A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (4 page)

Ferret grinned at him. "Is that again—or still?"

He shrugged. "Comes to the same thing. 'Til later, Ferret."

Chapter Four—Journeyman

Ferret had had a good day. Owl's secret hoard, which she had counted in the privacy of her lair before she hid it away, amounted to an unthinkable total: four Nobles, six Half-Nobles, fifteen Guilds and fifty-two Commons. On top of this amazing stroke of fortune (which, after all, had to do with her friend and not herself, for all that it was a wonderful thing), there had been crowds of incautious people loitering on the waterfront, and not many Watch. By late afternoon, Ferret had more than enough to appease her Master. Buoyed by her high spirits, she began to play little games with herself—shadowing this Slum denizen; spying on that one. Usually, Slum dwellers left one another alone. For one thing, it deterred one from stealing when there was a fair chance one's mark might turn out to be important in the Thieves' Guild. As Ferret made her way to the Beaten Cur, she noticed a man on the street: he was better dressed than most Slum dwellers; it wasn't that his clothes were flashy, but they were of good quality, and clean. On an impulse, she tailed him. He didn't move like a Slum dweller. He carried his head with the unconscious arrogance of gentry. She smiled slowly. If he was a merchant or some petty nobleman slumming, he was more than fair game. Carefully, she sidled closer.

Ferret's theft could have been a demonstration, it went so smoothly. One moment he had all his possessions; the next, an elegant leather purse rested inside Ferret's shirt. To make her escape, she scaled the wall of a decrepit warehouse; she watched the man saunter away, unaware of his loss. When he was out of sight—and after a careful scan of her rooftop perch—she slipped out his purse and opened it. Ferret nearly fell off the roof. In the purse were five, heavy yellow Royals, a lozenge shaped ivory miniature of a nobleman, and a gold and onyx signet ring. A wave of dizzying panic swept over her. This was no ordinary purse: it was the payment for a murder.

Ferret tried to catch her breath, tried to think. She slipped the miniature out of the purse and stared at it. Five Royals was a
fortune
; if this was the target, he'd have to be important. The miniature showed a young man in profile: tawny skinned like most of the people of Bharaghlaf; light brown eyes; classically sculpted features; black hair. It was a very good portrait, Ferret judged, for he looked as though he were about to turn to speak to her. Ferret stared at it, trying to memorize the face; then with a sigh, she made a move to return it to the purse. Instead, she found herself tucking the miniature away separately, and she recognized that she intended to keep it, and to keep it secret, regardless of consequences. She shivered. After a moment, she inspected the signet ring. The onyx was carved with a seal which was meaningless to her: a spread-winged butterfly prisoned within the lines of a six-pointed star.

After several minutes of intense inward debate, Ferret climbed down from the roofs and made her way to the Beaten Cur. At least, whatever else happened, Khyzhan couldn't accuse her of another fruitless day.

The Beaten Cur was crowded, noisome and loud. Khyzhan, sporting a bandaged arm, was holding court. There were no sniggers or comments from his bravos as Ferret approached. Khyzhan raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

"What happened to your arm, Master?" she greeted him.

"Nothing to worry over, Ferret: a mere brawl. But Ybhanne's man had a knife. In the end, we used it on him. A bit of poetic justice. And how's your hunting been, Ferret?"

"I think I've overreached, Master." She tossed the leather purse onto the table. "I lifted that off a mark I took to be flash slumming."

Khyzhan spilled the contents out onto the table. The gold chimed softly, then lay gleaming like a dragon's hoard.

"Holy gods," one of the bravos breathed.

Khyzhan picked up the signet. "House Azhere. Did your mark see you, Ferret?"

She shook her head.

"Are you certain?"

"He didn't even twitch, Master." The watchful stillness in Khyzhan's face made a horrible possibility occur to her. "He could have known I was there and been shamming—but it makes no sense. A trap for
me
would hardly be baited with
Royals
."

Khyzhan was silent so long Ferret began to fear that he was too angry to speak. He'd
warned
her to leave Slum denizens alone—and clearly, she'd disobeyed him. "Well, Ferret," the master thief said, when the silence had grown nearly unbearable. "You dinna leave me much choice. I shall have to promote you to journeyman, for all that you're young for it." He gestured to the Royals on the table. "You've paid your Guild dues through the seven years of your journeyman service." He put the things back into the purse, then rose to his feet. "Come with me; I'd best take you down to Guild headquarters and register you."

"It's kind of you, Master, but dinna you think this a case of dumb luck?"

Khyzhan pinched her chin. "Dumb luck or not, Ferret, I've no choice. Even if I wanted to give you your apprentice share, I haven't the coinage. At two fifths, Ferret—which is a thin reward for an impressive haul—your share would be two hundred Nobles; or four hundred Half-Nobles; or twelve
thousand
Guilds. So let's be off, Journeyman Ferret."

***

Sharkbait didn't like the Ivory Comb; it was on the upper fringes of the waterfront district, the haunt of gentry who imagined themselves daring. The prices were high, the ale was inferior (though the wine was good), and he always felt conspicuous, there. But Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave hadn't asked for Sharkbait's preference—and at least the old man hadn't expected him to come up to the Palace.

He scanned the trade in the taproom; it was a bit thin, but there was no one who looked like trouble. Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave had taken a table by a side window, where they could see anyone close enough to overhear. He joined him.

"Here," Sharkbait began, handing him Mouse's drawing.

The old man smiled. "She's a wonder. What can you tell me about her?"

"Her parents are flower-sellers. Too poor to be respectable, I suppose, but hard working. They're fond of her—which means, in the Slums, that they don't beat her and she usually has enough to eat. Ven," he added, noting the other man's abstracted expression. "What are you thinking?"

"Such talent deserves to be trained. It's almost a pity she has kin. It might be easier for House Ykhave to acquire her if she were an orphan."

Sharkbait laughed mirthlessly. "Approach her parents. In the Slums, everything's for sale."

Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave eyed him coolly. "That's not exactly what I meant. By the way, An—"

"
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."