He looked down, his eyes wide with distress. “I still want it. Not as bad as before. I thought the need would grow less and less. But it hasn’t. It’s like … a tap dripping. Quiet, but if it’s quiet it’s there, nagging at you.”
Sonea frowned, then gestured for him to move closer. He shuffled the chair toward hers. Reaching out, she placed a hand on either side of his head and closed her eyes.
Healing him had been a strange experience. There had been nothing obviously wrong with him. No break or tear or infection that his body was already trying to deal with. Most of the time a Healer could pick up from the body what was wrong and let it help guide the application of magic to repair damage. Sometimes the problem was too subtle, but allowing the body to use magic to return it to its right state nearly always worked.
In Berrin there had been a feeling of distress coming from several directions. It resided in the paths of sensation, and in his brain, but was so subtle she could not comprehend how to fix it. So she had let his body guide her, and when the feeling of distress had gone she knew her work was done.
The aches had gone, and his mood had lifted. He hadn’t said anything about a lingering craving for roet, however. But maybe it had been too subtle for him to notice initially. Or maybe he had started taking it again.
Sending her mind forth, she sought the feeling of distress within his body. To her surprise, she found nothing. Concentrating harder, she detected natural healing around blisters on his hands and some muscular soreness in his back. But as far as his body was concerned, he was fit and well.
She opened her eyes and removed her hands.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, smiling. “I can’t feel any of the indicators I felt before.”
His face fell and he searched her gaze. “But … I’m not lying. It’s still there.”
Sonea frowned. “That’s … odd.” She considered his steady gaze and what she knew of him. He’s not the type to lie. The very idea that people might think he’d lie is distressing to him. In fact, I expect his next question to be—
“Do you think I’m making it up?” he asked in a low, fearful voice.
She shook her head. “But this is puzzling. And frustrating. How can I heal what I can’t detect?” She spread her hands. “All I can say is, give it time. It could be there’s some echo of the craving there. Like the memory of someone’s touch or the sound of a voice. In time, if you don’t refresh that memory, your body may forget it.”
He nodded, his expression thoughtful now. “I can do that. That makes sense.” He straightened and looked at her expectantly.
She rose, and he followed suit. “Good. Come back and see me if it gets worse.”
“Thank you.” He bowed awkwardly, then moved toward the door, glancing back and smiling nervously as it swung open at a tug of her magic.
As the door closed behind him, Sonea considered what she had found – or failed to find – in his body. Was it possible that magic couldn’t heal away addiction? That roet made some sort of physical change that was permanent and undetectable?
If that is the case, can a magician’s body heal away the effects of his or her own roet addiction? A magician’s body healed itself automatically, which meant he or she was rarely ill and often lived longer than non-magicians. If it can’t, then it’s possible a magician could become addicted to the drug.
But not straightaway, surely. Plenty of magicians and novices had tried roet and not become addicts. Perhaps only some people were susceptible to addiction. Or perhaps it had an accumulative effect – they had to take it several times before permanent damage was done.
Either way, it could have both tragic and dangerous consequences. Magicians addicted to roet might be bribed and controlled by their suppliers. And the suppliers are most likely criminals, or linked to the underworld.
Suddenly she remembered Regin’s assertion that novices and magicians of the highest classes were associating with criminals more often nowadays. She had believed the situation was no worse than it had always been. But was he right? And was roet the reason? A chill ran down her spine.
As another knock came from the door, she took a deep breath and put the thought aside. For now her concern was the sick of the lower classes. The Guild would have to deal with the consequences of the Houses’ more foolish members.
But it wouldn’t hurt to see if any of the other Healers – and even the hospice helpers – had heard of magicians becoming addicted to roet, or being drawn into the world of criminals. And it might be useful to have them ask a few questions of their patients, too. There’s nothing bored patients and their families like doing more, to pass the time, than gossiping.
Lorkin had no idea what time it was when the visitors finally left and he and Dannyl were free to retire for the night. Once the last guest had gone, they looked at each other and grimaced in relief.
“They’re friendlier than I expected,” Dannyl said.
Lorkin nodded in agreement. “I could sleep for a week.”
“From the sounds of it we’ll be lucky to have a day to recover from the journey. Best get some sleep while we can.” Dannyl turned to a slave – a young female who promptly threw herself face down on the floor. “Take Lord Lorkin to his rooms.”
She leapt up again, glanced at Lorkin once, then gestured to a doorway.
As Lorkin followed her through into a corridor, he felt his mood sink a little. Every time they do that it feels so wrong. But is that only because I know they’re slaves? People bow to me because I’m a magician, and I don’t mind it. What’s the difference?
The people who bowed to him had a choice. They did so because it was considered good manners. Nobody was going to have them whipped or executed or whatever the Sachakans did to disobedient slaves.
The corridor curved to the left, following the odd circular shape of the Master’s Room. Now it split into two and the slave took the right-hand divergence. I wonder why they don’t make their walls straight. Is it easier to construct them this way? Or harder? I bet it leads to some odd little nooks here and there. He reached out to touch the smoothly rendered wall. It was strangely appealing. No harsh edges. The slave abruptly turned through a doorway. Lorkin followed and stopped in the middle of another oddly shaped room.
