A Parliament of Owls

  Kerigden's gentle voice was underlain with strain and sadness. "Welcome home, Owl."

  ***

  Owl and Rhan returned to the Ghytteve apartments to be greeted by the news that the foreign woman was awake. Rhan took Owl to visit her.

  "She still hasn't spoken," the bodyguard Yrhenne reported. "She ate a bit more, though. Here, Owl; she's sitting up by the window. I'll fetch another chair."

  Furniture scraped as the chair was moved. "You took the shackles off?" Owl asked as he sat down.

  "Yes," she told him. "Marhysse and I made a point of taking them away, so she wouldn't think we were going to put them back on."

  "Excellent. I want her to understand she is a guest, not a prisoner—nor a slave. Treat her with courtesy, even if she doesn't talk." Owl turned his attention to the foreigner. He listened for her breathing until he could judge where she was, in relation to him; then, he reached slowly with one hand until his fingertips brushed her wrist on the chair arm. "I'm Owl," he said quietly, gesturing with his free hand. "I'm blind, so I can't see you. Can you understand me?"

  "She's looking at you, Owl," Yrhenne said softly, "but I can't tell whether she understands."

  "I'm a Seer," Owl went on. "Do you know what that means? You were in one of my visions; that's why I brought you here."

  "She's looking out the window now," Yrhenne told him. "I don't think she understands."

  "Do you have a name?" Owl went on patiently. "Are you from Eschadd?"

  "That got her attention; I think she recognized the name."

  "Eschadd?" Owl repeated. "Are you an Eschaddande?"

  The wrist jerked away from his gentle touch. "If you know enough to ask that question, how did you dare to free my hands?" The words were quiet, oddly inflected, pronounced with a sibilant accent—but clear and intelligible.

  "I need you to trust me," Owl replied carefully.

  The woman laughed bitterly. "So you can use me? You saw me in your visions, and now you imagine you can train me to suit your purposes—if only you can persuade me to trust you. So you will treat me as a guest—not a prisoner, nor a slave—and hope that in gratitude I will behave as a servant. How little you know of my people."

  "I admit I know little of your people," Owl replied. "But I meant what I said: you are my guest, which means you are free to leave if you choose. I do not wish to fetter you with guilt or gratitude. I want no more from you than what you can give freely."

  "Give freely," she repeated as though struggling with an unfamiliar concept. Owl held his tongue as the silence stretched tautly between them. At last she spoke. "What do you imagine I can do for you? I am no Seer; nor am I a Mage. I was Priest for my Yearmates, but they are dead—and my unwilling service to the gods worse than futile. I have no power, no secrets worth the risk of freeing me; I am only trained to kill—and I am very, very good at it." She drew a shuddering breath. "You have tried to treat me kindly—doubtless for your own ends, but even so, I would rather not repay you with violence. Get out, before I do you harm. And if you truly wish to give me a choice, bring me a blade. Starving is a slow death."

  As she spoke, the memory of an image drifted across Owl's inner sight: thin hands on an ebony harp. As he hesitated, the woman turned to the bodyguard.

  "Get him out of my reach," she hissed. "I do not trust myself."

  Yrhenne's trained grip propelled Owl out of the chair. "Wait," he protested, but the bodyguard ignored him. Owl caught the door frame and braced his feet, halting Yrhenne's progress. "Wait," he said again. "Must it be death you take from me? I would give you something to live for, if I could."

  He heard her ragged breath. "I wish I had never eaten your food, nor spoken to you. I am weak and foolish and the gods punish me. Go away. I am half in the Graylands already."

  Her words summoned a fragment of poetry and a memory: one of the students at the Kellande School, singing in the Hall after dinner.

  ...for Death is the thief

  who robs even the sun of warmth,

  and the Sea of Tears is still.

  Take me across when my song is done,

  for no one sings in the Graylands.

  "'Take me across'," Owl sang softly, "'when my song is done, for no one sings in the Graylands.' I do not think you are ready for such silence, yet."

  "Do you mean to mock me?" Anguish rang in her voice. "Go away!"

  Owl went. When the door shut behind them, Yrhenne asked, "Should I give her a knife, Owl?"

  "Not yet. I want to offer her life, as well as death."

  "Owl—" the bodyguard persisted, puzzled, but he overrode her.

  "I'm going into the market. Will you come—and Rhan, too? I need to buy a harp."

