David Weber - How firm a foundation

“Did any other gifts arrive with them?” he asked.

“No.” Halahdrom shook his head, then made a face. “Most of them got here a couple of five-days ago, courtesy of that Charisian ‘parole.’ These just arrived today, and I think they must’ve been an afterthought. Either that or somebody figured the Charisians might not pass them through for some reason.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they’re obviously from Anvil Rock-most of the correspondence is in a secretary’s hand, of course, but he sent along a nice little personal note to the boy in his own handwriting, along with a list of devotional readings he’d like the lad to be studying now that he’s getting older.” The chamberlain shrugged. “We’ve seen enough of his handwriting by now to know it’s really his, and the secretary’s writing matches the last several sets of letters we’ve received, as well. But they didn’t come covered by a Charisian guarantee of safe passage, the way the rest of the birthday gifts did.” He chuckled. “In fact, they came upriver from Sarmouth by messenger-courtesy of a smuggler, unless I miss my guess.”

“That’s interesting.” Lakeland rubbed his nose. “A smuggler, you say?”

“That’s my best guess, at any rate.” Halahdrom shrugged. “I’ve got the fellow waiting outside if you’d like to speak to him directly.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Lakeland said, and smiled slightly. “If the fellow’s a smuggler-or knows somebody who is, at any rate-we might even be able to get some decent whiskey through that damned blockade!”

Halahdrom chuckled, nodded, and departed. A few moments later, he returned with a tall, brown-haired and brown-eyed man in the decent but nondescript dress of a seaman. If the stranger was worried as he was ushered into the first councilor’s office he hid it well.

“Ahbraim Zhevons, My Lord,” Halahdrom said, speaking rather more formally in the outsider’s presence, and Zhevons bobbed a respectful bow.

“So, Master Zhevons,” Lakeland said, “I understand you’ve come to deliver a birthday gift for Prince Daivyn?”

“Aye, My Lord, I have. Or so Sir Klymynt tells me.” Zhevons shrugged. “Nobody told me the lad was a prince, you understand. Mind, it seemed likely he wasn’t what you might be calling a common lad, given how much somebody was willing to pay to get his present delivered to him. And let me tell you, keeping those damned wyverns-begging your pardon-fed without losing a finger was a harder job than I’d figured on!”

There was a twinkle in the brown eyes, and Lakeland felt his own lips hovering on the brink of a smile.

“So you brought them all the way from Corisande, did you?” he asked.

“Oh, no, My Lord! I, um, made connections in Tarot, as you might say. I’ve just… helped them along the last leg.”

“Smuggler, are you?” The baron allowed his expression to harden slightly. This fellow might or might not be a smuggler and he might or might not have known young Daivyn was a prince. And this struck the first councilor as an unlikely way to get an assassin into the boy’s presence, for that matter. Still…

“That’s a hard word.” Zhevons didn’t sound particularly hurt by it, however. “I’m more of a… free-trader. I specialize in small cargoes for shippers who’d sometimes sooner avoid any unnecessary paperwork, as you might say, true, but my word’s my bond. I always see to any delivery myself, you see, and my rates are reasonable, My Lord.” He smiled charmingly. “ Very reasonable.”

“Somehow I suspect your definition of ‘reasonable’ and mine may differ just a bit,” Lakeland said dryly.

“Oh, I’m sure we could come to an agreement suitable to both of us, always assuming you ever had need of my services, of course.”

“Now that I can believe.” Lakeland leaned back. “I don’t imagine you’d have access to any Chisholmian whiskey, would you, Master Zhevons?”

“No, not personally, I’m afraid. Not since the Grand Inquisitor went and declared his embargo, of course. Still, I’m sure I could lay hands on someone who does. Indirectly, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Lakeland agreed. “Well, if you do manage it, I think I can safely say you’d find it worth your while to deliver some of it here in Talkyra.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, My Lord. Ah, would it be too much of a disappointment to you if it was to arrive here without Delferahkan tax stamps?” Zhevons smiled winningly when Lakeland looked at him. “It’s not that I’m trying to rob you or your King of any rightful revenue, My Lord; it’s more a matter of principle, so to speak.”

“I see.” Lakeland’s lips quivered. “Very well, Master Zhevons, I’m sure I’ll be able to deal with my disappointment somehow.”

“I’m glad to hear it, My Lord.” Zhevons bowed again, politely, and Lakeland chuckled.

“If you can manage to stay unhanged long enough you’ll die a wealthy man, Master Zhevons.”

“Kind of you to be saying so, My Lord, but it’s my aim to live a wealthy man, if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed I do.” Lakeland shook his head, then sobered a bit. “I take it that you don’t know exactly how this delivery got to Tarot in the first place, though?”

“I’ve no certain knowledge one way or the other, My Lord, but I do know the fellow who brought it as far as Tarot is a fine seaman who somehow managed to forget to apply for his tax documents when he docked in Corisande. Well, that’s what I’ve heard, at any rate.”

“And would this fellow have a name?” Lakeland pressed.

It was obvious Zhevons didn’t really like the thought of passing along any additional information. Actually, that made Lakeland think the better of him, since it seemed to indicate a certain honor among thieves… or among smugglers, at least. But the first councilor wasn’t letting him off that lightly, and he sat silently, eyes boring into Zhevons’ until, finally, the smuggler shrugged.

“Harys, My Lord,” he said with a slight but unmistakable emphasis, looking levelly back at the baron. “Zhoel Harys.”

“Ah.” Lakeland glanced quickly at Halahdrom, then nodded to Zhevons. “I realize revealing professional confidences cuts against the grain of a… free-trader such as yourself, Master Zhevons. Nonetheless, I’m sure you understand why we have to exercise at least a little caution where people delivering unexpected gifts to Prince Daivyn are concerned.”

“Aye, I can see where that might be the case,” Zhevons conceded.

“Well, I believe that’s all I really needed to discuss with you,” Lakeland said. “I’m serious about the whiskey, though!”

“I’ll bear that in mind, My Lord,” Zhevons assured him, and bowed again as Halahdrom nodded at the door.

“Wait for me in the hall for a moment, Master Zhevons,” he said.

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Harys, is it?” Lakeland murmured as the door closed behind the smuggler. “Interesting choice of deliveryman, don’t you think, Klymynt?”

“Yes, it is,” the chamberlain agreed. “I wonder why they didn’t just send him all the way to Sarmouth himself?”

“Oh, come now!” Lakeland shook his head. “Cayleb and Nahrmahn’ve had the better part of two years on the ground in Corisande by now. I’d say there’s a good chance they know exactly who Hektor used to get the Prince and his sister to the mainland. They’d probably really like the opportunity to have a few words with him, especially if Anvil Rock and Coris are still using him, too. But they’d be looking for him here or in Corisande, not in Tarot of all places! So it would make sense for him to use somebody they’ve never heard of for the last leg.”

“I suppose so,” Halahdrom agreed. “Of course, if it is Harys, that makes this ‘gift’ a bit more suspicious, don’t you think?”