I blinked, feeling incredibly tired.
“No, you misunderstood what I said,” the quartermaster growled. “That expedition already left. Two days ago.”
“What? You have to get them back here!”
“I’ll send out riders, of course. But they’ll be two days behind.”
“Well then, shend out shome rapids!” I said, wondering why my speech sounded so strange. “Or I’ll go myshelf!”
“You’re not going anywhere,” the hygienist said. “That Fornish tea I gave you was a sedative, and you’ll be sleeping for a while.”
“Don’t worry,” the quartermaster said. “We’ll take care of it. Rest.”
And so, having no other choice, I rested.
—
Fintan bade everyone a good evening after that and reminded them that the Second Könstad was fine except for a limp now. “And no gift baskets!” he chided them. “The pelenaut already took care of that!”
May Bryn drown the next person who interrupts my morning toast.
I should make a habit of checking the door before I try to eat, because once again a loud knock at my door sent my breakfast facedown to the tile. Beyond annoyed, I shouted, “Who is it now?”
An accented and aggrieved voice replied, “Jasindur Torghala, Nentian ambassador to Brynlön. I must speak with you.”
After our recent troubles there was no way I’d open my door to a Nentian. “I think you must be mistaken. I have no business with Ghurana Nent.”
“I assure you that you do, so long as you be Scholar Dervan du Alöbar. Are you not he?”
“I am, but this isn’t a good time. I’ll contact you later at my convenience.”
“My business is urgent, sir. I need to speak to you right away.”
“Apologies, Ambassador, but I am not obligated to share your sense of urgency. Good day.”
Someone—either the ambassador or someone with him—abandoned the brisk knock the ambassador had employed earlier and switched to an angry pounding of my door, a clear signal that they had not come on pleasant business. “We must speak with you immediately!”
If they could break through that door with all the locks on it, then I’d speak to them, all right. I went to fetch my rapier and put on my mail shirt while they continued to hammer at my home and demand that I speak with them. Armed and protected, I returned to the living area and wondered how long it would take them to tire of knocking.
It stopped abruptly when a new voice called to them, faintly heard but plainly angry. I drew closer to the door and cocked my ear to hear the exchange better. The surly voice of the ambassador was saying, “We must speak with him regarding the representation of Ghurana Nent in his records.”
“What records?” came the reply. It was the voice of Föstyr du Bertrum, the pelenaut’s Lung. “You can’t go around bothering private citizens like this.”
“He is hardly a private citizen! He is in your government’s employ, and as such we may speak with him. He kept records for the pelenaut and is now keeping a record of the bard’s tales.”
“So what if he is?”
“So it is bad enough that the bard is allowed to spread these lies every day about our country to your people, but it is an insult of the highest order to allow them to be written down as if they were history! As if they were factual!”
I supposed my involvement in the project was no secret. The pelenaut had, after all, proclaimed it to the court on the day the bard arrived. I thought it strange that it took the Nentians so long to figure it out, though, or anyway that they would get incensed enough about it now to accost me at home rather than complain through the proper channels. Obviously Föstyr had expected something of the kind and had been keeping a close eye on them if he happened to be near enough to intervene.
“An insult of the highest order?” the Lung said. “The bard’s performance and its recording are by the order of Pelenaut Röllend. So your position is that the pelenaut has ordered an official insult to Ghurana Nent?”
“It is! This has gone too far!”
“Hmm. We will see precisely how far it has gone. Would you like to repeat these sentiments to the pelenaut himself?”
There was the briefest of pauses, but the ambassador must have decided that backing down would be poor form and label him as a blustery gasbag. “I would, yes.”
“Very well. He shall be fetched to this very spot. Please wait here.”
“Here? In the street?”
“You saw fit to start this in the street, so