A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (24 page)

Ferret shrugged again. "Loyal friend; Journeyman thief."

"Instrument of judgment and the keeper of my life and honor," Dedemar said, coming to the slaver's side. "
Let her go!
"

Anthagh looked up at him, shocked. "Keeper—"

"She saved my life, in the Guild war. Let her go."

Anthagh stared at the other man, motionless, until Ferret asked, "Who fuels the Guild war, Master Anthagh, and
why?
Ybhanne's
dead
, and Khyzhan's no fool."

"Who is fighting?" the slaver responded, coming back to life and movement. He bent to Ferret's bonds, his thin fingers working loose the knots.

Ferret thought back to her conversation with her Master. It wasn't thieves; and Khyzhan had intimated it wasn't merely another deadly turf-war among the small drug runners. "House Azhere controls the silk trade, no?" The slaver hinted at a nod. "What does Ghytteve control?"

"Coffee and liquor—
officially
."

"
Drugs
," Ferret whispered. "Then the Ghytteve are keeping the Slums in turmoil. But why?"

Dedemar answered her. "Among my people there is a saying: 'In chaos is change.'"

The knots holding her yielded. Anthagh straightened. "What will happen, do you think, if the Guild war fails to cool?"

Ferret considered. People were tense; supplies were short; tempers were frayed. "Riots," she breathed. She closed her eyes on memories: the choking ash, the trampling tide of people, the clatter of weapons, the pelting hail of stones, screams, terror, death; it had taken the Watch and finally the Army to restore, with brutal force, a cowering calm. Most of the burned out husks of buildings had been torn down or repaired in the intervening six years, but the fear was graven deep in Ferret.

The slaver and the Temple Watchman watched remembrance flit across the thief's face. When Ferret opened her eyes, there was something steely and determined in their depths. "'In chaos is change,'" she quoted softly. "The Scholar King willn't send the Army to quell a riot; he'll go himself."

"Presenting an irresistible opportunity for his enemies? His advisors would talk him out of such a suicidal course."

"Happen he wouldn't listen. He came down to the Slums once before, right after his coronation. I remember. He gave a speech about being all the people's Emperor. It was very stirring."

"Madness," Anthagh said dismissively.

"But such wonderful madness. We must avert this riot."

"
We
, little thief?" the slaver laughed. "Dedemar may have a conscience (and a debt), but I disposed of mine many years ago.
And I don't owe you a thing
."

"You sold my friend Owl to the Ghytteve," Ferret accused.  "Happen you'll not acknowledge the debt, but it's there."

Anthagh smiled wryly. "It's my trade, Journeyman thief. Perhaps it's not pretty, nor admirable, but it was certainly in my interests to sell Owl to the highest bidder. Even were I in a mood to do you a good turn, the fate of the Scholar King is nothing to me. Less than nothing. The Emperor Khethyran has discussed with the Council banning the slave trade. With the Ghytteve, I know I can bargain."

Ferret laughed. "And what's said in the Council is common knowledge?
Who told you
the Scholar King spoke against slavery? And was it
in their interests
to have you hostile to him? The Scholar King is idealistic, but not
stupid
."

The slaver was silent, but Dedemar clapped his hands in slow, ironic applause. "You are lazy in your cleverness, Anthagh. The little thief makes you think." He turned to Ferret. "If it were 'we' to avert this riot, what would you have us do?"

Ferret chewed her lip, thinking fast. "If the Slums erupt into riot it will be over food and fear. The thing we have to do is get the Slum markets open, and the people confident enough to use them." She met Anthagh's eyes. "Happen we'd keep control if we organized people to keep the peace: maybe some of your people; the Thieves' Guild, certainly; and the other Slum-Guilds ought to be willing to help. The only people who could want riot are the Ghytteve, and they willn't have to live through it."

Anthagh studied her in silence. "Very well," he said at last. "I'll summon the Masters of the Slum-Guilds to a meeting; they'll come—albeit reluctantly—at my whistle. But it will be up to you, little thief, to convince them."

