The Diplomat (2 page)

“Right.”

Probably she’d lost him at “agricultural,” but Rema pressed on regardless. “As you might expect, Danosha is losing very badly.” She ducked beneath a line of washing. “This is where things get interesting, so pay attention.”

“I am.” The sailor glanced at her chest before returning his serious gaze to her face. “Go on.”

“If Lyorn conquers Danosha, it will become rather more formidable. Lyorn has close ties with our enemies, and the stronger they become, the more we have to worry about our vulnerable eastern shore.”

The sailor nodded. “Vulnerable.”

Their approach startled a woman drenching clothes in a bucket, which she knocked over, flooding the street with rivulets of soapy water. “Is it always like this?” said the sailor. “People staring at you?”

“Very often. I was in Urandal three months ago, and you should have seen the trail of blushing, bewildered women I left behind me.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Quite the contrary. Anyway, back to our conversation. I’m here to offer Danosha the military support it needs to bring the war to a stalemate. Lyorn bleeds itself on our superior armies, agrees to a ceasefire and a future crisis is averted.”

“Averted. Sounds good.”

Rema and the sailors reached the edge of a marketplace teeming with aggressive hawkers. They passed through the stalls, avoiding eye contact. Just as Rema thought she was safe, a merchant ran up to her and bellowed in her ear. “No,” she said. “I don’t want any oranges. Thank you.” The man retreated, still brandishing the unwanted fruit.

“So you’re here to save these foreigners from being destroyed,” said the sailor, who had himself barely avoided being sold a pineapple. “Sounds like an easy job to me.”

“You’d be surprised.” Rema stretched her arms toward the sun, releasing the tension in her shoulders. It was best to enjoy the open air while she could. Soon she’d be stuck in the stuffy confines of the palace, listening to the mumblings of orderlies and bureaucrats.

The streets widened, and the crude dwellings gave way to sturdy, multistoried houses. A large smithy came into view, its chimney puffing dark clouds of smoke. A scarred man worked a grindstone in its yard. He lifted his head and scowled at Rema. “What are you looking at, you cocksucking pretty-boy?”

“Good morning to you too,” said Rema. “I hope your craftwork is finer than your manners.”

The man’s face purpled. “You’re a woman?”

“Am I the first you’ve seen? No wonder you’re surprised.”

“You’re wearing long trousers.” The man’s expression grew sullen. “That’s perverse.”

“And imagine how perverse I would be if I took them off.” Rema treated the man to her most winning smile. “Have a good day.”

She left the man at his grindstone, his face twitching in slow and reluctant thought. Her conversation partner frowned. “You’ve got some courage,” he said.

“Why, because I’m not afraid of an ill-tempered blacksmith?” Rema yanked her luggage over a high cobblestone. “Come on, it grows late. Let’s pick up the pace.”

It was midafternoon when they arrived at the wide road leading up to the palace, which sat on a small hill in the center of the city. Its tired walls seemed a gesture to tradition rather than an obstacle that might seriously keep out an invading army. The road continued beneath a raised portcullis, and a stream of travelers wandered to and from the palace, most of them miserable-looking peasants. Presumably, the rulers held audiences for their stricken people to placate them with royal gestures and mumbles.

Rema brought the sailors to a stop amid the drifting crowd. “You three had best go back to your ship. I’ll be safe now. Thank you for the courtesy of your escort.”

“You didn’t need us at all,” said the tattooed sailor. “If a mugger came at you, you’d just talk at him until he apologized and ran away.”

Rema accepted the compliment with a graceful tilt of her head. “Go on, before it gets dark. Here.” She counted out several coins from her purse. “Try not to drink it all.”

The money disappeared into the sailor’s big hand. “You’re a jewel of the Empire, my lady. Have fun with the fancy diplomacy.”

“Enjoy your evening.” Rema arched an eyebrow. “And advise your friend to tread more carefully.”

She left the sailors counting their wealth and proceeded toward the palace entrance. A guardsman separated from the brickwork and stepped into her path. He looked her up and down, opened his mouth to speak, hesitated and inspected her one more time to be sure. “Miss,” he said finally. “May I help you?”

“Good afternoon.” Rema performed a modest bow. “My name is Remela. I’m an emissary from Emperor Ormun of the Pale Plains, Heir to the Wide Realms, Lord Master of the City States of Urandal, King of the Lastar, Lord of Goronba and so on. Please don’t make me say the rest.”

