As they were hustled back to the street, Arvin fumed. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to have gone. If Karrell hadn’t butted in, he would have been talking to Dmetrio still, subtly nudging the conversation around to Glisena as he talked about his “trade mission” to Sespech. Now, in order to question Dmetrio, Arvin would have to be blunt. He’d have to reveal his real reason for coming to Ormpetarr. If Dmetrio was involved in Glisena’s disappearance, he would be on his guard. Charming him would be that much more difficult—maybe even impossible.
As the wrought-iron gate clanked shut behind them, Karrell turned to Arvin. “It seems you are a merchant’s agent, after all, and I have ruined your chances to—”
“Not another word,” Arvin said, a quiver in his voice. He pointed down the street. “Go.”
Karrell opened her mouth to say something more then thought better of it. She turned and walked up the street.
Arvin closed his eyes and sighed. Karrell had really gotten under his skin. He wished he’d never started that conversation with her in the sleigh in the first place. He’d been stupid—and had shown a pitiful lack of self-control.
When he opened his eyes, she was gone. He stared at her footprints, which were starting to fill with falling snow.
“All for the best.”
Arvin turned. It had been Rillis who had spoken—he was still standing just on the other side of the wrought-iron gate. The sergeant was at the far corner of the building, making his rounds.
“You’re better off not having the ambassador introduce you,” Rillis added in a confiding tone.
Arvin turned. “What do you mean?”
Rillis rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. The gesture was the one word in silent speech that was understood even by those not in the Guild: coin.
Arvin nodded and pulled his pouch out of his boot. He counted two silver pieces into the militiaman’s outstretched hand.
Rillis quickly pocketed them. “The ambassador and the baron had a falling out,” he told Arvin. “It’s been more than a month since Ambassador Extaminos visited the palace. I don’t think they’ve even sent a message to one another, in all that time.”
“Why is that?” Arvin asked. Carefully, he probed for information, under the pretense of sarcasm. “Did the baron’s daughter pay him a visit and forget to go home one night?”
Rillis laughed. “You obviously haven’t met her chaperones. She never sets foot outside the palace without them. Baron’s orders.” He winked. “He didn’t want any little ones slithering out from under the woodpile. Not without a formal joining of the houses.”
Arvin nodded. “Is a joining likely?”
“Not now that the ambassador’s being withdrawn from Sespech.” He paused to draw his cloak tighter across his chest.
“When is he leaving?”
Rillis stared pointedly at Arvin’s pouch. Taking the hint, Arvin handed him another silver piece.
“As soon as the new ambassador arrives,” Rillis continued. “Meanwhile, the house slaves can’t seem to pack fast enough for Ambassador Extaminos. He’s been hissing at them for nearly a tenday.”
Arvin nodded. Interesting, that was roughly the amount of time that had elapsed since Glisena’s disappearance. He glanced up at the windows of the ambassador’s residence, saw slaves bustling about in each room, and wondered why Dmetrio was in such a hurry to leave. Was the baron’s daughter hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to depart with him?
Arvin sighed and stared down the street, in the direction Karrell had gone. After what Rillis had just told him, Arvin realized that he probably wouldn’t have gotten anything out of Dmetrio, anyway. The ambassador had shrugged off Karrell’s charm like a duck shedding water. Arvin’s attempt to charm Dmetrio probably would have been equally futile.
“Thanks for the information,” Arvin told Rillis. The militiaman patted his pocket. “My pleasure.” Bidding Rillis good day, Arvin set out for the palace.
Baron Thuragar Foesmasher sat at one end of the council chamber, his broad hands resting on the arms of the heavy wooden chair. The man exuded both power and confidence. He was large, with dark eyes, hair cut square just above his eyebrows, and a blackish chin framed by a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a purple silk shirt; black trousers tied at the ankle, knee, and groin; and leather slippers embroidered in gold thread with the Foesmasher crest: a clenched fist. A heavy gold ring adorned the forefinger of his right hand; a silver brooch in the shape of a beetle was pinned to his shirt front. Arvin had no doubt that both pieces of jewelry were magical.
