The Vondish Ambassador

Chapter Sixteen

Emmis glanced sideways at the guardsman.

Lord Ildirin had said the man’s name was Ahan, and had assigned the guardsman to accompany Emmis to the Wizards’ Quarter. He had insisted that Emmis go away while he discussed matters of state with the ambassador, and Lar, after his initial surprise and reluctance, had agreed.

“It’s nothing you’d be interested in,” he had said.

That might well be true, but Emmis still resented being ordered out of his own new home. He had insisted on taking the time to put his miraculously-recovered luggage in his own room, with the door securely locked. He had also insisted on a few words with Lar before allowing himself to be escorted out the front door.

Escorted he had been, though. Emmis and Ahan had then walked from Through Street up Arena to Wizard Street, and in all that time the guard had not said a word.

The other guardsman, the one Emmis and Lar had found on Games Street the night before, had been chatty and reasonably friendly; this Ahan, though, seemed to feel that talking on duty violated proper procedure. Even smiling seemed beyond him.

Emmis could not decide whether that was a good thing or a bad one. It meant that he didn’t need to explain anything, and could rest his voice after Lord Ildirin’s long interrogation, but it also made him a little nervous. What was the man thinking, behind those expressionless features?

It probably didn’t matter, Emmis told himself. Lord Ildirin had told Ahan to accompany Emmis, so Ahan was accompanying Emmis; he hadn’t told Ahan to do anything else, so far as Emmis knew, so Ahan presumably wasn’t going to interfere in any of Emmis’s business.

Of course, if Ahan weren’t along, Emmis might have gone somewhere other than the Wizards’ Quarter. The house still needed more furniture and kitchenware, and another trip to the market to replenish the pantry would not be a bad idea.

But trying to dicker with carpenters or farmers with a soldier standing at his shoulder did not appeal to Emmis. Magicians would be less intimidated, and he really did want to talk to a theurgist about that doorway shrine; even if he couldn’t work in any other questions, it would be good to settle that.

And other questions were certainly a possibility. Lar’s instructions, when they had discussed Emmis’s intentions, had been interestingly vague, probably because Ildirin and two guards had been within earshot. Lar had agreed that the shrine needed to be identified, and the proper treatment of the idol therein determined, but then he had added, “And of course, if anything else comes to mind, you could ask the theurgist about that, as well.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes — whatever you think we might need to know.”

“Ah,” Emmis had said.

That could cover a very broad range of subjects indeed, from Annis the Merchant to the towers of Lumeth, from Vond the Great Warlock to hiring assassins. Emmis wasn’t sure just which of those questions Lar most wanted answered, but he couldn’t very well ask with Lord Ildirin and his men there.

“You’ll need to pay, of course,” Lar had said, handing him a purse.

Emmis had not yet looked inside, but he had felt the surprising weight of that purse, and he suspected he was carrying a couple of rounds of gold — far more than the cost of identifying a shrine. Which made the guard’s presence a little more reassuring. Ordinarily Emmis was perfectly capable of defending himself from the city’s more unsavory residents, but a purse full of gold was a considerably greater temptation than he usually offered.

Ahan’s presence might make it difficult to ask any really interesting questions, but Emmis intended to try.

They passed Wizard Street, then Sorcery Street, then the mysteriously-named Gaja Street, and Ahan had still not said a word. Emmis glanced down Warlock Street, wondering if he might catch a glimpse of Ishta, but he did not.

Then finally they reached Priest Street, where he turned right — and stopped.

Ahan almost ran into him, but still said nothing.

“Do you know any of these people?” Emmis asked, with a gesture at the signs and shop-fronts.

“No,” Ahan said. “Should I?”

“You never bought a prayer, or consulted a god’s oracle?”

“No. My mother did when I was a child, but she dealt with an old man in our own neighborhood, she didn’t come here.”

Emmis sighed, and looked along the street again.

Theurgists were a little different from most other magicians; it wasn’t always the magician’s name on the signboard. Many of the signs instead announced the name of a temple or shrine, such as the Temple of Divine Peace, or the Sanctuary of the Priests of Asham.

Emmis had no idea who or what Asham was — perhaps a god, perhaps a high priest, perhaps a place, or a cult or, for all Emmis knew, a rock someone had decided was holy. He did not want to take the time to find out what Asham was, or what sort of divine peace might be offered; instead he looked further, hoping for more informative names.

