"Would it bother you if I did?"
Owl shook his head. "The real questions are, would it bother Yverri—and how much scandal would it brew?"
Cithanekh sighed. "I'd do it, if I thought it would really answer. It's very clear there's something between you both; scandalmongers may believe that I would marry a woman to provide you with a mistress, but the Adepts are going to find a much more compelling explanation in the truth. If she were your wife—so romantic; a love match—you might be able to pull off the disguise, but I don't think it will work if I marry her."
Owl gave a humorless laugh. "We're doubtless naïve to imagine such a transparent disguise will work at all, with the Adepts; but Cithanekh, I don't know what else to do, what else to try. And at least if Yverri is my wife—or yours—we can deploy the bodyguards to protect her."
"It isn't something we can solve today, in any case," Cithanekh said as he got up from the desk. "Are you hungry? It's nearly time for lunch."
"I suppose. Where's Arre—and Vixen?"
"Arre went out. I think she was planning to see Kerigden, among other errands. Vixen and Marhysse were going to spar this morning; they're probably done by now."
"Then let's—" He broke off as his Gift sent a wave of images through his mind: an unfamiliar man—a servant by his dress—being interrogated by Captain Ysmenarr; Lyssemarhe trying to rouse an unresponsive Klarhynne Dhenykhare; Ancith, looking smug, as he listened to one of the Queen's Guard; Akhatheraf Dhenykhare and several of his servants set upon by ragged attackers; Mouse, clad in a rough tunic and trousers, a flaming torch gripped like a weapon in one hand. The images ceased. Owl felt Cithanekh's arm supporting him. He leaned against the young lord.
"Are you all right?" Cithanekh asked.
Owl nodded. "Something's brewing—but it's all fragments to me, still. Let's go eat."
"Yes. Afterwards, maybe you should take a nap. You look exhausted."
"A nap?" Owl repeated. Then his expression turned arch. "Alone?"
"Well, maybe not completely alone," Cithanekh replied, matching Owl's tone. "And possibly the nap wouldn't be immediately after lunch."
Owl laughed and they went out together.
***
Arre found Mouse on the steps of the Windbringer's Temple.
"Hello, Mouse. Vixen gave me your message. What can I do for you?"
"I need your help," Mouse told her. "Ferret, Sharkbait and I are planning to raid one of the Upper Town houses—soon."
"Good. I won't ask for details; doubtless I shouldn't know. But what do you need me to do?"
Mouse opened her satchel and removed two heavy sheets of paper. They bore portraits, tenderly rendered: one of the child, Ghynna, and the other of Penarh. "I want to make an offering and ask a blessing of the Windbringer, but I have heard she listens best to music. I thought you might play for me."
"Oh, Mouse," Arre said quietly. "Any of the priests would make your petition for you. Why ask me?"
Mouse stared into the foreign woman's face, her own eyes brimming with tears. "I ask you, Arre of Kalledann, because I know you, and because I am certain that to you, Ghynna and Penarh are children, bitter casualties in this struggle—not merely Slum trash swept aside. I don't know all the priests, Arre, but you do; can't you speak to them, and ask them to permit you to carry the burden of my petition?"
"I'll ask, Mouse," Arre said quietly. "Come inside and wait. It may take some time to get permission."
As Mouse waited in the shadowy dimness of the empty Temple, she stared unseeingly at the two portraits. In her mind, she saw her students alive, vibrant, full of curiosity, energy and hope; and tears slid unnoticed down her cheeks. After a time, Arre came and sat beside her. She took out her lute and tuned it. Then, she began to play. The music embellished the silence, full of pain and loss, but strangely beautiful. When it seemed right to her, Mouse got up and laid the two portraits on the steps of the dais.
"Lady Windbringer: Talyene," she said quietly. "I have neither mind gifts nor magic, no power to compel—only the strength of my determination and the justice of my cause. Hear me, I beg: I intend to confront Thyzhecci with her part in the deaths of my friends, and I ask your guidance and your blessing."
