A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (18 page)

Shock silenced the taproom. In the breathless hush, the scrape of a chair was loud as a drum roll. Dedemar ran to the fallen man's side with a cry. "Zhotar!"

"Ded?" The man lifted his head with effort; a silver earring glinted in the lamplight. He coughed. A spatter of blood stained his lips. "Elkhar sent me. Your message was unclear."

Dedemar found Arkhyd in the crowd, glared at him commandingly. "Fetch hot water and clean linen." As the tavern master moved to obey, he turned back to the wounded man. "I didn't think Elkhar would be there; but why did he send
you?
Wouldn't the child have served better?"

"Elkhar took her; seems she's a friend of Owl's, and he's been itching to question someone ever since the puppy let the thief brat go." He coughed again. Dedemar steadied the man, supporting him gently. "Ded?" His hand sought the Temple Watchman's, closed on it hard. "Did you really mean the
Windbringer
Priest?"

"Aye."

"But he has no interest in politics; he
can't
be in it. He—" Coughing interrupted him. Dedemar held his shoulders.

"Breathe, Zhotar; don't talk."

Arkhyd returned with a steaming basin and several clean towels. Under the directions of the Temple Watchman, a trestle table was cleared, and the injured man was lifted gently onto it. Then, Dedemar carefully removed the knife and tended the wound; Mouse watched him, absently admiring the competence of his clever hands, while she turned and sifted his words.
What
child? Surely none of
them
would have been fool enough to go out into the middle of a Guild war. But 'a friend of Owl's'? She was frantic for more information, but she dared not call attention to herself.

The one called Zhotar did not look well, despite Dedemar's ministrations. When the Temple Watchman had finished, he settled his friend for sleep. Zhotar's breathing was shallow, and his skin was very pale.

"Will he live, do you think, sir?" Arkhyd asked in a low voice as he loaded a tray with soiled rags and basins.

Dedemar's face was bleak as the moon. "I doubt it; the lung was touched. He is strong, but that is a dire injury."

The tavern master looked worried. "Here: be useful, Mouse." He gestured to the laden tray. "Take that out to Thantor, and bring in a tray of clean tankards on your way back."

Mouse obeyed, noting the sharpened interest in the foreigner's eyes. "You call her 'Mouse?' Like the vermin?"

Mouse escaped to the kitchen.

"Gods!" Squirrel greeted the sight of the bloody cloths. "What
happened?
"

"A friend of Elkhar Ghytteve and that Temple Watchman Dedemar got himself knifed."

"Is Elkhar Ghytteve
out there?
" Squirrel squeaked.

"No. Just Dedemar." Mouse searched the kitchen shadows anxiously. "
Where's Kitten?
"

"She took a message for Dedemar," Donkey said, grim. "Squirrel tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen. Mouse, what?" he asked, seeing the anguish on the younger girl's face.

"Elkhar has her," Mouse told them; and then, before she could relate the rest of the overheard conversation, Arkhyd poked his head through the door.

"
Mouse!
I need those tankards!"

She snatched up a tray. "I'll be back."

Squirrel and Donkey exchanged worried looks. "So where's Sharkbait?" Donkey said.

"And Ferret?" Squirrel demanded. "I thought she was coming back after she saw Khyzhan."

Mouse returned with a tray of dirty mugs. As she and Donkey washed them, Mouse told her tale. When she had finished, Donkey relayed Dedemar's message about Owl.

"It worries me," he ended. "The Temple Watchman knew all our names, and made a point of using them so I'd know. Happen the Ghytteve put some pressure on Owl to make him tell them about us."

"But if Owl told them about us, he would tell them we're all just friends, and they wouldn't be so worried, surely," Squirrel said. "Why would Elkhar take Kitten, then?"

"Happen the Ghytteve dinna believe Owl," Mouse put in. "Happen they want to question Kitten to be sure he told them the truth."

"But he did tell them the truth."

Donkey nodded. "But Kitten knows who killed Cyffe Ghytteve: Sharkbait—
and Ferret
."

They were silent as the implications unfolded.

"I'd best go back," Mouse said heavily. "My parents..."

"Be careful," Donkey said. "He knows you're Mouse; happen he means you mischief."

She nodded and slipped back into the taproom. A subdued hum of conversation had resumed, though there was an island of silence around Dedemar and his unconscious friend. Mouse slid into her chair; her parents eyed her anxiously but did not question her.

