A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Page 8

  "Indeed not," Rhydev agreed quickly. "And I am not—mmm—suggesting anything of that nature. I am a cautious and—mmm—restrained player in this game. However, neither caution nor restraint are virtues I would necessarily—mmm—ascribe to the dissident Houses. What I am suggesting is that we—mmm—scrutinize their actions with particular care. It might, then, be possible for us to—mmm—anticipate, or even forestall, their gambit. I, for one, fail to see the advantage of changing the hand at the helm unless we are—mmm—certain of our ability to dictate the course."

  The older man's eyes glittered suddenly, as he shot an assessing look at the Azhere Council Lord, but his smile an instant later was patronizing. "That 'we' was a masterful touch, Rhydev—but I'm an old hand at this game. You and I both know that no one makes moves on the Council Houses' khacce table without enduring everyone's scrutiny and assessment. So: you want my cooperation in whatever you're planning. Very well; I'll hear your scheme. Tell me: what, exactly, do you hope to gain from this ploy?"

  Rhydev hid his satisfaction; it was rare to lure so much directness from his uncle. Now for the gamble. "Personally," he said, allowing a hint of vindictiveness to lurk beneath the surface of his bland tone, "I should like to see Ycevi Ghytteve fall."

  The older man's eyes widened. "Do you think it likely?"

  Rhydev lifted an elegant shoulder. "Perhaps. Yes, if she decides to do more than—mmm— complain about Khethyran."

  "You're talking about trapping her in treason."

  "My dear Uncle Zherekhaf," he said in a voice poisonous with malice, "I'm talking about trapping her in any snare that will hold her."

  "Well," the Prime Minister said; then he added, as though thinking aloud, "But who would succeed her? Her wretched son?"

  "Duke Alghaffen has no interest in Council politics. If he did succeed to Ghytteve's seat, I doubt he would prove a force with which to be reckoned." He managed to sound disinterested; he needed Zherekhaf to take the false trail he'd laid. He had to convince his uncle he was acting on emotion, not intellect.

  Conjecture roiled behind the Prime Minister's unrevealing eyes. "Whatever did Ycevi Ghytteve do to earn such enmity?"

  Rhydev's nostrils flared as he feigned suppressed anger. "I'd rather not discuss it," he grated, setting the hook.

  The Prime Minister eyed his nephew sternly. "If I am to cooperate with you in this, there are to be no secrets."

  His jaw muscles bunched. "She stole a boy from me—" His even tone frayed, and he burst out, "Do you really need all the sordid details?"

  Enlightenment dawned in Zherekhaf's face. "I've seen a boy, trailing after Myncerre."

  "Owl," Rhydev said, as though he couldn't help himself.

  "You'd bring Ycevi Ghytteve down over a slave?"

  Rhydev turned one palm upward. "You've seen him. It's the only way I'll ever get him back, Uncle."

  Zherekhaf nodded slowly. "How long will it take?"

  "Perhaps a couple of months. Will you help me, Uncle?"

  The Prime Minister considered, then nodded decisively. "But if we're to settle personal scores, I have one I'd like to set your agile mind to work on."

  "You have only to ask," Rhydev responded gallantly.

  Every bit of suave oiliness was stripped from the Prime Minister's voice as he gritted out, "Come up with a way to rid us of the Emperor's foreign witch."

  Rhydev bowed. "As you wish, Uncle. As you wish." Then he excused himself. On his way to his quarters he was hard put to keep his raging inward battle between unease and jubilance from showing on his face. Zherekhaf had bought the story—at least, he appeared to have done. Now pray all the gods I've guessed right, Rhydev thought. Owl was bait; the boy had said so, and Myncerre had been aghast. If Rhydev could get the boy, he could bring Cithanekh to heel with him. But what if he were wrong? And what if the Prime Minister had outguessed him? Zherekhaf was a shrewd player; one didn't survive twenty years as a power in the Bharaghlafi Court without both luck and consummate skill. The game was always deeper than the surface ripples. Rhydev would be foolish not to expect Zherekhaf to play at least a double game. The Azhere Council Lord was many things, but no fool.

  ***

  Zherekhaf watched his nephew's departure, questions shifting behind his inscrutable eyes. How satisfyingly ironic if Rhydev had really set aside his incessant calculations for some beautiful boy. Of course, he distrusted satisfaction; Rhydev was capable of guessing that such a turn of events would appeal to him.

