Chapter 2 - Odden
Staff of The Embassy,
Yesterday I stated that we were employed for peace not only for our native Barthos, but for the entirety of Leeges. Today, this mission remains the first of our affairs, though the agents of other nations may be otherwise inclined.
To reiterate the circumstances: Yesterday, on the 13th of Middle Summer, 3375 DA, a foreign diplomat was assassinated in Aster-Szem. Srik Tillich, Elder Migrant and Councilor to The Kingdom of Ahn, was traveling under guard along The Southway on the Szem side of town. The Royal Knights guarding setter Tillich had their attention diverted by the surrounding crowd, allowing at least one individual - whose species remains unknown - to reach the diplomat. Srik Tillich and at least one other bystander were slain - their bodies have been removed to the Szem dead house. Several other persons in the crowd were injured. The area of The Southway where the attack occurred has been cordoned off. The assassin or assassins have not yet been caught; I and the other national diplomats within the city are scheduled to meet this evening, the 14th, to decide on an impartial agent to track down the culprit(s).
The Teironian City Vigil is now on first alert patrol in Szem and second alert in Aster. My own feeling is that order has been established in town, but we cannot be entirely sure of our security in the days to come.
The agents of this embassy may be satisfied with these facts. I remind the agents that all other statements regarding Srik Tillich’s agenda in Aster-Szem, or surrounding his assassination, are hearsay. I remind the agents that Barthan honor and Barthan restraint should be preserved in all our discourse. The most terrible responsibility rests upon our Embassy to-
The quill stopped its scrawling course across the page at the swift upward curve of the letter O, as a knock sounded upon the door. The hand holding the quill carefully raised to tip away from the paper to prevent dripping, and returned it to the inkstand. A voice, reserved but clear, said, “Enter.”
An embassy clerk cracked the door with a soft groan from its hinges, and stuck his polished face around the blue black surface. “Setter ambassador, the mayor of Aster and the Ahn junior ambassador have arrived. They’re waiting in the foyer.”
“Is the dinner service set?”
“It has not yet arrived, setter.” The clerk rubbed the side of his face. “It should be here shortly. We’ll set it out the moment it’s ready.”
“Very good, Eeton. You may inform mayor Kyrillus and Ambassador Simon; I shall be down shortly. Oh and Eeton, bring a new bag of pounce and fresh paper to my desk.
The Clerk Eeton nodded. He shut the blue painted door behind him as he left.
Odden of Barthos leaned back from the unfinished letter on his desk. He let his shoulders roll into the cushion of his armchair. He pushed the seat back with a soft hasp against the stone floor. He pulled one soft veined hand across his face, and looked with heavy eyes at the floor mirror to his left.
His hair was a dark grey-brown, like the foundation of a stately old house, and a little disheveled by loose strands. Odden pushed them into place. His cheeks were clean and smooth. He fixed the top button on his summer shoulder-cloak, and readjusted the hood so that the folds fell evenly on both sides. He stood up, smoothed the creases in his silver trousers, straightened the chain of office that hung across his chest and, finally, fixed his jaw and face into the placid, sober expression of a man of duty. A stranger to Odden might have said he seemed sullen. The agents of the Barthan Foreign Embassy and the regular diplomatic liaisons in Aster-Szem - they would have instantly recognized it as the public face worn by Odden of Barthos. As First Ambassador Odden had no known associations or occupations outside of the public, it was, in the opinion of these same agents and liaisons, his face, fullstop.
Odden ran a hand once more down his cheeks, as if wiping the last of any revealing expression from his countenance. His face seemed carved of the same stone as the wall behind him, excepting its plain human color. He turned away from the mirror. He stepped around behind his armchair to a wide row of latticed windows. These overlooked the grounds behind the embassy building.
A small planter ran along the inner sill of the windows in Odden’s office. The ambassador kept a row of white and pink flowers - orchids - in good health along the window glass, which contributed to the color of the petals by way of its southward face. The grounds, by contrast, sported little in the way of natural growth. The grass was kept short and clean on the slight slope, which terminated at its base in a little stone half-wall that delineated the slope from the street. The dominant feature of the embassy yard were some curious little headstones. There were not many, a few dozen, and they rose up in three uneven, split rows as tiny white bumps from the surrounding green. Theman’s Bloody Sun, now making its way into dusk, made the white stones look flushed, as if they had come freshly from a kiln.
Odden’s heavy eyes wandered from his orchids to the headstones, as if he would have heard from the ones buried beneath them something that he did not yet know. Many of Aster-Szem’s people would, if they could. None, however, knew so much of the world as to listen to the voices of bones buried in the ground - or had much expectation, while they yet walked above.
