The Vondish Ambassador loe-10

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Creature, what would happen if the ambassador died without going to sleep?” Emmis asked the air.

  “More honey?”

  “I don’t have any, but I can fetch some by tomorrow noon,” Emmis said.

  “You swear? Honey, for me, by noon?”

  Emmis was uncomfortably aware of how many things might go wrong, how many ways he might be prevented from abiding by his promise, what horrible things the creature might do if he failed to deliver, but he said, “Yes, I swear. My oath on it.”

  “Then I tell you, one cannot kill the dead. When he is dead, whether by my hand or not, I am free,” the monster’s voice said. “Honey, by noon.”

  “Emmis, what are you doing?” Lar demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  Emmis ignored him for the moment, and addressed the overlord’s uncle. “Lord Ildirin, you said you had powerful magic available. Magic that can turn a man to stone?” He carefully did not add, “And back?”

  Lord Ildirin stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

  Lar, uncomprehending, looked back and forth between them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ithinia of the Isle, senior Guildmaster in Ethshar of the Spices, was startled by the knock at her window. She looked up to see a gargoyle’s familiar face beyond the glass, peering in at her upside-down. “Fang?” she said. “What is it?” She rose and opened the casement, letting the lamplight from her study illuminate the creature’s carved gray features. It was hanging down over the eaves, dangling from the roof.

  “You have visitors,” the gargoyle said, in a voice like stone grating on stone. “Half a dozen of them are standing in the street, outside your door.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Three of them are soldiers.”

  Ithinia frowned. “Was the overlord there? Or anyone in wizard’s robes?”

  “No, mistress.”

  “I haven’t heard the bell.”

  “They did not ring. I saw them standing there arguing, and I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you, Fang. Return to your post, now.”

  “Yes, mistress.” The stony creature turned and pulled itself up into the darkness, on its way back to its perch on the southeastern corner of the roof.

  Ithinia set aside the letter she had been reading, straightened her robe, and strode out into the corridor — and then the bell did ring. Whoever was at the front door had finally gotten up the nerve to announce themselves.

  She swept down the front stairs, wishing that she had some sort of spell ready to make her entrance a little more impressive, but she hadn’t been expecting anyone and hadn’t prepared anything. She waved and spoke a certain word, and the front doors swung open.

  As the gargoyle had said, there were half a dozen people standing on her little porch, all of them male — three guardsmen, two strangers, and one familiar face.

  “Lord Ildirin,” she said, as she reached the entry. “What brings you to my door at this hour?”

  “Oh, it’s not so late as all that, Guildmaster,” the old man said. “We’ve come directly from our supper to ask your aid.”

  “I hadn’t thought it was a social call,” Ithinia said tartly. “Would you care to come in, and introduce your companions?” She stepped aside, and gestured for them to enter.

  “Before I do, Guildmaster, might I ask how many you see in our company?”

  Ithinia stopped and looked the little group over carefully. “I take it ’six’ is not the correct answer?”

  “While I cannot be entirely certain, I believe there is a seventh,” Ildirin said. “Are there protective spells on your home that would prevent Fendel’s Assassin from entering?”

  “There aren’t any such spells anywhere,” Ithinia snapped. “Not any practical ones, anyway. Do you mean you have one of those things with you? Who is its target?”

  “I am,” the stranger in the fancy hat said.

  “I trust you have put your affairs in order?”

  “No,” the man said. “I hope it won’t be necessary.” He spoke with the accent of the southern Small Kingdoms.

  “I take it that’s why you’ve come to see me? You’ve wasted your time; there’s no sure defense against Fendel’s Assassin, no simple countercharm.”

  “He thinks he has a way to stop it,” Lord Ildirin said, nodding at the other stranger, a young man in ordinary Ethsharitic clothing.

  “Does he? What method was it told to use? I assume you’ve determined that.”

  “It’s been ordered to strangle him in his sleep,” Ildirin said.

