a presence to detect in various towns in assorted corners of the Empire in order to confuse them a bit. My friends and I are returning overland from Korvan to Matherion, and we’d prefer not to be ambushed along the way. This isn’t a confidential visit, Ambassador Fontan. Feel free to let people know that I stopped by. They’ll probably know already, but let’s confirm it for them.’
‘I like your style, Sparhawk. You’ll be crossing Cynesga?’
Sparhawk nodded.
‘It’s an unpleasant country.’
‘These are unpleasant times. Oh, it won’t really hurt if you’re sort of smug when you tell people that you’ve seen me. Our side was definitely behind up until now. That changed a few days ago. Our enemy, whoever he is, is at a distinct disadvantage right now, and I’d sort of like to grind his face in that fact for a while.’
‘I’ll get word to the town crier immediately.’ The ancient man squinted up at the ceiling. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘An hour at the very most.’
‘Plenty of time, then. Why don’t we step over to the palace? I’ll take you into the throne-room, and you can pay your respects to the king – in front of his entire court. That’s the best way I know of to let people know you’ve been here.’
‘I like your style, your Excellency,’ Sparhawk grinned.
It grew easier each time. At first, Bhelliom seemed impossibly dense, and Flute frequently had to step in, speaking in that language which Sparhawk strongly suspected was the original tongue of the Gods themselves. Gradually, the stone seemed to grasp what was wanted of it. Its compliance was never fully willing, however. It had to be compelled. Sparhawk found that visualizing Vanion’s map helped quite a bit. Once Bhelliom grasped the fact that the map was no more than a picture of the world, it grew easier for Sparhawk to tell the jewel where he wanted to go.
This is not to say that there weren’t a few false starts. Once, when he had been concentrating on the town of Delo on the east coast, the thought crossed his mind that there was a certain remote similarity between that name and the name of the town of Demos in east-central Elenia, and after the momentary gray blur where the world around him shifted and changed, he found himself and Flute riding Faran in bright moonlight up the lane that led to Kurik’s farm.
‘What are you doing?’ Flute demanded.
‘My attention wandered. Sorry.’
‘Keep your mind on your work. Bhelliom’s responding to what you’re thinking, not what you’re saying. It probably doesn’t even understand Elenic – but then, who really does?’
‘Be nice.’
‘Take us back immediately!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
There was that now-familiar lurch, and the moonlight faded into gray. Then they were back in bright autumn sunshine on the road a few miles outside Korvan, and their friends were staring at them in astonishment.
‘What went wrong?’ Sephrenia asked Flute.
‘Our glorious leader here was wool-gathering,’ Flute replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘We just took a little side-trip to Demos.’
‘Demos!’ Vanion exclaimed. ‘That’s on the other side of the world!’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It’s the middle of the night there right now. We were on the road to Kurik’s farm. Maybe our stalwart commander here felt lonesome for Aslade’s cooking.’
‘I can live without these “stalwart commanders” and “glorious leaders”,’ Sparhawk told her tartly.
‘Then do it right.’
There was a certain desperation in the flicker of darkness at the edge of Sparhawk’s vision this time, and a faint flicker of harried confusion. Sparhawk did not even stop to think. ‘Blue Rose!’ he barked to the Bhelliom, bringing up his other hand so that both rings touched the deep blue petals, ‘destroy that thing!’
He felt a brief jolt in his hands and heard a sizzling kind of crackle behind him.
The shadow that had dogged their steps for so long, which they had thought at first to be Azash and then the Troll-Gods, gave a shrill shriek and began to babble in agony. Sparhawk saw Sephrenia’s eyes widen.
The shadow was crying out, not in Zemoch or Trollish, but in Styric.
‘Well now, yer Queenship,’ Caalador was saying, ‘I don’t know ez I’d stort a-dancin’ in the streets jist yet. Them fellers over t’ Interior’s bin a-doin’ ever’thang but a-nailin’ th’ doors shet t’ keep us from a-puttin’ our hands on this yere pertic’ler set o’ files, an’ now they turns up sorta unexpected-like amongst a hull buncha others – which I’d swear a oath to that I already looked over ’bout four er five times my own self. Don’t that smell jist a bit like a dead fish t’ you?’
‘What did he say?’ Emperor Sarabian asked.
‘He’s suspicious,’ Ehlana translated. ‘He thinks that our discovery of these files was too easy. He may just have a point.’
They had gathered again in the royal apartment in what was by now generally called ‘Ehlana’s Castle’ to discuss the surprising discovery of a hitherto missing set of personnel files. The files themselves were stacked in heaps upon the tables and the floor of the main sitting room.
‘Do you always have to complicate things, Master Caalador?’ The Emperor’s expression was slightly pained. As he habitually did now, Sarabian was wearing western-style clothes. Ehlana felt that this morning’s choice of a black velvet doublet and pearl-grey hose was not a happy one. Black velvet made Sarabian’s bronze-tinted skin look sallow and unhealthy.
‘I’m a professional swindler, your Majesty,’ Caalador replied, dropping the dialect. ‘I’ve learned that when something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’
Stragen was looking into one of the files. ‘What an amazing thing,’ he said. ‘Someone in the Ministry of the Interior seems to have discovered the secret of eternal youth.’
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