  The Prime Minister turned the situation like a gem in his mind, catching light in every facet. Regardless of Rhydev's motives, it would be a positive advantage if Ycevi fell—that woman was powerful and unscrupulous. And Rhydev's assessment of her son, Alghaffen, was on the mark. The Duke, as Ghytteve's Council representation, would lack both the skill and the ruthlessness of his mother; the influence of House Ghytteve would inevitably subside.

  Of course, Rhydev would be there to fill the void. House Azhere would rise as Ghytteve set. Well enough; Zherekhaf could work with Rhydev. The Prime Minister pondered consequences of such political upheaval with satisfaction. When Ycevi fell, who would hold her puppy's leash? He thought of Cithanekh: a curious mix of cynicism and naiveté; astute enough to recognize political truths and not, if Zherekhaf were any judge, a partisan of his cousin Ycevi. Was he, perhaps, too practical to court martyrdom over principles? Was he, in fact, a man of more malleable substance than the one who now wore the Emperor's coronet?

  Khethyran. The young Emperor's face rose in Zherekhaf's mind. Khethyran had been something of a disappointment. He had been so sure that the old Emperor's youngest son would be easily led—a scholar, for the love of the gods. Instead, Khethyran had proved intractable: an idealist, with courage; uncomfortably shrewd, for all that the game of Court intrigue was relatively new to him; and such a gift for making allies. Why, the foreign witch alone was worth—

  He surfaced abruptly; he was no longer alone. Reflexively, he made a deep obeisance.

  "Forgive me for interrupting," the Emperor said.

  "Your Majesty," Zherekhaf murmured. "You must not apologize to me. I exist merely to serve you."

  Khethyran's amused exasperation said as plainly as words: what sort of fool do you take me for? But his reply was mild. "Rank doesn't excuse one from showing common courtesy. Zherekhaf, I'd like your advice: Master Dharhyan has reported an increase in caravan losses: raiders. The Caravan Guild would like to raise carrying charges and hire mercenaries, but the wool clans have threatened to send their wares by sea if they do."

  "Even if the Caravan Guild doubles their fees, it will still be far cheaper than ship transport."

  Khethyran sighed. "So I told Ymlakh Glakhyre, and he accused me of favoring Dharhyan's Guild. He said he'd float his own fleet before he'd pay 'those thieving commoners' a Noble more."

  "Float his own fleet?" the Prime Minister repeated. "Speak to the shipwrights. Adheran Dhenykhare is no fool; he must realize that Ymlakh could never pay for such an extensive project."

  The Emperor nodded. "Thank you, Zherekhaf. I don't know Adheran well. If you say he's not unreasonable, I'll approach him. A libation of cold reality—spilled by someone other than me—might just be enough to quash Ymlakh's fuming." Then, with the energetic stride so at odds with typical noble languor, he left the Prime Minister's chamber.

  Chapter Ten—Hunters and Prey

  Even in the heat of noonday, the Temple Gate was crammed with people. Kitten worked the crowd, gleaning scant fistfuls of Commons and the occasional Guild. As she turned away from her latest mark, Kitten found herself face to face with a man, youngish, well dressed, impressively muscled. He looked her up and down in an unpleasantly appraising manner; returning his scrutiny, she noted the dangling earring he wore in his left ear: a silver disk etched with a stooping bird of prey.

  "Please sir, pity me," she began, though his fiercely handsome face seemed incapable of a gentle expression.

  "Pity you?" he repeated.

  "
I have no parents, no family, neither kith nor kin to care for me." Kitten knew it was useless, but Owl had taught her: even if you mistakenly approach someone unsympathetic, let the mark end the conversation.

  To Kitten's astonishment, the man produced a coin. "At least you haven't a worthless Ease-addicted brother to beat you, then sell you into slavery," he remarked as he turned away.

  Kitten grabbed the man's arm. "Owl? Do you know Owl?"

  He spun back swiftly, gripped her wrists as he pushed his face toward hers. "Are you Mouse?" he demanded sharply.

  "No: Kitten. Is he well? Did he ask you to look for us?"

  "Us?" the man repeated. His grip on her wrists tightened.

  "Me," she replied, half laughing. "And Mouse and the others. He must have told you about us. Is he well? Which Council House bought him? Are they kind to him?"

