A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Read online

  As the spark of her rebellion dimmed, Kitten smiled wryly. "I'd the same lecture—nearly word for word—from Squirrel this morning. Happen you're both right."

  Just then, Owl joined them. "Ho, Ferret; ho, Kitten."

  "How'd you do?" Kitten asked eagerly.

  He slapped his fist into his open palm in a gesture of enthusiasm. "Half-Noble, and two Guilds. If I'd caught him on his way in, happen I'd have gotten a whole Noble out of him."

  "Listen, Owl," Ferret said. "You should hide that Half-Noble away. Give Zhazher the Guilds, and your other pickings, but save the bounty; he canna expect it—and he'll only buy Dream's Ease with it. You'd best have a thought for the future."

  Owl's face clouded. "Happen you're right," he admitted. "But Zhazh always knows when I hold back. Lately, he's begun to say he thinks I'd be of more use crippled or blind."

  Ferret shuddered, but Kitten's reply was matter of fact. "Not blind," she said firmly. "It's your eyes that make the difference between the Guild I got out of yon fat merchant, and the Noble you'd have gotten if you'd hit him when I did."

  Owl actually laughed. "I'd best take you along to talk to Zhazh. Crippled I could probably face, but blinded... Lady of Sorrows, that scares me."

  The warning clash of cymbals made the three friends run for the Waiting Wall and vault onto it. A cymbal-bearing herald and a hente of Temple Watch cleared the way for a litter borne by four men. The crowd quieted as necks craned to catch a glimpse of the personage who caused the disruption. The litter's blue and white curtains were tied back revealing a man with flaming red hair, dressed in gray robes, a harp in his hands.

  "Windbringer priest," Owl murmured. "I've seen this one before. He usually walks."

  "Kerigden!" The shout—a voice accustomed to making itself heard—cut over the desultory crowd noise. The priest's head turned. The children were close enough to see his expression change.

  "Arre! Praise to the Windbringer! What breeze brings you hither?" He held up one hand to stop the litter, but Ferret was no longer watching him. Her mysterious stranger strode confidently toward the priest.

  The three friends—and most of the crowd—watched while the priest and the woman spoke quietly. Then, the woman bowed and the priest sketched a blessing before he waved his bearers on. As Arre turned away, her watchful eyes touched the trio on the wall. She froze for an instant, staring at them all in startlement. They stared back. Then, with an apologetic smile, she shrugged and went about her business.

  Kitten looked from Ferret's stunned face to Owl's frightened one. Annoyance brushed her features. "What's the matter?" she demanded. "Fret, you look poleaxed, and Owl—" She broke off in alarm as Owl dropped his face into his hands. His shoulders began to shake, as though he were weeping.

  "Owl," both girls exclaimed, "what is it?"

  He raised tear-brimming eyes to theirs. "Sweet Lady of Sorrows," he whispered. "I must be going mad."

  "What do you mean?" Ferret demanded.

  He gestured vaguely in the direction Arre had gone. "Yon woman: I dreamed of her. She was on a ship, standing near the prow with the wind in her hair. It was..." His voice was oddly flat, his gaze unfocused. "It was the Metara Kentis." He shook his head roughly, as though to shake loose the things he had seen, and managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry. I dinna mean to alarm you."

  "Ferret," Kitten said, noting the expression on the older girl's face. "What's the matter with you?"

  "This is the oddest nest of coincidences," Ferret said. "But we'd best not talk here. I've a bit of coffee in my lair. I'll share it with you and tell you the whole tale. Happen the three of us can make sense of it."

  Chapter Two—Conversations

  The taproom at the Trollop's Smile was quiet; it was early for the supper crowd. A pair of weathered drunkards snuffled and muttered to themselves, but the rest of the trade had moved on. Donkey swabbed down the last table and inched out of Arkhyd's notice into the kitchen.

  A girl crouched near the hearth, sketching on the smooth slate with a blackened chip of wood. "Arkhyd said to tell you there's pots from the noonings to scrub," she told him.

