There was a stranger in the house, a tall, thin man in a dark blue tunic and black wool breeches, his black beard trimmed to a point, his raised hands wielding a black and silver cane like a club. As Emmis took this in, a wooden cap fell from the end of the stick, revealing a sharp steel blade at least six inches long – the weapon was now as much a sword as a club.
Emmis dived at him, keeping his head down, below that sword-stick, and butted the intruder hard, sending them both tumbling backward onto the bare wood floor. They landed with Emmis on top, and he reached out his left hand, fingers spread, and grabbed his opponent's face, shoving it back so that the stranger's head hit the floor hard.
Then he scrambled over his dazed opponent, got back to his feet, and ran toward the back of the house.
He was not here to fight; he didn't know how to fight, not really. He had been in a few brawls in bars or on the docks, but he was no fighter, not really. The one thing he knew which had stood him in good stead here so far, was to do the unexpected – if someone came at you, go at him as well, don't retreat. Don't hesitate – better to do the wrong thing quickly than the right thing too late.
And the other rule he used in fighting was that when you get the chance, put anything you can between yourself and your foe – doors, furniture, or just distance. Don't try to beat anyone, just try to get away.
With that in mind, he didn't look for a weapon, or turn to face the man with the stick; he just ran to the back door and out into the courtyard.
A few of the neighbors were there, and glanced at him as he ran out of the house, stumbling across the little back porch and down the single step onto the hard-packed earth. A half-formed thought of shouting for them to call for the guards crossed Emmis's mind, but he let it go unheeded as he sprinted toward one of the narrow passages leading out of the courtyard to the streets.
Lar was not dead yet, he was sure. The assassins wouldn't have been lingering in and around the house if they had already murdered their target. He wouldn't have been hiding from them. That meant he hadn't yet returned home. The assassins had been lying in wait, expecting him any moment, expecting their unprepared victim to walk in, completely unaware of any danger.
At least, Emmis hoped that was what it meant.
And they had gotten Emmis instead, a younger, stronger, more prepared opponent, and he had survived their initial attack.
But that meant that the would-be killers would be more prepared now, as well. It was more important than ever that Emmis find Lar first, and warn him.
The more heroic thing might be to stay and fight, to try to take the assassins out of action somehow, but Emmis was no hero. He had no idea how he might single-handedly defeat two men, especially not when one of them had that diabolical sword-stick.
He didn't even know whether there were just the two. After all, neither of them was Neyam of Lumeth. There might be a whole gang lurking around Through Street.
Emmis squeezed through one of the narrower alleys and emerged onto an unfamiliar street; he paused for only a fraction of a second to get his bearings, then turned and headed for Arena Street, hoping that he had enough of a lead that the two assassins would not be able to follow him to the Wizards' Quarter.
Chapter Eleven
Emmis saw no sign of pursuit. He attracted a few stares as he ran headlong down Arena Street, but no one seemed to be following him, or taking more than a casual interest.
Still, when he reached the Arena district he turned left onto Camp Street, as if he were heading for Camptown to fetch guardsmen. Once he was around the corner he slowed to a walk and straightened his clothes, trying to look like an ordinary townsman out on business, rather than a fleeing lunatic.
He was not going to Camptown, though; he turned right on Hawker Street, past the Arena, and picked up his pace, hoping as he did that Lar was not walking down Arena Street, a few blocks to the west, as he did. He was assuming that the ambassador was still in the Wizards' Quarter, that his business there had taken longer than expected, or he had decided to do something else after Kolar's spell was done. Emmis he was hoping he could find him before he went home and ran into the assassins.
It was a good thing that Lar was so easy to spot, with that red coat and big hat.
Emmis turned right again, across the entry plaza at the south side of the Arena, past the notice boards – and no, Lar was not there reading the notices, nor was he visible in the crowds on Arena Street.
Emmis frowned, and then ran and jumped, pulling himself up on a cornice on the face of the Arena so that he was hanging from the stone three or four feet off the ground, his feet braced against a pillar, as he peered up and down Arena Street.
There were hundreds of people in sight, male and female, young and old. Dozens of them wore hats, from the bright little caps of the fashionable ladies to the battered, broad-brimmed straw hats of farmers in town for the day, but nowhere did he see a big black hat with a red satin band and a curling white plume.
He also didn't see a tall man in a blue tunic, carrying a black and silver stick; that was a relief. He wished he had gotten a better look at the other assassin, but his only clear impression was that the man had been nondescript, wearing tunic and breeches of some ordinary color like brown or gray.
He dropped back to the ground, hoping he hadn't drawn too much attention, and hurried on along Arena Street.
Ten minutes later he was on Wizard Street, knocking at the door of Kolar's shop.
This time Kolar was wearing a proper wizard's robe when he answered the door, a flowing floor-length black garment with bands of midnight-blue velvet on the sleeves. A rather elegant blue velvet cap adorned the wizard's head.
"Ah, the assistant!" he said, before Emmis could catch his breath. "Did Lar forget something?"
"He was here?" Emmis demanded. "But he's not now? When did he leave?"
Startled, Kolar said, "I don't really know. Some time ago. Is there a problem?"
"Yes," Emmis said. "Did he say where he was going? Because he didn't go back to the house."
"Well, no – he was going to try another wizard first, and if that didn't work out, perhaps a witch."
"What?" He blinked. "Why does he need another wizard?"
Kolar sighed. "Because the spell didn't work," he said. "I performed it twice, with the wording we agreed upon, and both times it felt just fine, but there was no answer to his question."
Emmis frowned. "How do you mean, no answer?"
"I mean, the smoke didn't form runes, just meaningless swirls. It certainly wasn't any sort of writing I know, and I'm reasonably fluent in three dead languages, as well as Ethsharitic. Lar said it wasn't anything he knew, either, and he apparently knows half a dozen tongues."
"But how can that happen?" Emmis asked. "The spell went wrong?"
Kolar shook his head. "I don't think it did," he said. "I told you last night that Fendel's Divination would answer the question if there is an answer and nothing interfered. It didn't answer, so if there's an answer, then something interfered."
"But what? What could have interfered?"
Kolar turned up an empty hand. "How should I know?"
"Because you're a wizard! Knowing these things is your job!"
Kolar shook his head again. "It's not like that," he said. "Knowledge isn't free. Magic interferes with other magic, and trying to find out exactly which magic is interfering can be difficult and dangerous. Nobody's paying me to make the effort or take the risk."
This was frustrating, but Emmis realized it wasn't really important. "All right, fine," he said. "Then you don't know what went wrong, but you sent the ambassador somewhere else. Where did you send him?"
"I suggested he try Imrinira of Sabar, over on Stopped Street," Kolar said, pointing vaguely in a direction Emmis thought was east.