  “And I suppose you want a potion to keep him from sleeping? Really, Lord Ildirin, you hardly needed to trouble me for that — and in any case, it won’t work, not for long; most wakefulness potions wear off after a sixnight or so.”

  “My dear Ithinia, I am not so great a fool as that,” Ildirin said, drawing himself up to his full height. “We came here because we need powerful magic quickly, and did not want to waste time asking around the Wizards’ Quarter until we found someone capable of it, not when your home was so close at hand. There are also certain political matters that I wish to discuss with you, in your role as a leading representative of the Wizards’ Guild in Ethshar of the Spices, once my friend’s inconvenience has been dealt with.”

  Ithinia had to admit to herself that that sounded interesting. “And what is this magic you seek, then?”

  “Petrifaction. We want you to turn Lar Samber’s son to stone.”

  The wizard considered that, and a smile spread across her face. “I see,” she said. “That’s quite clever, really.” She nodded at the young man in acknowledgment. “I take it that Bazil’s Irreversible Petrifaction is out of the question, though, and you’d insist on Fendel’s Superior Petrifaction?”

  “In what way is it superior?” Ildirin asked.

  “It’s easily reversible,” Ithinia explained.

  “Yes, that would indeed be what we had in mind.”

  “The ingredients are simple, and I believe I have them all on hand, but it takes perhaps three hours to prepare,” she said. “And the reversal will require me to smash a crystal goblet, so of course I must insist on compensation.”

  “Of course! The city’s treasuries will cover all costs.”

  Ithinia stared at him for a moment, then looked at the foreigner. “Who is this person, then? Lar someone, you said?”

  “Lar Samber’s son,” Lar said, with a bow and a tip of his hat. “Ambassador plenipotentiary from the Empire of Vond.”

  Ithinia frowned. “Vond?”

  “The union of seventeen of the most southerly Small Kingdoms, my lady,” Lar said.

  “My title is Guildmaster,” Ithinia told him. “And I know where Vond is, and how it came to be.”

  Lar bowed a silent reply.

  “I’m not sure I should be preventing his assassination,” Ithinia said. “The Wizards’ Guild does not meddle in politics without good reason.”

  “Oh, but please, Guildmaster!” the young man burst out, startling her. “Lar doesn’t mean anyone any harm; it’s all a misunderstanding! The Lumethans wouldn’t try to kill him if they knew the truth!”

  Ithinia turned and stared at him. “Oh? And why don’t they know the truth, then?”

  “Because they won’t believe it,” Lar said; Ithinia thought he was deliberately not looking at the young man as he spoke. “We told them we mean them no harm. We told them the Empire will not expand. They don’t believe us.”

  “I really don’t care whether they have reason to assassinate him or not,” Lord Ildirin interjected. “I won’t have them doing it here, in my city!”

  “Ah,” Ithinia said, amused. “Your city. Does your nephew know it’s yours?”

  “May we come in and discuss this, or are you going to refuse us outright, here and now, and cause me great personal annoyance?”

  “Fine. Come in, then,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing toward her little-used parlor.

  Four of the s
ix men trailed in — Ildirin first, then Lar, then the young man whose name she had not yet heard, and finally one of the three guardsmen. The other two soldiers took up posts on either side of the door, facing out toward the street.

  Ithinia waited until the others had entered, then looked at the two remaining. “You don’t need to stay there,” she said.

  “Lord Ildirin’s orders, Guildmaster,” one of them replied.

  “Look up,” she said, pointing. “I have gargoyles watching over me; what do you think you can do that they cannot?”

  “Nothing, Guildmaster, but I have my orders.”

  Ithinia shook her head. “Foolishness,” she said. “This is all foolishness.” She closed the door and followed her guests into the parlor.

  All the men but the young one had all taken seats; Ithinia indicated a chair for him, as well, but remained standing herself.

