“Mithos,” I whispered, turning away and utterly failing to look casual.
“Quiet, Will,” muttered Mithos, “I’m trying to think.”
“Yes,” I agreed hastily, “but a man has just come in who was in the Waterman.”
“What?”
“He was at the bar when we were eating. I think he has seen us.” I glanced around with a nonchalance I did not feel. “Yes. He’s coming over.”
And in seconds he was there, standing beside us and politely asking the barman for a drop of claret. Then, as the barman walked away, he spoke without turning to face us. His voice was smooth, refined even, and was touched with a smile I did not like. It spoke of dry, distanced amusement. Cold.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you’ve had quite an evening.”
“I’m sorry?” said Mithos.
“No need to disguise it,” he replied, “and certainly no point. You have led Lightfoot and his men in quite a merry dance, though it seems you are, shall I say, tiring.”
That last word was spoken with an ominous emphasis that had floated behind the slightly amused tone of his other words.
“Who the hell are you?” I muttered, turning on him and caring nothing for Mithos’s irritated sigh. He knew who we were well enough, so why pretend?
“My name is Dantir, rebel hero,” he said, turning to face me. Then a joyless smile cracked his face and he added: “Just joking. Sorry. I am Linassi of. .”
“Why the hell would I care. .” I began, rankled by his composure and confidence.
“Excuse me,” he replied with a calming gesture. “Perhaps I should have made myself clearer. I am Ambassador Linassi and I have a coach outside.”
This was clearly supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t, but that was a feeling I was used to. Mithos looked up and met Linassi’s eyes for the first time. Apparently, something was going on here that I knew nothing about.
“And you have?. .” began Mithos.
“Full diplomatic immunity, yes,” answered the stranger, gazing emptily across the bar. “My driver is waiting in the yard. I suggest we move quickly.”
“What?” I asked, looking from one to the other. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Will,” said Mithos, taking a hurried swill of beer and getting to his feet. “Just follow the ambassador.”
“He could be anyone,” I spluttered, ignoring the fact that the man was standing beside me.
“My papers,” he said, plucking a wad of parchment from inside his jacket. “You can examine them as we go.”
Out in the street, the sounds of the curious crowds dwindled significantly. A glance toward the open door told me why. The unit from the Waterman had regrouped and were mingling with the sentries.
“It looks like the decision has been made for you,” said the ambassador, if that was what he was.
Mithos nodded solemnly, returned his papers, and indicated that he should lead the way. The older man inclined his head gravely and, without another word, led us in a series of long strides across the room.
I say “us,” but, for most of those strides it would be truer to say “Mithos,” because I stayed where I was, considering the odds of just losing myself in the crowds and finding a way out when things had died down. Then the crowd at the door parted and I caught a glimpse of white and silver. I didn’t know if the guards were coming to search the place, or if they were just looking for refreshment, but I couldn’t wait around to find out. So with eyes down and one hand rubbing my face in as obfuscating a manner as I could manage short of putting a bag on my head, I half-ran in pursuit of Mithos.
A door by the hearth gave way to a narrow passage smelling of damp and animals and leading to the stableyard, where, beside a wagon piled high with crates, sat a single coach. It was black as pitch, painted over with a highly polished lacquer, and trimmed with delicate ropes of gold. A crest hung on the side doors, featuring a dragon and a lamb on an azure shield.
“Pretty flash,” I muttered to no one in particular, which was just as well since it was universally ignored.
A man in a dark and heavy overcoat who had been standing close to the coach knocked his pipe out against the wall and climbed up the stoop. Picking up his lash, he began cautiously walking the horses, all white geldings, until the coach was in the middle of the yard and ready to go. He leaned over the side and flipped a latch deftly with the butt of his whip. The carriage door swung open and Ambassador Linassi, with a small and wordless gesture, indicated that we should get aboard.
I glanced uneasily at Mithos, far from comfortable at the prospect of taking a spin in this glorified hearse with its questionable ambassador and his taciturn driver. Mithos’s eyes said nothing and he climbed in, sitting himself comfortably on the red velvet seats inside. I followed, gingerly, and perched on the opposite seat, facing him and looking for assurance. The ambassador sat beside him, and his sharp, blue eyes met mine for a brief, blank instant, before he pulled the door shut behind him and rapped on the roof. As soon as we began to roll off, he stretched across toward me. I, with a start of panic, recoiled.
“Relax, Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, his voice as smooth as before but touched with that same gentle amusement, “you are quite safe in here. For now.”
Then he continued to lean across and, with a sudden tug on a cord, pulled down the window shade. He did the same on the other side and we were plunged into absolute darkness. Only several minutes later did my eyes seem to adjust, and even then I could make out little beyond shadows.
The coach rattled out of the inn yard and onto the road.
“She gives a very smooth ride, does she not?” said the ambassador suddenly, his voice unwinding in the darkness like an unseen cobra.
“Very good,” I stammered, rather louder than I had intended, and was struck by the curious sense that I was alone in there, that I was talking to myself. Many moments passed before the ambassador added, “Steel sprung suspension. Nothing finer.”
I felt obliged to say something but could not think of the words. I found myself nodding agreement to the darkness and then, as the silence extended itself, I abandoned speech altogether, focusing instead on my own anxieties, all of which seemed to be amplified by being in this curtained box, this cave, this pit of darkness on wheels. Still, it was likely to be a short journey, even if it was into the arms of the Empire’s leading torturer. How bad could things get?
“Papers,” said an imperious voice outside, perhaps only a foot and a half from my head. With sudden insight I realized that things could get pretty bad.
Something touched my knee and I jumped, striking my head on the roof. Then it came again, more insistent this time. Putting out my hand, I found myself holding the ambassador’s documents. Barely daring to breathe, I pushed them through the crack in the window blind, leaning back in my seat to avoid being seen. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of steel helms plumed with white. Then the papers were snatched from my grasp by the invisible sentry and I flinched again.
“You have got to be joking,” growled the unseen soldier, inches from my right ear. I sat very still, muscles tight and bowels clenched.
There was one of those half-decade pauses that actually lasts about three seconds. Then we heard the sibilant hiss of exasperation that can only come from an Empire sentry foiled by red tape. The papers were stuffed back through the window in a fist that didn’t care if it caught one of the passengers on the jaw. Then it was gone, and a voice commanded the driver to “Move on” in a tone that left us in no doubt as to what the speaker thought about diplomatic immunity.
In a spasm of relieved joy I contemplated leaning out of the window and shouting something witty as the carriage rolled off. Something told me, however, that the one thing the guards would thank me for now would be the word or gesture that would lead to one of those unfortunate incidents which leaves huddles of troops standing over civilian corpses and muttering to their knowing superiors about how one of them had seemed to be brandishing some lethal, garrison-leveling weapon that had turned out to be a salt shaker. .