"I don't have a grandson!"
"That's not what you told Ishta, remember? Hagai followed us there, and then went back with Annis as his interpreter and talked to Ishta, and they all believed your story about a grandson."
Lar frowned thoughtfully. "Oh," he said. "Did you tell them the truth?"
"No! I didn't tell them anything! I didn't know what I was allowed to say. And I only spoke to Annis, the Lumethans weren't there, and they'd already hired the assassins."
"They really hired assassins?"
"They really did. A tall man with a blade in his walking stick, and another one I didn't get a good look at."
"And they're waiting back at the house we rented?"
"They were last I saw, yes."
Lar looked at the magicians. "I didn't expect anything like this! Do you have any suggestions?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," the wizard said. "Who is Ishta, or Annis, or Hagai? What does this have to do with Vond the Warlock, or the Lumeth Towers?"
"Does it matter?" Zindrй asked. "Obviously, you need to tell the city guards. They'll take care of these assassins."
"And don't go back to the house until after you have spoken to the guard," Sella added.
"But my sword is there," Lar said.
Emmis and Imrinira said in unison, "You have a sword?"
"Get the guard first," Sella told him. "Then get your sword."
"There were just these two?" Zindrй asked Emmis.
"I only saw two," Emmis said. He was oddly reassured by how swiftly the witches had accepted his story. Everyone knew that witches could tell truth from falsehood – well, at least the witches who were good at their job – and Sella and Zindrй clearly thought he was telling the truth.
"Any sign of magic?" Zindrй asked.
"Not that I saw. The outside man pretended to be sleeping, and the inside man had that stick with the blade on the end, but I didn't see any magic. Nothing glowed, or moved in ways it shouldn't."
"Do you think they were Demerchan?" Lar asked.
"What?"
"Demerchan is a cult of assassins that operates in the Small Kingdoms," Sella explained. "I've never heard of them doing anything here in Ethshar of the Spices, though."
"How could I tell if they were this… whatever it is?"
Sella and Lar exchanged glances.
"I don't know," Lar admitted.
"It sounds to me as if the Lumethans just hired a couple of thugs from the Hundred-Foot Field," Imrinira said.
Emmis shook his head. "The one with the stick was too well dressed for that. The other one, maybe."
"How would anyone from the Small Kingdoms know how to find assassins to hire here in Ethshar?" Zindrй asked.
"Annis said Hagai is a theurgist," Emmis said. "Maybe he asked a god."
The others exchanged frowns. "Would a god tell him that?" Lar asked.
"I don't think so," Zindrй said. "But I'm no priestess. If he phrased his question right, maybe he could get an answer."
"They've been paying a tavern wench for favors," Emmis said. "Maybe she knew of someone."
"That could be," Zindrй agreed.
"Does it matter?" Sella asked. "As long as there's no magic involved, and the assassins aren't working for the overlord, the guards ought to be able to handle it. Just go to Camptown or the Palace and tell someone."
Emmis nodded. "I think she's right."
"For now," Lar said. "But if they really want me dead, they'll hire someone the guard can't stop. The stories say ordinary guards can't stop Demerchan, or they could hire a magician."
"Well, we'll just have to convince them they have no reason to kill you!" Emmis said.
For a moment no one spoke; then Lar asked, "How?"
Chapter Twelve
The conversation trailed off after that, and a few minutes later Lar and Emmis were turning the corner onto Games Street, bound for Camptown to talk to the guards. On either side they saw broad, open doors into gaming halls or card rooms of one sort or another; the murmur of voices and the smell of oushka reached them.
"Is it far to Camptown?" Lar asked.
Emmis turned up an empty palm. "I don't know," he said. "I've never been there."
Lar glanced at him. "Never?"
"Never. If I needed a guardsman, I could find one in the shipyards or the markets, or the towers at Westgate, or the Palace. Camptown's the far end of the city from Shiphaven."
"Then why are we going there?"
"Because it's closer to here," Emmis said. "We aren't in Shiphaven, we're in the Wizards' Quarter. We could have gone up to Southgate, but that's the opposite direction from the house. If there were a show at the Arena, we could find guards there, and it would be right on our way, but there's no show. So Camptown seemed best. Or we may just find a guard along the way."
"Maybe I should just buy another sword and defend myself," Lar muttered.
"You could," Emmis agreed, "but the guards are paid to protect the city, and that includes you, so why not?" He pointed. "Besides, it looks like we won't need to go all the way to Camptown."
"Hm?" Lar followed the pointing finger. "Is that a guardsman?"
Emmis threw his employer a baffled glance. "He's wearing a helmet and breastplate, isn't he? Of course he's a guardsman!"
"But his kilt is bright red, and he doesn't have a sword!"
The man in question was standing in front of one of the shops, holding a smaller man against the wall by the front of his tunic. He wore the yellow tunic, red kilt, and polished breastplate and helmet of the city guard, and a businesslike truncheon hung from his leather belt.
"Well, of course it's red," Emmis said. "What other color would it be?"
"Green. Don't Ethsharitic soldiers wear green kilts?"
"Not that I ever saw. I think the idea is to have them stand out in a crowd."
That was certainly happening in this case; a small crowd was gathering around the guardsman and his prisoner, though they were being careful to stay well out of reach. The guardsman's bright uniform definitely stood out – as did his height, as he was a very large man. Emmis was a big, strong man himself, but he did not think he would be any match for this fellow.
"They did in the old pictures."
"They haven't in my lifetime. And they hardly ever carry swords on the street."
He and Lar kept walking as they talked, and were now drawing within earshot of the soldier.
"…won't mind if we take a look in your purse, then?" The guard's voice was a low rumble, but not angry or hostile.
"I had that money when I came in!" the man pinned against the wall protested.
"Would you care to tell a magistrate that? With a witch in the room?"
"I don't… why should I? I just stopped in to see what the game was like! You have no business making these unfounded accusations!"
"Well, if I'm wrong, I'll apologize very politely, and give you two bits from the beer fund for your trouble. If I'm right, and these two young men who pointed you out to me are telling the truth, well, then you'll be right there in front of the magistrate, who can decide whether to make additional charges for wasting his time and costing him the witch's fee."
The pinned man stared up at the guardsman's smiling face, then slumped. "You'll let me go if I pay back the money?"
"Hai, I don't want to waste the magistrate's time any more than you do," the soldier rumbled. "I'm sure these players will be reasonable. I do understand the temptation, believe me – they should know better than to leave their stakes out in plain sight, unguarded, like that. They probably thought that it would be safe enough there in a respectable gambling hall, with me standing by the door, and as it turns out it was, but still, it was asking for trouble. Which I would tell the magistrate when he figured up his fee."