  “Now,” she said, “let me make sure I have this right. You want me to turn this Vondishman to stone to protect him from Fendel’s Assassin. You’ve spoken with the killer?”

  The men exchanged glances; the young man, who was now perched on the edge of a chair, said, “That’s right. Ahan gave it honey drops, and it answered questions.”

  “Honey drops?” She blinked. “Interesting; I thought it required the pure substance. Honey drops contain other things, do they not? Or are they merely cooked-down honey?”

  The men exchanged glances. “I... I don’t know, Guildmaster,” the young one said.

  Ithinia nodded. She should have expected that; most people didn’t pay attention to ingredients the way wizards did. “And it said?..”

  “It said it was going to wring Lar’s neck while he slept, but that if he was dead, it wouldn’t bother.”

  “And you think it will see petrifaction as death.”

  The young man suddenly looked very uncertain. “Isn’t it?”

  “I think we would all agree that Bazil’s Petrifaction is fatal, but Fendel’s is reversible, which is generally not considered a characteristic of death.”

  The look of dismay on the faces of both the young man and the Vondish ambassador was almost comical.

  “That doesn’t mean your scheme won’t work,” she quickly reassured them. “The assassin will undoubtedly have its own standards — isn’t that right?” She addressed this last to empty air.

  Nothing answered. Lar looked around the room warily.

  “It said it wouldn’t answer any more questions without more honey,” the young man volunteered after a few seconds of awkward silence. “I’ve already promised to give it more by noon tomorrow. I swore.”

  Ithinia turned to consider him more carefully. “It agreed to that?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any honey I could give it, would you?”

  “You should send one of those soldiers you have wasting their time outside my door to fetch some, I would say.”

  “Oh. I thought that... well, isn’t it used in some spells?”

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Emmis of Shiphaven, Guildmaster.”

  “Well, Emmis, I do indeed have honey in my possession, but why should I give it to you?”

  Emmis glanced at Lord Ildirin, then turned back to Ithinia. “To save time?”

  “Your time, not mine. I am not interested in giving you the idea that you can make yourself at home here, or impose on me at your convenience. You will have to find your own honey elsewhere.”

  Before anyone could reply Ithinia thought she heard a faint growl. She remembered suddenly that the conjured assassin was almost certainly in the room, listening; it apparently didn’t like being told it had to wait for its treat.

  But it was constrained by the enchantment, she knew; it couldn’t act of its own choice outside very narrow limits. Until it had carried out its assigned task it couldn’t deliberately harm anyone else unless they got directly in the way of its attack on its intended target, and once its task was performed it would be banished back to whatever other realm it had come from — or perhaps to nonexistence; no one had ever bothered to determine whether the thing had any independent reality outside Fendel’s spell.

  For a moment she considered getting out a jar of honey and asking the assassin a few questions of her own, but this was clearly not the time or place.

  “So, my lord,” she said, turning to Ildirin, “you want me to petrify this man, and see whether that’s enough to protect him from Fendel’s Assassin. And you said you had other concerns?”

  “Yes. I want his would-be killers found and apprehended. I want to know why they think it’s acceptable to murder people here in Ethshar. I’m sure you have magic capable of that.”

  “I’m sure I do. What I am not sure of is why you expect me to use it in your behalf. You know the Guild does not meddle in politics.”

  “I know the Guild only meddles in politics when it suits you to do so,” Ildirin retorted. “I remember well how the Guild meddled in my brother’s handling of the Council of Warlocks some twenty-odd years ago. I came to you, rather than going to the Wizards’ Quarter, in part because you were closer, and in part because I know you are an exceptionally powerful wizard and could almost certainly do everything I ask, but most of all, because this is political, and I suspect you have the authority to act where lesser wizards would not, and can meddle without worrying about being punished by your superiors in the Guild.”

  “If you think I have no superiors, you’re sadly mistaken,” Ithinia retorted. “However, I am indeed granted considerable discretion. Explain to me, then, why it is in the Guild’s interest to keep this Vondishman alive.”

