A Parliament of Owls

  "You can't blame them, Master Ferret," he said as he crossed the room to the divan opposite hers. "When I don't feel like seeing clients, I tell my men to get rid of them. The coffee wouldn't have hurt you."

  "No, but being dumped unconscious on the waterfront or in the Slums wouldn't have been terribly healthy," she said waspishly.

  The slaver shrugged. "You didn't tell them who you were."

  "And you employ them for their muscles, not their brains."

  He gestured as though acknowledging a hit. "What can I do for you—since, clearly, my usual precautions were not sufficient to spare me your visit."

  "I need some information."

  "I might have guessed that," he said mildly. "What information?"

  "You own a house in the Upper Town." She gave the address. "I should like to know about the person who is renting it."

  The slaver was silent for a long moment, gazing at her assessingly. Then he sighed. "Your man Rhodh will have been told that I take particular pride in the privacy I afford my clients. So why is this information of enough value that you insist upon appearing in person to ask me? Surely the possibility has occurred to you that the real renter employed an agent, and that I am ignorant of his or her identity."

  Ferret's smile would have made any of her bravos take a step backward. "That our real renter employed an agent is almost a certainty; but that you are ignorant of his or her identity is not something I am willing to believe."

  "It is possible that in this case, my reputation exceeds the reality—but Ferret, you haven't answered my question. Why is it important?"

  "You've heard, doubtless, about the singular nature of the last moon-dark ritual at the Dark Lady's Temple?" At his nod, she went on. "What you may not have heard, Anthagh, is what they did with the power they raised. They worked a death spell on the High Priest of the Windbringer. If he were not so strong, he would be dead; as it is, he is imprisoned within his inert body. It is possible that the key to undo the spell is hidden within that house."

  Anthagh's face registered an instant of shock. "I had heard the rumor that Kerigden was ill—but the rest I did not know. I knew that Thyzhecci hated him, but I would not have suspected her of attempting to murder him by magic. I also confess to being puzzled as to why she would resort to human sacrifice. Even if it is technically legal—a consenting slave, after all—her congregants are uncomfortable; and she can't imagine that the Emperor will condone it, if she makes a practice of it. And now that the word is out in the Slums, it will be no easy matter for her to get slaves. The sellers of the last three children I bought insisted on a legal rider forbidding that they be sold as slaves to the Dark Lady Temple."

  "Good," Ferret said with grim satisfaction. "What about the renter, Anthagh?"

  "I don't know. Don't look at me like that," he protested. "I'm chagrinned to admit it, but I truly do not know. The agent who came to me has proved entirely elusive; I saw him once and have not seen him since. The rent money, in a plain parcel, is delivered by a Slum messenger to any one of my establishments, at some point before it is in fact due."

  "How long has this been going on?"

  "The agent negotiated the rental nearly a year ago."

  "And this arrangement doesn't strike you as odd?" Ferret challenged.

  "It bothers me considerably," Anthagh retorted, a rare flash of anger showing in his manner. "It distresses me almost more than I can bear to admit that my investigations into the matter have borne no fruit."

  "So why don't you evict him?"

  "For what? Pursuing suspected illegal activities?" He smiled wryly. "All my clients do that. The rent is paid on time; the property is maintained—"

  "Wait. Do they let you—or your agents—in to inspect?"

  "Quarterly," he said shortly. "I send a note stating a date and time, giving at least three days notice. When my agent arrives, there is never anyone present, and the premises are immaculate. The last inspection was barely two weeks ago."

  "Before the ritual," Ferret mused. "It's so circumspect it positively screams 'fishy business.'"

  "But no one rents from me unless he—or she—is up to something. He could be running arms to the Amartans—or organizing the weavers in the silk sheds; he doesn't have to be involved with the High Priestess's murder of children."

  Ferret was silent for a moment, considering; then she rose. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Are you still looking for this utterly elusive steward?"

  "I wasn't, but in light of what you've told me, Ferret, I will."

  "And will you let me know if you find out anything more?"

  He inclined his head graciously. "Yes—and you'll tell me if Kerigden's situation changes?"

  "Of course." As he reached for the table cymbal, she shook her head. "Never mind. I'll let myself out."

