A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (20 page)

Cithanekh smoothed the hair off the boy's brow. "Oh, Owl. I feel so helpless. I wish there were something I could do."

Owl sighed. "We
are
helpless—
khacce
pieces in Ycevi's game, frozen into our stiff, unchanging roles. How I wish someone would come and overturn her board—even if it meant I were broken in the fall. Gods, I'm frightened, Cithanekh. She has such power over us. If we can't get free of her, then late or soon, we'll become in truth the
khacce
pieces she wants. Like Elkhar: blind to everything except the web of suspicion and intrigue Ycevi has taught him to see; or like Myncerre, who turns to stone before my very eyes. I don't want to be blind and lifeless, unfeeling as alabaster: a perfect little
khacce
piece, flattered by the touch of her hand.
No
."

Cithanekh cupped the boy's bruised face carefully as he met his eyes. "That will never happen to you, Owl.
Never
. If you live here a hundred years, she will
never
freeze your heart. As soon chill the sun to ice. And Myncerre: it's not that she turns to stone before your eyes; she's been stone as long as I've known her, impervious as marble. Owl—my dear, amazing Owl—it's that she turns to flesh in your presence."

They searched each other's faces, beyond words; Owl's eyes swam with tears. "Kitten," he moaned. "Oh,
gods
, poor Kitten."

"Oh Owl," Cithanekh murmured. His own eyes stung as he held his friend gently and let him cry.

It was thus the Lady found them, when she came. Cithanekh saw her satisfied smile; with effort, he kept the despair and anger off his face. She gestured imperiously.

"Leave him and come with me, Cithanekh."

Owl's arms tightened, a wordless entreaty, and the young lord hesitated.

"You can come back when I've finished with you," the Lady said, knowingly.

"Courage, Owl," he murmured, and the boy let him go.

Owl listened to their retreating footsteps. When he heard the door close behind them, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and built, step by painstaking step, the dreaming haven Arre had taught him.

Chapter Twenty-one - Night Work

The dreaming haven was a place of twilight, mysterious with shadows. Owl followed the pale glitter of distant light, and the faint music; but he didn't find Arre sitting in the candles' glow. It was a man: a fire-haired man in the gray robes of the Windbringer's sect. He remembered him: Arre's friend from that day at the Temple Gate.
Kerigden
.

Yes. Arre and I are working together. We want to help you.

Can you save Kitten?

There was grief in his mind voice. No.

Then what can you do?

I want to teach you something: a way to call me, or Arre.

It's not enough just coming here?
Owl asked, surprised.

It is if we are listening for you, but if we weren't tranced together, we would not know you wanted us. Now, relax; think of nothing, and I will try to put this in your mind. It isn't words: it is more a feeling, a need.

It was hard to think of nothing, but Owl tried. After a long moment, he felt the thing Kerigden showed him.

Try it
, Kerigden instructed; and Owl did, pouring into his attempt all his grief and fear and helplessness. Kerigden flinched slightly, and for an instant, his image wavered.
Yes. That's it exactly. If you need one of us, call like that; then, we can meet you in this dreaming haven.

But you can't save Kitten, he said, with pain rather than accusation.

No. Owl, I'm sorry.

Then I shall have to find someone to avenge her
, he said, grim with resolve; and he broke the tenuous contact.

When Owl opened his eyes, he found Cithanekh had returned. The young lord sat beside his bed; Owl took his hand but did not speak. For a long time, he lay thinking, trying to remember. When he was very small, before his mother had died, she had used to tell him stories. She had had a fund of tales and histories, and the ones he had loved best were about the Windbringer. She was an unpredictable goddess, who championed odd causes for obscure reasons. His mother had told him the goddess loved children, and every night it was her ritual to kiss her son's brow and to whisper, "Windbringer guard you."

Now, Owl considered. The ancient names of the gods were said to have power; he and Cithanekh had been reading about them in that dry book. Favrian; Vasgrifallok; Kherhane; Celacce; Talyene: strange names, some of them foreign sounding. But there were no use-names, no way to tell which (if any) of the names belonged to the Windbringer.

"Cithanekh, what is the Windbringer's ancient name?" he asked.

"Talyene," he responded. "Why?"

"Just thinking."

The young lord took his free hand and brushed Owl's hair off his brow. "You should sleep," he suggested, very gently. "I'll stay right here."

Owl's grip tightened for an instant. "I know. I'll try," he said, and obediently closed his eyes.