Shaking reverie from his head, Odden turned briskly. He slid one hand halfway into the front pocket of his trim tunic. Then he strode to the blue painted door, left his office, and locked up behind.
With the one hand tucked halfway into his pocket, the thumb stretched carefully over the silver trim, Odden of Barthos’s other hand slid along the carved wood rail of the embassy foyer’s second floor balcony. On the floor below a thin but clean rug sprawled in a pattern of blue and silver diamonds, the colors of Barthos. The walls had been adorned with the scrimshawed elk horns, and festooned in thistling garlands only brought out for triumphs and other occasions of celebration. In two days the halfmonth, the 15th of Middle Summer, was to mark the 110-year anniversary of Barthan independence from The United Volon League. The clerks had not found time to remove the decorations in light of recent events.
Standing beside a carven stone resembling the conical egg of a glass sky raptor bird, the muira liaison from Ahn and Aster’s shining-headed human mayor stood in hot discussion. They broke off conversing at once, however, as did the half-dozen other diplomatic persons standing on the diamond carpet, when they saw Odden of Barthos descending from the balcony by its single curving stair.
“Ambassador Odden,” The young junior ambassador from the Ahn Embassy, Tamara Simon, spoke loudest to attract the Barthan ambassador’s attention. “Be pleased. Assist my contemporary, setter Kyrllus of Aster. Explain why it is not within Barthan interests to obtrude in affairs relating strictly to the volon county of Teiron and The Kingdom of Ahn.”
“This young woman,” the mayor Kyrllus raised his whistling voice at once in the height of temper, “though she’s a fine representative of Queen Balgah and the muira of Szem-”
“Don’t restate it for my benefit,” Tamara remarked dryly.
“-must be misinformed on the pacts between the volons of Teiron and Barthos,” concluded Kyrllus. “I assure you, Mell Simon, that Teiron requests and expects the Barthan ambassador’s opinion on the legality - not to say the natural morality - of a foreign nation’s interference in a town which lies entirely within Teironian borders.”
“Which, nevertheless,” Tamara countered hotly, “has a portion of its populace who pledge allegiance by species and sentiment to Ahn.”
Odden of Barthos had reached the bottom of the steps without the opportunity to speak. He was immediately set upon by the national diplomats. Everyone had an interest in Srik Tillich’s murder. Beyond the mayor of Aster and Ahn’s ambassador, a delegate of the volon county of Thiges, a member of the Manufacturer’s Guild, a member of the landed muira gentry with seventeen thousand acres on the outskirts of Szem, and four other persons in the chamber sought to know: who Barthos thought must be responsible for Srik Tillich’s killing? What would Barthos do if certain specific terms were delivered, under official seal, to the government of Teiron by Ahn? Whose side would Barthos stand on, or whose issues would Barthos refuse to have any involvement in, if this event led to more serious political antagonisms?
To each and every question, Odden provided a calculated reply, each along the same lines. “Barthos, certainly, recognizes its role in the dispute must be a considered one… Barthos commiserates with Queen Balgah’s kingdom on the loss of their emissary… Barthos cannot, under any circumstances, recognize the authority of one nation to interfere with the disposal of justice which concerns only that nation…”
Arlos of Teiron, the representative from the Manufacturer’s Guild, asked, “Anything to sup on while we wrangle?”
“My staff have a service ordered from a kitchen in Szem,” Odden replied. “Old Poems and Butchering. Are you partial to wine and black elk tongue?”
“Tongue? Well, that’s a very good thing when it isn’t a woman’s.”
“The assassin needs catching,” said the Ahn ambassador Tamara Simon, ignoring Arlos’ comment.
“There could be several,” said the muira elder from the Szem gentry.
“Then they need catching. Swiftly.” Tamara Simon stiffened her back and pursed her lips into a thin frown. “The Kingdom of Ahn must have a say. Whoever is responsible must pay for their crimes against our people and our gods. Our leadership is not to be hacked down like choice evergreen under a woodsman’s axe. Certainly not in a nation that professes peaceful relations, and certainly not on native roads.”
Mell Simon had to raise her voice against a chorus of replies. Mayor Kyrllus said, “Take careful note everyone of Ahn’s representative. Mell Simon, are you threatening war?”
“Setters, mells, please.” Odden spoke in an even tone, which nevertheless commanded attention. “Our heads must be cool, if not for our own sake then for the sake of the city. Any dispute between us must necessarily make Aster-Szem its first victim.”
