The Vondish Ambassador loe-10

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I was helping Lord Ildirin negotiate with the Vondish ambassador,” Emmis said.

  “No, I mean what are you... what do you have there?”

  Emmis picked up the jar; it was cracked, but had only leaked a little, and still held at least half a pint of thick golden liquid.

  “He bought that in Southmarket,” Kelder wheezed. “We thought it might be... I don’t know, something else, even though we saw him buy it, but it’s just honey. I wanted to keep it anyway, but Tithi threw it against the wall and cracked the bottle, so I left it.”

  “Honey,” Emmis said bitterly. “Zhol died for this.” He held up the jar and said, “Assassin, here’s the honey I promised you.”

  “Honey!” The jar was snatched from his hand, the brass lid ripped off it, and for a moment it hung in the air, glittering in the lantern’s light. Then the honey vanished with a loud sucking noise, and the empty jar fell to the alley floor and shattered.

  “Was that enough?” Emmis asked.

  Nothing answered.

  Well, he told himself, either it was enough, or the creature was being difficult — perhaps its mouth was full. Either way, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  “We need to get you to a magistrate,” the guard said.

  “What about the body?” Emmis asked.

  “We’ll come back for it.”

  That wasn’t right, Emmis knew it wasn’t right, he was utterly unwilling to leave Zhol’s remains lying there, but it took him a second to think of what he should say to explain this to the guard.

  Then it came to him. “There are rats here,” Emmis pointed out.

  The guardsman hesitated.

  “You don’t need a witness,” Emmis said. “You heard him admit he killed him. He led us to the body. And if there’s any doubt, the magistrate can ask a witch, can’t he?”

  “Witches cost money,” the guardsman replied doubtfully. “The magistrates don’t like spending money. But — you want to stay here?”

  “No,” Emmis said. “I want to take the body back to Lower Street with me. Lord Ildirin is waiting for us; Zhol was one of his personal escort. Lord Ildirin and Ahan and Shakoph will want to know what happened to him, and they’ll know who to tell that he’s dead.”

  That was all true — and it occurred to Emmis that they might want to talk to Zhol’s killer, as well. After all, he had been hired by the Lumethans; he might know something useful.

  “I don’t know,” the guardsman said.

  “He’s trying to trick you,” Kelder said weakly. “He wants to steal this man’s body.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” the guard asked, puzzled.

  “To sell the parts to wizards, probably,” Kelder suggested. “Don’t they use soldier’s hearts in some of their spells? Or a hand that’s held a sword?”

  “Not that I ever heard of,” Emmis said. “Look, it’s really late — wouldn’t you need to wake up the magistrate, once you found him?”

  “Yes, but that’s... it’s part of the job.”

  “But it’s not as if anyone’s waiting for you to bring this killer in,” Emmis said. “Why don’t we all go talk to Lord Ildirin?”

  “Don’t listen to him! What if there isn’t any Lord Ildirin? It could all be a trap...”

  Emmis stared at Kelder. “What kind of a fool are you?” he asked. “If he takes you to a magistrate you’ll be hanged tomorrow. If you come with me, Lord Ildirin may keep you alive much longer than that, for questioning. He might even make you a deal for your life.”

  Kelder’s mouth opened, then closed again, and he twisted his head to look at his captor.

  The guardsman was clearly thinking hard.

  “I can’t keep my hold on him and help carry the body,” he said.

  “I’ll carry the body,” Emmis said. “I’m a dockworker, I’m good at carrying things.”

  “To Lower Street? That’s all the way on the far side of New City Hill.”

  Emmis sighed. “I know,” he said. “Maybe we’ll meet someone on the way who can help.”

  The guardsman nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “That’s what we’ll do.”

  “Just take me to the magistrate and get it over with,” Kelder muttered.

  Emmis stared at him, and a realization struck — he had thought about it before, but had been too intent on finding Zhol to really think about it. “His partner,” he said. “That man Tithi. He’s trying to get you alone, away from me and the invisible monster, so his partner can ambush you and set him free. Or if not his partner, maybe the Lumethans who hired them.”

