The Vondish Ambassador

Chapter Five

Emmis didn’t bother pretending to be shocked. “A fair price,” he said. “Do you really need to know exactly?”

“If I am to match it, yes.”

“Why would you need to match it? You already hired me, and you’re paying me far more than they are.”

“You did not tell me about them to start the bidding?”

“No. I told you because it’s your business, and I work for you.”

Lar cocked his head to one side. “Then you won’t... I don’t know the words. Dargas ya timir?”

“You’re my employer,” Emmis said. “I’m working for you. I’m also letting them pay me for talking to them, because you didn’t tell me not to, and nothing you’ve told me seemed to be a secret. If there is something you want me to keep secret — well, you can always just not tell me, or we can agree on a price at the time. Some secrets I wouldn’t charge for; others, well, I hope you have plenty of silver. If you’re planning to assassinate the overlord, and you’re fool enough to tell me, I don’t think you could carry enough silver to keep me quiet. If you don’t want me to tell them what you ate for breakfast, well, I’ll throw that in for free.”

“And what if I want to know what they said?”

“Oh, I think that’s included in my salary.”

“Ah. Then tell me.”

Emmis did, as best he could recall.

Lar listened intently, then asked, “She thought Vond might be here, in Ethshar?”

“So it would seem.”

Lar did not immediately reply, but Emmis saw his expression and said, “Yes, I know that’s impossible. I’ve heard about the Calling.”

“Do you think the Lumethans really didn’t understand Ethsharitic?”

Emmis turned up a hand. “I never caught them out, but maybe they’re just good at hiding it. Does it matter?”

“Probably not.” Lar sighed. “What I would really like to do is to simply go and tell them the truth. The regent and the Imperial Council do not want to expand the empire any further, and my business here has nothing to do with Lumeth or Ashthasa.”

“Why not tell them?”

“Because they wouldn’t believe me. After all, if we were planning to conquer them, wouldn’t we say we weren’t?”

Emmis had never given the matter any thought, but now that Lar pointed it out, it was obvious. “Oh,” he said.

“You could tell them,” Lar said thoughtfully.

“Why would they believe me?”

“You’re their paid informant, aren’t you? They want to believe you.” Then he shook his head. “But you’re right, they wouldn’t. Not completely.”

For a moment the two men stood silently; then Lar turned up a palm. “Well, we’ll let that go for now. You may sell them any information they want, for now — I don’t think you know anything I want to keep secret. If that changes, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, you found me a house?”

“Yes. It’s just off Arena Street, between the Palace and the Wizards’ Quarter.”

“How far is that from here?”

“Ah... two miles, perhaps?”

“You know, I’m really not inclined to walk that far and back to inspect it. You found it reasonable?”

“Well... yes, I suppose. But I would really...”

“I trust you. We will need transportation for my belongings.”

“Yes,” Emmis said, hesitantly. He would have preferred that Lar not trust him quite that much, as he hadn’t really even looked inside the house. But he could hardly argue that Lar needed to have less faith in him when he had just confessed to selling information to his employer’s enemies — or if not actual enemies, at least people who had no reason to wish him well. “If you’re sure you don’t want to look at it first...”

“I’m sure.”

The next half-hour was spent making plans, and after that Emmis trotted up to Warehouse Street to hire a wagon, a team of oxen, and a driver. Lar had suggested hiring a flying carpet or some other magic, but Emmis had quoted a few prices that convinced him otherwise.

Of course, Emmis had made those prices up; he had no idea what a magician would charge, but he knew what teamsters charged for the use of a wagon, and he knew that nobody in Ethshar would ever hire a magician instead of a teamster for this sort of hauling. Lar might not have any great interest in keeping his presence a secret, and might be eager to meet magicians, but Emmis couldn’t believe he would want to make himself a laughingstock and a target for swindlers. Paying a wizard or warlock to move a few trunks would label him a rich idiot, and rich idiots inevitably attracted people eager to make them a little less rich.

When he rode the wagon down Commission Street, Emmis found Lar waiting outside the inn with his luggage and a dozen hirelings he had recruited in the Crooked Candle; loading the wagon took just a few moments with so large a crew helping. The driver, who ordinarily would have considered it part of his job to assist, barely had time to get down from his bench before all the baggage was being shoved over the sides; he decided he would do best to step aside and let the pot-boys, dockworkers, and serving wenches earn their copper bits. He stood back with Emmis, calling advice.

“Push it up to the end!”

“Not on top of that one, you’ll squash it!”

“Here, shove it under the bench.”

When everything was securely stowed and Lar was distributing the promised coins, the teamster climbed back to his place and looked down at Lar and Emmis.

“There’s room for one up here. The other will have to ride in back, on the load.”

Lar looked up from his dwindling handful of money at Emmis, who immediately said, “I’ll ride in back. He’s the boss here.”

“But you’re the one who knows where we’re going,” Lar pointed out.

“Well, yes,” Emmis said, “but I can give directions from the back.”

“Of course you can,” the driver agreed. “Up you go, then, sir, and the young man will ride in back. It’s comfortable enough, sitting on a trunk.”