  Chapter Four—Assembling Pieces

  Rhan balked, hard, at the proposed trip into the thronging marketplace. The worst of the argument was, however, averted by the arrival of Arre, whom Effryn ushered into the library. Arre took in the scene—Rhan cut off in mid expostulation; Owl bitter and determined—and said, "Welcome home, Owl."

  "Hello, Arre. Aren't you going to ask whether you're interrupting something?"

  She raised her eyebrows at his acid tone, but she answered with a laugh. "One of the few things my mother managed to teach me was not to ask a question if I didn't want the answer. Two things: a message, and an offer. The Emperor wants to see you when the Council meeting is over; and can I get you anything or take any messages for you? I'm going down into the Lower Town."

  Owl was silent for a moment; then he sighed. "Buy me a harp."

  "A harp," she repeated slowly.

  "Yes." He described the harp verbally, while he offered an image to Arre's questing mind: the ebony harp, with the thin, scarred hands pulling melody from its iridescent strings. On impulse, he added the image of the knife, loosed from competent fingers. "Also a throwing knife."

  "I'll find what you want," she promised as he gave her a purse. "Any messages?"

  "Are you likely to see Ferret or Mouse—or Sharkbait?"

  "I might," Arre responded, a smile in her voice.

  "Tell them I'm home—" Then he checked himself with a laugh. "No; that will be old news, knowing them. Give them my greetings."

  "I will." She rose. "I'll be back by dinner time."

  "Thanks."

  ***

  Owl was made to wait for the Emperor in one of the small, wood-paneled meeting rooms adjacent to the Council chamber. The room was warm; the heavy air carried the scents of leather, wood polish, and coffee.

  "Shall I pour for you, sir?'' Owl’s escort—from the subtle chink of weapons and mail, one of the Imperial Guard—asked; and when he nodded, the man added, "Cream? Sugar?"

  Owl smiled wryly to himself. Nobles drank their coffee from bubble-fine china, strong, hot and black; it was the mark of lowborn taste to drink it any other way. "Thank you," he said blandly. "Both."

  The guard put the cup into Owl's hand and withdrew. Owl sipped, then smiled involuntarily. The cooks at the Kellande School were skilled and kind, but try as he might to teach them, they had never managed to brew decent coffee.

  As he savored the coffee, he heard the door open. His inner vision drew an image of the Scholar King, sudden as a stooping falcon, through his mind. He rose, meaning to bow; but the Emperor swept him into an embrace.

  "Owl. Welcome home."

  As Khethyran gripped his shoulders, Owl had no trouble imagining the assessment in the Emperor's keen amber eyes. He lifted his chin, his sightless eyes open. "Don't say it," he suggested. "Cithanekh's entire retinue fusses over me like birds with a nestling. Even Kerigden asked if I'd been ill. Is Cithanekh with you?"

  "No. I sent him to listen to both sides of a dispute between the wool clans and the Caravan Guild. Honestly, sometimes I think Ymlakh Glakhyre expects the caravans to carry his goods for the honor alone."

  "He's eating out of Azhere's hands," Owl murmured, almost dreamily, as the knowledge clicked into place.

  The Emperor retorted, with rare bitt
erness, "The Duke and Council Lord of the wool clans would eat sheep pellets if they were served with enough honeyed flattery. And don't tell me to flatter the man. I know I should cultivate him—and several others as well—but I haven't the stomach for it."

  Owl shook his head. "Even if you nurture and fertilize a weed, it remains a weed. Your Majesty, if it isn't Cithanekh with you, who is it?"

  "Can't you tell?" Khethyran teased. "I thought that foreign school was supposed to train you."

  Owl stilled. It was the nearly inaudible rustle of movement, the almost subliminal stir of breathing, which had made Owl aware of the other presence in the room; but whoever it was was used to being quiet. Now, as he probed the silence with his Gift, a memory answered him: a boy with a patient, almost stupid face; eyes that watched and remembered without seeming to. "Donkey," he said—and then corrected himself. "I mean, Thantor. Are you well?"

  The colorless young man at the edge of the room permitted himself the smallest twitch of a smile as the Emperor swore cheerfully. "You win, Thantor. Remind me not to take your wagers any more."

  "It's no more than you can afford, Majesty," Thantor replied placidly. "Yes, I'm well, Owl—though I'm kept busy in these uncertain times."