  The guardsman gave Kelder a sideways glance. “You think so?”

  “I do!”

  “I wouldn’t... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kelder spluttered. “What partner? I don’t...”

  “The one who lured Zhol into this alley,” Emmis said.

  Kelder glared at him, started to say something, then winced. “Can we just find a magician, or even a doctor?” Kelder said. “My arm feels as if it’s going to fall off.”

  “Fine,” Emmis said. “There’s a wizard at the house on Lower Street. We’ll take you there.” He handed the guard the lantern and turned, ignoring Kelder’s half-formed protests, then knelt by the body, and hesitated, suppressing a shudder.

  He had never picked up a corpse before. An unconscious man, yes, when that idiot Karn tripped over the hatch coaming and fell into an empty hold, and Emmis had been the one they sent down to haul him out, but never a corpse.

  He told himself it wasn’t so very different, though. He grabbed poor Zhol under each arm and heaved the body upright, trying not to think about how utterly cold and limp it was, or how sticky the blood was, then turned it and hoisted it onto one shoulder. “Come on,” he said, staggering slightly as he started walking.

  The three men, Emmis, Kelder, and the guard, marched up Canal Avenue — or rather, Emmis trudged under the weight of the body, Kelder shuffled along reluctantly, and the guardsman marched. Despite Emmis’s burden, it was Kelder who slowed their progress; he clearly didn’t want to go anywhere, and Emmis thought he caught the killer glancing down various alleyways along the way.

  He was looking for Tithi or the Lumethans, Emmis was sure.

  There was no sign of Fendel’s Assassin, and Emmis was fairly sure the creature was really gone, but he did not want Kelder to know that, and occasionally directed a remark to the invisible monster, to keep Kelder uncertain.

  Emmis also kept an eye on Zhol’s sword; it was still in its scabbard, hanging from the dead man’s belt, and Emmis made a point of keeping it untangled. If Tithi did jump out of an alley at them, Emmis wanted to be ready to drop the corpse and snatch the sword from its sheath.

  Tithi did not appear, nor did anyone else; the street was dark and deserted, the windows on either side mostly shuttered and the torches at the intersections burning low. Canal Avenue was a surprisingly direct route from Southmarket to Lower Street, a walk of perhaps a mile or so with no need to change course, much faster than going by way of Cut Street Market, but it did lead directly over the largest hill in the city, and even a mile was a very long way when carrying two hundred pounds over one’s shoulder. Emmis had to stop to rest more than once, switching the body to the other shoulder at each break.

  “Once we’re past New Cross Street it’s all downhill,” the guardsman mentioned at their first such stop.

  “I know,” Emmis said. That fact was small comfort; the body was heavy at any angle. And the weight wasn’t the only problem; he was always uncomfortably aware of exactly what he was carrying. Something deep in him wanted to get away from the corpse, not carry it. Emmis thought that was some part of his mind reacting to the smell; while there was no real reek of corruption yet, the odor was subtly but definitely not that of a living man. And of course, the skin was horribly cold to the touch.

  He wondered what time it was; the sky was too cloudy to be any help, even if he remembered where the moons ought to be this tim
e of year. The emptiness of the streets implied that it was very late indeed — and seemed a little unnatural, as most of Shiphaven was never this quiet; there were always a few drunken sailors or desperate whores staggering about.

  He wished the guardsman could help with the weight, but he knew that wasn’t possible; he was busy enough keeping Kelder upright and moving. Emmis wondered just how bad a break Fendel’s Assassin had actually inflicted, and how much pain Kelder was really feeling; he certainly wanted everyone to think he was suffering unbelievable agony.

  They crested the hill and started down through the New City; Kelder was growing steadily more agitated. Emmis doubted this had anything to do with his injury; he thought that Kelder had expected a rescue attempt before now, and was beginning to realize that his partner had deserted him and he was really going to be hanged.

  At High Street, as Emmis had half expected, Kelder made a break for it, but not at all in the way Emmis had anticipated; he did not simply tear loose from the guard’s grip and run for it. Instead he pretended to stumble and thrust out a leg, tripping Emmis.

