Read Online A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) by Beth Hilgartner - Free Book Online
Authors: Beth Hilgartner
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tell no lies."
The first speaker laughed, with bitterness. "She'll never believe that . In her world, there's no such thing as honesty—only expediency and credulity. Look, Dedemar: she's not happy and it's in your interests to make her happy. Can't you throw her a bone?"
Donkey shifted carefully, trying to get a look at the speakers. There was a pause, as though the man called Dedemar weighed his words. Donkey caught a glimpse of the foreigner: a tall, pale haired man in the livery of the Temple Watch; but the other man was ought of sight.
"Tell her," Dedemar said at last, "her puppy is meeting Rhydev at the Replete Feline tonight, after midnight. If she is aware, well enough; if not, could it be her hound turns feral?"
"The Replete Feline? A tavern on the Slum edge of the waterfront? I know the place. Good. If she wants you to spy, how can I get word to you?"
"I'm on duty. If she wants him watched, she must send someone other."
Elkhar made an approving grunt. "So you're showing some sense. There may be hope for you, after all."
"I learn fast. Do you want anything else, or should we go?"
Donkey heard the scrape of chairs as they rose. He padded back to the sink, in case either of them looked in before they left. He would have liked a look at the one called Elkhar, but it wasn't worth the risk. They hadn't sounded like they would tolerate being overheard; and words like 'assassins' and 'kill' were enough to give even Donkey pause.
He chewed on the conversation most of the afternoon. That they were talking about Squirrel's murdered customer seemed certain; but he did wish he could identify a few more of the references.
Chapter Seven—Dreams
Myncerre pursed her lips. "Come now, Owl; you must eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense. A growing boy like you?"
He sighed. He knew that look: totally unyielding. She wouldn't ease up until he'd done as she said. He took a piece of bread and chewed a corner of it. He wasn't hungry—or not terribly. Besides, the food was highly spiced and tasted odd. He ate another bite of bread; it was so soft and pale that it seemed almost tasteless, but that was preferable to the strange spices.
"Eat some of the meat, boy," Myncerre insisted.
Dutifully, he choked down a few bites. The spicing bit at the back of his throat, made his tongue feel thick and slippery. He shoved the plate away. "I dinna—"
" Don't ," the steward corrected.
Owl sighed. "I don't want any more."
Myncerre studied him, then smiled commiseratingly. "Tomorrow I'll ask the cook to make you something less highly spiced." She handed him a glass of wine. "Here; drink this."
"I'd rather have water," he told her. His head had begun to spin sickeningly.
"Drink it," she repeated.
He swallowed some of it. It was bitter; it choked him. As he coughed, he knocked the glass over. The red stuff pooled like blood on the creamy linen cloth. Owl stared at it as he caught his breath. Then, he noticed some small, dark granules, like dregs, left where the liquid had soaked into the cloth. He pinched a few off the table cloth and rolled them between his fingers; they were hard, sharp edged little crystals, and they were blue. His heart lurched as his vision blurred for an instant; he swayed in his chair, then caught himself. His frightened eyes fastened on Myncerre's face. "You've poisoned me," he said, reproachful; then he slumped forward, unconscious.
Myncerre sprang into action, sudden worry on her face. She lifted Owl and carried him to his bed; she loosened his clothing and wrapped him in blankets. It shouldn't have been enough to make him react like this! Fear tightened her lungs. How could she have miscalculated so badly? Lady Ycevi would flay her if the boy died. She rang the table cymbal to summon a servant.
"Fetch a pot of coffee," she ordered.
Before the servant returned, Owl began to moan. Myncerre felt a flicker of hope. It would be bad. The boy would likely spend the night thrashing and screaming; but in her
The first speaker laughed, with bitterness. "She'll never believe that . In her world, there's no such thing as honesty—only expediency and credulity. Look, Dedemar: she's not happy and it's in your interests to make her happy. Can't you throw her a bone?"
Donkey shifted carefully, trying to get a look at the speakers. There was a pause, as though the man called Dedemar weighed his words. Donkey caught a glimpse of the foreigner: a tall, pale haired man in the livery of the Temple Watch; but the other man was ought of sight.
"Tell her," Dedemar said at last, "her puppy is meeting Rhydev at the Replete Feline tonight, after midnight. If she is aware, well enough; if not, could it be her hound turns feral?"
"The Replete Feline? A tavern on the Slum edge of the waterfront? I know the place. Good. If she wants you to spy, how can I get word to you?"
"I'm on duty. If she wants him watched, she must send someone other."
Elkhar made an approving grunt. "So you're showing some sense. There may be hope for you, after all."
"I learn fast. Do you want anything else, or should we go?"
Donkey heard the scrape of chairs as they rose. He padded back to the sink, in case either of them looked in before they left. He would have liked a look at the one called Elkhar, but it wasn't worth the risk. They hadn't sounded like they would tolerate being overheard; and words like 'assassins' and 'kill' were enough to give even Donkey pause.
He chewed on the conversation most of the afternoon. That they were talking about Squirrel's murdered customer seemed certain; but he did wish he could identify a few more of the references.
Chapter Seven—Dreams
Myncerre pursed her lips. "Come now, Owl; you must eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense. A growing boy like you?"
He sighed. He knew that look: totally unyielding. She wouldn't ease up until he'd done as she said. He took a piece of bread and chewed a corner of it. He wasn't hungry—or not terribly. Besides, the food was highly spiced and tasted odd. He ate another bite of bread; it was so soft and pale that it seemed almost tasteless, but that was preferable to the strange spices.
"Eat some of the meat, boy," Myncerre insisted.
Dutifully, he choked down a few bites. The spicing bit at the back of his throat, made his tongue feel thick and slippery. He shoved the plate away. "I dinna—"
" Don't ," the steward corrected.
Owl sighed. "I don't want any more."
Myncerre studied him, then smiled commiseratingly. "Tomorrow I'll ask the cook to make you something less highly spiced." She handed him a glass of wine. "Here; drink this."
"I'd rather have water," he told her. His head had begun to spin sickeningly.
"Drink it," she repeated.
He swallowed some of it. It was bitter; it choked him. As he coughed, he knocked the glass over. The red stuff pooled like blood on the creamy linen cloth. Owl stared at it as he caught his breath. Then, he noticed some small, dark granules, like dregs, left where the liquid had soaked into the cloth. He pinched a few off the table cloth and rolled them between his fingers; they were hard, sharp edged little crystals, and they were blue. His heart lurched as his vision blurred for an instant; he swayed in his chair, then caught himself. His frightened eyes fastened on Myncerre's face. "You've poisoned me," he said, reproachful; then he slumped forward, unconscious.
Myncerre sprang into action, sudden worry on her face. She lifted Owl and carried him to his bed; she loosened his clothing and wrapped him in blankets. It shouldn't have been enough to make him react like this! Fear tightened her lungs. How could she have miscalculated so badly? Lady Ycevi would flay her if the boy died. She rang the table cymbal to summon a servant.
"Fetch a pot of coffee," she ordered.
Before the servant returned, Owl began to moan. Myncerre felt a flicker of hope. It would be bad. The boy would likely spend the night thrashing and screaming; but in her
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