There was a breath of moving air, then, and Arre's music seemed suddenly clearer and more poignant. The two portraits lifted on the breeze and then settled. Mouse bowed and went back to her seat. The music under Arre's fingers came at last to its close, and slowly, the silence rebuilt itself in the vaulted shadows. Finally, Mouse touched Arre's wrist, smiled her thanks, and left. Arre sat for several more minutes before she put her lute back in its case and headed deeper into the building to see Kerigden.
Chapter Twenty-nine—The Upper Town House
When Mouse dismissed her last class of the day, she returned to her office. Through the open door, the noise of the departing students—the scuff and clump of feet on the stairs, laughter, cheerful farewells—slowly receded into the street. As she heard the front door close behind the last of them, she shut her office door and retrieved the bundle of clothing and gear she had slid under the desk. Quickly, she changed out of her sober skirt into the dark, rather shabby tunic and trousers she had brought, then braided her hair pinning it up under a floppy cap. She didn't look much like a boy, she knew, but she also didn't look like either a court lady or a teacher at the Free School. She made a rapid survey of her equipment: a tinderbox with flint and steel; a collapsible grappling hook and a length of the fine, silk cord—gifts from Ferret; a pair of the folding scissors one of her Ykhave cousins had fashioned; a silver spice box with a sliding lid, full of the hottest ground pepper she could find; and a large, extremely sheer silk scarf. For all its shabbiness, her tunic had several capacious pockets where she stowed her treasures carefully away.
When all was in readiness, she locked up and left the school, slipping easily into the late afternoon foot traffic. Since the tanneries and the weaving sheds had shut down for the day, there were a lot of people heading for home. As Mouse left the Slums and the rough residential districts behind her, the streets began to empty. By the time she neared the Upper Town address Ferret had given her, there were only a few people around. She slipped off the wide street into a lane that led to the back-gardens and stable yards of several of the houses. She counted doorways until she reached the fifth; Sharkbait was there, lounging against the wall, watching her come.
"Ho, Mouse."
"Ho, Sharkbait. So: what's the plan?"
"Over the back wall into the garden. Ferret's already in there. Are you armed? Do you want a knife?"
"No," she said firmly, and Sharkbait let it go.
A moment later, they were over the stone wall in a rather unkempt back-garden. They made their cautious way along the wall toward the house; when they reached it, Ferret materialized out of the shadows like her own ghost. "There's a cook and three other servants in the kitchens," she whispered. "They're up to their elbows in dinner makings, but it doesn't look as though the meal will be ready before full dark."
"No one else?"
Ferret shrugged. "I could hardly search the whole house. There might be someone on the upper floors, but Rhodh and Khather haven't see anyone but the servants coming and going in days."
"Wait," Mouse said. "Are you expecting to get in and out before the dinner guests arrive? I want to talk to Thyzhecci."
"If we are able to find that thing Owl wants—the cage of brambles—we need to take it and leave," Ferret replied. "We can...talk with Thyzhecci another time. But if it isn't here, I thought we might wait and see who comes to dinner."
"Did it look like a big dinner, Ferret?" Sharkbait asked. "Will three servers be enough, or will we need to be watching for extra servants?"
She shrugged again. "I'm hardly an expert on the culinary practices of the Dark Lady's order, but I don't think they are aesthetes. It looked like several courses, but not large amounts of each one."
"Let's go," Mouse suggested, and Ferret nodded.
"This way: there are some open windows on the terrace."
It was an easy matter to slip through the tall windows and then through the sitting room into the downstairs hall. They padded softly up the main staircase to the second floor which had a long, central corridor, with doors along both sides. They began a quiet, quick and methodical search. None of the rooms was occupied, though they were all carefully swept and dusted: bedrooms with adjoining sitting rooms—each furnished with an elegant escritoire and enough books to make Mouse envious; and two marble and tile baths; but no room quite like the one Owl had described, and definitely no small cage of brambles. They went up the front stairs to the third floor. There was no central corridor on this floor, just a broad landing with a door in each of the three walls. The first door they opened gave on a parlor furnished with deep leather armchairs, a thick, crimson carpet, and a sideboard stocked with cut glass decanters.
"This looks more promising," Ferret whispered as they searched, but there was no cage of brambles, nor anything else of interest.