Lar hesitated. “Will we be able to hire people to unload it when we get there?”

Emmis hesitated, and before he could reply the driver said, “Where are you going?”

“Arena Street,” Lar answered, one foot on the step up to the bench.

“Allston,” Emmis said. “On Through Street, just off Arena.”

“Ah.” The teamster scratched his beard. “Don’t know the neighborhood.”

Lar looked alarmed. “But you can take us there?”

“Oh, of course I can! I just don’t know who you’ll find looking for work there — Allston’s a chancy sort of place, different from one block to the next.”

“A... what?” Lar frowned. “I don’t know that word, ’chancy.’”

“Don’t worry about it,” Emmis said, vaulting up over the side. “We can unload it ourselves, if we need to.”

“Of course we can! Come on up, sir!” The driver reached out a hand.

Lar still did not look happy, but he took the proffered hand and clambered onto the bench.

Once he was securely seated, the teamster shook out the reins and called to the oxen, who began plodding forward. The wagon, which had settled into the street under the weight of its load, jerked free and began rolling up Commission Street.

Emmis watched the city roll by, casting frequent glances at the backs of his employer and the driver. In Shiphaven Market Lar seemed to flinch every few seconds as merchants waved their wares at him, or children scurried in front of the oxen, but there were no collisions or other misfortunes. The Vondishman’s hat wobbled so much he eventually took it off and held it on his lap.

When at last the wagon emerged onto Twixt Street, Lar turned and leaned over the back of the bench. He beckoned to Emmis.

“Yes, sir?” Emmis said, leaning close.

“Was there some reason you hired oxen, rather than horses? This trip will take hours!”

Emmis blinked in surprise. “About an hour, I’d say. Horses? Horses can pull wagons?”

Lar blinked back at him not merely in surprise, but in shock. “Of course they can!”

“They don’t here in Ethshar,” Emmis said.

“I can explain that, sir,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Couldn’t help overhearing.” He tapped at his ear.

Lar turned, listening.

“Horses are more expensive, take more care than an ox,” the teamster said. ““Can’t haul as heavy a load. And they don’t like the crowds and noise.”

“They’re faster,” Lar said.

“Oh, yes, they are,” the driver agreed. “And that’s part of why they aren’t welcome inside the city walls. A horse can trample and kick and do all manner of damage if it’s upset, it can run away with a cart, where with a team of oxen — well, it doesn’t happen. You saw those kids in the market; if I were driving horses some of them might’ve been stepped on, or started the horses rearing. I’ve heard a few folks use horses for hauling outside the walls, where it’s quieter, but here in the city you won’t see them pulling a serious load. Rich folks ride them, of course, but that’s different, if they get thrown off it’s just their own bones that get broken, not anyone’s cargo, and you don’t have wagon wheels bouncing off the walls on either side of the street. And they use them to pull their fancy carriages, but that’s just for show.”

“But oxen are so slow — what if you’re hauling something a long way?”

“Well, if one’s in as much of a hurry as all that, I suppose you’d hire a magician, not a horse. You’d need a few rounds of gold, though. And really, what is there in Ethshar that you’d need to move as quickly as that? A good team of oxen will get you anywhere in the city between breakfast and supper — no, not supper, lunch. Southgate to the shipyards, Crookwall to the lighthouse, I’d wager there’s not a run that you couldn’t finish in three hours with a good team.”

Lar did not look convinced, but he turned forward again.

They made what Emmis considered good time, up Twixt Street and through Canal Square, where Lar seemed astonished by the sight of the New Canal, though Emmis couldn’t imagine why — surely they had canals in the Small Kingdoms!

The wagon had minor difficulties in negotiating the turn from Upper Canal Street onto Commerce Street, almost running over the flowers around the corner shrine in order to squeeze past a pair of arguing merchants, but otherwise the journey progressed without incident, the oxen plodding on peacefully through the crowds while the driver hummed quietly to himself and Lar stared at the buildings on either side, looking at the signboards and the window displays, hearing the cries of hawkers and the arguing of customers, smelling the hundred smells of the city — most prominently allspice, turmeric, smoke, seawater, and decay.

Emmis had plenty of time to think as he rode, and he spent it considering his current position.

He was an ambassador’s aide. He still didn’t understand exactly how he had gone from freelance dockworker to being a diplomatic agent, but it seemed to have happened. The job paid well, and didn’t seem terribly demanding, but Emmis couldn’t help wondering whether there was something he was missing. Why was he being paid so generously? Why hadn’t Lar brought a whole entourage with him from Vond? Was there something dangerous about this job? What was his real mission?

For that matter, who was Lar? Why had he been chosen as ambassador? As Emmis understood it, and nothing the palace guard had said had prompted him to doubt this, ambassadors were traditionally chosen from the nobility, from surplus princes or the sons of courtiers, while Lar had insisted he wasn’t a lord of any sort.

He should have asked these questions sooner, he thought, but he wasn’t accustomed to asking any questions at all beyond, “What’s it pay?” and “Where did you want this one?” Working the docks generally didn’t require a great deal of introspection.