Chapter Twenty-six—Eavesdropping

"You know, Ferret," Anthagh said as the door shut behind the last of the Slum-Guild Masters, "I would never have believed you could get us all to work together like that."

"Happen it's the only way we can survive," she retorted.

"No. It's the only way we can
all
survive. The strong can weather even riots; and according to the commonly held mores of the Slums, the weak deserve to perish. Yet, by some feat of arcane reasoning, you've gotten us to agree to a rule of law—swift and brutal Slum-law, true, but still! I never thought I'd see Slum-denizens work together to open and patrol the markets, and to enforce a curfew."

"Curfew!" Ferret exclaimed, then swore passionately. "How will I get home?"

The slaver chuckled. "You're welcome to stay here."

"Oh, aye," she said with a glint of sarcastic amusement. "But will I be welcome to leave, come morning?"

Anthagh raised his hands in a warding-off gesture. "The merciful gods forbid that I should so court the wrath of the Thieves' Guild!"

"You've some idea they'd be angry? I'd have said the Guildmaster thinks I've overstepped."

"The
Guildmaster
no doubt does," the slaver agreed. "But Khyzhan will back you far beyond the dictates of his self interest; and he's a dangerous enemy."

A tap at the door interrupted their conversation. One of Anthagh's men looked in. "Master, Cezhar Ghytteve wants a word with you. Shall I tell him you're otherwise engaged?"

"No. But first, send Marrekh and Thozh to me—I'd rather not meet him alone." As the man bowed and departed, the slaver glanced at Ferret. "If you'd like to listen, hide yourself."

Ferret's lungs tightened; it smelled like a trap. But she dared not leave for fear she'd meet the Ghytteve on his way in. She chose a draperied window. At least then, if the slaver betrayed her, she could chance an escape to the roof.

She watched, breathless, from her hiding place while Anthagh's two men—clearly bodyguards—took up their places at the ready. Then, Cezhar Ghytteve came in. He moved with the lithe grace of a fighter. His handsome face was marred by a whip-cut scar across one cheekbone.

"Why were the Slum-Guild Masters here?"

"We were negotiating to avert riots."

His eyebrows rose. "Ycevi Ghytteve
wants
Slum riots."

"Ycevi Ghytteve doesn't live in the Slums."

"Scuttle the agreement, Anthagh. She'll make it worth your while."

"I'm not convinced that she can."

He laughed, disbelieving. "Are you trying to imply you have a price in something other than gold?"

"I don't think you realize, Cezhar, that history was made here, tonight. The Slum-Guild Masters have never before agreed to work together, to share strengths and resources. Ultimately, the effort may fail; none of us has much practice cooperating. But I won't intentionally work against this."

Cezhar's dark eyes narrowed. "Ycevi will be displeased."

The slaver spread his hands, deprecatingly. "Ycevi is only one of my many customers. But this—this place, these people. It is where I both work and live. If the Slum-Guild Masters can overcome their antipathies to work together, then perhaps I am not as untouchable as I have always believed. You do understand, I'm sure."

Cezhar Ghytteve was silent for several moments, his face unrevealing. "Who dreamed up this—cooperation?"

"A Journeyman thief by the name of Ferret."

Ferret's heart slammed against her ribs, but an instant's reflection told her Anthagh could really have done nothing else. Too many people knew of her involvement for it to remain secret; and the Ghytteve were already displeased with Anthagh.

"
Ferret!
" he exclaimed. "
Journeyman
thief? Whose?"

"One of Khyzhan's."

He mouthed the Master Thief's name silently. "We'd buy this Ferret, if she happened to fall into your hands. Two hundred Royals."

Anthagh laughed. "Ghytteve would be bidding against Khyzhan—and he pays his debts in blood. If Ferret fell into my hands, Cezhar, the touch would burn me. Your Lady must catch her without my aid."

Cezhar gave a faint nod. "Then I have no further business with you, Master Anthagh."

The two men exchanged polite bows. Ferret did not breathe freely until the Ghytteve had left in the company of Anthagh's toughs, and the door was firmly shut behind them.