It was almost but not quite circular. It was lit by small lamps placed on stands around the room. The walls were decorated with hangings or carvings set within alcoves. Between each was a doorway. The centre of the room was furnished with stools and large cushions. His travel chest lay on the floor beside one of the doorways. The room beyond was also lit by lamps, revealing a bed which looked, to his relief, no different to an ordinary Kyralian bed.
The slave had stopped beside a wall and remained standing, head bowed and eyes downcast. Is she going to stay there, or leave? Perhaps she’ll go away once I indicate I’m happy with the rooms.
“Thank you,” he said. “This will be fine.”
She did nothing, said nothing. Her expression – the little he could see of it – did not change.
What will she do if I go into the bedroom? He walked past her through the doorway and looked at the bed. Yes, it definitely looks like a normal bed. Turning, he saw that she was now standing against the wall inside the bedroom, in the same pose. I didn’t even hear her follow me.
He could probably tell her to go away, but as he opened his mouth to speak he hesitated. I should take the opportunity to find out how the master–slave situation works. Is she my personal servant, or do a range of servants have different tasks?
“So,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Tyvara,” she replied. Her voice was unexpectedly deep and melodic.
“And what is your role here, Tyvara?”
She paused, then looked up and smiled. That’s better, he thought. But looking into her eyes, he saw that they did not match the smile. They gave nothing away. They were so dark he could barely tell where the pupils began and the colour ended. It sent a sensation
down his spine that was not quite a chill of disquiet, nor was it entirely a thrill of excitement either.
Pushing away from the wall, she walked toward him. Her eyes dropped to his chest. She reached out and took hold of the sash of his robe and began to untie it.
“Wha-what are you doing?” he said, taking hold of her wrists to stop her.
“One of my duties,” she said, frowning and letting go of the sash.
His heart was racing. His body had decided to favour the side of excitement over disquiet. I can’t jump to conclusions here, he told himself. Besides, it’s disturbing enough having someone serve me without any choice; I suspect bedding someone who has no choice would be even more off-putting. He imagined looking into those dark, empty eyes and all interest fled.
“We Kyralians prefer to undress ourselves,” he told her, letting her hands go.
She nodded and stepped back, her mysterious eyes expressing confusion and acceptance. Better that than nothing. Retreating to the wall, she resumed her former position. He suppressed a sigh.
“You may go,” he told her.
She paused for the slightest moment, her eyebrows twitching upward, then she moved rapidly, turning away from the wall and disappearing through the doorway. Her footsteps were silent.
Lorkin moved to the bed and sat down.
Well, that was awkward and uncomfortable. And a little odd. She hadn’t answered his question. But then, perhaps asking a female slave what her role was when standing in a bedroom was a big obvious hint that you wanted her to come to bed.
I’m an idiot. Of course it is. He sighed. I have much to learn, he thought ruefully. And with Dannyl the only other free person here, the only option is to learn from the slaves. If Tyvara is my personal servant then I will see her the most of all the slaves. And if I’m going to question a slave I had better do it privately, where no Sachakan can overhear me revealing how ignorant I am.
Next time he had the opportunity, he decided, he was going to question her on master–slave etiquette.
And hopefully we can set a few rules between us. Lessen the whole obeisance thing to the point where it’s not so disturbing for me, without going so far that it’s uncomfortable for her.
Simply put, he was going to have to befriend her. And that should not be too hard. He’d never found it difficult to form friendships with women. It was romantic entanglements that caused him more trouble than they were worth. Working out how to befriend a Sachakan slave woman might be a new challenge, but surely one well within his abilities.
CHAPTER 11
TANTALISING INFORMATION
Alone in the new hideout, Cery listened to the silence. When it was quiet like this, when Gol was out attending to business, Cery could close his eyes and let the memories rise to the surface. First there came sound of his children’s voices and laughter. Akki, the eldest, teasing Harrin. Then the gentle scolding from Selia.
If he was lucky he saw them, smiling and lively. But if not the memory of their bodies arose, and he cursed himself for having looked at them despite knowing the images would torture him forever. But they deserved to be seen. To be farewelled. And if I hadn’t seen them I might cling to that notion that comes to me, when I first wake up, that they’re still there, alive and waiting for me.
A rude, jangling noise interrupted his thoughts, but as he roused himself he decided it was all for the better. He could not let grief distract him from his task, or he might not get the chance to avenge them.
The sound was a signal that someone was approaching the hideout. Is this the Thief Hunter at last? Cery rose from his chair and paced the room slowly. The first sound had died away now, and a new sound replaced it. Each step of the stairway leading down from the bol brewery above the hideout would depress slightly under a person’s weight, setting off a mechanism that sent a clunk echoing through the rooms below. Cery counted the clunks, feeling his heartbeat quicken to match the beat.
He eyed the panelling behind which the closest secret escape route lay. It’s been over a week. That’s not very long. I’d want to plan carefully if I intended to kill off a Thief. I’d take as long as I thought I could get away with, researching my victim. I’d let them settle into their new hideout, and allow time for the guards to relax and get lazy.