This diplomatic aide stuff, though, brought a seemingly-endless supply of questions and mysteries. For example, who were Annis and those three Lumethans? Oh, they were government agents, obviously — spies, to be blunt — but why those four people in particular? How had they gotten to Ethshar? Had they followed Lar’s ship, and arrived just after him? Emmis didn’t recall seeing any ships at the docks that looked likely to have brought them.

And what sort of idiot would send spies who couldn’t speak Ethsharitic? The Lumethans must be feigning ignorance.

If so, they did it well.

The wagon turned onto High Street, where the traffic moved a little more quickly; on Commerce they had traveled faster than the crowds, but here they were slower, even though the oxen maintained the same steady pace. The street was broader, the buildings on either side higher, and it smelled a little better — less decay, and a bit of incense and cooking oil.

“I can’t believe the size of this city,” Lar muttered, as he stared at the street stretching ahead of them. “How do all these people eat?”

“Wagons bring in food from the farms, ships bring it in from farther away,” the driver said. “And magicians keep it fresh. Boats out of Fishertown and Newmarket and Seacorner bring in fish, the beachfolk dig clams, plenty of people keep a few chickens. We get by.”

“It’s amazing.”

’“It’s Ethshar.”

They rolled on through the crowds, across the Old Merchants’ Quarter, across the broad diagonal of Merchant Street, then up the slope into the New City.

There were no more shops here, of course, just grand houses behind their lavish facades or imposing walls and fences. Lar seemed impressed.

“Is this where the overlord’s family lives?” he asked, as they passed the first cross-street.

The driver snorted. “Not a bit of it,” he said. “They live in the Palace, of course. These are for the rich, not the powerful — merchants and wizards and the like who have so much money they don’t need to work for more. Or their heirs. Mostly, anyway — it’s not all houses.” He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder. “There on the corner of Coronet Street is where the Council of Warlocks meets, for example, and some of these others are clubs and secret societies and so on, as well.”

Lar, who had been slouching comfortably against the back of the bench, sat bolt upright so suddenly that he knocked his hat from his lap, and almost overbalanced as he snatched at it to keep it from tumbling onto the street. “Warlocks?” he said.

“The Council of Warlocks, yes. But they don’t let outsiders in — if you can’t open the locks with magic, you can’t get inside. I’m told there aren’t any keys anywhere.”

Emmis frowned. “If you want to hire a warlock, sir, you’ll want to go to the Wizards’ Quarter,” he said, pointing ahead and to the right.

Lar glanced at him, at his pointing finger, then back at the walled yard and tall mansion on the corner of High Street and Coronet. He made a noncommittal noise.

Emmis didn’t like the sound of it.

He had never had any dealings with the Council of Warlocks, and didn’t want to. He had heard of it, and as he understood it, it wasn’t exactly a social club. The Council existed to keep warlocks in line; if a warlock cheated you, or harmed you without cause, and wouldn’t make it good, and you pressed your complaint long enough, it would reach the Council — and the warlock would either make it good, or never be seen alive again.

It worked the other way, as well. If you wronged a warlock, and for some reason he couldn’t handle it himself, and word reached the Council — well, you might survive, but it wasn’t at all certain you’d be happy about it if you did.

The Council existed because all the guardsmen and magistrates in Ethshar couldn’t be sure of defeating or punishing a really powerful warlock, but a dozen other warlocks could.

A good wizard might be able to, or a demonologist, but magicians, like most people, preferred to deal with their own kind. The Wizards’ Guild handled the wizards, the Council of Warlocks handled the warlocks, the priesthoods looked after theurgists, there were supposed to be secret societies that watched out for witches, and so on.

And the smart thing for everyone else to do was to stay well out of their way.

Emmis decided he would have to explain this to Lar. The silly foreigner probably just didn’t have much experience with real magicians; the Small Kingdoms were said to be rather short of them.

Lar finally turned his gaze forward again as the wagon bumped across the shallow ruts of Center Avenue and started down the eastern slope.

A few minutes later they were on Arena Street, and Emmis had to devote his attention to directing the driver around the corner onto Through Street and up to the right house.

As they pulled up, Emmis eyed the place critically. It had seemed big and luxurious that morning, but now, after riding through the middle of the New City, it seemed rather modest by comparison with the mansions they had passed. It was two stories, with a yellow brick facade, nine broad, well-glazed windows, and a grand green door. A shrine to an open-handed goddess in a green robe and golden tiara was built into the wall just to the right of the entry, but the offering bowl at her feet was cracked and held nothing but dust. The upstairs shutters were all closed, and in need of paint; the downstairs shutters were in varying positions and states of disrepair.

Lar glanced at the shrine and said, “I’ll want to have a theurgist look at that.”

Emmis nodded. “The landlord may know one. I’ll fetch him.” With that, he vaulted over the side of the wagon and headed for the owner’s home, three doors up the street.

“And see about someone to help us unload,” Lar called after him.

“Of course, sir,” Emmis called back. Then he stopped and turned. “Is this satisfactory, then?”

“Oh, it will do fine. Go get the keys.” Lar waved a hand at him.

Emmis bowed, and hurried on.