The guard began to laugh and quickly turned the sound into a cough. “Well, looking at you, I can see you’re not some peasant come to shovel muck at the feet of the king. I’ll wave you on through and ask someone to give a shout to the steward. Just loiter around in the front court.”

“I’m excellent at loitering. Enjoy a safe watch.”

“Aye, thank you.” The guard grinned under his mustache and wandered back to his post.

Rema tugged her luggage through the portcullis and into the din of the courtyard. Guards clanked across the cobblestones, horses grumbled in their stables and peasants raised their voices in complaint as they pushed toward the palace doors. Rema fought her way through the chaos and into the relative quiet of a wide, high-ceilinged front court. Windows above the door admitted the afternoon’s light and warmth, and archways about the walls opened into numerous palace corridors.

A series of stone benches lined the walls, most occupied by slumped visitors waiting for guards to lead them to the audience chamber. Rema pulled her trunk next to an empty bench and sat with her feet crossed, her eyes closed and her face lifted toward the sun. After a stretch of pleasant idleness, a cleared throat summoned her attention.

Before her stood a middle-aged, balding man in white robes. Like all native-born Danoshans, his skin was lily-white. Deep creases lined his face, and his eyes were heavily pouched as if he rarely slept. “By that weary face, I’d say you must be the steward,” Rema said.

“I’m Yorin. You must be the emissary.” Yorin began to extend his hand, but hesitated.

“Yes, I can shake your hand. You don’t have to serenade me first.”

Yorin gave her a furtive handshake. “Not to insult you, but I’ve never had to deal with a woman diplomat before. And to have one come from your Emperor is a bigger surprise still.”

“I obtained my position while his father was still in power. Ormun decided to keep me. My name is Remela, but please call me Rema.”

“Rema it is. You should be aware that the Queen dislikes Emperor Ormun very much.”

“Any sensible woman would,” said Rema. Yorin’s eyebrows jumped, and she laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. So long as I get the results he wants, Ormun doesn’t care what I say about him.”

“Let’s get you out of this filthy court.” Yorin spoke with a new touch of warmth. “This palace must seem a hovel to you.”

“After three weeks at sea, anywhere is home.”

Yorin’s lips moved in the barest beginnings of a smile. He drew his robes around him and beckoned Rema to follow. “Very well. Come, then, and keep your wits about you. Some of these idiot servants will knock you over without a word of warning.” He trudged across the court, and Rema followed, her mood brightened by the prospect of a challenge. Whatever these people thought they knew of diplomats, they were soon to be surprised.

Chapter Two

Rema pursued Yorin down a wide, torch-lit corridor. Immense wooden beams supported the ceiling, all of them dark and swollen with rot. Yorin stopped before an open door and motioned to the bedchamber beyond it. “We’ll settle you in here for now.”

The room was constructed of meager stone and furnished with a simple bed. Its one interior window overlooked an inner courtyard. Certainly less luxurious than her usual lodgings. Most monarchs feared that if an imperial diplomat slept poorly, the Emperor might take grave offense, and consequently Rema had slept on more silken sheets than she could count. Yet given the condition of the palace, this might well be the best Yorin had to offer.

Rema pushed her luggage against the wall and returned her attention to Yorin, who was playing with his sleeve. Its fabric was worn and stretched—the sign of a man with many worries. “Who do I deal with here? Yourself? An ambassador?”

“King Cedrin and Queen Talitha themselves. You’ve come at a dire time for us, and they’ll hang on your every word. The King is in session, but the Queen is in her private chambers. I’m going to take you there now.”

“How gracious.” Rema dusted some dirt from the hem of her coat. “I usually have to deal with functionaries.”

“All we have around here are disfunctionaries,” said Yorin without smiling. “This way.”

He led her back to the court and directed her to a high stairway in the corner. As they climbed, Rema looked down at the heads of the people below her. “Are they all here for an audience with the King and Queen?”

“Indeed, although only the King gives audiences.” Yorin proceeded slowly with one hand on the balustrade. “The peasants need some assurance in times like this.”

“And who is actually governing?”