After a time, Zhotar groaned feebly. Dedemar hurried to help him.

"Ded?" His voice was thready with desperation. "Ded!"

The Temple Watchman murmured soothingly.

"No, listen—I should know." Zhotar shook off the soothing. He whispered, in the sort of tone that carries, "Run! Flee! Escape while you still may!
She'll eat your soul
. She ate mine; chained—and then devoured at her leisure. This is a bad business, Ded. There's no good in it. Elkhar's killing children. Cyffe's dead—now me."

"Zhotar, Zhotar. Calm yourself. All is well."

"All's
not!
" he retorted, sharp. "The Windbringer's in it—and the witch. Heh!" he laughed mirthlessly. "The witch. In
khacce
, the Sorceress moves sideways through time. They say the Emperor's witch sees the future. If that's so, surely the Lady will fail."

Dedemar laid fingers across Zhotar's mouth. "Be still; it tires you to talk."

"It worries you," he said, slightly muffled. "It should. You don't belong in this, Ded; you're too pure. The blood of children—" He coughed, rackingly. "Even the puppy," he gasped after a moment. "Even the puppy has conscience enough to find it filthy—and
he
stands to gain, if anyone does besides
her
." He fixed Dedemar with clear eyes and said with powerful intensity, "Do as I say: get out of it, before she damns you." Coughing convulsed him. With a last shudder, the breath rushed out of him. Dedemar held him a moment longer before he eased him gently back to the table. Zhotar was dead.

Dedemar folded Zhotar's hands on his breast and closed his eyes. With a long, speculative look at Mouse, he resumed his seat. Covertly, she returned his regard and vowed to keep him in sight. As the night aged, however, Mouse found it impossible to remain wakeful. When she woke, Dedemar was gone.

Chapter Nineteen—Danger

Elkhar hauled Kitten out of the waterfront, past the shuttered shop-fronts of the mercantile district. When they reached wealthier neighborhoods, the avenues came to life. Litters and carriages conveyed merrymakers to and from parties; inns and gaming clubs catered to a variety of appetites; they passed a theater, where the evening's entertainment was about to begin. Kitten eyed the crowds, wondering whether anyone would be moved to help her if she made a scene. As though reading her thoughts, Elkhar's hand tightened on her arm. She hissed in pain.

"Please," she whimpered. "You're hurting me."

"It's a warning. If you make trouble, I'll break your arm."

"Trouble?" she queried innocently. "You're taking me to see Owl; it's tremendously kind of you. Why would I make
trouble?
"

Elkhar smiled sardonically. "You waste your breath trying to melt me, Kitten. I sold my heart for meat long since."

"Well, I hope you got a good price for it," she snapped.

He laughed, but the sound was bitter. "Not particularly. Tell me, Kitten: what is Owl to you, really?"

"He's my
friend
—if you know what that means. We used to beg together, before he disappeared."

"And did Ferret beg with you, as well?"

"Ferret's a thief," Kitten responded automatically; then doubt assailed her. "How do you know Ferret?"

"I don't know Ferret, but Owl has spoken of her—and of Mouse, Squirrel, Donkey—and you, of course. I'm very eager to meet you all; he speaks so warmly of his
friends
."

Kitten suppressed a shiver. There was something intensely menacing in the bodyguard's manner. Abruptly, he halted and swung her to face him, gripping her other arm.

"Tell me what you know about Cyffe Ghytteve's death," he gritted, cold eyes noting every fleeting expression on her face.

"Who?"

"My sister, Cyffe Ghytteve. She was killed on the waterfront: knifed. What do you know about it?"

"Naught! Not a thing! I never met your sister."

"Your friend Ferret killed her."

"Dinna be silly; Ferret doesn't go armed." Kitten's heart began its drubbing anew. The conversation was like a nightmare game of
khacce
: too much at stake, and not the faintest notion how even to move the pieces.

"But she has friends who do," he purred, dangerous, "no?"

"I dinna know as she does," Kitten replied carefully. "But happen I've not met all her friends."

He yanked her onward with angry energy. Kitten was out of breath by the time they stopped at a small gate in a stone wall beside an opulent house. Elkhar took her through a dark garden to a humble door—a servant's entrance, Kitten surmised. A man in green and silver livery answered Elkhar's knock.

