A Parliament of Owls

  "But Lynx, that doesn't make sense. You, Arre, Kerigden, I… We've all shared power from time to time. Surely that doesn't mean we're poised on the brink of some dark evil."

  "Resonating is not sharing," Lynx retorted. "When one shares power with another adept, it is like two people pulling on the same rope; both strengths are used, but each is under one's own control. Resonating…" She sighed. "Think of pulling the rope, again, and then imagine that you could appropriate your helper's physical strength with a touch. Then, there's no need to accommodate the second person at the rope—one person has all the strength there is. It's like that. When one's power is inert, one can give but not receive; and the active talent may receive but not give. If both have active control, then each is capable of taking, whether the other chooses to give or not. The relationship quickly becomes a striving for dominance—and the Xhi'a'ieffth perfected many, many ways to exploit, corrupt, and seduce others. As for Cithanekh, if he Resonated to your Gift, you would never know for certain whether what you felt for him was love, or simply the desire for power."

  Owl shook his head. "What am I going to do?" he asked despairingly.

  "You could marry her."

  "How can I?" he demanded. "She's in love with me; it would hardly be fair to pretend to reciprocate—"

  "Did I say pretend?" Lynx cut in testily. "Explain to her—and to Cithanekh—that you can offer her no more than friendship, and a haven both from the Adept and from the censure of the Court."

  "The censure of the Court?" Owl protested. "What cause for censure—"

  "You can't see the way she looks at you, but I promise you, some of those sharp-eyed gossips will notice it—and notice, too, that the attraction (whatever it is) goes both ways."

  "Damn," Owl said, but he said no more as the door opened. Owl recognized Cithanekh's tread, followed by Effryn and two servants. "Cithanekh," he greeted him, holding out his hands.

  The young lord crossed to Owl's seat. Under Effryn's efficient direction, the servants set out a fresh samovar and a platter of fruit and cheese. Cithanekh waved the servants and bodyguards out, then took his lover's hands and sat beside him on the divan. "Good day?"

  "Not particularly," Owl admitted. "Tell me about yours, first."

  Going to some pains to make it amusing, Cithanekh related the latest antics of some of the Council lords. At the end of it, he said, "I saw Arre not long ago. She'll be along shortly, I imagine. She said Kerigden's no worse. Now," he leaned forward, so he could watch Owl's face, "tell me about your day."

  "I don't think I can make it amusing," Owl said with a wry twist to his lips that looked like a smile gone wrong. "Let's see: I had a mildly acrimonious encounter with your brother—fortunately in the relative privacy of one of the garden's fountain courts, this time. Then Commander Bhenekh told me they've found kitchen servants who have sworn that I attempted (unsuccessfully, of course) to bribe them to poison the Queen's marzipan. And he warned me that he fears the Captain of the Queen's Guard—"

  "Ysmenarr?"

  "Yes, that's the one. Bhenekh is afraid he's been bribed. Then, Yverri Ambhere came to visit."

  "Did Effryn find suitable colors?"

  "Can you even ask?" Owl managed to smile. "Of course. But Yverri told us that one of the Adepts is Bodywalking in Klarhynne Dhenykhare."

  "Gods above and below," Cithanekh whispered. "How does she know that?"

  "She didn't know. But she told us about seeing Klarhynne with two shadows. And she's a Resonator."

  "Klarhynne?"

  "No," Owl said. "Yverri."

  "How—Whose Resonator? Yours?"

  Owl nodded.

  "How on earth did you figure that out?"

  " I—I had one of my dreaming fits. She hadn't seen it before, and I think it worried her when I went silent. She took my hands while I was in the grip of my Gift, and—It's hard to describe; there aren't—aren't words. It was…overwhelming. She felt it, too. There wasn't any question what was happening."

  Cithanekh sat back against the divan. Owl could feel the tension in his friend's body. "And you sent her back," he whispered finally, "into the Adept's reach. Owl…"

  "Yverri was insistent, and Lynx tested her enough to determine she has an adequate screen to her thoughts, as long as no one makes the Adept particularly suspicious. What else could I do? She's the virgin daughter of a wealthy and powerful Council House. We can't keep her here, like Arre."