  Donkey turned calm brown eyes on her. "Always are, Mouse," he drawled, finally. Moving with measured slowness, he set about his task. Mouse watched him for several moments, then returned to her sketching. The deliberate clank and splash of Donkey's work lulled her as she envisioned the scene she recreated; the waterfront, lavish with courtiers, glinting with Watch; mounted heralds, Imperial Guard; and in their midst, the Scholar King: the Emperor Khethyran. She scrunched her eyes closed as she tried to summon his face: young, handsome, lordly. She sighed in vexation. It was like a story that wouldn't come alive; she could see the panoply in her mind, almost hear the clatter of hooves and the bright shiver of the trumpets; but the Emperor's face stubbornly remained hidden behind a stiff gloss of expectation. She opened her eyes. Donkey leaned over her shoulder. He pointed to one of the wild-eyed horses.

  "I remember yon," he said. Then, as his scanning eyes took in the missing parts of her picture, he added, "If someone gave you a Royal, you could copy his face from that."

  "A Royal? Oh, Donkey! If someone gave me a Royal, my parents could buy a shop in the merchant's district, and we could leave the Slums forever."

  "They say the Emperor's face is on the Royal," the boy persisted.

  Mouse scuffed her hands across the drawing, blurring all the lines into meaningless smudges. "It's probably the old Emperor's face, anyway."

  "The old Emperor," Donkey repeated. "Hadn't thought of that. Happen you're right. So no use to find you a Royal." He gave her a damp cloth. "If you've done, wipe the hearth."

  Mouse complied. Just as she finished, the door to the taproom swung open and Arkhyd bustled in. He smiled when he saw her. "So you're still here; good. There's a fellow—" he gestured toward the taproom— "wants a message taken. You'll do it, Mouse?"

  "I'd go," Donkey offered.

  A look of irritation crossed the tavern keeper's broad face. "He's in a hurry. Mouse?"

  "Yes sir; thank you, sir," she said. As the door swung closed behind her, she heard Arkhyd's interrogation begin.

  "Have you finished with the pots—" The door cut off his words.

  "Sir?" Mouse asked the fellow who stood by the bar. "Did you want a message taken?"

  He nodded shortly. He was better dressed than most Slum dwellers—not flashy, but his clothes were of good quality, and they were clean. Mouse summed him up while he fished in his pockets for a small, leather-wrapped bundle. "I want this taken to a man you will find at the Temple Gate. Here's a Common; there are five more for you, if you're back here in a quarter hour with an answer."

  She took the package and the coin. "How will I know your friend?"

  "He's a foreigner; has yellow hair and a mustache. And he's Temple Watch; he's on duty at the Gate until sundown."

  Mouse gaped at him. "You want me to talk to a Temple Watchman on duty? For a Common?"

  "No one would hurt a harmless little girl like you. Tell him it's from the Sea Hawk. He'll know what you mean."

  Mouse shook her head. "I want three in advance."

  The man hissed in irritation, then gave her two more Commons. "Go on. Hurry."

  Mouse hurried. The Temple Gate was crowded. She watched the guards until she was certain which to approach. She masked her stuttering heart with a winsome smile and held out the package. "The Sea Hawk sent this for you," she said.

  He snatched the packet and stuffed it under his tabard. "Run off," he ordered.

  "Is there an answer?" Mouse asked, thinking of the three Commons waiting at the Trollop's Smile.

  "Run off," he repeated, shoving the butt of his pike in her direction. Mouse dodged and ran. She reached the Trollop's Smile out of breath, but well within the quarter hour. The man who had sent her was gone.

  ***

  Ferret hated the Beaten Cur, where her master Khyzhan held court. It was a filthy tavern, always hot, noisy and rank with the sme
ll of sour ale and unwashed bodies. Khyzhan had a table in the dark inner reaches of the common room; as usual, he was surrounded by the pick of his bravos, as his apprentices and journeymen came to settle up. Ferret, chin high, ignored the sneering comments of Khyzhan's men.

  "Why, it's my sweet Frycce," Khyzhan greeted her. He looked a little drunk, but Ferret suspected it was a snare for the unwary. She assessed the gathered thieves quickly—that one: he looked like one of Ybhanne's. She resolved to get away as fast as possible; she had no desire to be caught in any factional fighting among the Thieves Guild. "Did you do well today, apprentice?"

  "Better than yesterday," she told him as she spilled the coins onto the table before him. "The waterfront was infested with Watch, but the Temple Gate wasn't too bad."

  Khyzhan surveyed her offering. "Indeed, Frycce, it is better than yesterday. Tell the others what you brought me, yesterday."

