A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Read online

  "Sharkbait."

  "Whatever. I heard Adheran Dhenykhare muttering imprecations against 'that damned troublemaker of a longshoreman.' It seems that two of his vessels didn't get unloaded before the noon tide and he was displeased."

  "I'm not surprised." He smiled, suddenly. "And I'm not sorry. If that tightfisted bastard won't pay my men a decent wage, his wares can rot in his hold for all of me."

  Venykhar sighed. "You certainly have a gift for making enemies—and not enough sense to pick ones who fight in your league. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

  "It's one answer," Sharkbait said bleakly.

  The older man reached across the table and gripped his wrist. "It's not an acceptable answer. Why don't you go home?"

  "Home? Home?!" He laughed bitterly. "I don't have a home, Ven; I have a cage. And I'd rather die trying to do something useful than live out my life as an exhibit in some damned nobles' zoo."

  "But is it useful—or useful enough to risk your life at it? Better wages for a handful of unskilled workers?"

  "I know what it seems like," Sharkbait retorted. "A noble's dicing bodyguards lose more in an evening than we're talking about; but do you know what a difference it makes in their lives? It means having enough money to buy both food and clothing; it means living somewhere better than in the shell of a burned out tenement. It means a little dignity, and hope—things which even in the Slums can't be bought or sold."

  "It means," Venykhar countered crisply, "plenty of money for drink, drugs and prostitutes—but be idealistic if you like."

  "Thank you, great lord, for your permission," Sharkbait retorted with scathing sarcasm. "And have you the slightest whim, the vaguest need, that I, with worm-like servility can hasten to gratify?" Something in Venykhar's expression deflated his anger. "You did that on purpose," he accused.

  There was a glint of acknowledgment in Venykhar's eyes. "Well. You seem so different. I had to see if you'd really changed. Keep an eye on little Mouse for me, while I consider how to proceed. And— Sharkbait: be careful."

  ***

  By the time Ferret reached the Trollop's Smile, the supper crowd had gone and the trade ran to serious drinkers. Donkey and Squirrel were out lighting people's ways, but Mouse, Owl and Kitten lurked in the shadowy scullery.

  "We washed the supper pots," Kitten said, "so Arkhyd willn't complain about us. Mouse is waiting for Sharkbait. What's up, Fret? You're big with news."

  "I'd rather not discuss it. Zhazh going to miss you, Owl?"

  Owl shook his head. "He's full of Ease. So much for yesterday's takings. You'll feel better if you tell us."

  "No, I willn't," Ferret insisted. Kitten and Owl were marshaling their persuasive forces; Ferret dreaded staving them off, but she was too uneasy to relate the events—and she didn't dare tell anyone about the miniature until she'd had a chance to think. Fortunately, Sharkbait chose that moment to sidle into the scullery and the conversation turned to desultory banter while the longshoreman taught Mouse how to cut and shape a quill. It wasn't as easy as it looked, and it took even more practice to be able to use the fickle implement for drawing. Sharkbait was surprisingly patient. As Ferret watched him, she found herself wondering what chance there was he would teach her the trick of writing. Before she could ask, Squirrel burst in, out of breath and extremely pale.

  "You'll never believe what just happened," he panted. "The man I was escorting—we were attacked. At least five men—armed: knives; I think he was killed, right off. And then—and then the Watch showed up."

  "The Watch?" Kitten and Owl demanded.

  "In the Slums?" Ferret added.

  Squirrel nodded. "We weren't three streets from the Temple Gate. Two hentes: one Watch, one Temple Watch. I dropped the torch and ran. I dinna like it."

  "Your mark: what was he like?" Sharkbait asked.

  "Flash slumming, I thought," Squirrel said. "Good clothes, clean. Naught remarkable, except he moved like gentry."

  Mouse frowned at Squirrel. "Would you know him if you saw him again?"

  "Happen you didn't hear, Mouse: he's dead!"

  She dipped her quill in the inkpot and began to sketch. "Is this him?" She drew the man who had called himself Sea Hawk, and sent her on an errand to a Temple Watchman. Squirrel's eyes widened. So did Ferret's. Sharkbait swore.

  "That's him," Squirrel breathed.

  "How did you know, Mouse?" the longshoreman demanded.

  "Guessed. He paid me to take a message for him, yesterday. To a Temple Watchman. He cheated me," she added primly.

