And what sort of idiot would send spies who couldn't speak Ethsharitic? The Lumethans must be feigning ignorance.

If so, they did it well.

The wagon turned onto High Street, where the traffic moved a little more quickly; on Commerce they had traveled faster than the crowds, but here they were slower, even though the oxen maintained the same steady pace. The street was broader, the buildings on either side higher, and it smelled a little better – less decay, and a bit of incense and cooking oil.

"I can't believe the size of this city," Lar muttered, as he stared at the street stretching ahead of them. "How do all these people eat?"

"Wagons bring in food from the farms, ships bring it in from farther away," the driver said. "And magicians keep it fresh. Boats out of Fishertown and Newmarket and Seacorner bring in fish, the beachfolk dig clams, plenty of people keep a few chickens. We get by."

"It's amazing."

'"It's Ethshar."

They rolled on through the crowds, across the Old Merchants' Quarter, across the broad diagonal of Merchant Street, then up the slope into the New City.

There were no more shops here, of course, just grand houses behind their lavish facades or imposing walls and fences. Lar seemed impressed.

"Is this where the overlord's family lives?" he asked, as they passed the first cross-street.

The driver snorted. "Not a bit of it," he said. "They live in the Palace, of course. These are for the rich, not the powerful – merchants and wizards and the like who have so much money they don't need to work for more. Or their heirs. Mostly, anyway – it's not all houses." He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder. "There on the corner of Coronet Street is where the Council of Warlocks meets, for example, and some of these others are clubs and secret societies and so on, as well."

Lar, who had been slouching comfortably against the back of the bench, sat bolt upright so suddenly that he knocked his hat from his lap, and almost overbalanced as he snatched at it to keep it from tumbling onto the street. "Warlocks?" he said.

"The Council of Warlocks, yes. But they don't let outsiders in – if you can't open the locks with magic, you can't get inside. I'm told there aren't any keys anywhere."

Emmis frowned. "If you want to hire a warlock, sir, you'll want to go to the Wizards' Quarter," he said, pointing ahead and to the right.

Lar glanced at him, at his pointing finger, then back at the walled yard and tall mansion on the corner of High Street and Coronet. He made a noncommittal noise.

Emmis didn't like the sound of it.

He had never had any dealings with the Council of Warlocks, and didn't want to. He had heard of it, and as he understood it, it wasn't exactly a social club. The Council existed to keep warlocks in line; if a warlock cheated you, or harmed you without cause, and wouldn't make it good, and you pressed your complaint long enough, it would reach the Council – and the warlock would either make it good, or never be seen alive again.

It worked the other way, as well. If you wronged a warlock, and for some reason he couldn't handle it himself, and word reached the Council – well, you might survive, but it wasn't at all certain you'd be happy about it if you did.

The Council existed because all the guardsmen and magistrates in Ethshar couldn't be sure of defeating or punishing a really powerful warlock, but a dozen other warlocks could.

A good wizard might be able to, or a demonologist, but magicians, like most people, preferred to deal with their own kind. The Wizards' Guild handled the wizards, the Council of Warlocks handled the warlocks, the priesthoods looked after theurgists, there were supposed to be secret societies that watched out for witches, and so on.

And the smart thing for everyone else to do was to stay well out of their way.

Emmis decided he would have to explain this to Lar. The silly foreigner probably just didn't have much experience with real magicians; the Small Kingdoms were said to be rather short of them.

Lar finally turned his gaze forward again as the wagon bumped across the shallow ruts of Center Avenue and started down the eastern slope.

A few minutes later they were on Arena Street, and Emmis had to devote his attention to directing the driver around the corner onto Through Street and up to the right house.

As they pulled up, Emmis eyed the place critically. It had seemed big and luxurious that morning, but now, after riding through the middle of the New City, it seemed rather modest by comparison with the mansions they had passed. It was two stories, with a yellow brick facade, nine broad, well-glazed windows, and a grand green door. A shrine to an open-handed goddess in a green robe and golden tiara was built into the wall just to the right of the entry, but the offering bowl at her feet was cracked and held nothing but dust. The upstairs shutters were all closed, and in need of paint; the downstairs shutters were in varying positions and states of disrepair.

Lar glanced at the shrine and said, "I'll want to have a theurgist look at that."

Emmis nodded. "The landlord may know one. I'll fetch him." With that, he vaulted over the side of the wagon and headed for the owner's home, three doors up the street.

"And see about someone to help us unload," Lar called after him.

"Of course, sir," Emmis called back. Then he stopped and turned. "Is this satisfactory, then?"

"Oh, it will do fine. Go get the keys." Lar waved a hand at him.

Emmis bowed, and hurried on.

The landlord provided three nephews and a neighbor to help with the baggage. By nightfall everything had been transferred from the wagon to the house, and the driver had been paid and dismissed.

The house had five bedrooms, all upstairs, one at each corner and one at the back, overlooking a courtyard shared with half a dozen other homes. The front rooms were the largest, so one of those was designated the ambassador's bedchamber and the other his study. The center-rear bedroom was the smallest, so Emmis claimed that for himself.

The whole place was badly in need of dusting, and although the landlord's promise of complete furnishing had been kept, the furniture left a great deal to be desired. The upholstery on the velvet sofa was stained and split; the dining room table had only three chairs, one of which was broken. Even the pieces that were undamaged were sparse and cheap.

Emmis concluded that this explained the reasonable rent the landlord had been willing to accept, and that he should have inspected the inside, as well as the outside, before agreeing to terms. He had certainly known to demand to see his own room back in Shiphaven before committing to renting it, two years ago, but it had seemed presumptuous to insist on anything of the sort with so fine a place as this.

He would know better next time.

Lar grimaced at the sight, but then said, "Well, I will try not to entertain any guests until you've fixed the place up."

Emmis started to protest that he had no intention of fixing anything up, but then he remembered his position. He had signed on to do whatever Lar needed done, and it appeared that would include refurbishing this makeshift embassy.

Besides, he should have inspected it. "Yes, sir," he said.

"I'm ready for supper. Is there any food in the kitchen?"

Emmis had already checked. "No."

"Is there an inn nearby?"

"Yes. We can either go north toward the Old City, or southeast toward the Arena."

"The Wizards' Quarter is south?"

"Yes."

"Then south it is."

"The Palace is north, next to the Old City."

"South," Lar repeated.

"Yes, sir."

This fascination with magic wasn't healthy, Emmis was sure, but there wasn't anything he could do about it, especially since the ambassador's secret orders apparently required him to investigate magic. Accordingly, he waited as Lar locked up the house, then led the way around the corner and up Arena Street.