A bodyguard slapped down one of his colleague's throwing arms. "Idiot, we want her alive!" Several gave chase, but Sharkbait was pleased to see that the Vixen and her friend thrust their table into the path of the bodyguards before they, too, slipped into the night.
There was a general rush, then, for the door. The tavern master, with commendable presence of mind, had emptied a bucket of sand and dead ashes into the spilled oil and the flames were already dying back. Essekh had dropped to the floor and was rolling to extinguish his burning tunic. Sharkbait slipped—unnoticed, he hoped—through the press to the kitchen door and from there into the street. Mouse knew the Slums—and Sharkbait thought he knew where she would go.
He caught up with her before she reached the Trollop's Smile. He called her name, so she would not be alarmed. "Ho, Mouse. Are you all right?"
She put her hands on her hips. "What was that all about? Did you just want to see if I'd lost my edge?"
"You must have recognized more of them than I did; I only knew Essekh Glakhyre for certain, and a pair I took to be Dhenykhare. Someone must have told them about the message drop."
She shook her head in disgust. "I should have been more suspicious. Ven left for Khavenaffe this morning, and this afternoon there's a note from you demanding an urgent meeting. You usually keep better track of his movements."
"But you came."
"I thought the note was from you, and it said 'urgent.' What did they want him for? A hostage to keep you in line?"
"Seems likely."
"And they didn't know you were there."
He shook his head. "Did Ferret's pair?"
"Yes. If Essekh had just waited until I'd gone over to that cul de sac table you favor, he could have had us both."
"A pity Essekh doesn't know that. But then, maybe you could write him a note critiquing his operation."
She smiled wickedly; then she shivered. "I expected a blade in the back."
"You nearly got one—but someone remembered in time that they wanted you alive."
"So. I wonder if this means I'll need my own bodyguard." The light tone she tried for was undermined by the tremor in her voice.
Sharkbait's eyes glinted with wicked amusement. "Speak to Cithanekh. You could have Rhan—he likes you."
"Sharkbait, you're shameless," she scolded, the tremor back under control.
"Mouse. Thank you."
"Thanks?" she retorted sharply. "For what? Being fool enough to walk into a trap like that?"
"If they'd found me there, I couldn't have gotten out of it alive. Your diversion was perfect."
"Thank the gods for small favors, not me."
"As you wish." He gestured to the Trollop. "I'll buy you a brandy and then walk you back up to the Palace. Come on."
"Aren't you afraid they'll be waiting for us in the streets near the gates?"
Sharkbait's smile was disconcertingly feral. "Actually, no—but then, I wasn't planning on walking you back to the Palace alone."
Mouse remembered that a good number of the dockworkers had adopted the Trollop as their tavern of choice. At the mental picture of herself approaching the Palace in a throng of tough dockers, she actually laughed.
***
When Sharkbait bade Mouse good night and handed her over to the Imperial Guardsman who would escort her to her apartment, he then gave a code word to the duty officer and in short order found himself in the presence of Thantor. The Emperor's spymaster listened while he related the events of the night, his surmises, and the names Mouse had given him.
"Will you be able to take any action against the men?" Sharkbait asked when he was done. "Bar them from Court, or something? They tried to kidnap a noblewoman, after all."
"It would be her word—and yours, if you were willing to testify—against theirs (and whatever witnesses they buy) that it wasn't simply a case of mistaken identity. After all, who would expect a noblewoman to frequent a place like the Ivory Comb. I'm glad neither of you were hurt and I'm extremely grateful for the warning; but I don't see that pursuing the matter legally would be of any use."
Sharkbait hissed in irritation. "It's infuriating that they can be so blatant and yet there's nothing we can do to curb them. You'll warn Venykhar?"
"I'll send a courier to him at Khavenaffe. Sharkbait, be careful."
"Yes. I've been kicking myself all evening. I know better than to believe that I'll ever be beyond the nobles' malice as long as I insist on decent wages and reasonable treatment for my men. I can't believe how careless I've gotten."
"Well, you've had a warning—and no one even died. See that you learn from it." There was genuine warmth under the stern words. "Is your escort waiting?"
