The Vondish Ambassador

Chapter Fifteen

Emmis had never ridden in a carriage before. He had rarely even seen a carriage; he doubted there was a single person living in Shiphaven who owned one. He wondered where Lord Ildirin kept his; he had never noticed anything like a stable or carriage barn connected with the Palace.

He had wound up facing backward as he rode, seated next to the guardsman, facing Lord Ildirin, with Gita diagonally across from him. The coachman and the other two guards were riding somewhere on the outside of the vehicle, where Emmis couldn’t see them.

It was slightly disorienting, riding backward; he could not recall ever having done it before, as wagons usually didn’t have any reversed seats. And they didn’t have any seats upholstered in velvet like these, either, or lace curtains over glass windows. This was an adventure, riding in Lord Ildirin’s coach — though it meant he wouldn’t be making any stops on Bargain Street.

Gita was staring out the window, wide-eyed, as the carriage rumbled up Commerce Street; Emmis thought she looked more terrified than excited. Lord Ildirin was quite composed, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes closed; he appeared to be resting.

Emmis glanced sideways at the guardsman, but he looked bored, and not inclined to talk.

Emmis wondered who Zefna was. He had been hustled out to the carriage and had not seen who else the guard spoke to. From Lord Ildirin’s phrasing it didn’t seem as if Zefna could be any of the guards, or the coachman, or the innkeeper; who else was there?

He coughed, hoping the guard would take an interest.

Instead, Lord Ildirin’s eyes opened. “Your pardon, Emmis,” he said. “I was contemplating what I’ve learned today.”

“Of course, my lord,” Emmis said hastily. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“But you’re bored and curious, and after the better part of a mile, the novelty of riding in a nobleman’s carriage has worn off. I entirely understand, young man. I could continue questioning you, if you like.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Emmis said hastily. Lord Ildirin’s interrogation had been exhausting.

“Or perhaps there are questions you would like to ask me?”

“Ah...”

“I can always simply decline to answer, should you pry into inappropriate matters, and I think I would find it amusing to learn what you consider worth inquiring about. Ask away, sir.”

“Ah... who is Zefna, my lord?”

Lord Ildirin smiled. “A person in my employ,” he said. “Someone adept at listening without appearing to, watching without being seen, and gathering information without being noticed. He is residing in the Crooked Candle at present, alert for anything of interest.”

“A...” Emmis had started to say, “A spy?” but caught himself in time. “An informant?”

“You could call him that. An observer. The common term would be a spy.”

So much for tact, Emmis thought. “And he’s staying at the Crooked Candle in case the foreigners come back?”

“Or in case anyone else comes looking for them, yes.”

Emmis nodded. “I’m surprised to see you taking such an interest in all this, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“I wouldn’t have thought a single attack would attract the attention of someone as highly placed as yourself.”

“Ah, but this is more than a single attack. It is a political matter, and one that may be of great interest to my nephew and the other triumvirs.”

Emmis blinked. “Why?” he asked. “It’s just another squabble among the Small Kingdoms.”

“No, it is not,” Lord Ildirin said, raising his hands and touching the tips of his index fingers together to form a point. “In two regards, it is not. Firstly, it involves the Empire of Vond, which is a new thing in the land we call the Small Kingdoms. For more than two hundred years, the number of nations there increased — at the end of the Great War there were perhaps eighty of the so-called kingdoms, though in fact several did not actually have kings, and five years ago, when my brother died and my nephew became overlord of this city, there were two hundred and four. Two hundred and four, Emmis, in an area perhaps a third the size of the Hegemony. That’s a totally absurd number. There was no point in trying to maintain diplomatic relations with all of them, or to regulate trade with them all — there were just too many to keep straight, and their alliances and feuds and rivalries shifted so quickly that there was no possibility of maintaining any coherent policies toward most of them. We dealt with them as necessary, particularly those on our own border, or with operating ports, but for most the best we could do was to simply ignore them. We had treaties and agreements with Morria and Lamum and the like, but Azdara or Thuth might as well have not existed at all. If we did try to develop a policy, borders would shift, civil wars erupt, and we might well find ourselves facing two or three kingdoms where there had been one before. It was hopelessly unmanageable. We had despaired of it.”

He leaned forward, and stared Emmis straight in the eye, as he said, “And then Vond the Warlock came along, and conquered Semma and Ophkar and Ksinallion, and the next thing we knew seventeen of the Small Kingdoms were combined into the Empire of Vond, and we had gone from two hundred and four to one hundred and eighty-eight. For the first time in recorded history, the number of governments in the Small Kingdoms, in Old Ethshar, had decreased. For the first time.”

“Oh,” Emmis said.

Ildirin sat upright again. “We want to encourage this trend. Oh, we don’t necessarily want all of Old Ethshar reunited; that might pose a challenge of an entirely different sort. But reducing the number from hundreds to dozens — that we would welcome. So we are very interested indeed in seeing what’s to become of the Empire of Vond, on that count alone — and that’s without even mentioning that it is ruled by an Ethsharite, and that the official language of the new government is Ethsharitic. We have hopes of dealing with Lord Sterren and his Imperial Council on a rational basis, untroubled by ancient feuds, byzantine family ties, absurd border disputes, irrational traditions, and the general barbarity of the region.” He turned up an empty palm. “We may, of course, be wildly over-optimistic about this — but we certainly don’t want to see the first Vondish ambassador to our city assassinated before we have even met him.”

