The Ambassador?

It was the middle of the night. The bittern was howling all over the place as if it was complaining about its bitter fate. "What a fool I was to stay here for winter! Why did I refuse to move to warm countries like all decent birds normally do? Here I am in the middle of these freezing swamps. Standing with one paw in the cold water, with not a fishy nor a frog nearby."

On the second floor of the cottage on the moors, Count Parabalsamico was strapped to a chair. Opposite him sat Mrak Garben, the head of the Inverland spies. The logs in the fireplace crackled cozily. Usually grim, Mrak was glowing with pride. If his pride could shine it would be brighter than the full moon outside the window. Garben was reading some paper, playing with a serrated dagger and smiling into his beard at the same time.

"So..." - pale but undaunted Parabalsamico gulped.

"So, what?" - Mrak jabbed the dagger into the table with a swing.

"What is this all about?" - Count would have shrugged his shoulders if not for the rope.

"Theft. Her majesty's cloak (one unit). Lord Nero's name sword (one unit) in gift scabbard (one unit)," Garben read out his paper, set it aside, and crossed his hairy arms over his chest, "The cloak and scabbard are safe now. What did you do with the sword, you scoundrel?"

"You've got it all wrong!" - Count protested, "This property was taken in payment for my services! Anyways, I demand some respect!"

"Respect..." - Mrak protruded his lip and nodded, "I can do that," he rose from his chair and grabbed Parabalsamico by the ear so that Count whimpered loudly.

"My dear lord. Can you even imagine how many mountains have been razed to the ground in Inverland in two years of searching for your fields of 'stone ore'? 'Stone ore', seriously? It doesn't even make sense! An endless source of stone! Ugh!" Garben spat over his shoulder and released Count's ear, as red as an overripe tomato. "Yet once there appeared doubts of the existence of this source of yours, master alchemist fled from the palace. Whisking away everything his greedy little hands could reach. Not to mention the expense of your so-called research!"

"Wrong, I admit," Parabalsamico responded, "But I can make it up to you!"

"Oh, you will. You'll make it up, no doubts," Grim took a sip of a fly agaric brew from his flask, "You'll be in Inverland the day after tomorrow. There, you'll be publicly flogged and your head chopped off. We'll make an example of you to the rest of the rogues, thieves, and crooks. After that, consider you're even with the Inverland crown. But before that, you are going to tell me where is now Lord Nero's bloody sword."

"For the money I have..." Parabalsamico has no intentions to give up easily, "...you can make thousands of gift swords."

"How come that I didn't notice a sack of gold with you," Garben sat down at the table and dipped his quill in ink.

"It's not a sack. It's much, much better! It's a map showing the way to the fields of..." - at this word the count paused, catching the evil glance of Mrak, "...I meant, the way to the untold riches. It's in my inner pocket."
"In fact, I risk nothing here" Garben sighed. Distracted from writing his report he revealed Master Physalis' map. "You either kidding me or lost your mind?" - Mrak turned to Parabalsamico, "Skulls, and bones, and other danger marks. Not a hint of treasure."

"The head of spies, and such a fool," said Count with undisguised scorn, "It's a tricky cipher! I've been looking for the key to it for four years! That's the actual reason why I left Inverland in the first place. As for your sword..."

"Lord Nero's name sword," Garben corrected Parabalsamico.

"Yes, that one," Count agreed, "I traded it for this very key, all right? I'm telling you, this is a big deal!"
"And where is the key to that 'tricky' cipher, I wonder?" - asked the head of the Inverland spies.

"In my head, naturally. I can draw it, if you promise to let me go," Parabalsamico made an offer.

"You know what I think of all this bullsh..." - A horse's neighing sounded outside the window. Garben jumped up like he was stung, grabbed the dagger, gagged the Count, and dashed for the doorjamb.

The logs in the fireplace crackled cozily. A miserable bittern was complaining about its bird life. Someone was coming up the stairs to the second floor of the cottage. A door hinge that had not been greased properly creaked.

"Count Parabalsamico, it is my pleasure to see you in good health," the face of the unexpected visitor was concealed by a hood. She was in no hurry to go inside.

"MMMMMMMMM," Parabalsamico goggled his eyes at Mrak who was hiding behind the door.

"Ser Garben, show some respect for the lady and reveal yourself to my sight."

Mrak looked out from behind the door.

"Madam Ambassador? What winds brought here that late?" - he asked suspiciously.

"Matters of national importance," the Ambassador walked to the table and sat down where the head of Inverland spies has been sitting, "My oh my. Where did you get this map, Ser Garben?" - she asked in response.

"That imbecile... Pardon me, I meant 'gentleman' is trying to buy his freedom for it. Wine?" - Mrak took a brass goblet and the dusty bottle he kept for occasional guests from the fireplace. He himself preferred a fly agaric brew. "An empty shell, if you need my opinion. Or fake."

"Since you think so, perhaps I should keep it? As for our conversation, we may postpone it to another..." - she looked expressively at the bound Count "More convenient time, perhaps?"

"Hold on a minute. Are you saying this map is actually worth something?" - he asked, sniffing the wine. The smell of vinegar hit Garben's nose, so Mrak cringed.

“In capable hands,” Ambassador took off her hood and gloves, “Still, what are you going to do with the poor count, If I may ask?”