“Well, my official response is that the King and Queen are.” A conspiratorial note entered Yorin’s voice. “You seem like a canny woman, however, so let’s just say that I have the authority to handle many affairs. Prince Calan interferes where he can, and Elise likewise does her best to make my job difficult.”

“Elise. That must be our ill-fated princess.”

The stairs ended at the junction of three corridors. A faded black-and-purple carpet ran down their lengths, and a painted mural decorated one of the cracked stone walls. Rema peered at its peeling design, a hunt scene, although the hounds were so faded that they might have been sausages for all she knew.

Yorin drew Rema away from the stairs. “Understand that Elise doesn’t like being called a princess. She’s our court enchantress and skilled at her art. She’s also very displeased with Ormun’s terms, as you might imagine.”

“An enchantress?”

“You don’t believe in magic?”

“I once was sent to parley with the so-called Wizard Kings of…no, I can’t even remember the name of their territory; there were simply too many vowels. It turned out their feared sorcerous army was regular armor covered in pitch and set alight. It had something of the effect of flaming warriors, if an enemy didn’t think to look closely.”

“A few charlatans. Sometimes a farmer sells you a bad egg, but you don’t give up on eggs.”

“You might, if the egg were bad enough.” Rema shook her head. “I don’t discount there’s an odd thread of enchantment in our world, especially in the south. Even Ormun has a court magician. But in my experience the majority of magicians are little more than clever frauds.”

“Elise is genuine. I’ve seen her accomplish some remarkable things.”

“Such as avoiding marriage until the age of twenty-six. Not that I can blame her.”

Yorin’s expression became even more grim. “Let’s not keep the Queen waiting.”

He led Rema to an unassuming wooden door and knocked twice. The handle rattled, the door cracked open and a small girl peered through the gap. After a second of blinking incomprehension, she opened the door wide and smiled in earnest terror.

“Thank you, Alys,” said Yorin. “You can go make yourself useful in the kitchen.”

Alys nodded. She looked at Rema, and her eyes grew huge with wonder. “M’lady, you’re wearing trousers!”

“Alys!” Yorin scowled at her. “Off to the scullery.”

“Yes, Master.” Alys gave Rema a final amazed look before darting back down the hallway. Rema smiled to herself. Given the task ahead, a touch of levity was welcome.

Yorin gestured to the open door. “Talitha wants you alone. I’ll close the door after you.”

Despite numerous flickering candles, a drab gloominess pervaded the Queen’s chamber. No surprise there—palaces of this kind were commonly grim, as if shadows seeped from their walls. Rema crossed the threadbare carpet and stood in the center of the room. Talitha sat in a tall wooden chair, her wrinkled hands upon a closed book on her lap. Bookshelves were stacked high on the walls about her, and a writing desk took up an entire corner. A literate woman. In usual circumstances Rema would be pleased, but it was much harder to outwit the well-read.

Talitha turned her deep-set eyes toward Rema and squinted. She seemed to be in her late fifties, but worn by the demands of rule and motherhood. Her handsome face was sunken amid flabby folds, and an enormous purple gown concealed her body.

“Your Grace, my name is Remela.” Rema made a low bow. “I have been sent to you by Emperor Ormun of the Pale Plains, Heir to the Wide Realms, Lord Master of the City States of Urandal, King of the Lastar and shall we skip the rest and get to the point?”

Talitha gave a brittle laugh. “Indeed.” She bent forward, her chair creaking as her weight shifted. “You sound very young for a diplomat.”

Rema stepped further into the light. “I’m thirty years old, Your Grace.”

“I’ll be damned!” Talitha leaned nearer still, and her chair groaned again—might the Gods keep it intact. “You’re a woman.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Talitha scratched her thinning scalp. “It’s inconceivable. The great barbarian Ormun, capturer and plunderer of women, employs a female diplomat in his service. What’s next, a butcher marrying a pig?”

“I was appointed by his father. Ormun spared me after the coup.”

“Not many survived that incident.” Talitha puckered her lips as her gaze followed the lines of Rema’s uniform. “You must be very good at your job.”

“I’m sure you’ll test me to my limits, Your Grace.”

“Sit opposite me, girl. Don’t call me ‘Your Grace.’ My name is Talitha, and I’ve no patience for groveling.”

Rema settled into a neighboring chair so well-padded it seemed possible it might swallow her. “If we’re to be informal, please call me Rema. I don’t much like my full name.”