Sharkbait shrugged. "Unless your Imperials dispersed them, they're loitering just outside the gates."
"Good. Don't be a fool—and watch your back."
Chapter Twenty-five—Complications
Owl rose early to meet Lynx on the training floor. Though she worked him hard, he wasn't as sore when they were finished, and by the time he had bathed and joined Cithanekh for breakfast, he felt better than he had in days.
"Do you have a Council meeting this morning?" he asked Cithanekh.
"No, this afternoon. I've sent a note to Mylazhe Ambhere asking whether we could come to see her. She's an early riser; she may reply before long."
They were lingering over their coffee when Effryn brought the Ambhere Councilor's answer to them. Cithanekh broke the seal. In Mylazhe's own crisp handwriting, it read:
My esteemed Councilor Cithanekh,
Having had a lengthy discussion with my cousin Yverri, last evening, I am very anxious to meet with you. However, I must say, frankly, that the conversation I wish to have will be less awkward if neither Lady Yverri nor Lord Owl is present. Come as soon as is convenient.
Yours,
Mylazhe Ambhere.
"She wants to see me alone," Cithanekh said. "She's talked with Yverri already. Do you mind?"
He shrugged. "Doubtless she's remembered that I'm nothing but a lowborn guttersnipe aping my betters."
"It may be something like that, but it's hard to believe it of Mylazhe. She's politically astute enough to realize that the Emperor's favor outweighs any consideration of bloodlines—good or bad."
"So. Go talk with her. I'm sure you'll plead my case more eloquently than I could manage."
"You're all right?" Cithanekh insisted, worry in his tone.
Owl reached across the table, found his hand and squeezed it. "I'm all right. Go on. Don't keep her waiting. I'll go see Kerigden while you're gone."
Cithanekh pressed Owl's hand as he got up; collecting Rhan from his post by the door, he made his way to the Ambhere Councilor's apartments.
He was shown into the Councilor's study, a room as austere and efficient as the woman herself. She gestured him to a seat and poured coffee for him. "Yverri tells me she has fallen in love with your—" she hesitated fractionally— "kinsman, Owl."
Cithanekh nodded. "He—he hasn't spoken to Yverri about this, but he would like to marry her; that's what he wished to discuss with you, this morning."
Mylazhe Ambhere sighed. She was a handsome woman, with cleanly chiseled features and expressive dark eyes, which were troubled as she studied Cithanekh. "Her father is rather old fashioned. He told me he wants a duke, a duke's son or a Councilor for his only daughter—and he believes she's beautiful enough, and sufficiently dowered, for his ambitions to be reasonable ones."
"And adopted by a duke isn't close enough?"
She looked doubtful. "I'll write and ask him, Cithanekh, if you wish, but I can't honestly hold out much hope that he'll consent."
Cithanekh was silent for a moment. "Is this what you told Yverri?"
Mylazhe's expression turned wry. "Essentially. She wasn't as calm about it as you are being."
"I'm not the star-crossed lover."
She shot him a measuring look. "Aren't you?"
His lips quirked in a rueful smile as he
acknowledged her sally. "Mylazhe, will you tell me, frankly, how you feel about the possible alliance?"
"How I feel doesn't carry any weight with Yverri's father, but if you must know, I think that, politically, it's a brilliant match. As the Emperor's Seer and with his—" again, that momentary hesitation— "close associations with you, Owl Ghytteve is poised to be far more influential than any of the dukes' sons, or the dukes, for that matter. As for the Councilors… Well, you know those players as well as I do. But I very much doubt I can make Yverri's father see any of this. And I confess to some concerns, as well; Owl Ghytteve is not without enemies and it is possible—even likely—that Yverri may become a target in their intrigues."
Cithanekh nodded. "I worry about the endless intrigues as well; but Mylazhe, no one with influence or power at Court is immune to a plotter's malice. Will it matter to Yverri's father that she loves Owl?"
