A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-four—Hunting

The Trollop's Smile was quiet though not empty. Arkhyd surveyed the collection of refugees without enthusiasm. They had ceased even to pretend to be normal tavern patrons—which was just as well, as he was nearly out of ale, and food stores were getting low. If the Guild war didn't cool soon, hunger would join them in the taproom.

At these uneasy thoughts, the common room door swung open. Two men came in, fast: well dressed and sleek as mastiffs. Arkhyd noticed the dangling silver earring each of them sported as they circled to pen him behind his own bar.

"We're looking for the child, Kitten," one of them told the tapster. His handsome face was marred by a scar like a whip cut sharp across one cheek.

"She's not here," Arkhyd replied, Sharkbait's warning upward in his mind. "She ran an errand for some foreigner last night and didn't return. Happen she took shelter outside the Slums; Guild war's bad, here."

The other man raised eyebrows. "Is the foreigner here?"

Arkhyd shook his head. "Slipped out," he replied with unfeigned annoyance. "Stiffed me, too." Calculation showed on his face. "Friend of yours?"

With a derisive smile, the first man spun a silver coin across the polished wood. "We'll ask; you answer. Do you know a man, scarred face?" His forefinger traced the line of Sharkbait's scar.

"Happen I do?" Arkhyd was suddenly painfully aware of the silence in the common room; his clients were listening hard.

Several coins followed the first; the glint in the man's eyes grew hard. "You had better remember."

"You want to discuss it here?" he asked, casting a wary eye at the gathered people.

"We've nothing to hide," the first said pointedly. "The scarred man?"

Arkhyd gave in; he tried not to imagine how it would seem to his guests. "Longshoreman. Name of Sharkbait. He uses my kitchen as a meeting place, sometimes—and pays me well."

The second man drawled, "Buys your silence, does he?"

Arkhyd shrugged. "Doesn't pay
that
well."

"How often does he come? What time of day?"

Arkhyd shrugged again. "No set pattern—and no warning. He comes and goes when he chooses."

"With whom does he meet?" When Arkhyd hesitated, more silver chimed against the wood. "With whom does he meet?"

"It varies, and I dinna know them all. Some Guild thieves."

"Names."

Arkhyd shook his head.

"
Names
."

The tapster shook his head again. "You canna pay enough to make ratting on Guild thieves seem like sense."

He hooked talon-like fingers into Arkhyd's tunic and yanked him across the bar. Nose to nose, the tapster found himself gazing into hard, black eyes. "You've a choice," his captor gritted. "Risk the anger of the Thieves' Guild, or fatally offend House Ghytteve. Now: names."

"Ferret," he gasped. "She's Khyzhan's. I dinna know the others."

"Ferret," the Ghytteve repeated, twisting the tunic tighter. "And Kitten? Squirrel? Donkey? Mouse? Owl?"

Arkhyd shook his head helplessly. Over the thudding of his heart, he was aware of the tense attention of Mouse's parents. He willed them to silence, to calm.

"Did you know," the other Ghytteve drawled while his avid eyes scanned the tavern guests, "Sharkbait is selling children?"

"
No!
" It was Mouse's mother; her husband's hand closed warningly on her wrist, but too late.

"Yes." He pinned her with his eyes. "Sharkbait sells them to the Council Houses, for unspeakable things. Not a nice man."

Not true, not true, Arkhyd thought at her. His world wavered as the Ghytteve's grip constricted his breathing. Mouse's mother looked from the Ghytteve to Arkhyd, to her husband; puzzlement colored her face. "But I know those children. I can imagine someone paying for Owl—he's pretty. But
Donkey?
He's a half-wit; and yon Mouse? Happen she should be named 'Shrew.'"

Mouse's father hunched one shoulder. "There's no accounting for noble tastes, clearly. If I'd know there was a market for those little beasts, I'd have sold them myself."

The Ghytteve holding Arkhyd eased his grip fractionally, while the other man eyed Mouse's father. "You want to sell someone, Ghytteve would buy this Sharkbait."

"How much?" several voices asked.

"Alive: one hundred Royals. Dead: he's worthless to us."

There were low whistles. It was all Arkhyd could do to keep dismay off his face. With a price like that on his head, Sharkbait would be wise not to trust his own mother. For all that Arkhyd didn't much like the man, he owed him a favor for his help with the Ghytteve bodyguard's corpse.

The man holding Arkhyd released him. "House Ghytteve wants Sharkbait," he murmured. "Find and hold him for us; earn our gratitude and enjoy our money. But don't imagine you can betray us. We'll be watching; we'll be back."

