I kept an even walking pace across the long, long, long paved promenade between the House of the Iorich and the Palace.
“Boss, no one is going to make a move in the middle of the day, out in the open, in front of the Imperial Palace.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
“Me, of course.”
“Just checking.”
“But you have to figure you’re being watched.”
“I know.”
I got inside, and started toward the Imperial Wing. I had the idea that it would be fun to count the number of disdainful looks I got on the way, but I forgot to actually do it. I’m still not sure how I got lost; I thought I had the route memorized. I wasn’t even aware of having gone wrong until I stepped into a large open area I hadn’t realized existed, and heard the drone of voices and saw strange and wondrous things: a shoemaker’s shop, a tailor’s, a wine seller’s, a sorcerer’s supply, a silversmith. The ceiling, if you can call it that, was high and domed, and somehow the dome’s silvery white color made it seem even higher.
“Boss, there’s a whole town here.”
“I think I should have gone up that flight of stairs I went down.”
“Or maybe down the one you went up?”
“This is a whole city.”
“There’s probably an inn with better food than that place yesterday.”
“I can always count on you to get right to the important stuff.”
“The important stuff is finding your way back to where you want to be.”
“The important stuff is not to get killed. This is a good place to shine someone up.”
“Oh,” he said. And, “It is, isn’t it?”
“It’s still too soon for them to have set anything up, but—”
“We’re watching, Boss.”
I tried to be inconspicuous—which I’m not bad at, by the way, even with a pair of jhereg on my shoulders—and looked for someone to ask directions of.
A girl who was too young to work for the Jhereg came along, carrying a box full of something that steamed. Probably someone’s lunch that I was going to make cold.
“I beg your pardon, lady,” I said. Teckla especially like being called “lady” when they’re too young to be. “Can you tell me how to get out of here?”
She stopped. “Out of where?”
“To the Palace.”
“You’re in the Palace, sir.” Her tone said she thought I was deranged or else stupid.
“The Imperial Wing.”
“Oh.” She gestured with her chin. “That way until you see the three pillars, then left to the wide stairway, and up. You’ll be right there.”
“You have my thanks.”
There were streets, buildings, pushcarts with food, and I think I even saw a beggar. What I didn’t see were three pillars, until I finally noticed what looked like an inn in miniature—chairs and tables set in a small courtyard near a long bar—that spread beneath a hanging sign showing three pillars. Yeah, all right.
After that it was easy enough to find the stairway (I climbed a lot of stairs, but not as many as it seemed I should have climbed to get above that domed ceiling; there’s some weird geometry with that place), and a bit later I found a page in Tiassa livery who was kind enough to point me in the right direction. Ten minutes or so later I was once more in an area that looked familiar—for the symbols of the Imperial Phoenix that marked every door, if for no other reason.
It was the middle of the day, and it was busy—Phoenix Guards looking impassive, advisers looking serious, adjutants looking important, courtiers looking courtly, and all of them moving past me like I was standing in the middle of a stream that flowed around me as if I were of no interest, and it might sweep me off if it felt inclined. I looked for someone who wasn’t in a hurry, because rushing down a hallway filled with teeming functionaries isn’t the best way to have a conversation.
After about fifteen minutes, I gave up and started drifting along in what I was pretty sure was the direction of the throne room.
“Not to make you nervous or anything, Boss, but someone who could nail you here, right in the Imperial Wing, would earn himself quite the reputation.”
“Yeah.”
The hallways of the Imperial Wing near the throne room are wide and tall and copper-colored, and you can’t imagine there being a time of day or night when they aren’t full of people scurrying about looking important. Here and there were wide archways or narrow doors, and from time to time someone will vanish into one or pop out and enter the flow. I didn’t go out of my way to call attention to myself, but I didn’t try to fit in, either, because that would have involved becoming part of the constant movement, and I wanted to take some time to just observe.
Eventually I found a place I recognized—I’d eaten there yesterday. I didn’t care to make that mistake again, but a number of others weren’t so particular: this time the place was doing a pretty good business. There was a low, steady hum of voices punctuated by metal trays and utensils.
I stood off the side for a while and just watched. On the other side, all alone at a table, there was a Dragaeran of middle years—say a thousand or so—who had the pale complexion and round face of the House of the Teckla. I studied him for a moment; he was drinking slowly, and seemed relaxed and maybe lost in thought. I approached and said, “Mind if I join you?”
He jumped a bit and started to rise, took in my mustache, the jhereg on my shoulders, and my sword. He hesitated and frowned; I gestured to him to remain sitting to make it easy for him. Teckla are never exactly sure whether they are above or below a nobleman who happens to be an Easterner—we throw off all of their calculations just by existing.
“By all means, my l . . . ah, sir.”
“Thanks,” I pulled up a chair. “I’ll buy you another of whatever you have there, if you don’t mind. What does the yellow armband signify?”
He had light brown hair peeking out from under a hat that was too tall and not wide enough to look anything but absurd. He glanced at the armband as if he didn’t realize it was there, then said, “Oh, I’m a message-runner.”
“For whom?”
“For hire, sir. Did you wish a message sent somewhere within the Palace? If it is outside the Palace itself, I have to charge more, because I pass it on to—”
“No, no. I was just curious about what it meant.”
He nodded, held up his mug, and gestured in the direction of a young Chreotha who seemed to be working for the older woman who was still there, only now much more awake.
“I’m Vlad,” I said. “Baronet of this, Imperial Count of that, but skip all that.” He wouldn’t, of course. He’d be incapable of skipping it.
“I’m Poncer,” he said.
“Well met.”
He gave Loiosh and Rocza a look, but then his drink arrived—it smelled like the sort of dark beer that makes me hate beer—and that distracted him.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked after a swallow.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Sir?”
I smiled. “Do you need to be anywhere for the next couple of hours?”