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,
***
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,
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