  Ferret grit her teeth. She hated Khyzhan in this mood. He would mock her, then take her entire offering and send her away empty handed. "I brought you naught yesterday, Master, as well you know. So today, of course, I expect naught from you—unless it be the beginning of a return to your good graces."

  It was a foolish piece of bravura, she knew. Khyzhan was unpredictable; this would delight him, make him angry, or send his sharp wits off hunting answers. But she wanted to be out of the Beaten Cur before Ybhanne's man started his trouble.

  Khyzhan's eyes narrowed. "Why the hurry, sweet Frycce? I'd almost think you dislike my company."

  Inwardly, she cursed. Questions: dangerous territory with Khyzhan if one had aught to hide. With a silent prayer to the gods of foolish thieves, Ferret embarked on the greatest gamble she could think of. She didn't like to show too much cleverness; she usually played young-and-stupid for Khyzhan, but she needed to distract him. So she leaned closer to her master, speaking in a voice she hoped would not carry. "It is not your company I shun, Master; but in this gathering, I smell Ybhanne's perfume —and I've no liking for her heavy musk. And I'm not built for brawling."

  The master thief's eyebrows rose as the mockery in his expression vanished. He shoved her entire offering back to her, a faint smile playing over his mobile mouth. "So. You have a wit or two after all. Happen I'll make something of you yet. Take it all and go."

  Ferret paused, amazed, for perhaps two heartbeats. Then the coins disappeared into her clothing. "Thank you, Master." She started away.

  Khyzhan's voice followed her. For the second time in as many minutes, amazement held her motionless. "Ferret!" Khyzhan had called: he never called her 'Ferret.' Recovering, she looked back. "I much prefer this. You do understand me, Ferret, no?"

  "Yes, sir," she said. And she did. Young-and-stupid wouldn't work with Khyzhan any longer; it made Ferret a little nervous.

  ***

  In the kitchen at the Trollop's Smile, the tide of the evening had turned, slowing to ebb. The door to the taproom was propped open, so Donkey could hear if someone shouted for a torchbearer. The last of the empty stewpots was scrubbed; Arkhyd served at the bar, leaving Donkey to his scullery realm. Mouse had gone back to the vendor's cart her parents and she called home. She had left another drawing on the hearth; Donkey knew he should clean it off, but it made him smile to look at it. Mouse had caught Ferret, exactly as she so often stood, her chin up to hide the uncertainty in her eyes. Donkey half expected the drawing to speak, so he barely twitched when Ferret hailed him from the back door.

  "Ho, Donkey. Alone?"

  "Ho, Ferret. Yes. Hungry? There's some fish stew yet."

  Ferret slipped indoors and perched on a counter out of the sight line from the taproom. "Should I pay for it? I dinna want to make you trouble."

  "Pay?" Donkey repeated, in his slowest, most obtuse voice. "Na. If my uncle asks, I'll say I got hungry again."

  "So: aught happening?" she asked around a mouthful of the strong flavored fish.

  "Mouse was here."

  Ferret's eyes went to the hearthstone, then widened as she laughed. "That's me! Willn't you get in trouble for leaving it?"

  Donkey shrugged. "Thought you might be in." He took a rag. "Seen it?" At her nod, he wiped the drawing off the stone.

  "Have you seen Squirrel?"

  "Not since morning. Sharkbait was in, though, hiring day workers for the morrow. Ice ship's due, and the shipmaster said he'd pay treble rates if they'd unload his wares first and fastest."

  Ferret shook her head. "Yon willn't best please the other shipmasters."

  "Na. But it's good for the longshoremen. Taverns will be crowded tomorrow night."

  From the front room, someone shouted for a light. Ferret wolfed the last of the stew.

  "You're busy and I'm off," she said. "Thanks for the food." She slipped out into the shadows without waiting for a reply.

  Picking up one of his pitch-soaked torches, Donkey went into the taproom. The night was wearing old, and the roisterers wanted help home. He schooled his features to the pleasant blankness he found so useful. It never did to let either contempt or cleverness show.

  ***

  The Royal Palace was a vast stone structure, with great arching windows and delicate, spired towers. There were hallways wide as galleries, great banquet halls and ballrooms, cloistered suites and terrace gardens; there were private inner rooms, which hid secret walkways; and there were spyholes, and listening places woven throughout the ancient stone fabric. It was a place built for intrigue, not for war; for stealth instead of siege. But it was beautiful: the graceful stonework, the carefully planned windows, brought to the Palace the illusion of simplicity. And this night, with the pale shield of the moon reflected in the waters of the harbor, the view from the Emperor's library spoke of serenity.