Kirsha the Immaculate didn’t sound especially promising, nor did High Priest Senesson of Southmarket. The Temple of True Healing at least gave him some idea what services it might provide, but was not what he wanted.

He began walking down the street, looking at the window displays — unlike the other streets, many of the buildings here didn’t have ground-floor windows, but some did. He ignored shrines and fountains and altars; those didn’t tell him anything. Many of the businesses were quite elaborately decorated, with gods and goddesses painted on doors or panels, with glittering tapestries hung in windows; bright enamel and gleaming gilt were everywhere. Shrines were common on most streets in Ethshar, but here they proliferated wildly, with idol-filled niches seemingly every few feet, sometimes two or three built into a single wall one above the other.

Amid all this gaudy spectacle one shop caught his attention, and he stopped.

It was indeed a shop, rather than a temple, with a relatively plain wooden door painted purple, flanked by largely-empty display windows curtained with maroon velvet. If not for the signboard Emmis might have thought the proprietor was some other sort of magician entirely, since after all, there was no law saying that only theurgists could operate businesses on Priest Street. It was merely custom for the various sorts of magician to sort themselves out into individual streets, and several streets did mix multiple varieties.

This shop was so plain in comparison to its neighbors that it seemed to belong somewhere else entirely — among the warlocks, perhaps.

The sign above the door, however, read CORINAL THE THEURGIST, and a gilt-edged placard in the left-hand window proclaimed, “Practical Prayers for Many Purposes: We Can Summon More Than A Score of Deities!” Smaller print at the bottom added, “If We Cannot Aid You Directly, We Offer An Inexpensive Referral Service.”

That sounded like exactly what Emmis needed. He crossed the street and tried the door.

It opened easily, and he peered in to what appeared to be a deserted study. Three high-backed chairs were arranged around a low table, and the walls beyond were lined with bookshelves. Although it was full daylight outside most of the room was dim — the curtains were drawn. An oil lamp was burning in a bracket above the table, however, casting a pool of light.

“Hello?” Emmis called.

A head suddenly appeared around the side of the chair most nearly facing away from him, as a white-haired old man turned to look at him.

“Oh, hello, there,” the old man said. “Come in!”

There was a thump as he closed a thick book, another thump as he set it on the table, and by the time Emmis and Ahan had stepped into the shop the old man was rising from his chair and approaching them, hand extended. He was short, but solidly built, despite his obviously advanced age.

“I’m Corinal,” he said. “How can I help you?”

Emmis blinked at him. “This looks more like a library than a magician’s shop,” he said.

“I like to read,” Corinal said mildly.

Emmis nodded. “Of course,” he said. “But you’re a theurgist?”

The old man smiled crookedly. “It says so on my sign, certainly, and wouldn’t it be foolish to advertise that if it weren’t so?”

Emmis shook the offered hand, and returned the smile a bit sheepishly. “I had a question or two,” he said.

“Questions I can answer, or questions requiring divine assistance?”

“Probably requiring divine assistance,” Emmis said.

Corinal nodded. “I’ll see what I can do to get you your answers, then.” He glanced at Ahan, who had closed the front door and was now standing with his back to it. “Might I ask one of my own first, though?”

“I... yes, of course,” Emmis said.

“Why is this soldier here?”

Emmis turned up an empty palm. “Ask him,” he said.

Corinal turned to Ahan. “Well?”

Ahan cleared his throat. “Lord Ildirin has ordered me to accompany this man wherever he goes, to guard him against attack, to prevent him from committing any illegal acts, and to report back on his actions.”

“Bodyguard, jailer, and spy, all on just two feet, then?” Corinal asked. “And why does Lord Ildirin care what becomes of him?”

“I do what I’m told, sir; I didn’t ask why.”

“This is Lord Ildirin, the overlord’s brother... no, I’m sorry, the new overlord’s uncle?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back to Emmis. “Do you know why Lord Ildirin has decided you require such attention?”

“Because I work for the Vondish ambassador to Ethshar, and stopped an assassination attempt on him yesterday.”

“Oh, really? That’s charming! Honestly, I’m delighted to hear that. A Vondish ambassador, you say? From that upstart empire south of the Small Kingdoms?”

“Yes.”