  ***

  The workout Lynx put Owl through was, indeed, worse the second day. But beyond a few involuntary groans, he did his best not to complain. Owl sensed that Lynx would seize upon an excuse to call off these sessions, and he was anxious not to give her one until he had settled in his own mind whether or not he could learn what she had to teach. All the same, he was not sorry when Cezhar's approaching footsteps and stifled exclamation interrupted them.

  "Gods, Owl," Cezhar said, trying for a teasing tone. "No wonder poor Effryn can't fatten you up, with Lynx sweating the weight off of you."

  "Were you looking for me or Lynx?" Owl asked, his voice a bit ragged.

  "You. Lyssemarhe brought a note for you, when she came to visit her sister."

  "Thank you. Will you read it, please?"

  He heard the wax seal break. As Cezhar unfolded the paper, amidst crinkling noises, the faint waft of some floral scent reached Owl's nose. "It's from Yverri Ambhere," the bodyguard told him. "She writes: 'Dear Owl, I so enjoyed spending time with you at the Emperor's Reception, and I am grateful to you for introducing me to Amynne Ykhave. I hope you won't think me too appallingly forward if I take the liberty of reminding you of your promise to have your steward choose some colors for me. Might it possibly be convenient for me to stop by this afternoon or tomorrow? Lysse promises she'll be back before lunch, so perhaps you can send word with her. I remain, Yverri.'" Cezhar whistled. "Choose colors? Effryn will have kittens."

  "I didn't promise he'd do it," Owl said plaintively. "I told her I'd ask him."

  "That's a woman who knows what she wants," Lynx remarked. She touched Owl's arm. "This is enough for today. Why don't you go clean up? Then you can decide what to do about your so persistent admirer."

  A faint uneasiness teased at the Seer's mind. He shifted and held out one hand. "May I have the note, please, Cezh?" As his fingers closed on the scented paper, images drifted across his inner sight: Yverri at a writing desk, a pen clutched tightly in one hand, anxiety and urgency in her expression; Klarhynne Dhenykhare, a look of poisonous malice directed at someone Owl couldn't see; a youth in the rough clothing of the Slums talking with a bodyguard in Glakhyre livery who toyed with a silver coin; Ferret with the slaver, Anthagh; a kitchen servant kneeling before two Imperial Guards. He sighed. "I'd better see her. Cezh, tell Lysse to invite Yverri to come after lunch—and warn her not to let anyone else overhear the invitation. And tell Effryn I need to talk to him." He got to his feet and Lynx handed him his cane.

  As he limped away, the two bodyguards exchanged a look.

  "Lynx, is this his idea, or yours—the exercising?"

  "His. He doesn't like to feel helpless."

  "Even if he's fit and strong," Cezhar said harshly, "he's still blind."

  "I know. I won't encourage him to confidence beyond his skill—but Cezhar, he will not submit to coddling, either. Haven't you seen how he bridles when we try too hard to shelter him?"

  Cezhar was silent for several moments, studying Lynx's face. "Have you told Cithanekh about this?" As she shook her head, he said, "You'll have to. Owl's moving very stiffly; do you think Cithanekh won't notice?"

  "L
et him ask Owl—and let Owl tell him."

  Cezhar continued to study her, his own expression inscrutable. Finally, he said, "Maybe you're right. Come on; let's go."

  As they left the practice floor, Lynx said, tentatively, "Cezhar, is Cithanekh plagued by importunate suitors the way Owl is?"

  Cezhar's expression was wry. "Yes. He's a good bit more patient and diplomatic than I could ever be. I will say, though, Cithanekh's—admirers aren't usually as forthright as the Ambhere girl. You saw her, Lynx; what did you think of her?"

  Lynx sighed. "She does the vapid Court Lady very well—but I am convinced she is far cleverer than that. I fear to trust, too much, my instincts with you Bharaghlafi, but for what it is worth, I do not think she is allied with Owl's enemies."

  "You called her a persistent suitor; do you think she's in love with him?"

  Lynx shrugged expressively. "How would I know what she feels? I said she knows what she wants—and she wants to talk to him. Further, she is not willing to leave it to chance. In Eschadd, to so contravene convention one would have to be moved by very strong emotion; but I do know whether the strictures of proper behavior are graven so deeply in the Bharaghlafi."

