“This is my first time in Valborg. What should I know that no one will think to tell me?”
The driver laughed. “You don’t have enough time for that.”
“You could start,” Van suggested.
The driver nodded. After a moment, she spoke. “First thing…there’s no place that serves authentic Scandyan food…and if there is, you don’t want to try it. Most authentic Scandyan fare was fish bleached with chlorine, then slathered with salt and a paste that tastes like bad plaster.”
“Is there any good seafood?”
“The ice crabs are good, and some places fix the giant clams pretty well. Otherwise, stick with fowl or meat. The hill quail are good.”
“Anything specially worth seeing?”
“The purple surf up at Eschen, but it’s best at dawn. I personally think the Cliff Spire at Kiruna is more impressive.”
“Is that…?” Van let the words trail off.
“That was the personal residence of Baron Byrnedot—he was the last commissioner before Scandya declared its independence from the Argentis. It’s been kept exactly the way he left it on the morning that the Argenti snipers assassinated him.” The driver didn’t speak for a moment.
With his implants, Van could sense the incoming transmission, but not the content—just the energy flow. He glanced out of the groundcar. Immediately beyond the guideway—on each side—was a landscaped park, with winding stone walks, tall evergreens, and sculpted junipers and pfitzers. Van did not see any deciduous trees, nor any bushes. He saw only a handful of people, at widely separated intervals.
“Sorry,” the driver apologized. “Just got routing for after I drop you off.”
“I understand.” Van paused. “I hadn’t known about the assassination. Is that something that is still a problem…with the Argentis, I mean?”
“Not for most people. That was nearly two hundred fifty years back. Most folks worry more about the Revs these days. Not that there’s been any problem, but with the Argentis in-Arm, and the Revenants out-Arm, and the two not caring for each other that much…well…you’d have to be blind and deaf not to worry some.”
“There’s always someone,” Van temporized.
“It’s been said that you Tarans don’t care much for the Revs, either.”
“We worry, too,” Van admitted. “It’s not as bad as the war years between the Eco-Techs and the Revs…but…you never know.”
The driver eased the groundcar off the guideway and through a scanning gate, then onto a wide boulevard. “This is Knutt Boulevard, but the embassy is another two klicks north.”
“Are there other embassies along here?”
“All of them are within a klick of the boulevard, except the Rev embassy. Theirs is at the front of their enclave to the south.” She gestured at a gold-and-green building with extravagant and sweeping curves. “That’s the Keltyr embassy and consulate there.”
The structure certainly reflected the Kelt flamboyance, Van thought.
“Is it true?” asked the driver.
“Is what true?”
“You’re a pretty senior officer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a commander.”
“There was another Taran commander here. He was an ocean sailor. The newstabs said he was a good one. But he drowned, didn’t he?”
“That was what was reported.”
“Funny that a man drowned on the calmest day of the spring.”
“That wasn’t reported,” Van replied.
The driver shrugged. “I only know what I hear.”
“What else have you heard?”
“Well…the Hulsfred Blues are going to win the korfball title…”
Van could sense a smile in her voice. “Who will come in second?” he asked.
“Who knows? Does anyone care? That’s like coming in second in a war, and no one really likes that.”
“No. That’s true.”
“Here we are.” The groundcar came to a stop before a long and low white stone structure that reminded Van of the regional parliament building in Kerry. “That’ll be fifteen, ser.”
Van mentally fumbled with the local net access for a moment before transferring the funds.
“Thank you.” The door opened.
Van stepped onto the smooth permacrete sidewalk beside the groundcar, extracting his duffels from the side bin behind the passenger section.
As he lifted his gear, the driver’s window slid down. She smiled pleasantly.
“Have a good day, Commander Albert.”
Van managed to smile as he stepped back. “Thank you. I appreciated the information about Valborg.”
“It was nothing. You keep your eyes open, and you’ll learn more in a day. There’s a lot happening if you look closely.” The driver closed the window and slipped away from the entry to the embassy.
“Ser?” asked the guard in the uniform of the Taran Marines.
“Commander Albert, reporting for duty.” Van looked at the long structure.
“Second archway, ser,” the corporal suggested.
“Thank you.” Van didn’t look back as he entered the embassy. He hoped that the groundcar driver worked for Scandyan intelligence. Whoever she worked for, he’d gotten the messages. Before Van had even taken his second step into the main foyer of what was clearly the consular section of the embassy, a fresh-faced and red-haired younger man, wearing a dark gray singlesuit with narrow green pinstripes, appeared.
“Commander Albert, ser?”
“That’s me.”
“Sean Bulben, ser. I’m fourth secretary here.” He grinned. “That means I run errands and handle grunt work for everyone. Dr. Hannigan sent me to escort you.”
“Lead on, Sean.” Van laughed.
“This way, ser.”
Van followed Bulben past another pair of Marines and down a corridor to a ramp leading upward to a landing, where it reversed its way back to the second level. Halfway up, Van could feel the security screens, but Bulben pulsed a code, and the screens let them pass.
At the top, Bulben stopped, gesturing to his left. “All the offices of important people are up here. Yours is, too. The ambassador’s is on the south end, and yours and the first secretary’s are on each side. You’re on the west, and he’s on the east.” The young diplomat turned and walked along the corridor until they reached the next-to-last doorway on the left.
Bulben opened the door, holding it as if he expected Van to enter first.
Van did, stepping into a sitting room with a couch and several armchairs.
“You can leave your things here for the moment.” Bulben rapped on the inner door. “Dr. Hannigan? Commander
