The Ambassador’s Mission

In the street below, on the other side, a man stopped and looked up at the window. Cery resisted the urge to shrink back out of sight. It was too late to avoid being seen, and the motion would confirm he should not be there.

“Uh, oh,” Gol said. “That’s the shopkeeper from next door.”

“Looks like he’s worked out his neighbour has some uninvited guests.”

The man looked away, down at the ground. After a moment his shoulders straightened and he strode across the street toward the shop. A loud rapping followed.

Gol rose. “I’ll get rid of him for you.”

“No.” Cery stood up and stretched. “I’ll take care of it. Stay here and keep watch. What’s his name, again?”

“Tevan.”

As Gol sat down again, he muttered something about it all being a waste of time. He’s probably right, Cery thought. The rogue won’t be coming back. But we may as well watch because we’ll look right fools if we’re wrong and she does come back. And we have no other clues to follow.

He walked out of the room and entered the stairway, descending to the ground floor. Pushing through the door to the storekeeper’s shop, Cery looked around with interest. They’d been using the back door, so he hadn’t been in here before. The room was full of fine ceramic bowls. He blinked and looked closer, then chuckled. They were all toilet basins, as finely painted and sculpted as vases or dinner ware.

Through the frosted glass door he could see the next-door shopkeeper’s hunched silhouette. The man had probably promised to keep an eye on his neighbour’s shop and house, and felt obliged to confront these trespassers. He was probably worried that he would regret it, too.

The front door was locked and there was no key in it or in any obvious hiding place close by. Cery was amused to find he had to pick the lock. Once unlocked, he opened the door, smiled at the shopkeeper and effected the sort of cultured accent merchants liked to use to impress rich customers.

“The shop is closed, I’m sorry.” Cery pretended to give the man a second look. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re… Tevan? You run the shop next door, correct?”

The man was of average height and carried the excess weight of a middle-aged man who hadn’t been forced to skip a meal in a long time – if ever.

“Who are you and what are you doing in Wendel’s house?” he demanded.

“I am Wendel’s cousin, Delin, and I am borrowing his house for the week.”

“Wendel doesn’t have a cousin. He has no family. He told me.”

“Second cousin, by marriage,” Cery explained. “He didn’t tell you I was staying here?” He frowned in mock puzzlement. “I suppose it was decided very late.”

“He didn’t. It’s not something he’s likely to neglect to tell me, either.” Tevan narrowed his eyes, then took a step backwards. “I’m calling on the Guard. If you’re lying you’d better get out while you have the chance.” The man turned and took a step away.

“The Guard’s like to get you and Wendel more rub than I ever will,” Cery said, dropping the accent and letting a little slum drawl colour his words. “Crawling all over this place breaking things looking for proof we were here, then saying you made it up. Let’s sort this out ourselves.”

Tevan had stopped, and now he looked at Cery with a worried frown.

“I only need be here for a week, maybe less,” Cery told him. “Wendel won’t see a sign I’ve been here. I’d pay him rent if he was about, but since he’s not here…” He reached into his coat, allowing the hilt of a knife to flash into sight briefly, and drew out a cap of gold coins he kept there for moments like these.

The man’s eyes widened. “A week?” he repeated. He looked transfixed by all the gold.

“Or less.”

Teran’s gaze rose to Cery’s. “Rent’s high around here.”

“Your house would be cheaper,” Cery replied.

Tevan swallowed. He looked at the coins again, then nodded. “What’s your going rate?”

“Half a gold per day,” Cery replied. He slipped the cap back into his coat. “You’ll find ’em dropped by your back door after I’m gone.”

The man nodded, but his mouth was set in a thin line of disbelief. Still, he didn’t voice his doubts. Instead he looked across the road.

“You’re watching something,” he said. “Or looking for someone. Anything I can help with?”

“Hoping to get rid of me sooner?” Cery asked. A look of confusion entered the man’s eyes. No, perhaps he thinks he’s found another way to turn a profit. “Well, if you’ve seen anything suspicious going on over there…”

Tevan frowned. “There’s a foreign woman keeps odd hours. The shoemaker says she rents his basement. We’ve never worked out what she does for a living. Too old and ugly to be whoring around, I’d have thought. My wife’s seen her at the market on Freeday mornings with the spice and herb sellers. We think maybe she…” – he leaned closer and lowered his voice – “unburdens young women of unwanted situations.”

Cery felt his heart skip, but kept his expression blank. Tevan looked at him expectantly.

“Not my line of interest,” Cery said, shrugging. “Anything else?”