I say “us,” but, for most of those strides it would be truer to say “Mithos,” because I stayed where I was, considering the odds of just losing myself in the crowds and finding a way out when things had died down. Then the crowd at the door parted and I caught a glimpse of white and silver. I didn’t know if the guards were coming to search the place, or if they were just looking for refreshment, but I couldn’t wait around to find out. So with eyes down and one hand rubbing my face in as obfuscating a manner as I could manage short of putting a bag on my head, I half-ran in pursuit of Mithos.

A door by the hearth gave way to a narrow passage smelling of damp and animals and leading to the stableyard, where, beside a wagon piled high with crates, sat a single coach. It was black as pitch, painted over with a highly polished lacquer, and trimmed with delicate ropes of gold. A crest hung on the side doors, featuring a dragon and a lamb on an azure shield.

“Pretty flash,” I muttered to no one in particular, which was just as well since it was universally ignored.

A man in a dark and heavy overcoat who had been standing close to the coach knocked his pipe out against the wall and climbed up the stoop. Picking up his lash, he began cautiously walking the horses, all white geldings, until the coach was in the middle of the yard and ready to go. He leaned over the side and flipped a latch deftly with the butt of his whip. The carriage door swung open and Ambassador Linassi, with a small and wordless gesture, indicated that we should get aboard.

I glanced uneasily at Mithos, far from comfortable at the prospect of taking a spin in this glorified hearse with its questionable ambassador and his taciturn driver. Mithos’s eyes said nothing and he climbed in, sitting himself comfortably on the red velvet seats inside.