  Emmis struggled to remain upright, but with the weight on his shoulder it wasn’t possible; what was possible was to twist as he fell, so as not to knock down the others, and to drop his burden so that he would not be trapped beneath it. He landed hard, catching himself on his elbows.

  “Are you?..” the guard began, turning to see what was happening.

  Then Kelder’s elbow rammed into the guard’s side, and the soldier flinched — not much, but enough to loosen his grip, which allowed Kelder to turn, and to swing his knee up, obviously aiming for the soldier’s groin.

  The guardsman was not that stupid; he twisted away from the blow, but let Kelder’s arm slip from his grasp. Then Kelder was free and running west on High Street, toward the Old Merchants’ Quarter.

  The guardsman let out a wordless bellow and charged after him, pulling his truncheon from his belt.

  Emmis made no attempt to join the pursuit; he lay sprawled on the hard-packed dirt of the street, catching his breath, his face inches from the pale, cold neck of Zhol’s corpse. He closed his eyes, and wished he could close his nose; the smell of Zhol’s dead flesh was definitely disturbing.

  This was, he thought, the worst night of his life, even worse than the night of Azradelle’s wedding. Lar might be paying him more than he had ever imagined he would earn, but it wasn’t enough to make this worthwhile.

  He rolled over and sat up.

  People were shouting somewhere on High Street; a woman screamed. This neighborhood was apparently not as deserted as the other side of the hill. Emmis put his hands to his temples, brushed his hair from his eyes, and looked west.

  People were struggling; in the dim light he could not see exactly who they were, or what was happening. A blade flashed. Then an arm rose, holding a truncheon, and came down hard, and the struggling stopped.

  Emmis swallowed bile, and began the process of getting back on his feet.

  By the time he was upright and ready to take another look the scene on High Street had changed; two guardsmen were dragging a limp figure toward him, while a small crowd watched from a safe distance behind them. As they approached Emmis heard an unfamiliar voice ask, “What about him?”

  The guard who had accompanied him to and from Southmarket replied, “I think he’s all right; he says he works for Lord Ildirin. We were going to meet someone he knows on Lower Street — a wizard.”

  “If this man killed a guard, shouldn’t he go to the nearest magistrate?”

  “He said Lord Ildirin would want to question him.”

  “What? Who said?”

  Emmis saw the guard on the left nod toward him. “He did.”

  “Well, I hope they aren’t in any hurry about questioning him; you hit him pretty hard.”

  “He was asking for it.”

  “Then I’d say he got it. Was it you who broke that arm?”

  “No, Emmis did that.” Again, the guardsman nodded toward him.

  “Good for him.”

  Then the trio, the two guards and the unconscious Kelder, reached the intersection of High Street and Canal Avenue. Emmis could see that the stranger carried a lantern on his belt; the night watch was earning its pay tonight.

  He also held a long, narrow-bladed dagger in his free hand — definitely not anything the city watch would issue. Kelder had probably had that hidden somewhere.

  Emmis was glad he hadn’t kept it somewhere readily accessible; if the assassin had pulled that when they were grappling back on Merchant Street, matters might have gone very differently.

  “Emmis of Shiphaven, this is Gror Grondar’s son,” the familiar guard said.

  “Good to meet you,” Gror said.

  “Thank you,” Emmis said. Then he turned to the other. “I never got your name.”

  Gror laughed as the other said, “Arnen of Freshwater.” Arnen cast Gror an angry look.

  “Arnen says you’re taking these two to Lower Street.”

  Emmis nodded. “To Guildmaster Ithinia. Lord Ildirin is waiting for Zhol and me there.”

  “Guildmaster? Which guild, the wizards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we don’t want to keep her waiting, do we?” He shifted his grip on Kelder, glanced down at Zhol’s corpse, then looked at Kelder’s face. The prisoner’s jaw was hanging open, a thread of drool trailing down one side of his pointed beard. His eyes were closed.