***

Arre found the Scholar King in his library. His welcoming smile metamorphosed into a look of concern when he saw how wan she looked.

"What
have
you been doing with that Windbringer priest?"

She sat down opposite him and shoved one hand through her hair. "Mind work. We wanted to try to touch Owl's mind—to see what he knows, and to find out how we can best help. We succeeded in contacting him, but in the process, we discovered that the Ghytteve have captured and tortured one of the children—Kitten. We don't know how much the child knows, but whatever information she has, no doubt the Ghytteve will have it by morning."

"Captured and tortured a
child?
" Khethyran demanded angrily. "By all the gods, they
court
my intervention!" He stood up with such energy that his chair scraped, protestingly, across the polished floor. Then, abruptly, he checked his temper. "Is it a trap for me, Arre? Am I intended to rush in to rescue the child, thereby incurring the other Houses' wrath?"

"I don't think so; though were you fool enough to do that, no doubt, Ycevi would use the opportunity. Kheth, I don't think they see the poor as people at all—just pieces to be used and discarded at will." She went to his side and put her arms around him; her tone was gentle. "Besides, even if you instantly sent in the Imperial Guard, it's too late. The Ghytteve move quickly, and we did not have any warning."

The Emperor was silent for a moment. "I hate this worst of all. I am the Emperor—and yet, my Council Houses hold me nearly powerless in matters like these. There should be laws to protect children like Kitten;
checks
on people like Ycevi Ghytteve. There should be justice for all my people; the nobles should
uphold
the rule of law, not rule by whim and caprice."

Arre's arms tightened as she whispered, fiercely, "You must survive, my dearest love, in order to
establish
such justice."

"Indeed," he agreed. "Dear gods, poor Kitten. She doesn't deserve to be sucked dry by those filthy leeches. Arre, this could put you in danger, if Kitten knew that you'd helped Ferret to escape. I suppose there's not much chance you'd agree to disappear until all of this is over?"

"None whatever," she replied with determined smile. "But we need to be thinking ahead. If Kitten knows much of anything, the Ghytteve will be after the rest of those children, especially Ferret; and they'll want Antryn. Kerigden will give them sanctuary—"

"
What?
" the Scholar King interrupted. "Why?"

She hunched a shoulder. "The Windbringer wants him involved, apparently. Don't ask me, Kheth," she added in the face of his puzzled astonishment. "Even Kerigden can't explain why she's interested. All the same, we need to
think
. We need a way to know what the Ghytteve are up to. I'd ask Owl to watch and report, but—" She broke off, shaking her head. "His position is so precarious."

"Are you
sure
I cannot intervene?" Khethyran asked. "Should I commandeer the boy—or are you still convinced the boy needs to stay where he is?"

"More than ever," she said. Her mind clouded with a string of her silvery future images: Kheth speaking with the Lady Ycevi; Elkhar Ghytteve with a garrote around Cithanekh's throat; the Ghytteve steward holding a silver cup to Owl's lips. "No. They'd kill him if you showed any interest." She smiled sadly. "Now, if you had a troop of fanatically loyal spies..."

"Spies," the Emperor repeated, musingly. "There's your thief, Ferret; and Antryn. He's rumored to be more than competent, if he's the one organizing the longshoremen. Arre, you know that the Palace is riddled with secret passages, spyholes and listening places."

"True," she agreed. "But we don't
know
the secret ways; and we can hardly ask that snake Zherekhaf to make us a map."

Khethyran smiled. "No. But Arre, there might be a map—or not a map, precisely; but we might be able to construct a map, if we could find the original architectural drawings of the Palace."

"But surely they were destroyed," she protested. "Weren't they?"

"Possibly," he agreed, rising. "But one of my Anzhibhar ancestors took an interest in architecture and building; his collection is quite extensive and includes a number of exceedingly rare works. He would certainly have
wanted
documents pertaining to his own house. It's not inconceivable that somehow, he acquired plans—or reconstructed them. I'll look; it should only take a few hours."

***

Owl built his dreaming haven. He drowned all extraneous thought in the mysterious shadows of the place; and then, he did what Kerigden had taught him. He poured his pain and rage, his grief and uncertainty, into the call.
Talyene. TALYENE!

The name resounded through the dreaming haven like distant thunder, before the ageless silence returned. Then, on the very edge of Owl's awareness, there was a sound like a plucked harpstring which trembled in his mind. Stealthy as dawn, the sound grew into music, tender, infinitely gentle, and a woman appeared. Wrapped in a rain gray cloak, she played a small harp. Her wild, black hair was a mane lifted by phantom winds. She studied Owl out of silver eyes, inscrutable as fog, as the music spun webs around them both.