  "He appears to be well treated," the man responded, watching Kitten intently. "He wears a page's livery: green and silver. Ghytteve, I think."

  Kitten tried to keep the surprise off her face. Ghytteve was the bunch Ferret thought were plotting against the Emperor—and they bought Owl. "Does he like it there?" she asked. "Does he say?"

  The man shrugged. "He doesn't complain to me."

  "I wish I could see him," Kitten said passionately. "I miss him so much. Does he ever come away from the Palace?"

  The man shook his head. "They don't let him out of sight. I'll tell him you miss him—and I suppose I could carry other messages between you. Are you here every day, Kitten?"

  "Sometimes I'm on the wharves, instead," she responded. "Would you? Would you really?" At his nod, she went on effusively. "Oh thank you, thank you so much—" She broke off with an apologetic laugh. "I dinna know your name."

  His eyes chilled to watchfulness. "I'm Elkhar."

  "E-Elkhar," she stammered, stunned by recognition, and flooded with sudden unease. Elkhar was a Ghytteve man, Sharkbait had said. As she recovered her wits, she feigned strong emotion. "O-Oh I c-canna begin to th-thank you enough." The tears she had summoned spilled. "I miss Owl so m-much." She covered her face to scrub away tears. When she looked up a moment later, Elkhar had gone.

  ***

  Elkhar paused in the shade afforded by a traveling puppeteer's stage. He frowned. That little Slum-rat had known his name, or he was very much mistaken. Elkhar didn't like to be mistaken; but he hated the idea she had known his name. And how had she known to ask which Council House had bought Owl? Surely the private doings of the nobles weren't common gossip in the Slums. He didn't like it; she had far too much information. It simply didn't figure.

  He had come to the Temple Gate in search of the Mouse Anthagh claimed Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave had mentioned. Instead, he had met Kitten. Mouse, Kitten, Owl, and 'the others.' What others? He didn't like it; it looked like a pattern.

  Intrigue was a deep game, Elkhar knew. Could little Owl be a piece on more than one board? He frowned. Anthagh. What were the slaver's motives, and where did his real loyalties (if he had any) lie? Owl looked perfect for the Lady's plan—but was he really harmless? Or was he subtle bait for House Ghytteve's Lady? Owl was quick, appealing, wise for his age; in spite of years of caution, the bodyguard found in himself a surprising level of sympathy for the boy. Now, it worried him. If Owl was a piece in someone else's game, whose? And was he aware?

  A movement caught his eye: Dedemar; and an affirmative hand-signal. The Lady's puppy had been warned—and frightened. Elkhar would get a full report from the Temple Watchman later. In the meantime... In the meantime, he'd see whether he couldn't trap himself a Mouse—and find some answers.

  ***

  Mouse sat in the shade of her parents' hand cart. Her deft fingers tied a thin velvet ribbon into a bow. With a sigh, she set the finished nosegay on the tray beside her: ghenne flowers trimmed with lace and ribbons, for the Ythykh-Fair crowds tomorrow. Her mother handed Mouse more flowers.

  "Happen you'd rather spend the day with your friends," she said, "but your father and I need your clever fingers, Amynne."

  "It's not that. Mama, I miss Owl."

  The woman stroked her daughter's hair. "Oh, 'Myn. Happen it's for the best. Think of it: for the first time in his life, he'll have enough to eat—and he willn't have to live in fear of a beating from his worthless brother."

  "Some masters whip their slaves."

  "Owl's too good a boy to earn a whipping," she soothed.

  Mouse's eyes were bleak. "Some people enjoy inflicting pain and Owl is very stubborn. He willn't like being a slave, Mama, even for the food."

  "He's practical. He'll make the best of it." Tears glittered in Mouse's eyes; her mother sighed. "There's naught you can do, Amynne; there's naught of sense in aching your heart."

  Mouse blinked back her tears. "Sense," she retorted, with a determined sniff, "has naught to do with it." She pulled away from her mother and went back to making posies.

  ***

  By the end of the afternoon, Elkhar was in a foul humor. He'd been touched by every wretched begging child in the Slums, but had found no sign of the elusive Mouse. Other than Kitten, no one had taken the careful bait he had offered about Owl—a clear enough reference to startle recognition, but also a common enough story to be unmemorable. As sullen as the thunderheads gathered over the harbor, Elkhar left the waterfront district. He made for his appointed rendezvous with the Temple Watchman: the tawdry pub in the Slums known as the Trollop's Smile.

