The Heavenly Lord’s Ambassador. A Kingdom Like No Other. Book 1. Андрей Кочетков

of green glass and filled with sweet Perian wine. Eyes closed, one of the most influential courtiers of the Herandian Empire enjoyed a relaxing moment while making his plans for the morrow.

      “Master! Master!” came the voice of Huraria Zhoslo, his butler. The man was jogging along the bank to keep up with Dorgoe’s boat, all the while attempting to bow. “Please accept my apologies for intruding on Your Excellency’s peace and quiet!”

      Dorgoe hated to be bothered when he meditated in the evening, but he felt it was his duty to be available to handle important matters. “Come here, my friend” he held out a hand to his servant.

      Zhoslo, dressed as he was in an embroidered silver and dark brown robe, jumped into the canal and, up to his waist in water, made a heroic effort to keep up with the boat as it drifted further and further away.

      He looks like a bear trying to swim, Dorgoe thought. “I see that you have something important for me,” he said with a smile.

      “Yes, Master!” Zhoslo cried out, gasping for air. “Our guest has left the capital and is on his way to the Great Expanse. We have successfully…ensured the confidentiality…of the mission!”

      “I am glad to hear it,” Dorgoe nodded and took a sip of wine. “You may hold onto the edge of my boat. I see you are tired out.”

      “Thank you, Master!” Zhoslo gasped and wrapped his hands around a carved sturgeon on the boat’s port side, hanging there like a piece of eel grass.

      Dorgoe set his cup on a small table with three thin legs, scratched his fat chin with his thumb, and sank into deep thought. It had been no small feat getting the Arincil out of the capital without mishap. But it would be utter foolishness on his part (and he knew it) to assume that his enemies would remain blind to his plans until the whole business was finished.

      “Tell Asp,” he turned and rested his left elbow on a soft velvet cushion so he could better see Zhoslo, “that he will answer to me personally for the success of the operation. Personally, do you hear?”

      “Right away, Master!” Zhoslo nodded emphatically. “I hope that he is still worthy of your faith in him!”

      Dorgoe snorted, setting his cheeks aquiver. The man splashing in the water was the kind of servant who, if shown a chest containing his master’s darkest secret, would dust it every day without even the slightest desire to open it. The de facto minister of foreign affairs reflected that the best protection was often offered by the narrowest mind. Zhoslo had no clue that the small war that would result if the Jaguar returned home (and which Herandia would have to lose) would help Dorgoe discredit the Imperial Army, one of the few institutions that had so far resisted his hairy paws. If things went according to plan, he might be able to replace certain figures with his own people. But no, it was too early to think of that!

      His mind returned to what Zhoslo had said about his faith in Asp. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he smiled. “And perhaps it was not a mistake after all. In any case, we have a backup plan. The most important thing is that no one suspect my involvement if the whole thing falls apart. Make sure Asp sends the key witnesses into the Shadows. I think Tameto is entirely too fond of his little men!”

      “Yes, Master!” the butler bowed, accidentally putting his face in the water. “Shall I go?”

      “Yes,” Dorgoe mumbled. “Would you like some wine?” he suddenly asked, holding up a metal pitcher made in Mustobrim.

      “I thank you for your generosity, but I am not worthy of it!”

      “Of course. And you still have to swim back. If I get you drunk and you drown, what would I do without you? Now get going!”

      Struggling in his wet robe, Zhoslo stumbled along the sandy bottom toward the bank.

      The star Utaru in the constellation of the Thief had been watching the whole scene from behind a cloud and winked dryly.

      Part II. Blind Nobility

      Chapter 1. How to Have Adventures

      “Are you sure it’s him?”

      “Of course it is.”

      The two friends had stopped by the same place many days in a row, but only now was their persistence rewarded.

      “I remember his face,” drawled Sorgius, rubbing his fingertips together comically. “Look at him smiling like a reflection in a bad mirror!”

      The face of the dandy in a purple robe with gold embroidery who sat two tables away from them really did look like a flattened reflection in a crude mirror, the kind made by Torgendam craftsmen trying to imitate the work of masters from Capotia or the Empire’s central provinces. The effect was intensified by his hair, which was swept up and back in the latest style.

      “I bet that haystack would burn if we touched a spark to it,” sniggered Sorgius.

      “Only if absolutely necessary,” Vordius replied. “Here I go.”

      “Patience, brother,” Sorgius stopped him. “Talking is my specialty. Sit still and watch the expert at work!”

      Song of the Star had a dubious reputation among Enteveria’s taverns, and not just because it was frequented by people who earned their living by the knife. In the many years since the popular tavern had opened, no one had ever figured out what drew people to it: the food, the drink, the dancing, the easy women, or the wafting scent of aromatic weeds being smoked? At Song of the Star, family men and their wives sat next to arrogant toughs from the port discussing business affairs that lay most decidedly outside the law, all to the vulgar laughter of courtesans with kohled eyes and rouged cheeks. In this atmosphere, strangers often found themselves on friendly terms, and Sorgius used that fact to his advantage as he moved in on his target.

      “Hello, old friend! You haven’t been here in ages. What are you drinking?” He eyed the man’s cup. “Never mind.” He caught the eye of a server and gestured confidently. “Waiter! Bring us a jug of Tasquilian dry!” And then, with a grin, he turned back to the stranger, who was now on his guard. “No worries, it’s on me.” The two young women who had been sitting with the man smiled brightly at Sorgius and waited to see what would happen next.

      “I want to drink the health of these lovely ladies, so we must have the best wine!” he announced to his new friends. Two of the three smiled.

      “Tasquilian is worth the money,” the man drawled as he put an arm around each young woman, “but we prefer dark Vuravian grapes.”

      “Of course, I remember,” Sorgius leaned back in his chair, looking delighted. “You drank something like that two weeks ago. That was the time you were here with that little redhead. The one that came over and joined me later.” There was steel in his smile now.

      “What little redhead? Asked the woman on the left. Her voice was deep and impressive, like her cleavage.

      “I have no idea what he’s going on about,” the dandy tried to look indifferent. He attempted to change the subject back to wine. “I’m surprised you like Tasquilian. It knocks you off your feet.”

      The young women laughed again, but this time awkwardly.

      “Don’t you remember?” Sorgius pressed on, crossing his legs and staring down his adversary. “Her name was Fenia. Or was it Fellia? She told me all kinds of things about you. For example…”

      “That’s enough!” cried his victim. “We weren’t bothering you. Why don’t you find another table? There are plenty of empty ones.”

      “Oh, don’t get all riled up. I just want the address of that little redhead. She got me three sheets to the wind that night and then up and disappeared before I could get to know her better. You understand!”

      “I don’t know any redheads!” the dandy insisted. He turned to his companions, “Don’t listen to him – he’s drunk!” Then he leaped up from his chair and quickly made for the exit.

      “My goodness,”