***

Mouse's charcoal stick flew along the smooth page. Her clever fingers froze the courtiers' interesting faces in lines on vellum. Venykhar was busy being the Ykhave Council Lord: talking to various courtiers in the great meeting hall. She had swiftly grown tired of trailing in his wake, and with his permission, had faded to the room's ornamented edges to sketch in the book he had given her. She had tucked herself into one of the recessed window seats, a vantage point which let her see much of the hall while she nestled, inconspicuous, among the draperies. As she worked, absorbed by the translation of reality to images, furtive voices caught her attention.

"News, Ghorran?"

"I've done as you asked, Lord. The Ghytteve have posted a reward of
a hundred Royals
for the longshoreman known as 'Sharkbait.' Ybhanne is dead, yet the Slums won't quiet; rumor has it the drug runners are reapportioning territory."

"You seem—mmm—
skeptical
."

"There are two more dead Ghytteve in it: Gholekh and Mynekhe."

The first man laughed, a sharp, amazed sound. "Ycevi must be livid, and Elkhar—mmm—
dangerously
annoyed."

"Yes, Lord. But none of my contacts have found anything pointing to the Emperor's foreign witch—other than her association with the Windbringer Temple and House Ykhave."

"Yes. You understand, Ghorran, that we need only innuendo. Even an extremely—mmm—
circumstantial
attachment could rouse Elkhar to violence."

One of them snapped his fingers. "Lord. This is tenuous at best, but perhaps it will serve. The thief, Ferret: Cithanekh Ghytteve gave her into the hands of the witch—and Ghobhezh-Ykhave, and the Windbringer High Priest."

"Ah," the first man said with satisfaction. "
That
is useful. Very good. Do you know: does Ycevi know?"

"She may; I'm not sure."

"Well, if you can do it—mmm—
gracefully
, pass the information on. Ferret," he added, in a musing tone. "It seems we were both wrong about her."

"Indeed, Lord; and I do feel the fool. The fact she was Journeyman (young as she looked) and
Khyzhan's
(who's as shrewd as the Guildmaster, and several times more ruthless) should have alerted me. But I was taken in—you'll admit she was good. Elkhar Ghytteve let it slip that he believes she helped Sharkbait take Cyffe out."

"Elkhar lets
nothing
slip without cause. But this—mmm—
longshoreman
, 'Sharkbait?' Who is he?"

"He's been organizing the dock workers—trying to form a guild; he's made enemies. More rumors than Elkhar's link his name with Ferret's."

"Find out more. The link with Ferret sounds—mmm—
promising
."

"Very good, Lord."

Mouse heard footsteps moving off. She edged around to get a good look at the speakers. If she drew recognizable portraits of them, Venykhar could tell who was plotting against Arre. She got a clear view of each, and added their faces to her page of courtiers' portraits. Then, she turned her attention to a robed man whom she supposed to be the High Priest of the Horselord's Tem- ple. She was still fussing with the drape of his rich clothing when Venykhar summoned her away.

***

The network of secret passages, spyhole niches and listening places soon became familiar territory to Squirrel and Donkey. They quickly grew adept at manipulating the shuttered lanterns Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave provided; and their natural caution served them well as they kept their secret watch on the Ghytteve. The only problem was, Donkey reflected sourly, that much of it was so dull. At the moment, he watched a woman who wrote in a leather-bound ledger. Occasionally she would sigh, raise her head and stare off into space. If you're bored doing the work, Donkey thought, think how I feel, watching you.

He heard the room's door open. The woman looked up, then set aside her quill. "Lady," she murmured.

Donkey squirmed cautiously to get the newcomer in sight. She was an elegant old woman: from Venykhar's description, Lady Ycevi herself. He strained to hear.

They discussed the accounts on which the younger woman—Myncerre, the Lady called her—worked. Donkey's attention snagged briefly on the phrase: "payments to the small runners," but he could make no sense of it. After several minutes, the Lady turned away and Myncerre picked up the quill again.

"Where's Owl?" the Lady asked.