The opposite door led to an airy drawing room, its divans, settees and armchairs upholstered in straw-gold silks, and the windows draped in gauzy lace. The search there was quicker and yielded nothing.
The last door led to a library. There were hundreds of volumes in the tall shelves, a richly patterned carpet on the floor, and dark, substantial furniture; but the thing that riveted their attention was the large table under one of the ogive windows. At one end, there was a drape of jacquard silk pushed aside to expose the wood, and something rested there…
Mouse headed for the table.
"Mouse, wait—" Ferret protested, but her words were cut off as Sharkbait yanked her out of the doorway. With a vicious hiss and clatter, a heavy metal grate fell into place across the doorway; then, the thick wooden door began to swing shut. Somewhere deep in the house, a bell tolled.
"Ferret, get out!" Mouse cried. "It's not the cage of brambles. I'll deal with Thyzhe—" The thud of the door cut off her words.
Ferret cursed. "I'm a fool. Owl warned us it was a trap."
"Reproach yourself later," Sharkbait advised. "Let's go."
They went back into the drawing room. The windows there looked out over the back-garden. Sharkbait opened one of them while Ferret fitted her grappling hook together and unwound the length of fine silk cord from around her waist. In short order, they were on the ground and running. When they were away from the immediate area, they slowed, checked for pursuit, and finding none strolled along the wide avenue, arm in arm.
"Thieves or longshoremen for reinforcements?" Sharkbait asked.
"Let me think. Gods and dead fish. Maybe we should find Donkey."
Sharkbait raised his eyebrows. "Do you think Mouse is in that much danger from Thyzhecci? Surely she won't dare hurt her with us as witnesses."
"And what if she summons her friend the Adept and they work some appalling magic on Mouse?"
"A point. Are Rhodh and Khather still at watching posts? They could keep track of who comes."
"Provided we even recognize the Adept—remember the Bodywalking—if we wait until he arrives, there won't be time to fetch Donkey and the Imperials. On the other hand, if we fetch them now and Mouse does something...rash —"
Sharkbait nodded. "It will be hard for the Emperor not to know what happened. She's not armed, if that matters. I tried to give her a knife, but she refused it."
"Not armed," Ferret repeated scornfully. "You mean she doesn't have a blade."
"She's not going to murder Thyzhecci with a clever pair of scissors."
Ferret remembered, then, the time she had offered to teach Mouse knife fighting. Mouse had lifted her chin and fixed the thief with a haughty look worthy of any duke. "If the day comes when I cannot flay someone with words or skewer him with a glance, then doubtless I deserve whatever happens." Then she'd shrugged and laughed. "Besides, I always carry pepper."
"I think," Ferret said softly, "I'm inclined to let Mouse handle this—but the stakes are so high. I'm going to send Khather after another ten of my men. I'd like you to go to the Palace—"
"You're letting Mouse handle it and you want Imperials in this?"
"No. Let me finish. Go to the Palace and ask Cithanekh for some of the Ghytteve bodyguards. Tell them not to wear their livery."
Sharkbait gave a low whistle. "You're getting to be very ruthless, Ferret."
She smiled crookedly. "Who do you think I learned it from? Be careful—and be quick."
He kissed her. "Watch yourself, my sweet thief."
***
When the grate rattled down and the door slammed, Mouse swore angrily. She tried the door, but it was locked. She considered trying to pick the lock, but even if she managed to get the door open, there would still be the grate to get through. The windows, she found, also had grates over them—affixed to the stonework outside, and all new and sturdy. She had heard the alarm bell toll, so she knew the household had been alerted. It was only a matter of time before Thyzhecci or one of her minions came up to see what their trap had snared.