  "She won't last half a watch if anyone figures out what she is to you, Owl."

  "I know that!" Owl cried, anguished. "But what else could I have done?""I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound as though I'm criticizing. I'm just trying to think."

  "Lynx says I should marry her."

  Owl felt Cithanekh's body go rigid again, then slowly ease back to normal. "Maybe it's an answer."

  Owl listened for any betraying emotion, but heard only the words. Finally, he asked the question troubling him. "How much would you mind?"

  "Not, perhaps, as much as I would mind hearing that she had been found dead in her bath."

  "Garroted," Owl corrected, "in the Queen's garden."

  Cithanekh stiffened again. "Have you Seen that?"

  Owl raised a hand. "Possible future, only."

  Cithanekh clasped Owl's hand and leaned his cheek against it. "We'll do something," he murmured. "Do you think she'd accept you, knowing— knowing about us? Or were you thinking of giving me up?"

  "Don't be a fool, Cithanekh."

  "Would she, though?"

  "I don't know. I think so. It's powerful—the connection between our powers. She—she thinks she's in love with me."

  "How do you feel about her?"

  "I want the power. I feel heartless—like one of Lynx's power-obsessed Seers, saying it; but I want the power. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt her. But I want that power so badly I can taste it."

  Cithanekh was silent for so long that Owl reached up with his other hand and gripped his friend's shoulder. "Cithanekh?"

  At Owl's touch, Cithanekh made himself answer. "It's all right, Owl. In the morning, we'll speak to Mylazhe and see what we can arrange."

  "We?"

  "Don't you think you can play the ardent suitor convincingly?"

  "I'm willing to try that role for Councilor Mylazhe, but I am planning to talk quite frankly with Yverri—just so you know."

  "Of course," Cithanekh agreed. "Now, will you eat some of this lovely fruit and cheese Effryn sent?"

  Owl took the morsel Cithanekh served him and managed an impish smile. "Aren't you afraid I'll spoil my dinner?"

  Cithanekh shifted so that he could ease Owl into the shelter of his arms. "Dinner's hours off, yet," he murmured.

  "True," Owl replied, leaning into the embrace. "But you said Arre would be along any moment."

  "We could go somewhere more private," Cithanekh suggested, but Owl shook his head.

  "Too late. I hear her steps."

  They were actually seated decorously before Arre opened the door.

  Chapter Twenty-four—Trouble at the Ivory Comb

  When Cithanekh, Owl and Arre moved to the library after dinner, Cithanekh watched Owl's progress with some concern. "Are you all right, Owl?" he asked. "You're moving like you're in pain."

  Owl managed a wry smile. "I've been exercising with Lynx and I overdid it a bit."

  "Exercising," Cithanekh repeated neutrally. Then he shook his head ruefully. "Poor Effryn will never fatten you up at this rate. But it's more than that, isn't it? You look tired." He touched his friend's shoulder gently. "I know you don't like to be mothered, but why don't you skip the evening coffee and turn in early tonight?"

  "If you don't mind my abandoning you both," Owl replied, "then I will. It has been a wearing few days." He bid them goodnight and departed, while Arre and Cithanekh exchanged surprised looks.

  "That's the most worrying thing I've seen," Arre said quietly. "Do you want to go with him, Cithanekh? I'm happy to amuse myself; you don't have t
o play the host."

  "No. He needs to rest—and I need to talk with you."

  Her eyebrows rose, but she merely poured coffee and waited for the young lord to begin.

  "What do you know about Resonators, Arre? I never more than half believed in them—it sounds so like a talespinner's device, and it's so rare. It couldn't be a trap of the Adept, could it?"

  Arre sighed. "Resonators do exist. When I was a child, there was an elderly teacher at the Kellande school whose husband was her Resonator. I can't think of any way to counterfeit what Owl said he experienced this afternoon with Yverri. That's not to say there isn't a way to counterfeit it; I don't pretend to know all that the followers of the Bone King are able to do. But one would think that—like Bodywalking and the stealing of memories—such an ability would have found its way into the stories, and I've never heard of it."

  Cithanekh nodded and stared down into his coffee.