  Arre leaned into the stone shelter afforded by the wide arch of a window. Her hands drew a whisper of music from her lute as her eyes dwelt on the moon's cool road, paved on the surface of the sea. Her face was calm, the watchful shifting of her eyes lost in the peace of the scene below her. She didn't even stir when footsteps approached her from the shadowed library behind her.

  A pair of hands touched her shoulders, massaging her tight muscles. She smiled, but the music did not falter.

  "Are you planning to sit there all night?"

  "I might," she replied, still gazing outward.

  "Are you fleeing your dreams?"

  She turned then. The lute fell silent. For a moment, she searched the dear, familiar face: the planes of his face as clean as sculpture; the tawny smoothness of his skin beneath the sweep of sable hair; the eyes, almond shaped, the color of amber; and the impossible understanding, the compassion, for which she loved him with her whole soul. "In a way," she admitted at last, her wry smile a quirk of acknowledgment. "Mostly, I'm thinking."

  With ink stained fingers, he brushed a strand of her fine, dark hair out of her face. "Tell me?" he invited.

  She leaned her cheek against his hand. "Oh, Kheth. There's so little to tell: a thief, a young woman, who holds the world at bay with the tilt of her chin; a boy, with eyes full of visions; a sweet little girl, a chip of charcoal in her fingers. It's been with me since before I left Kalledann; bits and pieces, like beads in a box. And I'm looking for the thread, the strand to make it cohere." She drew away from his touch, studied his face for an instant. "It has to do with you. I'm sure of that. But it doesn't take a Kellande Seer to know that your Council Houses are spinning webs and setting snares. It's been—what?—four months since you were crowned. I'm surprised there hasn't been an attempt on your life, already."

  "My father—" grief shadowed his eyes— "my father said the first year was the worst. But then, he was in his eleventh year when he was murdered."

  She took his hand, mute comfort. "I wish I had more to offer than fragments of my worry. I wish I could make the pattern clear. I wish my gifts were stronger—or far, far weaker. This foreboding, these vague hints; they are wearing, but not very useful."

  "Do you think you can make the pattern come c
lear by sitting up all night?"

  "No," she admitted with a smile. "But I don't know what else to do."

  He was silent. Then, he kissed her brow. "Will it distract you if I keep vigil with you?"

  "Of course not; but surely you need your rest?"

  "'Thou art my rest and my hope,'" he quoted, "'my shelter and my dreams. Thou hast cast thy mantle 'round me, and I am wrapped in joy.'" Then he shrugged. "I can sleep during the audiences tomorrow. That's the only advantage to my cursed rank: no one dares wake me if I drift off."

  His impish expression made Arre laugh. "How is it, Kheth, that you can always make me laugh?"

  "I know when you need to."

  "Wait," she said, as he turned away. She hopped lightly down from her window perch. He raised eyebrows. "I've thought long enough; maybe if I give it a rest, clarity will visit."

  He waited while she stowed her lute away; when she reached his side, he laid his arm across her shoulders. Guided only by the fickle glimmer of the oil lamp he carried, they left the library to its moonlight and silence.

  Chapter Three—A Chip of Charcoal

  The freighter, its bowels full of ice, creaked against the wharf in the pre-dawn grayness. Longshoremen gathered on the pier, like a flock preparing to migrate. On the vessel, two men spoke softly in the charthouse.

  "I can't help but feel I'm setting you up for trouble, A—"

  "Sharkbait," the other interrupted, with a feral smile. "The past is dead, Shipmaster Kharren. As for trouble, I like trouble." He looked as though that were true, too, with his scarred face and work-battered hands. "Truthfully, I need to be able to show my longshoremen that I can deliver if they'll cooperate."

  "But the Dhenykhare are set against a Longshoremen's Guild. They'll fight you, Sharkbait; and they've a Council House's resources."

  "That doesn't make them right, Khar. Justice—" He broke off. "Don't get me started," he added in an ironic drawl, "or we'll be here 'til your cargo melts."

  The shipmaster was young, ambitious and eager to seize an advantage; but as he gazed at the longshoreman, he looked troubled. "You're different—and it's more than the scar. I'm not sure I've done you a favor."