"Where's the puppy?" Elkhar asked.

"Still at the Palace." He gestured toward Kitten with his chin; a silver earring glinted with the movement. "Mouse?"

"Kitten," Elkhar informed him. "Find her someplace
comfortable
to wait while I go report."

"Where's Owl? When may I see him?" Kitten asked, winsome.

Elkhar raised one eyebrow. "Surely you're cleverer than you pretend, Kitten."

"But you
said
—"

"Stow it. I'm out of patience." He shoved her roughly into the other man's hands. "Varhynn, deal with her." He went out.

"He
promised
," Kitten wailed, then burst into tears.

Unmoved, the servant herded Kitten up a flight of stairs into a small bedroom. "Are you hungry?"

She nodded. He locked her in. As his footsteps faded, Kitten hurried to the single window: barred. She grabbed the grill, tried to rattle it; it fit snugly. She leaned her forehead against her gripping hands and sobbed in real fear and despair. She was still standing there when Varhynn returned with a tray. Without a word, he laid out the meal on the small table and went away. It was a long time before Kitten, even hungry as she always was, could bring herself to eat.

***

When Elkhar arrived at the Ghytteve quarters, he was discomfited to find the rooms full of courtiers. The Lady was holding one of her impromptu gatherings. He scanned the gaudy crowd. Owl, in the green and silver Ghytteve livery, stood stiffly between Cithanekh and Myncerre; the Lady, exquisite in gold silk and pearls, chatted with the Prime Minister Zherekhaf. Elkhar noted the other Court powers present: Rhydev Azhere; Bishop Anakher, of the Horselord's Temple; Lady Mylazhe Ambhere; Commander Bhenekh of the Imperial Guard; young Enghan Mebhare, looking as though he'd be more at home with a herd of cows; Ymlakh Glakhyre, toadying up to Azhere as usual; a host of lesser luminaries. His eyes narrowed as he considered who was not present: Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave; neither the Emperor nor his witch; no one from the other Temples, neither from the Windbringer (which didn't surprise him) nor from the Dark Lady's Temple (which did); no representatives from Houses Khyghafe, Dhenykhare, or Ythande. As he watched, he saw Rhydev neatly detach himself from the Council Lord of Glakhyre and approach Owl. Elkhar slipped closer to listen.

"Why Owl," Rhydev began. He brushed a feather's touch across the boy's purple cheek. "You collect bruises. Are you—mmm—
overly
fractious?"

"I must be, most gracious Lord of Azhere," he replied, studying his feet.

The Council Lord ran one finger along Owl's jaw to his chin, which he lifted to make the boy look at him. "Rhydev," he  insisted; the tone was charged with unspoken things.

Owl stiffened. He wanted to pull away, but Cithanekh put a steadying hand between his shoulder blades. The boy searched Rhydev's unrevealing eyes. Across the room, Owl saw the Lady and her companion, strangely intent on Rhydev.

Owl wet his lips. "Who is the man with the Lady, Rhydev. And why are you performing for him?"

Surprise arched his brows; then he smiled. "Ah, beautiful
and
clever. Does Ycevi guess? It's the Prime Minister, my uncle Zherekhaf. But are you sure I'm performing?" He released Owl's chin to caress his hair; then, after blowing the boy a kiss, he melted into the press. Owl followed him with troubled eyes before he turned anxiously to Cithanekh.

"What was that about?" Owl asked the young lord.

"
Bastard
," Cithanekh spat; then he eased his tone. "He's just playing his damnable games, Owl; pay no heed."

"He likes you," Myncerre offered, bland.

"
Likes
me?" Owl choked. "He makes me feel like a fish, and he's a very hungry heron. Cithanekh, must we stay? Couldn't we get away from all these courtiers?"

Cithanekh noticed Elkhar then, saw the bodyguard shake his head emphatically. The young lord sighed. "No, Owl. I'm sorry."

"It would be rude to leave," Myncerre added, "just as the Prime Minister is coming to meet you."

"Oh no," Owl breathed.

"Courage," Cithanekh whispered.

Elkhar caught the Lady's eye, then, and she nodded summons. He made his way to her side.

"My faithful Elkhar. You're big with news."