  "Even if it isn't a trap," Arre went on, "it's trouble—for all of you. You sounded very matter-of-fact when you talked about marriage—you both did—but it's hardly a perfect solution. Weddings take time to arrange, and this one will draw a good deal of gossip and attention."

  "Indeed. Ambhere and Ghytteve—it will look like a powerful alliance to our enemies. Yverri's likely to be in danger even if the Adept doesn't intuit the true nature of Owl's interest." He raised his eyes suddenly to her face. "Arre, how do you stand it? Aren't you jealous of the Queen?"

  Arre hesitated. "I'm not jealous of Celave," she said finally. "Mostly, I feel sorry for her. Though she's married to the Emperor, she doesn't really know the man; and I know that whatever she feels for him, or he for her, simply doesn't impinge on what we share. No. If I'm jealous, it is of Bharaghlaf, itself. Khethyran always places the demands of the Empire above his own needs, above mine. When it comes to the hard choices, the man must always bow to the Emperor. I know this; I even understand how it must be so, given Kheth's character and integrity. But it gnaws at me, a canker at the heart of my peace, that if ever the demands of the Empire require it, Khethyran will set me aside. Not easily, and not without pain—and not for some idiotic notion of 'my own good'—but he'd do it, if there were truly no other way. So…How do I bear it?" She shrugged. "When Khethyran was called home from the Kellande School to take up the Emperor's coronet, I asked myself if I could wait in the shadows for whatever crumbs of his time, whatever crusts of his attention he would have after the demands of the state, or whether I would be happier without him in my life at all. Put like that, it wasn't such a difficult choice. And while I loathe the intrigue, resent the politics, and mistrust most of the courtiers, I stay because I would rather dodge fangs in this snake pit at Kheth's side than stroll through the serene halls of the Kellande School without him.

  "Cithanekh," she went on, "I know I've made it sound simpler than it is. I've had years to come to terms with my love for Kheth and the reality of his responsibilities—and sometimes, even still, I find myself choking on my resentment. If I were writing the play, believe me, the setting would be different; but God didn't offer me the things I would choose. We never get to choose the particulars of our lives; but we can decide how much energy we spend on regrets."

  He nodded and she smiled.

  "I'm lecturing. I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize. I need the instruction. But Arre, don't you crave the things they say women all want: a home and children; the placid domesticity?"

  Arre laughed. "Beautiful clothes and rich jewels? No." Then her expression grew wistful. "I'd like children, if things were different. But any child I bore to Khethyran would inevitably be pulled into the maw of Bharaghlafi politics—and I will not see that happen."

  "Owl says Yverri is in love with him. She'll want children; she'll probably want her own servants and—gods—a separate household."

  "You can talk to her. A separate household isn't a good idea at this point, surely—and there's plenty of room, here. As for children…" Arre studied him intently for a moment. "What bothers you the most about their having children?"

  Cithanekh considered. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant, as though he were picking his way carefully around his pain. "I never imagined I would have to share Owl," he said. "That's a part of it. But Arre, he's so young; it's easy to forget how young. As far as I know, he's never had—had an intimate relationship with anyone but me. What if he—he likes her better than me?"

  Arre raised one eyebrow and Cithanekh laughed a little shakily.

  "It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?" he managed. "Such a childish terror."

  "It's the childish terrors that wake us up at night," Arre commented. "But I know what you mean. Trust him a little—and talk to Yverri: both of you."

  Worry rumpled his brow again. "She'll never agree to this. She'll want him to give me up."

  "Oh, stop," Arre chided. "She's an aristocrat. She isn't expecting any choice in whom she marries. If her family decided to give her to Akhatheraf Dhenykhare—or some reprobate even more vile—what legal recourse would she have? None. Compared to that specter, the thought of marrying Owl is going to seem very attractive—even if he had fifty lovers. Cithanekh, talk to her," Arre said again. "Don't let your fears make an ogre of a potential friend."

  Cithanekh was silent; then, he nodded and managed a smile. "Arre, the ever-sensible. Thank you. I only wish you could give Owl a similar wise lecture."

  Arre drained the last of her coffee and set the cup down. "Oh, I expect Lynx already has."

  "You're probably right," he agreed.

  "Can I just go down to the guard station and ask for an escort, or should I ring for Effryn?" she asked, getting to her feet.

