A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

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