The Vondish Ambassador

"This is a request for credentials and a protocol," Lar said.

Emmis frowned. "What's a protocol?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Lar said with a grimace. "For that matter, what are credentials?"

"Oh," Emmis said. "That's… that's the papers that prove who you are. A letter from your regent, maybe?"

"Oh, I have those! That's right, I had forgotten – Lord Sterren did teach me the word. That's all right, then. But a…" He squinted at the parchment. "…a written protocol for the establishment of relations between our nations?"

"May I see it?" Emmis asked, reaching for the parchment.

Lar handed the document over.

Emmis puzzled over it; the runes were u

"He wants you to write up an explanation of what you want from the overlord," he said. "You're to send that, along with your address here and some proof that you really were sent by the Empire of Vond, to the Palace, and once Lord Ildirin is satisfied that you are who you say you are, and that you're here as a friend, he'll see you in person. If that goes well, then you can see the overlord."

Lar considered that, then nodded. "It's a start," he said. "It's reasonable." He turned back toward the counter. "Have you seen a bread knife around?"

In the end they hacked the bread into chunks with Emmis's belt-knife, as the kitchen had not come equipped with any cutlery at all. They ate an improvised lunch while standing at the counter – the kitchen had no intact chairs, and eating in the dining room seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

As they ate they pla

"You could find one yourself when you're there today," Emmis said.

"I would prefer to have my guide with me for that," Lar replied.

Emmis nodded. "All right." Then he stood and brushed crumbs from his tunic. "I'll go now, if you don't mind," he said.

"Go," Lar said, with a wave.

Emmis went. There was still no sign of anyone watching the house.

He reached his old residence behind Canal Square without incident, argued with his landlady for half an hour before finally agreeing on how much he would pay to settle his account, gave her the agreed-upon sum, and then climbed the narrow stairs for one last time.

He did not really have much to collect here; he had lived simply, and had never really intended the room to be his permanent home. His clothes could all, with moderate effort, be stuffed into a duffel bag that could easily be carried over one shoulder; his food supplies and such personal belongings as quills and candle-stubs all fit in a second and final bag, this one a fold-top leather satchel. The furnishings, including the linens, had all come with the room, and would stay with it.

He took a final look around, to be sure he had everything he wanted, and the window caught his eye. He crossed the fraying bit of rag rug and opened the casement, then leaned out cautiously.

The cry of seagulls reached him, faint and distant, as did the salt smell of the sea. Wood smoke, spices, and decay were a stronger scent. Off to the left he could see through a gap between the houses to sunlight sparkling on the New Canal; below him was the muddy courtyard where the neighborhood well stood at one end, the privies at the other, and half a dozen unbreeched children played between. Strings of laundry hung from the eaves of a house in the southeastern corner, providing a little bright color to the courtyard – most of the houses here were roughly two hundred years old, and darkened by centuries of smoke and weather.

This hadn't been a bad place to live, he told himself. Did he really want to give it up for the back bedroom on Through Street?

He had never expected to live in Allston. He had always assumed that if he ever left Shiphaven it would be for somewhere exotic, like Tintallion of the Isle, or someplace luxurious, like the New City. A big yellow house in Allston, just off Arena Street, had not been anything he considered.

But that room was no more permanent than this one had been. It was a place to stay while he earned money, until he knew what he wanted to do, and where he wanted to live. It was somewhere out from under his parents' roof, to prove he could stand on his own feet.

This room had been somewhere he could bring a Spicetown whore, or that drunken sailor woman who had taken a fancy to him, or the chandler's daughter who had shared his bed for a month before ru

The room on Through Street – well, any whore he brought there would probably come from Camptown rather than Spicetown, but otherwise, it was much the same. The sights and smells outside the window might be less familiar, but that didn't really matter.

Eventually he wanted a place of his own, a place he could settle in for good, but this wasn't it, and neither was the house in Allston. The ambassador's money, though, would bring him that much closer to someday finding it.

He closed the window, hoisted the duffel onto his shoulder, picked up the satchel, and left, closing the door behind him for one last time, and dropping the key in the landlady's waiting palm.

He trudged out of the alley, then across Canal Square and up Twixt Street. He turned left on Olive Street and made his way west a few hundred yards. There he paused, looking at the house his parents shared with two other families.

He had grown up here, with his two younger sisters, and with the seven kids of the other two families, though most of them had moved out now. The ten of them had all played together as children, and had been almost like a single family, instead of three. When he had been younger everyone took it for granted that he would eventually marry Azradelle the Tomboy, from upstairs, officially merging two of the three.

It hadn't happened, and no one still called her that. Now she was Azradelle of Shiphaven, married to Pergren the Pilot, and the mother of twins. They lived in a flat on Ci

His behavior at their wedding was one reason he had moved out and found himself the room behind Canal Square – living in the same house as Azradelle's parents and younger siblings had been too uncomfortable after his spiteful drunken speech and… well, and other things.

It had been foolish, really; he hadn't wanted to marry Azradelle himself, and Pergren was a nice enough fellow, but somehow he hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut. He had felt cheated when she chose Pergren. It was completely unreasonable, and he knew that, he had known it at the time, but all those years of taking her for granted, combined with too much oushka, had somehow made him lose interest in being reasonable.

It was probably just as well Lar didn't know about that little episode.

He shifted the duffel, then climbed the stoop and knocked on the front door.