  “As a start, to maintain the overlord’s goodwill,” Ildirin said. “Remember that this assassin was sent by a wizard, so one of your Guild members is already meddling in politics, presumably for pay. You would merely be countering that meddling. We are not asking you to guard the ambassador from mere human assassins, but only from one provided by one of your fellow magicians.”

  “You could buy a protective spell in the Wizards’ Quarter. You wouldn’t need to tell anyone why.”

  “And is there a protective spell that works against Fendel’s Assassin?”

  Ithinia smiled wryly. “I prefer not to answer that; the Guild sometimes finds Fendel’s Assassin useful.”

  “Well, then! There’s your benefit to the Guild — do you think we couldn’t coax an answer out of another wizard if we offered enough money?”

  Ithinia’s smile broadened. “I remember now why I like you, my lord. Very well, I’ll petrify your friend, for an appropriate fee, and when the assassin is gone I will restore him to life. Anything beyond that will wait; I’ll have time to think while I perform the spell, and you’ll have time to marshal your arguments.”

  “Thank you, Guildmaster,” Ildirin said, nodding in lieu of a bow.

  “You are welcome to wait here,” she said. “I assume you all know better than to go anywhere in a wizard’s home uninvited, but this room and the entry hall will be safe enough. If you prefer to leave my home, feel free, but be certain you have returned no more than two and a half hours from now — if the Vondishman is not here, the spell will be wasted. I’ll make sure the door allows you back in.”

  “Thank you, Guildmaster,” Ildirin repeated.

  Ithinia nodded in reply, then turned and swept out of the parlor.

  She paused just out of sight, though, rather than proceeding directly to her workshop, and listened.

  She did not really know whether the assassin was in fact present, or for that matter, whether anyone had actually sent it after the Vondishman at all. Lord Ildirin was not above attempting some sort of complicated deception, and of course the others might have somehow fooled Ildirin. She would want to check a few things before working Fendel’s Superior Petrifaction.

  She wished she had more servants around — not human ones, but magical — so that she could set them to spy on her guests, but at present the only ones she main
tained were her four gargoyles. Little Kirna came in to help during the day, but she had gone home to her aunt well before these men showed up, and an eleven-year-old human girl might not make an ideal spy in any case.

  So Ithinia stood in the hallway, listening.

  “My lord?” she heard Emmis ask. “May I send one of the guards to buy honey?”

  “You would prefer sending my guard to making the purchase yourself?” Ildirin’s voice replied.

  “I think that I should stay near Lar, my lord. We don’t want to confuse or anger the creature, and it has business with both of us now.”

  “That’s reasonable,” the Vondishman said. “And who would trouble us here, in a wizard’s home?”

  “Good points all around,” Ildirin agreed. “Very well, then, you may go ask one of the guards to buy honey.”

  “I could go,” said a deep voice Ithinia had not heard before. She assumed it was the guardsman; she would not expect the assassin to sound so human.

  “I want you here,” Ildirin said. “Emmis, send Zhol — he probably wants to replace the candies he gave us, in any case. If he questions your authority, send him to me.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ithinia heard the rustle of Emmis rising from his chair, and started retreating down the hallway; it would not do to be seen eavesdropping. She stepped through the workshop door, then turned for a final glance.

  Emmis had emerged from the parlor, but he had not gone directly to the front door; instead he was peering down the hallway, obviously looking for her.

  That was interesting. Ithinia opened the workshop door and stepped back into the hallway. She beckoned to the young man.

  Emmis glanced over his shoulder into the parlor, then hurried down the hall toward the wizard.

  “Guildmaster,” he whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something I’d really like to talk to you about. In private.”

  “Oh? And this is more urgent than saving your friend from Fendel’s Assassin, or keeping your own oath to the killer?”

  Emmis glanced nervously toward the parlor. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “Could we talk later, then?”