The diplomats murmured among themselves. Out of the corner of his eye Odden saw the man from the Manufacturer’s Guild lift a cup from the passing tray of a servant. The man sniffed at the drink inside, winced, then set it on the plinth of the raptor-egg sculpture. Odden caught the eye of a passing servant and snapped the fingers of his hand discreetly. Without further instruction, the guild man was shortly provided with wine of a completely opposite character.
“-city vigils are inspecting all traffic through the South-, West-, and Eastroads.” Odden caught the words of Mayor Kyrllus as his attention returned to the conversation.
“Unless they’re still wearing the bloody clothes,” said Ambassador Simon, “inspections can hardly identify the culprits.”
“There are underground routes out of the city too,” added Iamus of Teiron, who was the chief of the Aster-Szem city vigil. A short man with a flat, permanently-sarcastic face, he puffed continually at a smokethistle pipe, speaking around the stem. “I have orders for three units of soldiers beyond the usual watch. They shall be assigned to patrols and watching the pasture-gates and the old sewers. But we can’t cover it all.”
“Precisely the reason why Aster-Szem should accept-” Ambassador Simon began.
“Aster-Szem is not opposed to the tracking assistance of a bountyman from Ahn.” Mayor Kyrllus squinted at the muira diplomat from beneath his white eyebrows. “Provided it’s just one.”
“Our embassy found a muira bountyman already in town who fit the bill.”
“How fortunate.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him to our dinner tonight. Judge him for yourself when he arrives. His name is Ostok Horksog.”
“Anyone else coming?” asked the muira estate owner.
“I had my clerks send a courier to his eminence, the Teironian Tyrant, First Citizen Kratocles,” said Odden. “But the reply arrived just last hour that the venerable leader of this nation would not reach Aster-Szem until tomorrow at the earliest.”
The majority of the attending faces relaxed at this announcement. The mayor cast a glance around the attending company. “Any other parties?” he asked.
One of the white painted double-doors at the far end of the foyer from the stairwell opened a fraction at that moment. A clerk stuck his head in the gap and announced, “The Gorvoid of The Villgoranian Mountains, Vilniver Varadi.”
The mayor groaned aloud, while Tamara Simon’s pale muira face broke into a smile, like a face cast in marble suddenly changing its expression. They heard the heavy tread of boots. A moment later both white painted doors of the foyer were flung fully open, and Vilniver Varadi marched into the chamber.
Villniver Varadi was a muira man, with skin coarsened to a texture not dissimilar from the shell of a coconut, and darkened to a color more like cream than ivory. The golden veins of his species stood out prominently on the backs of his hands and his forehead, where they disappeared into combed, shortly-trimmed black hair. An enormous mustache, oiled into two points, hung over a mouth that seemed set into a battle-line. The Gorvoid of Villgorania wore his full military suit despite the summer heat: blue padded cloth shirt and pants over polished black marching boots, a summer coat of darker navy overtop of that, with gold buttons and a series of military honors and medals pinned down the left side of his chest, the tiny smallbone bag of his great ancestor - Hoskas Varadi - dangling from a chain over his right chest, two thin plates squaring his shoulders, and tucked under his left arm, the polished steel nasal-helm of a Villgoranian lord, with two ridges running like curving goat horns over the eyeholes and around the back.
His whole appearance was stern, coarse, stoical - except for the Villgoranian lord’s eyes. They were a deep blue like the ocean, and shone with an unsettled, temperamental light.
Each diplomat raised a left fist over their chest in a sign of respect. Ambassador Tamara went a step further, dropping into a short curtsy for the leader of Ahn’s sister-nation. Odden raised his fist into a flat hand of greeting. Before he could speak, however, Villniver Varadi burst out in a voice like a foot crunching over gravel.
“We shall not stand it,” said Villniver. He clapped his helmet against his hip. “Our people shall not be murdered in the street.”
The gorvoid strode up to the party. He took second ambassador Simon’s hand and planted a dry kiss on the back of her little finger. Odden of Barthos said, “Gorvoid Varadi. We were just discussing the appropriate reaction to Srik Tillich’s assassination when you entered.”
“It’s these bloodless Teironian radicals that are responsible.” The Gorvoid held his face as stone, but his breath seemed to add heat to the air.
“The person or persons responsible have yet to be determined.”
“I suppose it could be golani kineticists.”
The other diplomats shuffled awkwardly. “Perhaps,” Mayor Kyrllus agreed at last to break the silence. “Gorvoid Varadi, what is Villgorania’s feeling otherwise?”
“If the killer’s a Teironian?”
“Yes.”