***

Ferret and Sharkbait found Arkhyd in the Trollop's kitchen, worry in every line of his pudgy body. As they entered, he shook his head bleakly and gestured for quiet.

"The Ghytteve were here," he whispered.

Sharkbait arched eyebrows. "Are they still?" he breathed.

The tavern master shook his head. 

"They posted no watchers?" Ferret prodded quietly.

"They've filled the Slums with watchers," Arkhyd said. "They set a price on your head, Sharkbait. A hundred Royals."

"
A hundred Royals?
" Ferret demanded in an urgent whisper. "
A hundred Royals?
Sharkbait—"

He stilled her with a raised hand. "Thank you for the warning, Arkhyd. Was there anything else of moment in your encounter with the Ghytteve?"

The tapster shuddered. "I thought Mouse's parents would give the game away when one of the Ghytteve said that you'd been selling children; but happen they covered well enough. She pretended to have been surprised that anyone would want the children. 'Donkey? He's half-witted!'" he mimicked her. "'And yon Mouse! Happen she should be named 'Shrew.'"

"You told them I used the Trollop as a meeting place?"

"Aye," Arkhyd confirmed. "They wanted to know who you met; I told them Guild thieves and others, and when they pressed for names, I gave them yours, Ferret."

The thief nodded shortly. "Happen you'd like me to square that with Khyzhan; I'll do my best."

The tavern master looked grateful. "But Sharkbait, be careful: a hundred Royals is an emperor's ransom. Not many hold friendship that valuable."

"I know," Sharkbait said. "And I realize I'm in your debt. Can you describe the Ghytteve who were here?"

"There were two. One has a whip cut scar on his face; black eyes; a strong grip."

"Cezhar," Sharkbait supplied a name. "One of the lieutenants. The other?"

"Sandy haired; insolent tone; a bit shorter."

Sharkbait frowned. "Rhan—I think. It could be Ynteth, though he never spoke much when I knew him. Did they say when they'd be back?"

"No."

Sharkbait turned to his companion. "Well Ferret? Now what?"

"Happen you should lie low."

"Do you trust Khyzhan enough to enlist his aid?"

The thief shook her head. "He'd split the reward with me. A hundred Royals—that's money enough to start more than one Guild war." An idea struck her; she smiled wryly. "How well do you trust your longshoremen?"

Sharkbait nodded once. "Let's go. Arkhyd, I won't forget."

Shouting and thumps from the taproom interrupted them before the tavern master could reply; almost reflexively, he bustled into the front room. Ferret and Sharkbait headed for the door to the alleyway, but before they went out, Ferret halted him with a gesture. Using every bit of her skill, she slipped into the alley. Sharkbait waited, toying with something tucked into his tunic. When she returned, her face was gray.

"There's a watcher," she breathed. "If we leave, Arkhyd's dead."

"Did he see you just now?"

"No." Sharkbait's grim desperation crystallized resolve around Ferret's stuttering heart. "Shall I take him out?" she asked, matter-of-fact.

Sharkbait produced the thing with which he had been toying. "Can you use a garrote?"

She took it wordlessly and eased back into the street. Sharkbait leaned against the kitchen wall, pressing the heels of both hands to his mouth. Time stretched endlessly. Then Ferret popped open the door, gestured urgently, and they sprinted off through the Slums' warren. Neither of them hesitated as they leapt the crumpled figure in the alley mouth.

They took refuge in a warehouse in the waterfront district. For several minutes they sat silently, savoring their narrow escape. Sharkbait rested one hand on the young thief's shoulder. As Ferret's breathing slowed, Sharkbait realized she was shivering. He drew her close, comforting, but offered no words.

"It was so easy," she said with a violent shudder. "It shouldn't have been so easy. How can we be frightened of people who are so
careless?
He didn't even have a wall behind him."

"They are arrogant," Sharkbait offered. "The Ghytteve are unused to resistance; and they dismiss the poor as powerless and thus underestimate the strength of desperation." With two fingers he lifted Ferret's chin so that she met his eyes. "It won't be so easy again, my sweet thief."

"Meaning that they learn from their mistakes?" she asked. "But this makes
three
, Sharkbait; three of Ycevi Ghytteve's precious bodyguards dead. How many deaths before she learns? How many are there? Do you know?"

He shrugged. "Even if I thought I knew their number, it would be unwise not to suspect her of holding others in reserve. The Lady is devious indeed—and no stranger to intrigue or violence. And it isn't the Lady who will learn from her minions' deaths, but Elkhar. Ycevi is a ruthless
khacce
player."