  "The Emperor's spymaster," Owl murmured, "would be busy. This is why you summoned me, Your Majesty? So Thantor could sift through my visions for information? Very well. Cithanekh told you, didn't he, that the child the Queen carries is a boy?"

  The Emperor murmured assent.

  "So. Who is likely to be plotting?"

  "It's a shorter list, by far," Thantor interjected, "to count those unlikely."

  "No doubt," Owl agreed. "But sometimes a name triggers an image, or helps to make some meaning clear."

  "Rhydev Azhere," the Emperor offered into the brief silence that followed Owl's comment.

  Gently as a bubble, an image rose to the surface of Owl's mind. The Council Lord of House Azhere, sitting beside a youth a third his age. There were wine glasses; the boy had clearly had more than he was used to. Then, Rhydev slid one elegant hand through the boy's hair, caressing the nape of his neck. Owl frowned as the image faded. Though he did not recognize the youth, something naggingly familiar bothered Owl.

  "Does Rhydev have a new lover?" Owl asked.

  "If he does, he's being discreet," Thantor replied. "Come to think of it, he's been more than usually discreet, ever since the scandal over the Dhenykhare wench."

  "Rhydev Azhere was involved in a scandal over a woman?" Owl demanded.

  The Emperor laughed. "He was the injured party in this one, Owl. I'm surprised Cithanekh didn't tell you about it. Dhyrakh Dhenykhare decided to wed his niece to Rhydev, but the girl ran away rather than go through with it."

  Owl snorted. "That shows more sense—and spirit—than I'd expect of a Dhenykhare. How did Rhydev take it? He's too suave to show the relief he doubtless felt, but how did he behave? It's quite a slap."

  "Rhydev Azhere was graciousness personified," the Emperor said. "I was surprised but rather pleased at the time. The wise gods know the Council's a writhing snake pit at the best of times; I didn't need the silk clans and the shipwrights at each other's throats over a matter of honor. Was I wrong to be relieved? Is Rhydev up to something? And this lover: who is he? Is he important?"

  "He's no one I recognize—at a guess, highborn; he lacks the ineffable quality of privation." Owl sighed. "Rhydev's a predator—but persuasive, even compelling."

  "A tiger," Thantor agreed, "not a jackal."

  "Yes. And his new lover is young, callow—probably flattered—and has, I'd wager, no idea he is merely a tool or a weapon to Rhydev."

  "Tell me something, Owl," the Emperor began. "Thantor and I argue about this often. When Zherekhaf dies, would I be wise or foolish to appoint Rhydev Prime Minister? It would, of course, please the Duke of Azhere if I honored his cousin thus, but would the responsibility cap Rhydev's ambition and cement his loyalty, or whet his appetite for power and give him a wider sphere in which to act?"

  Owl shivered, remembering: Lady Ycevi—Cithanekh's predecessor in the Ghytteve Councilor's chair—and her vicious khacce games, which used her people as the game pieces; Rhydev, and the subtle art of torture, using heated implements of silver to pry a story he liked from Owl's friend, Ferret; the heartless intrigue and the meaningless smiles of courtiers. "You would be," he said distinctly, "the worst sort of credulous fool, Your Majesty, to entrust that man with anything. Rhydev's ambition isn't of the variety that can be capped. He doesn't want to be Emperor, he wants to control the Emperor—and, I suppose, the Empire; and he knows you are too perceptive to be cozened."

  Khethyran sighed. "It's a waste: all that wit and skill."

  Owl nodded. "All the same, were you a different kind of ruler, I would advise you to put poison in his cup."

  "He employs tasters," Thantor remarked.

  "Besides," the Scholar King bristled, "if I resort to their tactics, I'm no better than they; and Bharaghlaf is no longer ruled by Law, but by whim."

  "I know," Owl soothed. "I said if you were different. But my point is valid."

  "And taken," the Emperor said. "I don't trust Rhydev—nor for that matter the Councilors for Glakhyre, Khyghafe or Dhenykhare."

  "Dhenykhare?" Owl repeated, startled. "I know old Adheran isn't any cleverer than a load of his own ballast, but—"

  "Adheran's been dead nearly two years. Dhyrakh is Council Lord and Duke, now," Thantor interrupted.

