard the stir of interest and speculation that their entrance occasioned. Almost before they had finished their formal greeting to the Emperor, liveried servants were offering them glasses of chilled wine and trays of stuffed grape leaves. Owl took the glass Cithanekh handed him. "We should probably circulate separately, don't you think?" he asked softly.
"Yes," Cithanekh agreed. "Enjoy yourself," he added with a little irony.
"Indeed," Owl replied in the same tone. "You, too." They moved apart, Lynx at Owl's shoulder like a vigilant shadow. "Is Mouse here?"
"Yes." She took his elbow and guided him in the direction of the young Ykhave, but before they had gone very far, they were stopped by Yverri Ambhere.
"Why, Owl Ghytteve," she greeted him with a rustle of silks as she curtseyed.
"Lady Yverri Ambhere," he murmured as he bowed.
"Not 'lady,'" she laughed. "It sounds so distant. And if you insist on calling me 'lady,' courtesy dictates I call you 'lord,' and I would far rather use your name." She laid her hand on his sleeve in a gesture at once coquettish and possessive. "Walk with me, won't you please, Owl."
"If you like, Yverri," he agreed. Where is she taking me, Lynx?
Toward a thin spot in the crowd. I think she wants to be seen with you.
But by whom?
Lynx didn't respond; instead, she scanned the crowd, making mental notes of who was watching and what their reaction was, if any.
"Do you like these public affairs?" she asked him.
"No." The blunt honesty of his answer surprised him. He softened it with a wry smile. "Half the purpose of these things seems to be to show off one's jewels and clothes, and since I can't see what everyone else is wearing, I always feel at a disadvantage."
"Well, whoever dresses you does a remarkable job. Is it Cithanekh—I mean, Councilor Cithanekh?"
"Actually, our steward Effryn makes most of my wardrobe choices. I am reliably informed he has excellent color sense."
"How extraordinary. Do you think he'd choose some colors for me? That dark brocade is rather unexpected, and very effective. If you're a sample of his work, I'm tremendously impressed."
"I could ask," Owl said a little doubtfully as he tried to imagine his old friend's reaction to such a request.
"Would you? Oh, please do, Owl. I should be enormously grateful."
The Lady Azhine Azhere-Glakhyre and the Dhenykhare Duke are coming toward you, Lynx interrupted silently.
Yverri Ambhere's tone altered to formal as she said, "Why, Lady Azhine and my Lord Duke." She released Owl's arm to curtsey.
"Lady Yverri," the cool voice of the chief of the Queen's noble ladies greeted her. "And Lord Owl. How nice to see you again."
"I'm honored you should remember me, Lady," he said with a bow. "And my Lord Duke. Permit me to express my condolences on your family's recent tragic losses."
"Thank you," Dhyrakh Dhenykhare replied, without warmth. "I've heard a great deal about you, Lord Owl. If even a tenth of it is true, you will be a formidable force at Court."
Owl smiled deprecatingly. "Doubtless most of it is rumor and I am doomed to disappoint you."
"Indeed, I hope not," the Duke said. Without warning, he gripped Owl's hand that held the cane. The touch jolted Owl as his Gift presented the image of the Duke with his whip in his hand and a look of cold calculation on his highbred features.
"What?" Owl managed lightly. "You prefer to test your mettle against a worthy adversary?"
"But of course. It is always more fulfilling to break the spirited horse to bit and bridle."
Owl turned his free hand palm upward. "I shall have to take your word for that. I fear I am not enough of a horseman to have an opinion. Although—" he added ingenuously, "I remember friends in Kalledann talking about gentling their horses, rather than breaking them. I always liked that image of persuading, rather than compelling, obedience."
"A pretty conceit, but an impracticable reality. I have found in most cases that a strong hand is the only answer."
"A strong hand," Owl retorted, "may always be one answer—but often it is
neither the only answer, nor the most effective. In some cases, attempts at coercion engender an even greater degree of rebellion."
Owl heard Dhyrakh's sharp intake of breath, but when he spoke, his voice was no different. "In those cases it is not the method but the execution that is at fault. One must be able to calculate precisely how strong the hand must be; it is when the hand is not strong enough that rebellion breeds. For all that it sounds like a more compassionate method, persuasion is a form of manipulation; and manipulation has its limitations as you, yourself, demonstrated—to Ycevi Ghytteve's cost."
"No method is perfect," Owl said carefully. "Or perhaps it is that no method can always be perfectly applied."
Lady Azhine laughed. "Very true, Lord Owl. Only the gods are perfect—and only when they choose. I never thanked you for the warning that spared Her Majesty; we are all very grateful that your…foresight…kept Her Majesty from harm."
Owl inclined his head politely. "I am the obedient servant of the Crown in all things, Lady."
Yverri Ambhere repossessed Owl's arm. "Lady Azhine; my Lord Duke. We are honored by your attention, but surely we mustn't detain you." And with a subtle nudge, she guided Owl away.
"Very neat," Owl said. "Thank you."
She laughed, a much sweeter sound than Azhine's brittle one. "It must be difficult for you to escape some of the nobles when you can't see where the openings are. And speaking of not being able to see, how did you know that was Dhyrakh and not Lady Azhine's husband, the Glakhyre Duke? I didn't use a name; I was actually quite careful not to."
"Such a courtly occupation," he said acidly, "to cast obstacles in the blind man's path to see whether he trips. I had thought better of you, Lady Yverri."
"But it's not like that," she protested, sounding genuinely distressed. "Truly it isn't, Lord Owl. I'm only curious, not malicious. I've never known anyone like you. When you told our fortunes in the garden, you touched most of the ladies' hands—but you knew who the Duke was before he took your hand. How do you do it?"