Ferret raised eyebrows. "But these pieces
think
. How much to overturn their loyalty?"

Sharkbait shook his head. "Ycevi's hold is strong."

Ferret sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "So what next?"

The longshoreman smiled wolfishly. "Is there any chance, do you think, of getting Khyzhan to help you find that foreign Temple Watchman?"

She turned ideas carefully in her mind, examining intricate facets. "Happen he would, if he thought it might lead to you."

Concern knit his brow. "Doesn't it worry you to mislead Khyzhan? He's your Master—and the Guild has severe strictures about loyalty."

"If I'm sly, he'll leap to conclusions without my help. It's hardly my fault if he misconstrues."

"And it will keep me out of harm's way while you're running into danger. Ferret—"

"Out of harm's way? When the Ghytteve knew enough to throw Kitten's body
on the wharves?
Happen there's plenty of danger to share, Sharkbait."

His arm tightened around her so suddenly that she looked up in alarm. His face was anguished, vulnerable. "Ferret," he whispered. "I
need
you. Please be careful."

"I promise," she said, solemn. "So: dinna do aught stupid."

With his mask of cool self-mockery back in place, Sharkbait murmured, "Anything stupider, you mean." He added airily, "Oh, I'll be careful, my sweet thief. I've played this game before."

"I can tell," she retorted, gently sarcastic, as she brushed his scarred face with her fingertips. "Farewell."

His eyes followed Ferret's purposeful departure; he stared at the door through which she had gone as though it could show him the future.

Chapter Twenty-five—Whispers

Company was sparse at the Beaten Cur. Ferret found her Master at a table beside the empty hearth. The guttering oil lamp cast more shadows than light. Khyzhan didn't look well. A feverish glitter lurked in his eyes. And the pick of his bravos seemed lean, too; some of his favorites were conspicuously absent. Too late, she wished she hadn't come.

"Ho, Ferret," her Master greeted her. "On your own? I hear you've been keeping company with a certain longshoreman."

"News travels, apparently," she replied, then gave him his opening. "Happen I can look after myself without Sharkbait's help."

"Sharkbait, Master?" one of the bravos queried, eager.

Khyzhan held up one hand. "No. I've told you: I dinna care who wants him or what they're paying. Leave him alone."

"Master," one of the bravos began, wheedling. "You owe him naught—and we're your faithful servants."

"No."

Ferret watched the exchange, wondering if it were a ruse to lull her. "A word alone, Master?" she asked.

He dismissed the others. Ferret waited until she was sure they were all out of earshot, then she shook her head. "This Guild war—by now it should have burned to embers. I'm back safe; Ybhanne's organization is destroyed. But the streets are still littered with dead—and they're not all thieves. Happen you'll tell me what's really going on."

Khyzhan slipped his stiletto out of his wrist sheath and toyed with it. "Happen it would be dangerous for you to know."

His tone jangled something in her memory. "It's dangerous already," she answered. "Master, I'm up to my neck in Council House intrigue; happen I've learned to recognize the smell. Why isn't the Thieves' Guild letting the war burn out? Gods and fish, Master!
Who stands to gain?
"

Ferret glared at Khyzhan's opaque face; he held the tip of the stiletto against the lamp wick, splitting the flame like a serpent's forked tongue. "Ferret," he whispered finally. "Tread carefully."

Her mouth dried; he was trying to tell her something, trying to warn her. "I need your help, Master. I'm looking for someone: a foreigner; Temple Watch; name of Dedemar. A Ghytteve tool. They've dropped him; I need to talk to him."

"Ghytteve," Khyzhan breathed. "The signet was Azhere."

Ferret cast her mind back to the signet ring she had stolen from her flash mark. "A ruse to shift blame. It's been the Ghytteve from the start."

Khyzhan balanced the stiletto on the forefinger of his right hand, while he tugged his earlobe with the other hand. He was silent so long that Ferret began to fear he would say no more; but finally, he flipped the knife off his finger, caught it by its point and nodded. "You're right about the Guild war," he offered. "It's not just the Thieves Guild fighting any longer. I'd thought it was the small drug runners using our troubles to hide some reapportionment of their trade. You make me question that, Ferret. This Dedemar. Why do you want him?"

She mimed a throw of
ysmath
bones. "I'm gambling he knows of the Ghytteve's plans—and is ready to tell."

"Council Houses dinna make careless discards," he warned.

"No. But happen they do make mistakes."