  "Just go," he told her, "unless your sense of propriety is offended by the informality."

  She eyed him severely. "My dear Cithanekh, wherever did you get the idea that I have a sense of propriety to offend? Goodnight—and go to bed; don't sit up nursing your worries."

  He rose and bowed over her hand. "As you command, dear Lady. Goodnight."

  ***

  The crowd at the Ivory Comb was rowdier than usual. From his shadowed corner table, Sharkbait ran a practiced eye over the gathering and noted several tables full of slumming Upper Town patrons—noblemen's retinue or merchants' staff he diagnosed, rather than courtiers. Most of them were drunk—or appeared so. Vixen and another of Ferret's journeymen, doubtless bent on fleecing the unwary, nursed drinks at a table by the door as they planned their campaign. He scanned the central group again, his attention snagged by something—there! He knew that one. He fished for the name—one of the Glakhyre bodyguards: Essekh. He remembered him from his Court days: clever, competent and utterly ruthless. If he was here, this was no simple night on the town. They had to be up to something: trolling for information, or planning some trouble. He turned what he knew of the current political controversies over in his mind. Rumor was that the Caravans Guild had finally settled its dispute with the Glakhyre—at a price smaller than Ymlakh had been expecting to pay—so it was unlikely any wool clan partisan would be stirring up trouble for Master Dharhyan.

  He scanned the group for other familiar faces, other possible hints. It had been a years since he spent any time at Court; many of the bodyguards he had known had been replaced by their younger siblings or cousins. There were two of the group who bore a faint resemblance to one of the Dhenykhare guards he had known—and were young enough to be nephews, perhaps. But… Dhenykhare and Glakhyre? Their interests didn't intersect much—at least not if Ymlakh had secured an agreement with the Caravans. Unless…He drew further into the concealing shadows, suddenly uneasy. What if the Glakhyre were trying to curry favor with the ship builders? Dhyrakh had threatened—repeatedly—to break the Longshoremen's Guild. True, to date his efforts had been limited to using hired goons to stir up trouble on the Waterfront and to try to scare the longshoremen into playing by the old rules; but what if this were the first foray of newly escalated hostilities? Essekh would certainly recognize hi
m, and the Ivory Comb was known as one of his occasional haunts.

  He frowned. He wasn't here, often—certainly not often enough for any plotters to be able to predict his appearances; and there was no one who could have been bribed to tell them he was coming tonight. His decision to stop in had been quite unpremeditated. In fact, he hardly ever stopped in here if he wasn't meeting Venykhar.

  Realization, like the squelch of something unmentionable underfoot, soured his stomach. That information could have been sold. He didn't like to admit it, but he hadn't changed his routine for contacting his kinsman, the Ykhave Councilor, in far too long. What if they were bent on waylaying Venykhar, and using him as a hostage to hobble Sharkbait?

  He scanned the room, calculating his chances of getting out unobserved. Not good. Members of the group were clearly detailed to watch all the exits, and if he left his nest of shadows, Essekh was certain to spot him. He counted ten of them: long odds—especially if any of them carried throwing knives. There were times, he thought ruefully, when being able to send a mental cry for help into the mind of an ally would come in damned useful. He would give a year of his life to see Ferret and twenty or so of her most vicious bravos walk through the door—but then, he reflected wryly, it didn't seem all that likely that he had a year to trade.

  There was a stir at the door, then, and a woman came in. She spoke briefly to the thieves at their table and for an instant, he wondered if his thoughts had summoned his lover. But then, the woman turned, and he caught his breath. It was Mouse. She was dressed for the Slums, in a plain tunic and trousers, but her hair was braided and pinned up with jeweled pins.

  The group at the table fell out of their drunken revelers' role so suddenly that it startled the entire tavern into stillness. "Amynne Ykhave," Essekh said, his cold voice stark in the sudden quiet. "We were expecting the Councilor—but you'll do. Take her."

  Quick as thought, Mouse swept up one of the small oil lamps from a table and flung it, hard and accurately, at Essekh. The stoneware struck him squarely in the chest and oil splattered on his clothes and the table. The burning wick fell into the oil and fire sheeted up. Then, she spun and ran.