  "The Temple Watchman: was he a foreigner?" Sharkbait pressed. "Blond? Mustache?" At her nod, he swore again. Then he rounded on Ferret. "And why do you look like you've swallowed a hive of hornets, Journeyman Ferret?"

  Ferret forced herself to breathe; somewhat to her surprise, her voice was steady. "You've a keen ear for rumor."

  "Is that your mark?" Sharkbait persisted, eyes hard.

  Ferret nodded. "Who was he?"

  "What did you lift off him?"

  Ferret's lip curled. "What? Didn't rumor say?"

  "Rumor lies. What did you lift?"

  The look on Sharkbait's face froze her blood. For an eternity, she considered—and he waited, coiled like an adder. Finally, seeing no alternative, Ferret answered him. "A purse, containing five Royals, a gold signet ring with a black stone, and this." She reached into her shirt; as her hand closed around the ivory miniature, she hesitated. "I've not told Khyzhan—or anyone else, for that matter—about this, if you're looking to get me killed." She spun the miniature across the stone floor to Sharkbait's waiting grasp.

  His face lit with recognition, then clouded with puzzlement. "What was the signet?"

  "A butterfly in a six-pointed star. Khyzhan said 'House Azhere.' Who was the mark? And who's the portrait?"

  While Sharkbait sat, thinking, Mouse snatched the miniature out of his hand. "It's him!" she crowed. "It is. It is!"

  "Who?" Ferret demanded.

  "Him! The Scholar King: Khethyran."

  "The Emperor," Kitten, Ferret and Owl breathed.

  "Who was he?" Ferret asked again. "The man hired to kill the Emperor: who was he? And who hired him? House Azhere?"

  Sharkbait got to his feet, took the miniature back from Mouse and shoved it into Ferret's hand. "Keep this hidden."

  "Sharkbait!" Ferret's snarl halted him halfway to the door. "You'd best explain."

  "Or what? I recognize a threat when one's offered."

  "Or I'll go to Khyzhan."

  "All right," he growled. "This could get you killed—and it's all surmise. I'm trying to protect you." When he saw no compromise in her eyes, he sighed explosively and came back to her side. "I think someone intended to implicate House Azhere, make people think they hired your mark to kill the Emperor. I can't imagine any other reason anyone would be stupid enough to put a recognizable portrait and a signet ring in the same purse. Now—"

  "Wait!" Mouse cried. "Is someone trying to kill the Scholar King?"

  Sharkbait laughed mirthlessly. "Someone's always trying to kill the Emperor. Now, don't speak of this to anyone."

  "Dinna be silly," Kitten said firmly. "You must know we'll tell Donkey."

  He rolled his eyes. "Don't tell anyone else, then; and be very careful you're not overheard. This isn't a game, children." Then, he disappeared into the night.

  No sooner had Sharkbait gone, then Donkey stepped through he door, smiling in his habitual manner. As he turned to Ferret, his blank facade cracked into awe. "Did you really lift a purse with five Royals in it?"

  She nodded solemnly. "Khyzhan made me Journeyman over it. Were you outside the whole time?"

  He shrugged. "Nearly. I heard the commotion the Watch made over Squirrel's customer. They weren't half angry; seems he was supposed to have something on him and didn't. I cut along when I heard them say 'search the streets.'"

  "So what do we do?" Kitten asked.

  "Naught," Ferret replied. "Wait. Lie low."

/>   "We have to warn him," Mouse said.

  "Dinna be silly," Ferret snapped. "Who'd listen to us?"

  "No," Owl said. "No. Mouse is right. We have to warn the Emperor—but we must know more, first..." Owl's eyes were wide, desperate, unfocused.

  "Owl," Kitten protested, shaking the boy's arm. "We're only Slum-rats. There's naught we can do!"

  "But he needs us!" Owl wailed; then, he burst into tears.

  Chapter Five—Slave

  Much later, Owl crept into the dilapidated hovel he and his brother used as living quarters. He heard Zhazher's heavy breathing, interrupted by an occasional muttered word. Owl stifled a sigh. Zhazh must have taken the whole Half-Noble's worth of the drug in order to be so deeply under after all this time. His mouth quirked in a pained smile. At least he could stop creeping around quite so carefully. Zhazh was in no shape to notice if the Emperor and all his heralds marched through, cymbals clashing.