The carriage jerked and bumped just then as they rounded a corner; Emmis glanced out the window and saw that they had turned onto West Warehouse Street. It would never have occurred to him to take this route, but the coachman presumably knew what he was doing. Perhaps the horses didn’t like the slope up to High Street.

Then he turned back to Lord Ildirin. “You said there were two things?”

“Yes.” Ildirin nodded. “The other one is much simpler. The attack took place here, in Ethshar of the Spices. We don’t allow that. That’s been one way we handled all the two hundred-some Small Kingdoms, by imposing a very firm set of rules. One of those rules is that the Hegemony is neutral, that they shall not bring any of their thousands of petty squabbles here. We don’t care whether the Imryllirionese think the Korosans are all demons in human guise, or the Korosans think Imryllirion is the Northern Empire reborn — here, in Ethshar, they will all treat each other as human beings, equal in rights and virtues, or we will either expel or hang them all, Korosan and Imryllirionese alike. They don’t need to like one another, but by all the gods they will respect one another while they are within our walls, and they will obey our laws, or they will pay for it. If this Ashthasan, or these Lumethans, had hired an assassin in Hend or Ghelua or wherever he took ship to kill the Vondish ambassador, we would not be pleased, but we would do nothing. If they had hired a demonologist to sink his ship somewhere in the Gulf of the East, we would make no real protest. But once he set his foot on our docks, he was under our protection, and they either knew that, or should have known it. And for them to attack you, as well — an Ethsharite, in his home city — well, that privilege we reserve to our native-born scoundrels, and forbid to these imported troublemakers.”

“All right,” Emmis said. “So you’re serious about finding out what happened and punishing those responsible.”

“Yes.”

“But then why are we here? Why are you, personally, my lord, questioning people in Shiphaven and Allston? Why not hire magicians to tell you where you can find the Lumethans and the people who attacked me? I know the magistrates call in magicians sometimes — why didn’t you?”

Ildirin smiled, and ran the fingers of his left hand through his long white beard. “Once again, there are two reasons,” he said. “I did not choose to involve any magicians because this is a political matter, and I do not care to attract the attention of the Wizards’ Guild or the Council of Warlocks to it. I do not want either of them, nor any of the other magicians’ guilds, meddling in this. The possibility that the Wizards’ Guild will decide that the existence of the Empire of Vond violates the prohibition on magicians in government, due to the way it was created, and that the Empire must therefore be destroyed and its seventeen provinces restored to their former independence, is not as unlikely as I would like. I do not want the Council of Warlocks to decide that they are Vond’s rightful heirs and therefore should rule the Empire, under the terms of their own rules on Called warlocks. Most particularly, I don’t want both of these to happen simultaneously, as the resulting conflict between the two orders of magic might well destroy the World. Magicians do talk to one another, and so I prefer not to involve any magicians in this investigation.” He grimaced. “At least, not yet. I may resort to magic, should the matter prove intractable by other means.”

“That’s one reason,” Emmis acknowledged. “What’s the other?”

The old man’s smile returned.

“I was bored,” he said. “I thought that investigating this would be entertaining.”

“You like asking all these questions?” Gita asked, startling the men. Neither of them had noticed that she was listening, but she had indeed turned her attention from the window to her host.

Ildirin turned to her. “Why, yes, my dear, I do.”

She shook her head in amazement. “I don’t like answering them!”

“Well, answering them is rather different,” Ildirin replied.

“I don’t know anything about warlocks or treaties or the Small Kingdoms.”

“But you know what happened in your uncle’s inn,” Ildirin pointed out. “I already know about warlocks and treaties and the Small Kingdoms, so I don’t need anyone to tell me any of that, but I do not know what’s happened in the Crooked Candle these last few days, so I want you to tell me.”

“I’ve told you, though!”

“Indeed, you have been very cooperative, but I suspect there are details that could be of use to me that you have not yet revealed, details that you know but do not realize could be of use. You may not even know you know them. So I ask questions, in hopes of stumbling upon these things that seem to you to be the most utterly mundane, boring, trivial, and irrelevant facts, but which might reveal to me entire vistas of possibility I had not considered — or that may instead close off doors that I had thought were open, and save my men hours of wasted effort in their pursuit of these criminals.”

Gita stared at the old man, baffled, then threw Emmis a quick look.

Emmis turned up an empty palm. Ildirin’s manner of speaking was a little hard to follow sometimes, but this last speech had been clear enough, and Emmis could not see how to make it much plainer.

“He thinks you might not realize some little detail is important,” Emmis said, when Gita appeared unsatisfied with the gesture. “Something that will tell him where the guards can find the assassins. Some name they mentioned, some little thing they were carrying, something.”