In addition to the bookshelves and the large table, there were a number of other chairs—some richly upholstered, others of elegantly turned and polished wood. There were also several small tables, most with pretty stoneware lamps on them. Mouse collected several of the lamps. A closer inspection revealed that they had all been recently filled with oil and their wicks were neatly trimmed. Mouse smiled in satisfaction. Working quickly, she broke one of the elegant chairs apart, carefully salvaging the straight legs, rungs and spindles and setting them beside her collection of lamps. Then, she took the jacquard throw and cut it into strips, which she soaked in lamp oil and wrapped tightly around the sticks from the chairs. Using her tinderbox, she lit one of the remaining lamps and set the pile of torches nearby. Next, she shook out the folds of her sheer silk scarf, laying it out flat. Quickly, she tied a knot several inches from one corner and, taking the scarf by the corners adjacent to the knotted one, she tied it around her neck. To test it, she pulled the knotted corner over her head and threaded it through the scarf under her chin. It formed a makeshift hood which covered her face completely, but was sheer enough not to obstruct her vision. She pushed the silk back over her head, so that her face was uncovered. She took out the spice box and slid the lid open half way, before she tucked the box carefully into an accessible pocket. Then, she selected a book from the shelves, laid it open on the floor before her and settled down, close to the pile of torches, to wait.
It wasn't very long before she heard noises. There was the unmistakable scrape of a bolt being drawn, but the sound did not come from the direction of the doorway. Mouse looked up from the book in time to see one of the heavy bookcases pivot on its center to form an opening. A thin, dark-haired woman slipped quickly through the opening; she was followed closely by the High Priestess Thyzhecci. When both women were in the room, the bookcase swung back into place with a faint creak and a noticeable click.
"Amynne Ykhave," Thyzhecci said with one raised eyebrow. "I almost didn't recognize you. How careless of you to get caught in our little trap."
Mouse nodded. "The others tried to warn me, but I've always been rash. Are you going to let me out, or wait until my friends come back for me?"
The High Priestess smiled pityingly, but before she could answer, the other woman spoke.
"If the friends to whom you refer are the thief and the longshoreman, they aren't coming back. They were caught in the street outside the house and killed." She spoke without a noticeable accent, and her tone was so calmly matter-of-fact as to be utterly chilling.
Mouse made herself smile with unconcern. "You should have said they were caught in the back-garden and killed. This room looks out over the street—and the windows are all open, Hassythe."
Thyzhecci started, then transformed her expression into one of polite surprise. "I didn't realize you two were acquainted," she said.
"Oh, we haven't been formally intr
oduced," Mouse explained airily. "I only know your...associate by repute."
The High Priestess turned a questioning look on the other woman and said, acerbic, "I thought you were being discreet."
"A public murder isn't an act of discretion in any light, Thyzhecci," Mouse remarked. "I should think you'd realize that notoriety clings like a scarlet cloak to both of you. There isn't a dealer in the city who'll sell you Temple slaves without a specific rider in the bill of sale prohibiting their use as sacrifices."
"You're remarkably well-informed," Hassythe said softly. "I hadn't dared to hope our trap would actually catch the blind Seer's eyes."
Mouse spread her hands deprecatingly. "I only disseminate information—I'm not one of the ones who gather it."
There was a moment of silence as Hassythe crossed to the table and glanced out the window. Thyzhecci studied Mouse for a moment before she asked, "If you weren't gathering information, what were you doing by breaking into this house?"
"I should think that obvious—even to you," Mouse retorted. "We were hoping to retrieve the xhi'essiss."
Hassythe shot a sharp, surprised look at Mouse.
"The what?" Thyzhecci demanded.
"The xhi'essiss. The cage of brambles with Kerigden's hair in it; the heart of the death spell you cast on him."
Thyzhecci smiled smugly. "Ah. The bait. You were right, Hassythe, when you said it would fetch them. But it wouldn't have done you any good, Amynne. It was a false image planted in Owl's mind."
"Is that what you were told?" Mouse asked. "You know, Thyzhecci, I don't think your...associate trusts you very much. Why do you suppose Hassythe didn't want you to know what was really holding Kerigden bound?"
Thyzhecci laughed. "You hope to plant suspicion in my mind—how transparent you are!—but it won't work."
"Oh, trust me," Mouse snapped, "to have better sense than to try to plant anything in that rock pile you call a mind! Think—if you haven't lost the knack. Didn't Hassythe promise you that the spell you cast with Ghynna's blood would kill the Windbringer's priest? He's not dead. Have you asked yourself why not?"
A Parliament of Owls Page 35
