“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?”
“It might, and it might not. My thought, though, is that since Anvil Rock apparently had no problem getting permission to send Prince Daivyn’s other birthday presents through the blockade with Charisian approval, if there’s anything ‘suspicious’ about this gift, it’s probably something he didn’t want the Charisians to know about. You haven’t found anything out of order about it?”
“Nothing.” Halahdrom shook his head. “I even had the wyverns moved into another cage while I checked the bottom of the one they came in for false partitions or compartments.”
They looked at one another for a moment while both of them considered the possibility of things like spoken messages which would leave no inconvenient written records behind.
“Well, given the thoroughness of your examination, I think we simply make sure we’ve got copies of all the correspondence, then report its arrival to Bishop Mytchail, send him the copies, and pass it on to Earl Coris for Prince Daivyn,” Lakeland decided. He leaned back in his chair again, meeting Halahdrom’s eyes. “And given the Lord Bishop’s views on smugglers and the embargo, I see no need to describe our conversation with Master Zhevons to him, do you?”
“A gift from Earl Anvil Rock, is it, My Lord?” Tobys Raimair cocked an eyebrow at Phylyp Ahzgood. “Would it happen the boy was expecting any additional gifts from him?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” the Earl of Coris replied. “Which is why it occurred to me that it might be as well for you and I to accept delivery before we let it-or the deliveryman-into his presence.”
“Oh, aye, I can understand that,” Raimair agreed. “Would you like me to ask one of the other lads to step in, as well?”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Coris replied with a slight smile, considering the sword and dirk riding in well-worn sheaths at Raimair’s side. “Not for one man who’s not even getting into the same room with the boy.”
“As you say, My Lord.” Raimair bowed, then crossed the room to open the door.
A tall, brown-haired man stepped through it, followed by two of the palace’s servants and Brother Bahldwyn Gaimlyn, one of King Zhames’ junior secretaries. Between them, the wary footmen carried an ornately gilded traveling cage which contained six large wyverns. The wyverns gazed about with beady, unusually intelligent- looking eyes, and Coris frowned. It seemed an odd choice for a gift from Anvil Rock, who knew perfectly well that Daivyn had never showed the least interest in hunting wyverns. That had been his older brother’s passion.
“Master… Zhevons, is it?” Coris asked the brown-haired man.
“Aye, Sir. Ahbraim Zhevons, at your service,” the stranger replied in a pleasant tenor voice.
“And you’re an associate of Captain Harys?”
“Oh, I’d not go that far, My Lord.” Zhevons shook his head, but his eyes met Coris’ levelly. “It’s more that we’re in the same line of business, so to speak. These days, at least.”
“I see.” Coris glanced at the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn, who were waiting patiently, and wondered which of them was Baron Lakeland’s ears for this conversation. Probably all three of them, he decided. Or perhaps one was Lakeland’s and one was Mytchail Zhessop’s.
“Did Captain Harys pass on any messages to me?” he asked out loud.
“No, My Lord. Can’t say he did,” Zhevons replied. “Except that he did say as how you might be seeing me or one of my… ah, business associates with another odd delivery now and again.” He smiled easily, but his eyes held Coris’ gaze intently. “I think you might say the Captain’s of the opinion he might’ve become just a bit too well known to be serving you the way he has before.”
“Yes, I suppose I might,” Coris said thoughtfully, and nodded. “Well, in that case, Master Zhevons, thank you for your efficiency.”
He reached into his belt pouch, withdrew a five-mark piece, and flipped the golden disk to the smuggler, who caught it with an easy economy of movement and a grin. One of the footmen smiled as well, and Coris hoped the man had made note of the fact that there’d been absolutely no way for anything written to have been exchanged in the process.
“I’m sure these fellows can see you safely on your way, Master Zhevons,” he continued. “And I’m sure you can imagine there’s a certain young man anxiously awaiting my report on what his mysterious birthday gift might be.”
“Oh, that I can, My Lord! I’d no idea he was a prince, of course, but I’m sure every boy that age is much the same under the skin.”
The earl smiled again and nodded, and Zhevons sketched a bow and followed the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn out. Coris watched the door close behind him, then turned to Raimair.