“I don’t know anything like that!” Gita insisted.

“Perhaps you don’t,” Ildirin said soothingly, “but perhaps you do, and careful questioning may discover it.”

“But I don’t.”

Ildirin sighed. “Then think of this as your chance to ride in a fine carriage, and perhaps visit a house in Allston, and spend more time in this pleasant young man’s company, and be paid a round for your trouble.”

“A round?”

“Eight bits. Yes.”

“In copper? Not iron?”

Ildirin snorted. “Girl, I am the overlord’s uncle. I haven’t even seen an iron coin in the last twenty years!”

“Foreign sailors try to use them sometimes,” Gita said. “My uncle gets furious if I accept them.”

“As well he should,” Ildirin said. “They haven’t been legal currency in the city for more than two hundred years.”

“We use them on the docks sometimes,” Emmis said. “For gambling, when we don’t want to risk real money, since we do get them from foreigners sometimes and they aren’t accepted anywhere.”

“Interesting,” Ildirin said. “I hadn’t known that.” Then he focused on Gita. “Did any of the Lumethans try to pay with iron?”

“No,” Gita said, and the questioning that had gone so long at the inn was begun anew in the carriage.

The nobleman switched back and forth between Gita and Emmis, trying to ferret out new details. Emmis did his best to answer Lord Ildirin’s questions, but also looked out the windows every so often, trying to identify the route they were taking.

They rolled along Warehouse Street, almost into Spicetown, and then turned onto Moat Street, before turning again onto North Street, which brought them out onto the plaza in front of the Palace. It would never have occurred to Emmis to take so northerly a path, but it did avoid any sort of upgrade, and of course Lord Ildirin would be accustomed to routes that led to and from the Palace.

They did not stop in the plaza, though, but rolled across it at a stately pace as people hurried out of the path of the horses, and out the southeast corner, up onto Arena Street.

Here at last was an upgrade they could not avoid, but it did not seem to trouble the horses or the coachman; the carriage rolled on, unhindered, up Arena Street.

Lord Ildirin’s questions were finally slowing, to Emmis’s relief; he really could not see any significance in whether or not he had noticed the length of Hagai’s fingernails — which he hadn’t — or in some of the other details Ildirin was now asking about. He was relieved that Ildirin’s questions had never approached too closely anything Lar had told him not to repeat; the old man seemed to be focused entirely on what had taken place at the Crooked Candle, or on his encounter with the two assassins, and not interested in why Lar had come to Ethshar.

And then, rather than asking another question, Lord Ildirin gestured toward the guardsman sitting beside Emmis and said, “This is Ahan, by the way. He will be accompanying you on your errands.”

“What errands, my lord?” Emmis asked, startled.

“Whatever errands your employer sends you on; I want you out of the house while the two of us speak. The coachman will be escorting Gita back to the Crooked Candle, but I assume the ambassador can find something more constructive for you to do.”

“You’re done with us, then?”

“For the present.”

“And have you figured out who the Lumethans hired to kill the ambassador, or where they might be found?”

Emmis regretted the snide words even as they were leaving his lips, but apologizing would probably only make matters worse; he let the question stand.

Lord Ildirin smiled at him — not a nice smile this time, not like his previous expressions. “Not yet,” he said. “Have you?”

“No,” Emmis said. “I’m just a dockworker and guide. I don’t investigate anything.”

“Of course.” Ildirin glanced at Gita.

“I just help out my uncle!” she said. “None of this has anything to do with me.”

“And I just help out my nephew,” Ildirin said. “It seems a better use of my time than sitting around waiting to die.”

Gita looked at him nervously, then turned away.

The exchange made Emmis uncomfortable; he looked out the carriage window just in time to see them negotiate the turn onto Through Street.

“We’re here,” he said.

Ildirin glanced out. “So we are,” he said.

A moment later the carriage came to a halt, and three of the four inside passengers debarked at the front door of the rented house. Gita started to climb out as well, but Lord Ildirin held up a bony hand to stop her.

“You will stay in the carriage, please,” he said. He reached for his purse and counted out eight bits; she crouched in the door of the coach, waiting, as he did. Then he held out the handful of money.

She cupped her own hands, and he poured the coins into them.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. Then he called to the coachman, “Take her to Shiphaven Market and leave her there, then come back here and wait for me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

One of the two guards who had been riding on the back of the carriage had jumped down; the other remained in place. While Emmis and the disembarked guard unloaded Emmis’s two bags, Lord Ildirin took a moment to whisper instructions to the man on the carriage, then turned away.

The coachman shook the reins, and the carriage rolled away, leaving Emmis, Lord Ildirin, and two guardsman behind. Emmis lifted his baggage, delighted to have it back. He wondered whether anything might be missing. He peered after the carriage, hoping for one more glimpse of Gita; she had saved his belongings for him, which had been kind of her, but it didn’t mean he didn’t think she might have gone through a few things and perhaps appropriated an item or two. She was pleasant enough, but he didn’t trust her.

“Now, to meet with this ambassador,” Ildirin said, and the four of them turned toward the big green door.