The stiletto spun upward out of Khyzhan's fingers, end over end in the fitful light; he caught the knife and sent it spinning again. "Dedemar." The knife spun a third time. Ferret noted that he caught and threw it with alternating hands. The pattern dredged her memory. "Dedemar." He repeated the name, while the knife spun hypnotically. "He's Frefrentian." The memory surfaced: a company of jugglers, spinning knives and torches. Fytrian jugglers: not Frefrentian,
Fytrian
. Ferret waited. Khyzhan's knife thudded into the tabletop, beside the lamp. The patterned hilt gleamed. "The ship,
Kakamyrrat
is in port. Happen its master, Momontar, knows something."

"Thank you, Master Khyzhan," she said, turning away.

He halted her with her name. "Ferret. Beware of Anthagh."

"The slaver?" She could almost hear his voice: 'The closest thing the Slum has to a Council Lord: independent and untouchable.' What
was
Khyzhan hinting at?

The Master Thief inclined his head. "Rumor ties him to Ghytteve. Watch your back."

Ferret bowed and moved away. "Well?" Khyzhan said softly. 

A slight stir in the shadows by the chimney resolved itself into a figure: a hard faced woman with the silver Ghytteve earring glinting in the lamp light. Her narrowed eyes challenged the Master-thief. "Why mention Anthagh?"

"Distraction," Khyzhan offered. "What more could I have given you? You wanted a lure for Sharkbait; I sent her to the wharves. And since she will watch her back—with or without my advice!—I'd rather have her looking in Anthagh's direction than mine, or yours."

"Dedemar's Fytrian."

"Is he? Well, no matter: she won't know the difference—an ignorant Slum-rat. Now, Ghytteve: payment."

She shook her head. "Not until we have him."

"That wasn't the bargain," Khyzhan said, idly drawing the knife out of the tabletop. "Was it?"

"You will be paid for your help; but I must be sure it's help, first, thief."

"So suspicious," he chided. "Dinna you know of honor among thieves? It would be wise to keep your end of the bargain, Ghytteve.
Now
," he snarled.

Khyzhan's bravos moved, then, ringing the Ghytteve woman, knives drawn.

"You wouldn't
dare
," she said. "I'm
Ghytteve
."

The hiss of thrown knives silenced her.

"You
were
Ghytteve," Khyzhan whispered, sheathing his stiletto. "And arrogant. But not invincible."

***

Ferret didn't go directly to the wharves; and she did watch her back. She had a tail—but it wasn't Anthagh's: it was a Ghytteve. She moved cautiously while she pondered. Khyzhan had been careful to hand her enough inconsistencies to make her wary. She sifted bits. If Dedemar was Fytrian, not Frefrentian, then perhaps she should look for him on a Fytrian ship. But if the Temple Watchman was really on the wharves, Sharkbait's longshoremen were the ones best suited to hunt there for him. And there was the mention of Anthagh—which was surely more than an excuse to tell her to watch her back. Khyzhan knew she would without his reminder.

Then it clicked. She knew Anthagh by sight: an exotic face with a fringe of sandy beard and round, gray eyes. Half-Fytrian, rumor had it. Had Khyzhan been telling her to look for Dedemar with Anthagh? Ferret took to the rooftops to give her tail a dangerous choice between treacherous tiles and gutters or the most violent of the Slum streets. When she was confident she had lost him, she made for the Slave Market.

Ferret wasted no time on Anthagh's close-mouthed toughs. Instead, she took a position near the pleasure house rumored to be Anthagh's headquarters and waited for the slaver himself. It required patience; but at long last, Ferret was rewarded. Master Anthagh, in the company of two others, alighted from a sedan chair not fifteen paces from where Ferret lounged.

"Master Anthagh," she called. "I've a message for Dedemar."

The slaver extended his hand. When she put nothing in it, he raised his eyebrows. "From?"

Ferret's heart started sprinting; this was the touchy part, the part where she gambled most. "Kerigden."

Master Anthagh showed no surprise. "Tell me."

"I am to deliver it myself."

The slaver gestured to his companions. "Bring her."

Ferret let them flank her, wondering desperately if she had been clever, or the worst kind of fool. They escorted her though the wide stone doors, past a court with a fountain and a fish pond, up two wide flights of marble stairs, to a cool, dim chamber. The windows were swathed in gauzy blue draperies which kept out the strong sunlight, and gave the room's light an almost watery quality. A balcony, its open door likewise draped, would face the distant harbor. Master Anthagh motioned her to a seat, while the two others went out, closing the double doors behind them.