  "If she were Eschaddi, would you say she was in love?"

  "If she were Eschaddi, I would say she was afraid."

  "Afraid? Of what?"

  She shook her head again and they parted as Cezhar went to the bodyguards' common room to find Lyssemarhe, and Lynx turned down the hallway toward the baths.

  A little later, Lynx opened the door to the library. Owl was there, drinking coffee. His head came up as she came in. "Lynx," he said. "I was expecting Effryn."

  She poured herself coffee, then sat. "When I came through the kitchens, he said to tell you he's coming." She saw Yverri's note on the low table beside the samovar. "Did you learn anything from Yverri Ambhere's note?"

  "Not much. She's troubled." He passed her the image of the Slum youth and the Glakhyre bodyguard. "Do you recognize them?"

  "I saw the boy at the Free School," Lynx said. "But beyond that, he means nothing to me. The bodyguard is a man named Essekh; one tough bastard, I was told."

  "I wonder what he's trolling for." Owl reached for the letter but stopped when the library door opened again.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," Effryn said briskly as he came in. "What's on your mind?"

  "I've asked Yverri Ambhere over this afternoon. At the Dreaded Reception yesterday, she pried the information out of me that it was your artistic eye behind what I was wearing, and she is hoping that you might be willing to tell her what colors she should wear. Or some such."

  "Gods and fish!" Effryn swore. "I'm not a dress maker, Owl. I can't design her a dress!"

  "No one said anything about designing dresses," Owl said, suppressing a smile at the panicked outrage in his old friend's voice. "Just give her some advice about colors to wear—or to avoid. Besides, this whole thing is probably only the excuse she's hit upon to finagle an invitation here."

  "If you're aware of her scheming, why are you indulging her? Or do you like her?" Effryn asked.

  Owl raised an eyebrow. "I have the sense she may be important. It may be useful to have a secret ally among the Queen's ladies."

  "There's Lyssemarhe," Effryn pointed out.

  "As the Ghytteve representative among the Queen's attendants, she's hardly a secret ally. You can bet that any plotters would be very careful to exclude her—and if she started prying into places she wasn't wanted, it would quickly become dangerous for her."

  "And don't you think it will become dangerous for Yverri Ambhere?" Lynx asked quietly.

  "I think," Owl said slowly, "that it is already dangerous for Yverri. Besides, she's older than Lysse, and has a better idea of what she's doing."

  Effryn looked from Owl to Lynx; then he sighed. "What does she look like, Lynx—Yverri, I mean? It might be helpful if I had some fabric swatches in possible colors."

  Lynx smiled wryly. "I don't claim any fashion sense—I just wear the livery I'm given. She has very dark hair and golden skin; her eyes are brown, almost black. I don' t know whether this helps at all."

  "Not much." Effryn sighed again. "If that's all, Owl, I'd better go see what I can scrounge."

  "Don't take it so much to heart, Squirrel," Owl advised. "Like I said, it's probably her excuse."

  Effryn's tone was rueful. "Excuse or not, I'd rather do a good job of it."

  As the steward bustled off, Lynx refilled Owl's cup. "Have you seen Arre this morning," he asked her.

  "She went to the Windbringer's Temple with Yrhenne. I don't believe they've returned, yet."

  He sighed in exasperation. "I wish I knew why I was so uneasy. I feel like…like something is brewing—and before you ask, I can't tell if it has to do with Yverri or not." He drained his coffee cup and set it down. "If I were on Kalledann I'd walk up to the cliffs in hopes that the wind off the ocean would blow my fidgets away. A walk in the Palace gardens seems a poor second, but will you come?"

  She drained her own cup and set it aside. "Of course."

  Cezhar and Khofyn were near the door to the Ghytteve complex. At Cezhar's inquiring look, Lynx said, "We're going for a walk in the Palace gardens."

  "Khofyn, go with them."

  "For a stroll in the garden, Cezh?" Owl protested. "Surely it's a waste of effort?"

  "The gardens are popular this time of day, Owl," Cezhar explained, "and you'll be holding Lynx's arm. I'll feel better if…"

  "All right," Owl cut him off. "Sorry, Khofyn. Doubtless you have things you'd rather be doing than playing nursemaid."