  Dedemar was late. It figured, Elkhar thought sourly as he struggled with the bitter ale the barman served him. He couldn't imagine why the Temple Watchman favored this place; everything they served was awful. The rank odor of fish stew permeated the place and made Elkhar slightly nauseous. The tavern was quiet; must be the word had spread about the dreadful ale—or it was too early for the rush. He had chosen his table for the view it gave him of the main entry; but the spot was also near the door to the kitchen, which undoubtedly accounted for the overpowering presence of the fish stew.

  The barman cast an appraising eye at his single patron, then slipped into the kitchen. Through the door, which was ajar, Elkhar heard the man giving directions, loudly and slowly, to someone within. Moments later, a boy shuffled out to position himself behind the bar. The boy cast slow, incurious eyes around the room; when his gaze crossed Elkhar's, he appeared to think hard, then said, "Wan' another?"

  "Not yet," Elkhar responded curtly. A half-wit; what else could he expect from such a place. But a moment later, when Dedemar appeared, he was grateful for the boy's stupidity. There weren't people to cover their conversation. If the boy had any wits, Elkhar would have been nervous about being overheard.

  "So?" Elkhar began, after the boy had brought the Temple Watchman a mug of ale and retreated to the bar. "You saw him?"

  The foreigner nodded. "I saw him. I told him he had been observed with Rhydev Azhere; and I warned him. I said, 'The Lady gives, she can take away. And she is skeptical of innocent reasons.' He assured me it was happenstance he and Rhydev were drinking together. I reminded him he didn't have to convince me, he had to convince her. And he got very still, very white. Then he said, 'He's an attractive man, Rhydev.' And I said, 'To you, he's poison. If he poisons you, or Ycevi poisons you over him—both ways, we bury you. Don't be a fool.' And then I left him."

  The taproom was silent while Elkhar considered this. At the bar with studied care and imbecilic concentration, Donkey dried the pewter mugs and put them away. He could hear every word; and only long practice kept interest and puzzlement from showing on his face. Rhydev; Ycevi; these were names he knew. And it was the same Temple Watchman: Dedemar. The men must be talking about 'the Lady's puppy.' Carefully keeping his face placid and stupid, he took another good look at the men, so as to be able to describe them later.

  "Good," Elkhar said at last. "We have to keep that puppy scared. We can't have him making common cause with Azhere or any other House. Now, I have another task for you. Do you know the Ykhave Council Lord by sight?"

&n
bsp; "The flute-maker? Walks with a cane?"

  "That's him. Was he in the Temple District today?"

  The Temple Watchman nodded. "He goes to the Windbringer Temple nearly every day." Something in the bodyguard's eyes drove Dedemar to continue. "He makes music with the priests. He's perfectly harmless, Elkhar."

  "No one's perfectly harmless."

  "No one's harmless, no one's innocent. Dear gods, Elkhar, you sound like the Lady. He's an old man who makes flutes."

  "He's a good friend of the Emperor's foreign witch, and he knows a good deal more about Owl than I like," Elkhar snapped.

  "Owl? Who is Owl?"

  "Never mind. Tomorrow I'll send Cyffe to you; brief her on his movements." In response to something in the Temple Watchman's face, Elkhar's voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "Dedemar, you wouldn't be thinking of warning him, now, would you?"

  "No. No, indeed, Elkhar."

  "Good." The danger in his voice increased. "I'm glad you understand. Such a move would have disastrous consequences. If you're done with that slop they call ale, let's go."

  As the men headed toward the door, Squirrel pelted through at a run, nimbly dodging them at the last instant. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, with a quick bob of his head. Then he tossed something through the air toward Donkey.

  "Ho, Donkey," he cried. "Mouse sent you flowers."

  To Squirrel's surprise and sudden alarm, Donkey merely stared brainlessly, first at the bouquet and then at Squirrel. "Wha?" he responded.

  The dark-haired man's hand closed hard on Squirrel's upper arm, turning the boy to face him. "Mouse?" the man demanded, avid. "I have a message for Mouse from Owl."

  Pieces snapped abruptly into a disquieting whole. Donkey only acted that stupid when there was real need; and the man who had such a painful grip on Squirrel’s arm had the face of a predator. Squirrel chose his role and played it out. "What? You want a message carried?"