  Gror turned back to Emmis, and jerked a thumb toward the body on the ground. “You carried that all the way from Southmarket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems to me you’ve done your share of the hauling, then. Arnen, can you take this one?”

  Arnen mumbled something, and a moment later he had Kelder slung over his shoulder while Emmis helped Gror heave Zhol’s corpse onto his shoulder.

  And that was how they covered the final three blocks to Ithinia’s door, where Ahan and Shakoph hurried to their aid.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Is Fendel’s Assassin gone?” Emmis asked, as he sank into a chair.

  Ithinia held up her dagger, which gleamed in the lamplight, but only with the natural sheen of polished metal. There was no blue glow. “So it would seem,” she said. “It carried out its assignment and you gave it the honey you had promised, so it should be.”

  “Good.” While it was true that the creature had defended him from Kelder, the thing made Emmis nervous. “So will you turn Lar back, then?”

  “In a moment. When Lord Ildirin returns.”

  Emmis nodded. Ildirin was out on the street with the guards, discussing what was to be done with Zhol’s body, and with Kelder; Emmis had been sent inside to rest.

  He certainly needed rest; it had been a very, very long day. He wanted to curl up somewhere and go to sleep; a bed would be first choice, but at this point he wasn’t picky and would happily settle for a reasonably clean floor. A chair in the parlor would be more than adequate.

  But he wanted to see Lar alive again, first. He glanced at the statue that had been his employer and frowned.

  “Will the counter-spell take as long as the original spell? Maybe I could take a nap...”

  “What? No, of course not! It just takes a moment to reverse the spell.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes, of course. There’s no way I could do another three-hour spell tonight — it would be dawn by the time I finished it. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I have no intention of staying up that late.”

  Emmis refrained from pointing out that it was already ridiculously late. He leaned back in the chair.

  The next thing he knew, Ahan was shaking him awake.

  “Lord Ildirin thought you would want to see this,” the guardsman said.

  “I... uh...” Emmis sat up, trying to clear his head and wondering how long he had been asleep. It was still full night outside the parlor window, so it couldn’t have been terribly long.

  Ahan, Ildirin, and
Ithinia were standing around Lar’s petrified form; Ithinia was holding the crystal goblet she had used in the petrifaction spell.

  “Ready?” she said.

  Ahan moved from Emmis’s side to a position behind the statue, ready to catch Lar if he started to fall. Emmis blinked; it seemed as if he should be doing something more than just sitting there, but he was still too bleary to think what it might be.

  “Give me your truncheon,” Ithinia said, holding out her free hand.

  Ahan drew the weapon and passed it over. Ithinia accepted it, hefted it, and nodded. Then she crossed the room and stood behind a small marble-topped table. She set the goblet on the table, and raised the guardsman’s club.

  Emmis expected her to pause and speak an incantation, but she did nothing of the sort; instead, without any ceremony, she slammed the truncheon down on the goblet, smashing the delicate crystal to glittering splinters and sending droplets of brown liquid spraying across the room.

  Emmis started. “What...”

  Then a sound caught his ear, and he turned to see Lar, no longer stone and entirely normal in appearance, slumping into Ahan’s waiting arms. Emmis had been so muzzy, and so focused on Ithinia, that he had completely missed the transformation.

  But he hadn’t been that distracted; it must have been almost instantaneous.

  He got to his feet, wanting to help, but Ahan seemed to have the situation under control; Lar was blinking as if awakening.

  “Oh, my,” the ambassador said, straightening up out of Ahan’s grasp. “Oh, that was strange!”

  “Are you all right, sir?” Emmis asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Lar brushed at his sleeves as if removing dust, though there was no sign of any that Emmis could see. “Is... is it gone? The assassin?”

  “It seems to be, yes.”

  Lar put a hand to his throat. “My neck...”

  “It tried to wring your neck,” Emmis said.

  “Did it?” Lar took his hand away and looked at his spread fingers, apparently checking for blood and finding none, but Emmis could now see several long red scratches on the Vondishman’s neck — none of them deep enough to bleed, but probably enough to be painful.