  "Actually, not," the bodyguard said, an undercurrent of amusement in his tone. "A walk in the gardens will be far more pleasant than minding the guard post by the entranceway."

  When they reached the gardens, Owl was a bit taken aback to hear the noise and voices of a considerable number of courtiers. "Sounds like quite a crowd," he said. "Perhaps Cezhar was right."

  Khofyn and Lynx exchanged a surprised glance. "Is there anyone in particular you want to talk with, Owl," Lynx asked, "or are we simply walking?"

  "Let's just wander around and see what happens."

  Lynx guided him onto one of the gravel paths and began threading their way among the other strollers and idlers. The courtiers fell silent as they approached, then whispered behind their hands as they passed. Owl ignored them, permitting Lynx to steer him deeper into the gardens. The splash and gurgle of a fountain grew louder as they walked and Owl felt a scatter of cool spray on his face.

  "Is this the fountain with the fighting sea-serpents, Lynx? I've always liked that one."

  "No," she said. "This one has a ring of nymphs surrounding a waterspout."

  The image of the fountain filled his inner vision, suddenly—with Ancith sitting on the upwind stone bench. And Ancith, he said silently. You didn't mention him. "Good morning, Lord Ancith," he added aloud.

  There was a long pause before Owl heard the rustle and scrape of Ancith getting to his feet. "Good morning, Lord Owl," he said smoothly.

  "Please, just 'Owl.' I've never become comfortable with the formal mode of address; it always makes me think the person isn't really speaking to me."

  "I don't know why you're bothering to be so polite," Ancith said coldly. "There's no one here but the two of us."

  Owl hunched one shoulder. "The four of us."

  "I meant there's no one of importance here but the two of us."

  Owl sighed. "I spend nearly all my waking hours in the company of my bodyguards; of course they're important."

  You should see his face, Lynx thought. It looks like an illustration for 'perplexed.'

  After several moments, Ancith said stiffly, "In khacce, as in life, certain pieces are of more value than others."

  Owl shook his head. "People are not khacce pieces. A khacce piece has no life outside of the mind of the player; but people think. They make choices, they give—or withhold—their loyalties; they may consent to follow
directions, to allow themselves to be treated as gaming pieces, but they always have the ability to revoke that consent."

  "How dare you lecture me? Every privilege you enjoy was handed to you at my brother's whim," Ancith cried angrily. "What do you know about politics and intrigue?"

  "Is that how it looks to you?" Owl asked mildly. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to lecture. It's just that your cousin Ycevi thought Cithanekh and I were mere khacce pieces, and proving her wrong cost us all dearly."

  "My cousin Ycevi was murdered by her renegade steward," Ancith retorted hotly. "I fail to see what you could have had to do with that!"

  "Perhaps you should ask Cithanekh—or the Duke—to tell you the whole story," Owl suggested adding silently to Lynx, Take me away from him.

  "Ask Cithanekh?" Ancith protested as they started away.

  That proved too much for Khofyn, who lingered to say, "If you truly can't bring yourself to speak to your brother, you ought to ask Cezhar, or Rhan—or me! You're behaving like a fool, Ancith, and none of us is enjoying the spectacle."

  "I wish you hadn't said that," Owl said quietly as Khofyn caught up with them.

  "It makes me utterly furious to see the contempt that whelp has for you and the Councilor!"

  Owl smiled wryly. "Yes. But we'll hardly change his mind by calling him names. He believes that power and responsibility are entitlements, not burdens; and he's angry that he doesn't get what he sees as his due."

  "How can you be so calm?" Khofyn demanded. "Doesn't it bother you?"

  An expression of pain crossed Owl's face, but when he spoke his voice was even. "It bothers me. The calm is only a mask."

  They walked in silence for several minutes as Lynx led them deeper into the garden's scented mazes. Occasionally, they passed other groups of strollers, but no one addressed them. Then, an image touched Owl's inner vision: the Statue Walk, and Commander Bhenekh sitting on one of the benches with trouble in his eyes.

  "Are we near the Statue Walk, Lynx?" Owl asked.

  "Yes. It's just past this fountain."

  "Good. Let's go there."