  Going by feel, he located the flint and steel. A moment later, the hovel was warmed by a friendly pool of lamplight. Then, Owl froze. Light caught on a glitter of eyes in the shadowy corner; not rat's eyes: human's. Owl clamped his teeth on his startlement and by force of will, made himself set the lamp down with a steady hand. Then, he turned, making a pretense of looking for something while he edged toward the doorway. Whoever lurked there meant no good—else why not greet him?

  Owl nearly made it; but as he ducked through the opening, muscles coiled to sprint for the Trollop, someone grabbed him, enveloping him in a smothering piece of canvas. He was thrown heavily to the cobbles. As he lay, trying to get breath back into his lungs, he heard voices.

  "Got him?" That voice came from inside the hovel.

  "Aye."

  "Good. Truss him—but gently. Zhazh marked him; don't make it worse. When he's tied, I'd like a good look at him."

  They bound his wrists and ankles, then removed the canvas. One of the men approached, carrying the lamp. By its light, the boy and the man studied one another. Owl saw a man in his late thirties, better groomed and fed than any Slum denizen; his round, gray eyes, and the thick fringe of beard along his jaw gave him an exotic look. As Owl studied him, the man smiled; the expression called to mind a cat faced with a very full dish of cream.

  "For once," he murmured, "I'm not disappointed. You have amazingly beautiful eyes, boy, even with the bruises."

  Owl turned his face away as an overpowering wave of cold despair churned through his innards. Now he knew who this was: Anthagh, the slaver. The two men were talking again; Owl made himself listen.

  "—in no shape to take the agreed price, sir. Do you want to leave it?"

  "And risk a dispute about the pay? No. Stay until he wakes, then pay him. Twenty Guilds and a fentarre of Dream's Ease."

  "You canna," Owl pleaded. "You canna give Zhazh that much Ease all at once. He'll take it all—he canna help himself—and that much would put him under for days. Someone's sure to steal the money from him, if they dinna kill him."

  "Your wretched brother sold you, boy. You can't possibly care what happens to him." The slaver frowned, seeing tears on Owl's cheeks. "But you do care. Gods. He doesn't deserve you."

  "I dinna deserve this," Owl said softly.

  "No," the slaver agreed. "You don't." He stooped, and picked Owl up.

  "If you untie my feet, I'll walk," Owl suggested.

  The man laughed. "If I untied your feet, you'd run."

  "Sir," the other man interjected. "Shall I fetch Thalen?"

  "No. I'll manage." He set off into the night, carrying Owl like a child.

  "What are you going to do with me?" Owl asked, watching the man's face.

  "I'm going to sell you, boy. I've a client who's been looking for something like you."

  "I've a friend in the Thieves' Guild who owes me a favor. Happen you could sell me to her."

  "I doubt your friend owes you a favor big enough. If you interest my client, we're talking a price in Royals. And even on the open Block, without any training or talents, I daresay you'd fetch sixty Nobles." He looked down at Owl with a flicker of compassion. "Look: someone who pays that kind of money for you won't let you go hungry."

  Owl's face crumpled into tears. "But—but I dinna want to be a slave."

  He set Owl on his feet and wiped the boy's eyes with a handkerchief. "It's too late, lad. You are a slave. I have the documents, and your brother's been paid. Even if you got away from me, it wouldn't change that. You can scream, weep, plead—and none of it will help. Or you can walk beside me and try to make a good impression on my client. I think you'd be happier there, than sold on the Block to one of the pleasure houses."

  "Not to mention," Owl put in sourly, "that you'd rather get a price in Royals, than a mere sixty Nobles. But go ahead and untie my feet. I willn't run away."

  The slaver fixed a leash of rope to Owl's bound wrists, then cut the boy's feet free. The man took them out of the Slums, through the waterfront district into an area of wide streets lined with shops and good inns. There, he hired a litter. Owl had never ridden in a litter, and though he would have liked to see where they were going, the curtains were pulled shut. When the litter came to a halt and the slaver and Owl climbed out, they were in a courtyard. To Owl's surprise, a soldier in the colors of the Imperial Guard and two of his men came over to them.

  "Ah," the Imperial Guard commander said, with faint disgust. "Master Anthagh. Plying your trade, I see."