“And Lord Ildirin thinks the assassins might decide to retaliate against you for your interference, or perhaps you’re secretly working with the assassins, or perhaps there aren’t any assassins and this is all part of some complicated scheme you’re involved in, or all of these at once, and so he’s assigned this fine fellow to follow you around and make your life difficult until he’s more nearly satisfied that he knows what’s happening?”

“Something like that,” Emmis agreed.

“And you’ve decided to come ask me your questions anyway? Then you have nothing to hide?”

Emmis grimaced. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “And I thought I’d have an easier time dealing with you with this guard at my elbow than I would trying to dicker with cabinet-makers and cutlers.”

“You are wise beyond your years, young man. Come in, sit down, both of you, and tell me what you want to know.” He gestured toward the chairs.

A moment later the three of them were seated around the table; Emmis could see that the book Corinal had been reading was entitled The Pursuit of the Shatra. He had no idea what a shatra was, or why anyone would pursue one; the book looked very old.

“Now, what did you want to ask me?” Corinal asked.

“Ah. The ambassador has rented a house on Through Street in Allston, and the house has a shrine by the door. We wanted to know whose shrine it is, and what would be appropriate for us to do with it.”

“Oh, an easy one. That’s exactly the sort of question best answered by Unniel the Discerning, goddess of information about theurgy, sorcery, and certain other topics. I can summon her for half a round of silver.”

Emmis automatically said, “I’ll pay two bits,” but in fact he was relieved. As magical prices went, four bits in silver for anything was a bargain.

“Three bits in silver and one of copper,” Corinal countered.

“Three silver bits,” Emmis said. “No copper.”

“Don’t expect me to be so flexible on more difficult matters, should any arise,” Corinal said, reaching up for something from one of the shelves. “Unniel is easy, though, so you have a deal. Tell me about this shrine, and just where it is.” He pulled out a thin book that had a quill inserted in it like a bookmark, set it on the table, then reached up again and found a small bottle of ink.

“It’s on Through Street just a few doors east of Arena Street,” Emmis said, watching as Corinal opened the book and laid it flat on the table. The right-hand page was blank; the left-hand one had a few illegible words hand-written at the top. “It’s a yellow house we rent from Kather of Allston, and the shrine is just to the right of the front door.”

Corinal uncorked the ink bottle, dipped the quill, and began writing in the book. “Go on,” he said.

“The idol is a goddess — or a woman — in a green robe and a golden crown. Her hands are down and open, as if she’s giving something, but she isn’t smiling. There’s an offering bowl at her feet, but there’s nothing in it but dust.”

“I think I know this one without even asking,” Corinal said, nodding. “You can have my guess for two bits, or I’ll ask the goddess Unniel for you for three.”

Emmis hesitated, then said, “I think you’d better consult the goddess.”

Corinal scribbled another few words, then looked up from the book. “And what else did you want to ask me? If anything else is in Unniel’s bailiwick, I might as well ask her everything at once.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course!”

Emmis glanced at Ahan. “I had several other questions, actually, but I don’t think any of them have anything to do with theurgy or sorcery.”

Corinal also cast a glance at the guardsman, then grinned, his thinning beard seeming to spread itself wider as he did. “Would you like to drive Lord Ildirin mad with curiosity, then?”

“What?”

The theurgist turned the book to face Emmis, then handed him the quill. “Write your questions here,” he said. “I’ll sort them out and give you a price, and you won’t need to say a word this fine soldier will hear.”

Emmis looked from Corinal to Ahan.

“I won’t stop you,” Ahan said. “And I won’t try to read it, because I can’t read very well. But I’ll tell Lord Ildirin about this, and he may not like it.”

“Well, we’ll have all the questions written down for him, won’t we?” Corinal said. “He can come and pay me for them. Not for the answers, of course — you know the rules about customer privacy.”

“I’ll tell him some of the answers myself, if he wants them,” Emmis said. “I want to know who the assassins I fought were, and where we can find them, and where the three Lumethan spies are...”

Corinal held up a hand. “Write it down!” he said. “Write it all down.”

Emmis lifted the quill and looked at Ahan, who turned up an empty palm. “I won’t stop you,” he repeated.

Emmis nodded, dipped the quill in the ink, and began writing.

The list took a surprisingly long time. As soon as he had finished one question, he thought of another, and another.

After a few moments of watching his customer scribble, Corinal had picked up The Pursuit of the Shatra and resumed his interrupted reading.

Ahan simply sat and waited, and in his meditative silence looked more like a theurgist than did Corinal.