You called me?
The question was amazed, not annoyed.
How?

Owl replied,
I used the call that Kerigden taught me.

Ah!
Understanding lit her silvery eyes for an instant.
Then I have wagered well, and need not fear my brother, after all. Did he tell you to summon me?

No
.

No? Then why did you call me?

Owl answered,
I need you.
And then, without warning, his control wavered; his eyes filled with tears, and the images of Kitten's brutal torture surged into his mind.

Talyene extended a hand, inviting.
Owl
, she said.
Tell me.

But Owl could not answer. Though he strained like a fish gasping for water, something held him mute. His memories burned like acid; tears scalded his cheeks. Anguished, desperate, he seized Talyene's hand. Her touch opened his heart. Memories streamed out of him: Kitten with Elkhar; Anthagh the slaver; the Lady Ycevi; the repetitive round of his life with the Ghytteve; Ferret and his friends. Anger, grief, fear spilled away as the Windbringer shared his memories, his pain. When the memory-flood had abated, the only sound in the universe was the slow plash of Talyene's tears. She caught one, opalescent, in her fingers, then pressed it into Owl's palm. It was hard as a gem and warm. 

The sacrifice of children must not go unsung, nor unavenged. There is power in friendships, Owl; and power in you; and hopeless causes do not always fail. Tell Kerigden that. And remember: I keep faith, though my ways are inscrutable. Sleep,
she ended, gentle,
and be rested
. 

A surge of music swept the dreaming haven into darkness. Owl's breathing changed as sleep claimed him; the hand in Cithanekh's relaxed. No dreams troubled the boy, but later, he stirred in his sleep, slipping his cupped hand under his cheek; he did not move again until morning.

***

Exhausted though she was, Arre kept vigil while the Scholar King worked. The sweet ripple of her lute encouraged the breeze from the garden, drawing coolness and moonlight into air thick with the scent of old leather bindings. Arre watched him work, observed his peaceful intentness as though memorizing it: the crease of concentration between his brows—not quite a frown; the scratch of his quill as he made notes in his distinctive handwriting; the inkstained fingers raking his dark, unruly hair. So dear. The music under her fingers ached with longing. Khethyran looked up, met her eyes through the golden lamplight, and smiled tenderly.

"
Tears
, Arre?" he asked, rising. He took her face gently in his hands. The lute faltered to silence.

"I love you." She leaned into his touch.

He smiled sadly. "And yet, you refuse to be my Queen."

"Oh, Kheth," she replied, pained. "Your Council Houses would
eat
me. Surely we've been over this often enough."

"Indeed," he agreed. "Forgive me; I don't mean to wound. But Arre, there's you, whom I love and cannot marry; and there are the pampered darlings of the Council Houses—sleek as sharks, all of them—one of whom I
must
wed." His face clouded with pain and despair. "By the gods above and below, why,
why, why
did this come to me?"

She caught his wrist before he could turn away and pressed a kiss into his palm. "Because, my dearest love, you are strong enough to bear it."

He considered then said, with a wry smile, "I could wish that the gods had made me rather weaker."

She answered his look with tenderness. "And who would shepherd your people then?"

"The wolves of the Council Houses," he replied. "And yes, I realize wolves make very poor shepherds indeed. I know I cannot reject my destiny, Arre, but I do wish it were other: vineyard-tending, perhaps; or teaching at the Kellande School."

"I know," she whispered. As her eyes darkened briefly with the burden of her visions, Khethyran stroked her hair; he kissed her and went back to his research.

Much later, Khethyran's murmured exclamation roused Arre from reverie. "I've found it," he told her. "Come see."

She looked over his shoulder: an architectural plan of the Royal Palace—missing the accretions of later centuries, but recognizable—complete with the network of hidden passages. Arre put her bard-trained memory to work as she tried to make sense of the intricate drawing. There: that would be the Ghytteve complex.

"Strange," she said, pointing. "That passage looks as though it leads beyond the Palace walls. I wonder if it's still usable; it would come out in the Upper Town, now, though it would have been park or forest when this plan was drawn."

Khethyran nodded. "It's probably not usable; I suppose the tunnel opening was destroyed when the Upper Town was built. Unless—"

Their eyes met. "Unless they built a house over it, to hide it," she finished for him. "Kheth,
does
Ycevi Ghytteve own a house in the Upper Town?"