She spread her hands. "Yverri is Yverakh's youngest. He's likely to dismiss her passion as the whim of a foolish girl child. And he's very apt to imagine that he knows what is best for her, in any case." She shot him a sudden, rueful look. "It's a pity you don't fancy her, Cithanekh. Yverakh would accept you as her suitor without a blink."
"Yverri might object. She seems pretty set on Owl." His tone was very dry.
"Far be it from me to instigate depravity, but if they were both in your household…"
"Are you suggesting I throw them to the scandal-mongers? No. I'd rather find some way to convince Yverri's father. Would it help, do you think, if the Emperor wrote to him?"
Mylazhe considered. "It might," she said, finally. "But it might not. He doesn't approve of the Emperor's championing of the common people, and it's possible that he would simply regard such a letter as more of the same. Then again, a Royal Summons and sufficient flattering attention—along with several sizeable doses of Emperor Khethyran's formidable charm—and I do not doubt even my cousin Yverakh could be brought to see Owl Ghytteve in a very different light. Do you really think you and Owl could persuade the Emperor to take so much trouble in this matter?"
Cithanekh shrugged. "I don't know. Owl might ask; he is very determined."
"Yverri is also very determined," Mylazhe said. "I pray that our cooler heads can keep our very determined relatives from making a colossal scandal."
"Have you forbidden her to see him?"
The Ambhere Councilor shook her head. "I'm not such a fool. No. But I have asked her to behave with the utmost discretion."
Cithanekh nodded as he set the empty coffee cup down on the edge of her desk and got to his feet. "Discretion I think we can manage. I appreciate your frankness, Mylazhe, and your time."
***
When Owl, escorted by Lynx and Cezhar, reached the Windbringer's Temple, the morning divine office was just beginning. Rather than make themselves conspicuous by tramping through the sanctuary to the inner offices' entrance, they took places at the back while the priests sang the liturgy. Owl was struck again by the beauty and tenderness of the music; it sounded more like songs to a lover than hymns of praise to the goddess. He let the intricate counterpoint carry thought and worry away; without his conscious effort, the music brought him to the same, deep inner stillness he occasionally achieved with meditation. He called to mind the Windbringer's face and studied the planes and angles of her chiseled features. Talyene, Owl thought at her.
There was no response; the face remained an image in memory. Owl gathered his mental focus and tried again. Lady Windbringer.Talyene.
The image of the goddess vanished from his inner vision and was replaced with the face of Morekheth Anzhibhar Dhenykhare; he looked angry—more than angry: furious with a cold, controlled rage that was more alarming than any amount of bluster. Not now, his mental voice seethed. I've warned you about this.
Owl was so startled that he barely refrained from a mental reply. Morekheth's expression got, if anything, angrier. WHO? he demanded, following the query with a piece of ruthless probing.
Owl flinched and broke the trance. He couldn't tell whether Morekheth had recognized him or not.
Lynx touched his elbow. You're pale and sweating. Are you all right? she asked him.
I don't think so, he told her. I think I have just made a disastrous error. He related what had occurred. I think, he concluded, Morekheth is the other Adept Talyene mentioned. What I don't know is whether he knows that I've guessed, or not.
Around them, there was the scuffle of movement as the divine office concluded and members of the congregation rose to leave. Lynx helped Owl up and supported him unobtrusively as the three of them made their way through the sanctuary. One of the priests showed them into Kerigden's presence, where they found the Healer Razhynde sitting beside the High Priest's bed.
"How is he doing?" Owl asked, after they had exchanged greetings.
"Well enough; there's not much change."
As Owl reached out, Razhynde took the Seer's hand and placed it on Kerigden's. "Kerigden?" Owl murmured; then added silently, Kerigden?
Owl? His mental touch was stronger than the last time. Are you all right? There's something odd about your mind voice.
There is? Owl replied. He related what happened during the morning liturgy. When he had finished, Kerigden was silent for several moments.
Morekheth, Kerigden's mind voice murmured at last. That's not good; he's respected among the Dhenykhare, and he's clever.
And ruthless if he had anything to do with Varykh's murder, Owl added. If he recognized me, if he's figured out we've guessed that he's the other Adept, what will he do? Can you speculate?