  "Indeed, dear Commander Bhenekh," the slaver replied with a tight smile. "As you are yours. Truly, there is no rest for us dedicated servants of the nobility. Come along, boy," he added, hurrying Owl though the courtyard and into a long, wide hallway.

  Master Anthagh threaded his way through a maze every bit as complicated as the Slums—though far cleaner. They had been walking for several minutes before Owl realized they were in the Royal Palace. His heart sank; he remembered tales of the dissolute habits of the nobility. As suddenly and unexpectedly as hope, Owl heard music; it was coming from an open doorway: the subtle voice of a lute—and then, impossibly sweet, a cascade of notes from a flute. He froze. With the music came an image: the foreign woman of whom he had dreamed, with a lute in her hands; beside her, the nobleman Mouse had drawn, his shrewd eyes half-closed, an ivory and silver flute against his lips.

  "Come along," Anthagh prodded.

  "Please, sir." Owl put years of begging experience to use. "Canna we go in and listen? Just for a moment? It's so very beautiful." When the slaver hesitated, Owl allowed a faint shade of his very real despair to color his voice. "Please. What difference will a minute or two make?"

  The slaver looked down at Owl, and the pleading, the pain in the boy's wide, golden eyes got through his hard armor of self-interest. "What harm can it do?" he murmured, almost to himself. "Very well; a minute only. But don't disturb them." Master Anthagh and Owl slipped into the room. The musicians were seated between two banks of tall, white candles. They faced the doorway, not ten feet away, exactly as Owl had pictured them. The music surged around them, perfect and tender; then the lute player broke off. The nobleman opened his eyes to look reproachfully at his partner; then he followed her gaze.

  Master Anthagh swept a bow. "Forgive us for troubling you. Come on, boy," he added.

  "Wait," the woman said.

  Spurred by panic, Owl dragged the nobleman's name to the surface of his mind. "Lord—Lord Ghobhezh-Ykhave!"

  The flute-player approached, his cane tapping on the stone floor. "Of course," he said. "Mouse's little friend, no?"

  He nodded. "Owl."

  "Yes. Owl. Indeed." He turned to Master Anthagh. "Is he for sale? What's your price?"

  "I regret, my lord, that the boy is already spoken for."

  "But you s—" Owl began, before the slaver's hand crushed a painful warning into his arm.

  "Perhaps I could pay for your client's disappointment," Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave suggested.

  "Ah, but disappointment is so very costly."

  He tu
rned his free hand palm upwards. "How much?"

  Master Anthagh shrugged apologetically. "Fifty Royals."

  Regret touched the nobleman's face as he looked at Owl. "I fear we of House Ykhave aren't equipped to buy off disappointment on such a scale. I'd go as high as five Royals for the lad, but I'm not in a position to offer more."

  Master Anthagh bowed again. "If my client should decide he doesn't suit, I shall return."

  "Good. I'll be here until midnight; or come to my rooms."

  "Very good, Lord Venykhar. Come on, Owl."

  Owl stopped paying attention to where they were going. Hopelessness overwhelmed him. Only the insistent pressure of Master Anthagh's hand on his arm kept him moving. When they finally reached their destination, a servant answered the slaver's knock and led them to a lavishly furnished room, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books. In one corner stood an inlaid khacce table, the exquisitely carved game pieces poised for play. After several minutes, a woman entered. Her silvery white hair spoke of age, but the dark eyes in her seamed face shone with vivid life.

  "Ah, Anthagh," she greeted him.

  To Owl's surprise, the slaver sank to one knee. "My Lady Ycevi. See what I brought you: will he do, do you think?"

  "Come here, boy," she ordered imperiously. When Owl was in reach, she took his face in her hands, turning it this way and that. "Who beat you?"

  "My brother."

  "And did you deserve the beating?"

  "He thought I did," Owl replied.

  She removed a slender knife from her sleeve and cut Owl's bonds. "He's filthy," she commented as she examined his hands. "Where did you find him?"

  "He begs in the Temple Gate. I saw him there; I thought he might have what you need."

  She darted a shrewd look at the slaver. "Is he legally yours? I want no trouble."

  "I bought him from his brother."

  "Good." She turned back to Owl. "What are you called, boy?"

  "Owl."

  "You ought to know, Lady Ycevi, that Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave is interested in the boy."

  Lady Ycevi arched one eyebrow. "Really? I didn't think he was—susceptible. How did you learn this—and how interested was he, Anthagh?"