He frowned. But I don’t want to spend weeks here waiting. If this isn’t the Thief Hunter … maybe there’s a way we can make him think he doesn’t have much time …
There was a pause, then a chime rang in a familiar pattern, and Cery let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. It was Gol’s signal.
Walking over to the other wall, Cery pushed aside one of the paper screens mounted on the walls to imitate windows and ease the oppressive feeling of being underground. Behind it was a ventilation grille in a shallow alcove. He swivelled that open and pressed the lever inside. Then he peered through some darkened glass to check that the approaching person was indeed Gol.
As the figure stepped into the corridor beyond the glass, Cery recognised him as much from his movements as his stature and face. The big man walked to the end of the corridor and waited. Cery moved back to the grille and lifted the lever up again.
A moment later the hideout door swung open and Gol stepped into the room. The big man raised his eyebrows.
“No visitors while I was out?”
Cery shrugged. “Not one. Mustn’t be as popular as I used to be.”
“I’ve always said it is better to have a few good friends than many bad ones.”
“Someone like me doesn’t have much choice.” Cery moved to one of the cupboards and opened it. “Wine?”
“This early?”
“The only alternative is to lose at tiles again.”
“Wine, then.”
Taking a bottle and two glasses from the cupboard, Cery carried them to the small table set between the luxurious chairs in the centre of the room. Gol sat down opposite him, took the bottle and began to work the plug out of the top.
“I heard some good news, today,” Gol said.
“Oh?”
“I heard that you’ve got a new hideout, and it’s more secure than any Thief’s in the city.” The plug came free and Gol began to pour some wine into the glasses.
“Is that right?”
“Yes, and that you’re not as smart as you think. There’s a way to break in, if you know how.” Gol held out a glass to Cery.
Cery feigned concern as he took it. “How terrible. I must get around to fixing that. Eventually.” He took a sip. The wine was sharp and rich. He knew it was excellent, but it didn’t thrill him. He’d never gained a true liking for wine, preferring a warming mug of bol. But it paid, in some company, to know how to tell a good wine from a bad one, and good vintages could be a profitable investment.
He put the glass down and sighed. “I think I know how Sonea felt, all those years ago, stuck in Faren’s hideout. Though I’m not trying to learn to control magic and setting the furniture on fire instead.”
“No, but it is still all about magic.” Gol took a sip of the wine and looked thoughtful. “I got to wondering about this Thief Hunter the other night. How good at magic do you think he is?”
Cery shrugged. “Good enough to open a lock.” He frowned. “He must be in control of it, since he’s been using it for years, if the rumours are right. It would have killed him a long time ago if he wasn’t.”
“Someone would have to teach him, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then either there’s another rogue who taught him, or he was taught by a Guild magician.” Gol blinked as a thought occurred to him. “Maybe Senfel did, before he died.”
“I don’t think Senfel would have been that trusting.”
Gol’s eyes widened. “Have you considered that the Thief Hunter could be a Guild magician trying to get rid of all the Thieves?”
“Of course.” A chill ran down Cery’s spine. The late High Lord had hunted Sachakan black magician spies in the city for years wit
hout the Guild knowing. A vigilante magician trying to wipe out the criminal underworld leaders was not so outlandish an idea in comparison.
Well, when the Hunter falls into my trap we’ll find out.
“I wish it wasn’t going to take so long,” Cery said, sighing. He considered his earlier thought: that perhaps he could give the Thief Hunter reason to think he didn’t have much time. Perhaps let out some gossip that I’m about to leave Imardin.
Such a rumour was as likely to put the Thief Hunter off, though. The man must be prepared to take his time, as he’d been killing Thieves over many years. I’m the sort of bait that has to be patient. Nobody is going to attack a Thief without plenty of planning.
Was there some other kind of bait that the Thief Hunter might not be so cautious or patient in approaching? Something that could be left somewhere less protected without it seeming uncharacteristic and suspicious?
What would a magic-wielding vigilante rogue be tempted to hunt down or steal?
The answer came with a rush of excitement and Cery sucked in a quick breath.
Magical knowledge! Cery sat up straight in his chair. If our Hunter is a rogue magician, he must have learned magic outside the Guild. Even if he is an ex-Guild magician, he must lust after the great store of knowledge the Guild has. And if he is a vigilante Guild magician, he’s obliged to investigate and remove any magical knowledge that falls into the wrong hands.
“What’s wrong?” Gol asked. He cast about. “Has one of the alarms gone off?”
“No,” Cery assured him. “But I don’t think that’s going to matter any more. I’ve thought of an even better – and faster – way to lure our quarry into revealing himself.” He began to explain, watching Gol’s expression change from surprise to excitement to dismay.
“You look disappointed,” Cery noted.
Gol shrugged and waved a hand at the room. “I guess we won’t be needing all this now. Such a lot of work and money went into it. And we built in all those flaws, so you can’t come back and stay here later. Seems a shame.”
Cery looked around thoughtfully. “It is, I guess. Perhaps when all this is over, and people have forgotten about it, we can fix the flaws. But for now it’s no good as a location for our new bait. We need something less secure, so he’ll strike sooner.”
The Ambassador's Mission Page 15