"In the library," Myncerre said. "Rhan is guarding him."

"And Cithanekh?"

"He went out. Evvan will report his movements when they return. Lady, has Cezhar returned?"

She nodded. "He's sleeping. He made his report, first. You'll never guess who is behind the Slum-Guilds' cooperation: Ferret! It has become evident that she is not as innocent as our little Owl seems to believe. Cezhar offered Anthagh two hundred Royals for Ferret, if she should fall into his hands; and do you know what he said? Anthagh said, 'If she fell into my hands, the touch would burn me.'
Anthagh
—who I would not have said was afraid of
anyone
. Well," she added, in an effort to banish her temper. "With the price we've set on his head, I daresay it is only a matter of time before someone betrays Antryn—"

"If it
is
Antryn," Myncerre warned.

The Lady smiled; it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Always the doubter, Myncerre. In any case, it is only a matter of time. Slum friendships won't withstand the temptation of a hundred Royals." She shrugged. "And even if this Sharkbait
isn't
Antryn, he may still be useful."

Myncerre went back to the accounts.

After a moment of indecision, Donkey crept along the passage, trying to keep the Lady under surveillance. He flitted from spyhole niche to listening place, always on the edge of losing her. The secret way branched twice; and at each fork, Donkey took careful note of the symbol carved on the wall. It slowed him down, but it would keep him from losing his way.

At the next spyhole niche, he looked in on a spacious room lined with books. A slight figure in Ghytteve livery sat alone at the khacce table, fingering the carved pieces. With a start, Donkey recognized Owl. He heard the door open. As the Lady entered, Donkey saw Owl's expression change to wariness. She studied Owl, her back to Donkey. Whatever Owl saw in her expression turned his wariness to fear. "Lady?" the boy whispered.

She was silent for several heartbeats; then she said, "Your little friend Ferret is causing me difficulties. Can you imagine why that might be?"

Owl raised his head, his face pale and set. "Elkhar killed Kitten," he said steadily. "I expect that earned her enmity."

Donkey couldn't see the Lady's face, but she stiffened. "Kitten was a Slum-rat."

"I was a Slum-rat—gods, Lady!
Ferret
is a Slum-rat; but she has friends, and loyalty, and feelings; and she's brave and determined, and no doubt angry."

"And are you angry, and brave, and determined, Owl?" the Lady asked; the silken threat in her voice made Donkey tense.

"I'm frightened," Owl whispered, bitterly. "And I am your slave."

The Lady turned her back on Owl. Donkey shivered as he caught sight of her face: cold; utterly ruthless. "My little Owl," she said, mockingly. She whirled back to face her slave. "
What do you most fear?
" Her hands were raised like talons.

Owl cringed away from her, but did not speak.

She seized him, shook him. "Answer me!"

Visibly, Owl mastered his fear. "Lady, I am your slave; I have no choice but to dance to your piping. What I fear most is that I will forget to resent it."

Donkey held his breath. He was sure the Lady would strike Owl. But to his amazement, she began to laugh. It was a chilling sound. She brushed Owl's cheek with a claw-like finger. "No fear," she promised in a tone which froze blood. "I will find ways constantly to remind you to hate me." Then she went out.

The color drained out of Owl's face. He staggered to the khacce table, gripping the table until his knuckles whitened. His eyes were wide and staring, as though he saw things no one else could see. "No," he whispered, anguished. "Oh Lady, no." Then he crumpled to the floor.

While Donkey was riveted with shock, he heard—altogether too close—a breathless curse, then hurried steps:
approaching
hurried steps. He pressed into the spyhole niche, cursing silently as he remembered the woman Myncerre's mention of a guard for Owl. The steps drew closer; he held his breath. He felt rather than saw someone rush past. The faint click of a latch heralded a blinding oblong of daylight. The watcher had opened one of the secret access panels. He pushed into the library and shut the panel behind him. Donkey wanted to stay to see whether Owl was all right, but this might be his best chance of escape, while the watcher was busy. The memory of Ycevi's face decided him; as silently as he knew how, he fled.