“What else are we to do?” The Gorvoid gave an exaggerated shrug. Junior Ambassador Simon nodded at the rhetorical question. “We are being forced to raise our spear!”
“Setter Varadi.” Odden of Barthos signaled to one of the servants standing by, who approached the group in short, swift steps. The servant held a small wooden platter on which slices of bread were arranged in a layered circle. “Will you taste a morsel of Barthan silt?”
Vilniver shook his head. He shifted his helmet from one armpit to the other. “Who’s tracking down the butcher?” he asked.
“A possible bountyman of Ahn has been found for the job.”
“Who?”
Odden looked at Junior Ambassador Simon. “Ostok Horksog,” she answered.
“I don’t know a hearth Horksog,” said the Gorvoid.
“Ah. This is him now.”
Ostok Horksog entered by the same opening to the chamber as the Gorvoid; with the difference that, where the Gorvoid’s unsoftened tread had boldly announced his presence long before his person appeared in the chamber, and while the Gorvoid’s hands had flung both of the tall double doors to the limits of their hinges, Ostok Horksog’s footsteps went unheard despite the enormous bulk of his short body, and Ostok Horksog’s soft hand opened only one door, and only wide enough so that he could shuffle his width awkwardly around its stile. Short, fat, Ostok Horksog was also old. His hair had thinned away so that his white muira scalp, spotted with pink freckles, shone under the embassy multicandles like a sea bird egg in a coarse brown bird’s nest. His two small, black eyes had very little iris, and were made smaller by a perpetual squint; it gave his face a puckered expression, though by no means angry or bitter.
Ostok Horksog stepped across the room in a shuffling, waddling sort of gait. He wore a pale grey coat, wool and obviously intended for warmer climates, but with the sleeves altered short to adapt it for a summer style. The bones of one of his gods hung in a small sack cloth bag from a shoulder-pouch. They did not jingle, as Ostok Horksog had padded the bag with cotton.
The diplomats and Gorvoid Varadi each held a fist to their chest for Ostok. He returned the gesture. Junior Ambassador Simon said, “This is the bountyman, Ostok Horksog. Setter Horksog, you have a stain on your shoulder.”
“Pleasure to- ah, what?” Ostok Horksog sank his chins together and twisted his neck, his wrinkled beetle-eyes cast down. “Oh. Some bird must have, you know.”
“It matters nothing.”
Terribly sorry. Deeply, ah, incredible. I never notice these things until they’re pointed at.”
Never mind,” said Odden of Barthos. He seemed to drag, with his eye, an attendant from the corner of the room, who summarily wiped at Ostok’s shoulder.
“Thank you, setter…?”
“Odden of Barthos.” They shook hands. “You’re aware of the recent political event?”
“Bloody business.”
“We’d like you to find the ones responsible.”
The various diplomats filled Ostok in on the mission. He was to be given freedom of movement throughout Aster-Szem. He was to receive full cooperation with the city vigil. He was to track down any and all individuals responsible, returning them to the Aster jailhouse, after notifying Mayor Kyrllus of Szem of having discovered the individuals. He was to report all findings to the Junior Ambassador Simon and Mayor Kyrllus jointly. Ostok raised a protest on this point; it would slow him down, reporting to two persons at once. After some debate it was decided that he should be allowed to report to any of the individual diplomats then present, with the understanding that each would then transmit any information to the others; such agreement to be formally set down in contract after dinner. Gorvoid Varadi held out on this last point, suggesting that a muira bountyman’s obligations were to his own nation (in other words, Ahn). At last, however, even he relented.
“I’ll need someone to show me around,” said Ostok. “I’ve, ah, never been to Aster-Szem before.”
“I’ll get a guide from the Border Agency,” said Odden of Barthos. “Hearn of Teiron would do well.”
“A Teironian,” said the Gorvoid with a face that he tried to hold still, but could not prevent from producing an angry twitch of his mustache.
“He is a solid man,” Odden replied. “Aster-Szem is his home. He has a muira woman.”
“Military history?”
“I believe he fought in the last war.” The Gorvoid opened his mouth to protest, but Odden went on, “He’s known to harbor no resentments. He is often employed by embassies on both sides of the city, from what I understand.”
After some further testimony from Odden, the mayor, and Tamara Simon, The Gorvoid relented. Ostok Horksog ventured to ask, “Can you tell me a few small details about Hearn of Teiron?”
“Dinner has arrived, Setter Odden,” one of the clerks announced from a side door, just as they were concluding.
“Outstanding.” Gorvoid Varadi clapped once. “I could eat a rhinoceros.”