There was a touch of wry humor in Kerigden's reply. Speculation is about all I can do—besides swallow. Has the Emperor named Varykh's successor? If Morekheth is as ruthless as you fear, Owl, he's likely to plan another murder when he isn't named Admiral.
I believe, Owl told him, that the Emperor has made a decision but has not announced it. And I am convinced that when he makes his choice known, the new Admiral will be in danger—possibly from several factions at once. Kerigden, he added a little hesitantly, do you know anything about people who Resonate to another's power?
If someone Resonated to my power, I doubt very much this death spell could hold me. I've heard of it—and as more than just a story—but I don't have any firsthand experience with the phenomenon. Why?
The question tangled Owl in his own dilemma, but before he could resolve the smatterings of worries and information into a coherent answer, the High Priest cut in with an urgent intensity that startled all thought of Yverri out of his mind.
Owl, wait! Do you feel it? Who else is listening? Is it Lynx?
Owl recognized it, then: the faint sense of a listening presence; but it wasn't Lynx. He could hear her across the room talking quietly with Cezhar and the Healer. It's not Lynx, he said emphatically.
Then brace yourself, Kerigden said. An instant later, Owl felt the backwash of a raw blast of energy, driven by fear and anger, out of the High Priest's mind. When the last of the reverberations died out of the shared spaces of their minds, the listening presence was gone.
Could you tell who it was? Owl asked.
No, Kerigden admitted. But from what you told me earlier, my guess would be Morekheth. He must have somehow managed to insinuate himself into your mind, Owl. If he was listening, he certainly knows we've guessed—and that you're asking questions about Resonators. He may even have the sense, as I do, that they are not hypothetical questions?
Wise gods help, he responded as the implications, and Yverri's drastically increased danger, roiled his gut. Are you sure we're safe now, Kerigden?
I'm sure, Kerigden said. Not hypothetical, then. Who is she?
Oh, gods; you got that much? One of the Queen's ladies, Owl said. Yverri Ambhere.
But Owl, Kerigden protested, appalled, Arre told me that the Adept Hassythe is Bodywalking in Klarhynne Dhenykhare.
Exactly. I must warn her.
For a moment, Kerigden's frustration wa
s palpable between them. Get me loose, he said with a banked intensity that was almost frightening. Get Ferret on it; she could find a seed pearl in a sand bank—that cursed cage of brambles ought to be easy for her.
Yes. I suppose I'd better go talk to her.
Go now. Don't go rushing back to warn your lady; if Morekheth suspects you have a Resonator, for the sweet Windbringer's sake, don't lead him to her.
Good point. Kerigden, thank you.
Don't thank me: get me free.
***
"Not the Beaten Cur," Cezhar protested when Owl suggested it. "It's deep in the Slums, and the haunt of more factions than Ferret's in the Thieves' Guild."
"I need to see Ferret," Owl said, the undercurrent of frustration strong beneath the patient words and tone.
"I understand that," Cezhar replied. "Couldn't we go to the Trollop instead and send a messenger to Ferret at the Cur? I'd feel safer there, knowing Sharkbait's longshoremen would be on hand if there were trouble."
"All right," Owl conceded. "Let's go."
"I don't suppose you'd wait while I sent one of the Temple servants to fetch Marhysse and Khofyn, would you?"
"Have them meet us at the Trollop," Owl countered, and the message was dispatched.
At the Trollop's Smile, the tavern master, Arkhyd, greeted them warmly and settled them at a large table with a good command of the room. He promised to fetch his potboy to take their message, but before the lad had even emerged from the squalid kitchen, Ferret and Sharkbait themselves came in from the sunlit street.
"Owl!" Ferret exclaimed. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"Ho, Ferret. We were about to send Arkhyd's potboy to the Cur to fetch you," Owl told her, "but you've saved him the effort. We need to talk."
The thief claimed a chair. "Sharkbait's here, too."
"Even better." Owl stretched out a hand which the longshoreman grasped. "Hello, Sharkbait."
"Ho, Owl. So what's important enough to drag you into the Slums with only two bodyguards?"