  "Dhyrakh," Owl whispered the name as the image of the ship—full-rigged in heavy seas—scudded across his inner sight. Mentally, he clutched at the vision, seeking to take something—some identifying insight—from the enigmatic image. "Whose ship," he asked slowly, "has a figurehead of a woman holding up a lantern?"

  "The Admiral's flagship: Guiding Light," Thantor responded briskly.

  Owl tried to drag the pieces into order. He had met Admiral Varykh Dhenykhare: a pleasant fellow with a voice like a foghorn and an endearing fondness for children. Cithanekh also liked the man. Owl had trouble casting him in a villain's role. He shook his head. "My visions keep showing me his ship. Could he be a threat?"

  "No!" Khethyran began, then stopped himself. "That is, I've always liked and trusted him. If it were anyone but you asking questions, Owl, I would hotly defend his loyalty."

  "He's one of the chief patrons of The Free School," the spymaster put in, "though he gives anonymously."

  "Just because he's in my visions doesn't mean he's against us, Majesty," Owl said. "He could just as easily be threatened as threat."

  They were all silent, then, sifting ideas and possibilities. Suddenly, an incongruity caught Owl's attention. "You said Dhyrakh tried to marry his niece to Rhydev; but he has a daughter. Why not offer her to Azhere?"

  "She's already married," Thantor replied. "To Morekheth. You remember Morekheth, don't you?"

  The words drove Owl into memory: when the Duke of Ghytteve had formally adopted Owl into his clan, he had held a party. Owl had always privately suspected that the old man had taken a certain gleeful delight in presenting Owl to the assembled aristocracy as an honorary Ghytteve and an equal. At the party, the Duke had introduced Owl (lowborn, common-as-dirt, a former slave, even) with great solemnity to the nobles of the realm, and no doubt watched and enjoyed their efforts to take the affront in stride. It was at the party that Owl had been introduced to Morekheth Anzhibhar-Azhere. Cousin to the Emperor, and member of the powerful silk clans, Morekheth had taken Owl's hand without hesitation. "So," he had said, his tone one of polite inquiry. "You're Councilor Cithanekh's blind Owl: the Seer who dreams the future, the rumors say. Is it true?"

  "I'm studying at the Kellande School," Owl had answered neutrally. Despite Morekheth's geniality, Owl felt a visceral reluctance to confide in him.

  "So careful. I suppose I shouldn't blame you. An oracle would be shunned, I imagine, at the Scholar King's court."

  "Especially," Owl had agreed, waspishly, "a lowborn or
acle."

  Morekheth's fingers had tightened suddenly; his cool voice was suddenly freighted with some dark passion. "Breeding," he said, and the overtones raised Owl's hackles, "is nothing, Lord Owl, compared to power."

  Before Owl could answer, Morekheth had dropped his hands as he began to move off into the throng, leaving Owl vibrating like a struck bell with some unidentifiable premonition.

  Owl surfaced from the memory, still puzzled by the ambiguities. "So Morekheth married Dhyrakh's daughter," he said. "What is he doing, now? Is he active in politics?"

  "I've only given him cursory attention," Thantor admitted. "When he married, he took the Dhenykhare name, and has, to all appearances, settled down to learning ship building. The Dhenykhare seem to like him. He causes no trouble. Should I pay more attention to him?"

  "Yes," Owl said. "And find out, if you can, what his relationship with the Admiral is like. It's a small clan; they must interact."

  "I'll find out what I can," Thantor promised. "But Owl, what are you looking for?"

  "I don't know; but—" he added with his ironic smile, "I'll know when I find it."

  "Owl," the Emperor began, troubled, "are you sure this is warranted? As I see it, Morekheth—Anzhibhar though he is—has done everything humanly possible to distance himself from political pretensions. Surely, he's only trying for a normal life."

  "Or to look like that's all he wants, while beneath the surface, he works for other aims?" Owl countered. "I don't know, Your Majesty. Intrigue breeds suspicion, and suspicion intrigue. Perhaps Morekheth is exactly what he seems to you; but I am not trusting enough, I fear, to accept any courtier at face value." He hunched one shoulder. "I wish this were easier, that the choices my gift presented were obvious, the consequences self-evident. But the wise gods did not make it so."

  "You'd be unbearable as a fanatic, anyway," Thantor said, the faintest note of teasing in his voice. "Even in your uncertainty, you're compelling. If you were aflame with conviction, there'd be no stopping you."