"What makes Kerigden think I have Dedemar?" Master Anthagh asked, with the air of someone humoring a fool.

Ferret shrugged. "How would I know? Happen the wind told him. I merely go where I'm sent, sir."

"I see." His mockery grew more pronounced. "Kerigden is known to be quite—fastidious. When did he begin using dirty Slum-rat children as couriers?"

"When he decided to move against Ycevi Ghytteve."

Surprise erased all traces of amusement from the slaver's face. "Do
what?
" he asked.

"Move against Ycevi Ghytteve."

Anthagh crossed his arms and glared at Ferret. "The Kerigden I know doesn't meddle in politics."

"Just how well do you know the High Priest of the Windbringer?" Ferret countered. "I wouldn't think you'd have much in common—given your trade." A movement by the balcony doors caught her eye. The draperies were drawn back to reveal a man, silhouetted against the light.

"What message?" he asked.

She couldn't see his face. "Are you Dedemar?"

"Aye."

"Very well. The child you sent to your Ghytteve masters—Kitten—was tortured and killed by Elkhar Ghytteve. Happen you need an opportunity to atone."

"'Elkhar's killing children.' You would have me, perhaps, betray the Ghytteve? Their arms are very long," Dedemar said bitterly, moving into the room.

Ferret saw his face; her eyes widened. It was the foreigner she had saved from the bravos. "You!"

He looked closely at Ferret, then swore in his own language. After a moment, he said, flatly, "Tell me, then, what you would have me do." He collapsed into a chair. "I will not be of much use, I fear. I have nothing to give for your dead friend. I am not—deep in their whispering. They have little trust of me. They tell me watch; so I watch. They tell me listen; so I listen. They send me with a message; so I go."

"Even so, it would be useful if we knew who the Ghytteve want watched, and what you hear, and where they send you."

Dedemar's eyes widened. "You want me to return to them? I am not clever like Elkhar. They will hear lies in my words."

"Think of Kitten," Ferret said, cold. "Your task isn't meant to be easy—or safe. We know the Ghytteve plan to kill the Scholar King and put Cithanekh Anzhibhar-Ghytteve in his place. What we dinna know is when—or how."

"
Cithanekh
," Anthagh exclaimed—almost a laugh. "But that's mad, even for Ycevi. Cithanekh is twice as stubborn as the Scholar King. How does she mean to control him?"

"She will use the boy you sold her: Owl," Ferret said.

"
Owl
," Dedemar whispered.

"But she told me," Anthagh protested, "she meant to dangle him in front of Rhydev Azhere—to leverage some concessions out of the silk clans."

"She lied. Does it surprise you?"

Before Anthagh could respond, Dedemar held up a hand. "But how can I return? I am absent without leave from my company of Temple Watch. Did I return, there would be—unpleasantness."

Ferret shrugged. "The Windbringer High Priest would excuse you, if you were committed to working against the Ghytteve."

Dedemar was silent; and Ferret's attention was drawn to Anthagh's face, contorted with alarm.

"Dedemar!" the slaver cried. "Do you seek to atone—or to die? Are you completely mad? Ycevi Ghytteve will
eat
you!" When Dedemar did not instantly respond, he rounded on Ferret. "Do you know what you are doing? Or are you merely a
khacce
piece in your betters' fingers?"

"Do you care?" she challenged.

He rang a table cymbal. "Not particularly. But I do wonder. If you are a mere piece on the gameboard, you are not much regarded; for to send you here is a sacrifice play. But if you know what you are doing, you are either very foolish, or very brave—or, I suppose, both." The door opened for two of Anthagh's men; one held a coil of rope. "Bind her." Then Anthagh turned to the Temple Watchman. "If you're fool enough to go back to the Ghytteve, my friend, then you'd best take them a gift."

"No," Dedemar said sharply.

But Anthagh ignored him. He moved closer to watch as his men bound Ferret. Suddenly, he stiffened. "What's this?" he demanded, gesturing to the healing burns on her forearm.

"What, squeamish?" she mocked. "It's betrayal and Guild war, Council House intrigue and secrets."

"
Anthagh
, let her go."

The slaver ignored him while he studied Ferret silently. She sensed the calculation behind his cool eyes, but she was not sure how to influence it. She answered his assessment with impassive patience. "Which Council House?" he asked at last.

She shrugged. "Azhere."

"Ah. Ybhanne's patron. Did you know?"

"I'd guessed," Ferret replied. "Patron, but not protector. Ybhanne's dead, Master Anthagh. Happen we're all expendable."

"What
are
you?"