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Before she could respond, he threw open the door. “Welcome to your brand new—”
Teigra screamed and dropped her bag.
She was eye-level with a man’s face.
Teigra stepped back and looked into the withering expression of a middle-aged centaur—black-gray coat peeking out from the most meticulously tied horse toga she’d ever seen. His chest muscles were as thick as his face was judgmental. His beard was a neat salt and pepper beneath a prominent brow and aquiline nose.
“Oh good,” muttered the centaur, hoisting a coarse-bristled broom over his bare, muscular shoulders, exposed in a way they would never have been back home. “Another one.”
“Good morning, Mr. Placi!” said Jaspar, as if nothing had happened.
Mr. Placi grunted. “The boss expected you back yesterday, lad. We’ve got more than a hundred condolence letters for the old herald, and she wants them done immediately.”
The news of Ura’s death has already reached down here? The position of herald is more well known that I thought.
“Oh, you know how it is,” said Jaspar, pinching his shoulders in and tapping his fingertips nervously. “A harpy there. A delay here. But we’re back now! And this is our new low envoy. Ms. Teigra Cosmin, may I introduce Mr. Frynod Placi.”
“Cosmin?” the centaur squinted.
Teigra’s heart raced at his glare. It was a look she’d seen so many times in the last three years. Did he know what she had done? She hadn’t seen any hint of recognition from Jaspar, yet—or, if he did know, his diplomatic skills were such that he had no intention of bringing it up.
But surely even down here the news must have come? After all, tragedy has a traveling stamina that hope could never match.
Mr. Placi snorted. “Racing family, isn’t it?”
She paused for more, but that was all that came. “Um... yes?” she whispered, running her thumb along her pendant. Her clothes were scattered across the floor around them.
“Well, a thousand apologies for scaring you, my lady,” said Mr. Placi. “I am sure this is the last place you’d expect to see a monster like me. But please, if you do see me on all fours scrubbing, just try to resist the urge to saddle me up.”
Mr. Placi pushed past them and trudged away, muttering under his breath.
“I’m sorry!” called Teigra. “I didn’t mean to... I was just surprised...”
The muttering got louder as her own voice faded.
She turned to Jaspar. “I really am sorry. It’s not like that at all! Centaurs in the relays aren’t slaves or anything. You know that! They are free citizens. And treated far better than most humans are!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Jaspar, helping her collect the scattered clothes. “He’s like that with everyone. Being a housekeeper isn’t exactly his dream job.”
A housekeeper? The thought of a centaur doing manual labor seemed unfathomable. Every centaur she’d ever met was a superstar of the track. Barely able to walk the streets without crowds of children running up to shake their hand, or usually-hard-faced men dragging them into restaurants for free meals and company. Even the messengers that had departed Mestibes before them were doing an important job for the senate.
“Why does he do it then?”
Jaspar bit a fingernail in thought—quite a feat given the thickness of a minotaur’s nails. “That is a very long story. And one for another time, I think.”
Teigra nodded and took in the office. It was by far the smallest room in the corridor. A desk was pushed against the back wall, with the packed scroll hive so close that if she stood too quickly, she’d smack her head. The view from the window was not of the beautiful courtyard, but a close-up of the high wall that surrounded the compound.
She squashed the tiny thought that asked: Why can’t I have one of the bigger offices? She’d spent enough time around senators and their hierarchies. This office was for the most junior low envoy in the embassy. It didn’t matter that there were nicer offices that stood empty. This was the office for her.
“It might not look like much,” said Jaspar. “But don’t worry. Soon we’ll get you out there, meeting with farmers and traders and the like. Once you are out of lockdown, of course.”
“Lockdown?”
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. You just can’t leave the building until your credentials have been accepted. I’m sure Ms. Securia will get the herald to sort yours out whenever he heads to the palace. Until then, I’m afraid you are stuck here with me!”
“Oh,” she said.
It was a conflicting development. On the one hand, being locked in the embassy meant there was no pressure to get out there, into the alien city she had just passed through—with its strange ways and stranger people.