"Dedemar sent a very obscure message to the Star and Sextant—in the
khacce
code, and quite ambiguous. It seems he's trapped by the Guild war. But he sent the message with a little Slum-rat child: Kitten. I left her with Varhynn. I thought you might want to question her."

"Ah. Good. Anything else?"

"Lady, I know you think me—obsessed—with this, but you were watching Owl with Rhydev."

"I was. Were you close enough to overhear?"

He nodded. "Owl accused Rhydev of performing for Zherekhaf." At her startlement, he took courage. "Lady, he's too damned shrewd to be innocent. Intrigue is his element. Rhydev sees it. 'Beautiful,' he said,
'and
clever.' Please, Lady; he's dangerous, and I am charged with your safety. Get rid of him."

"Get rid of him?" Her tinkling laugh was brittle as crystal. "Don't be ridiculous. I paid ten Royals for him; he's
supposed
to be good."

Elkhar bowed. "And the girl?"

"I'll be by, after my guests leave. Now, go rescue Owl from that snake Zherekhaf, before he swallows him whole."

As it turned out, Owl didn't need rescuing; the Prime Minister, looking very thoughtful indeed, had walked off before the bodyguard was close enough to overhear. Cithanekh and Myncerre struggled to hide amusement, but Owl looked baffled. As Elkhar covertly studied him, the boy's face went blank, then contorted in pain. Fear bleached Owl as he turned toward Cithanekh.

"No, oh no," Owl whimpered, distraught.

Cithanekh shook him gently. "Get hold of yourself, Owl; it's all right."

Owl focused on his friend's face. "It's not:
not
all right," he said distinctly, through his strange abstraction. "Kitten's in trouble."

"
Not here!
" Cithanekh whispered urgently.

"No," Owl agreed. "Not here. In a room with a barred window, and a man in green and silver livery.
Green
—" he repeated, looking down at his own sleeve. "Oh, gods."

Elkhar's hands closed hard and insistent on Owl and Cithanekh's upper arms. "Shall we go someplace private," he suggested, deadly, including Myncerre with a look, "for a little
chat?
" Feral eagerness lit his eyes. "About
Kitten
—and where you get your information."

Owl stared, appalled, at Elkhar's terrible face. Darkness spun on the edges of his vision. Air did not reach his lungs; a deadening wave broke over him and swept his mind away.

***

In the Temple of the Windbringer, Arre and Kerigden sat opposite one another at a small table. Kerigden's open palms lay against Arre's, and between their joined hands sat a pale blue crystal on a silver stand. They had spent long hours discussing the theory of mind work and magic, before they had decided on this particular experiment. Both traditions taught the use of a focus stone; and they hoped that by working together they could raise enough strength to call Owl and then to hold his untrained mind.

They were breathing in unison, now: smooth, deep breaths, while their concentration deepened. Then their minds touched. Sweat broke on Arre's brow; the Windsinger priest's power glowed like a bed of embers, wanting only a breath of wind to stir it to fire. Arre opened her tranced mind to listen for a whisper from the boy; it was late. With luck, he would be sleeping, susceptible to their gentle touch.

Suddenly, like a towering wave, foreknowledge and terror swept over them both. Arre's hands tensed, and Kerigden gripped them in response. Something was wrong; Owl was desperate, panicked, and Arre felt her careful control swept beyond her reach, like a stick in a millrace. She would have cried out, but Kerigden was there, solid, steadying; a phrase of music echoed in their minds, anchor and safety. Then, the priest drew calm and darkness from their joined memories and wrapped Owl's torment in it.

The bright center of the boy's dreaming gift shone like a sliver of the sun. Arre touched him, felt his terror, his need.

The dreaming place
, she thought at him.
The safe haven
.

And he did it; he built the precarious shelter she had taught him.
Arre? Arre! Help me.

I will; I am. What is it?

They've caught Kitten; and Elkhar knows that I know. But I can't know. I don't know how I know. He's going to kill me!

Then, something broke the contact; Arre and Kerigden were thrown out of their trance like storm wrack on the beach. They stared at one another, pale and breathing hard.

"Is he dead?" Kerigden asked.

"We'd have felt that—I think," she replied.

"What should we do? Try again?"

Arre's vision hazed with an image of the future: Elkhar with a knife; the child Kitten; and Owl, appalled and helpless.

"Later," she said, her voice thick with horror. "He's going to need us."