There were nods all around.
“An excellent solution,” Lord Osen said. “Perhaps you can persuade his mother to give up the drug at the same time.” He looked at her expectantly. She said nothing, just met his gaze levelly. I’m not stupid enough to make any promises, when it comes to roet.
Osen looked away, turning to the others. “Does anyone object, or have another suggestion?”
The Higher Magicians shook their heads. Osen called in the escorts and Norrin. When Sonea’s suggestion was offered to him, he gazed up at her with open gratitude. That’s a little too much like adoration, she thought. I had better make sure I keep him working hard, so he doesn’t start idolising me – or, more importantly, thinking that breaking rules leads to him getting his way.
As Osen announced the Hearing and Meet concluded, and Sonea rose and started descending the stairs, Lady Vinara stepped out to block her path.
“It is good to see you speaking your mind at last,” the elderly Healer said. “You should do so more often.”
Sonea blinked in surprise, and found she could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound trite. Vinara’s smile changed to a more serious look. She glanced down at where Norrin had been standing.
“This case clearly demonstrates the need to make a prompt decision on whether to change or abolish the rule against associating with criminals and characters of low repute.” She lowered her voice. “I am in favour of a clarification. The rule is too easily interpreted in a way that would restrict the work of my Healers.”
Sonea nodded and managed a smile. “Mine even more so. When do you think the Administrator will call for a decision?”
Vinara frowned. “He has not yet concluded whether it should be a decision for us or the Guild. It may be perceived as unfair, should it be the former, as you are the only Higher Magician who might be seen to represent the magicians and novices of lower-class origins. But if we open it up to the entire Guild …”
“It may not make that much difference,” Sonea finished. “And there are sure to be remarks made that, stated publicly, may cause lasting resentment.”
Vinara shrugged. “Oh, I don’t think we can avoid that. But it will cause a lot more fuss and work, and Osen is not sure the issue warrants that.”
“Well, then.” Sonea smiled grimly and stepped past the woman. “Perhaps Norrin’s case will convince him otherwise.”
Lorkin gazed out at the fields beside the road, wondering how long it would take for him to get used to the greenness of it all. For three days they had travelled across the wasteland, and it felt as if the dry dustiness of the place had filled every crease in his skin and hollow of his lungs. He was looking forward to a bath more than he had ever before in his life.
At night they had taken turns keeping watch for the approach of Ichani, or sleeping in the carriage. The wasteland was considered the most dangerous part of their journey – hence the precautions – but no attacks by outcast Sachakan magicians had ever been made on Guild magicians since the invasion. Previous Guild Ambassadors had seen figures in the distance watching them, but none had ever approached.
Lorkin doubted they could have held off an attack by Ichani bandits for long, but the previous Ambassador had told them that they’d always relied on the hope that looking like they were prepared for a fight was deterrent enough. The Ichani roaming the wastes and mountains knew that the Guild had managed to kill Kariko and his gang, though not how they had, and so kept a cautious distance from any robed visitors.
On the second day a sandstorm had forced Dannyl to sit beside the driver and protect horse and carriage, as well as keep the road visible, with a magical barrier. On the third day the sands gave way to tussocks and stunted bushes. As the vegetation thickened, grazing animals had appeared. Then those gave way to the first struggling crops, which slowly improved in health and lushness until all looked appealingly rural and normal – so long as one didn’t look too closely at the south-western horizon.
Now and then clusters of white buildings and walls appeared several hundred paces from the road. These were the estates of Sachaka’s powerful landowners, the Ashaki. Only when they passed the first of these did Lorkin realise that the ruins the carriage had passed in the wasteland had probably once looked just like them.
Tonight, Lorkin and Dannyl were to visit and stay with an Ashaki. Lorkin was not sure how much of the nervous tingle of anticipation he felt at finally meeting a Sachakan was excitement or dread. Dannyl had met with the Sachakan Ambassador in Imardin, but Lorkin had not been confirmed as his assistant at the time and so was not invited to the meeting.
I want us to hurry up and get there, but how much of that is due to hunger and wanting a comfortable bed and a whole night’s sleep?
The carriage slowed, then turned off the main road. Lorkin’s heart began racing. Leaning close to the window he saw white buildings at the end of the narrow road the carriage was following. The walls were smooth and curved, with no sharp edges. As they drew closer, he could see, through an archway ahead, thin figures moving about inside a space beyond the wall. One stopped within the archway, then turned to wave at the others before moving out of sight.
When they passed through the archway they found themselves in a near-deserted courtyard. Whoever the people were, they had made themselves scarce. A single figure stepped out of a narrow doorway as the carriage drew to a halt, and dropped smoothly face-down on the ground.
Clearly he was a slave. Lorkin looked at Dannyl, who smiled grimly and moved to the door of the carriage. As the Ambassador climbed out, the man on the ground did not move. Lorkin followed. He looked up at the driver. The man wore a frown of disapproval.
Well, we were told to expect this. It doesn’t make it any less discomfiting. And it feels a bit rude, too. Still, they do things differently here. The master of the house does not emerge to greet his guests. He welcomes them once they’re inside.
“Take us to your master,” Dannyl ordered. His tone was neither commanding, nor did it sound like a request. Lorkin decided this was a good compromise and resolved to do the same when addressing a slave.
The prone man rose and, without looking up or saying anything, moved back through the doorway into the building. Dannyl and Lorkin followed. They entered a corridor. The interior walls were the same as the exterior, though perhaps a little smoother. Looking closely, Lorkin saw that there were fingermarks in the surface. The walls had been coated with some kind of paste. He wondered if there was a solid stone or brick core to the walls, or if they had been made entirely of some sort of clay, built up in successive layers.
Reaching the end of the corridor, the slave stepped aside and threw himself on the floor. Dannyl and Lorkin entered a large room, the white walls decorated with hangings and carvings. A man was sitting on one of three low stools, and now he rose and smiled at them.
“Welcome. I am Ashaki Tariko. You must be Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin.”
“We are,” Dannyl replied. “It is an honour to meet you and we thank you for inviting us to stay in your home.”
The man was a head shorter than Dannyl, but his broad stature gave the impression of strength. His skin was the typical Sachakan brown – lighter than a Lonmar’s but darker than an Elyne’s honey-brown. From the wrinkles about his mouth and eyes Lorkin guessed he was between forty and fifty years old. He wore a short jacket covered in colourful stitchwork over some sort of plain garment, and a pair of trousers in the same cloth as the jacket, but not as elaborately decorated.
“Come sit with me,” Ashaki Tariko invited, gesturing to the stools. “I set watchers on the road to alert me when you were near, so I could have a meal prepared ready for your arrival.” He turned to the prone slave. “Alert the kitchen that our guests are here,” he ordered.
The man leapt to his feet and hurried away. As Lorkin followed Dannyl to the stools, he caught a flash of something metallic at Tariko’s waist and looked closer. An elaborately decorated knife sheath and handle hung fro
m his belt. It was quite beautiful, set with jewels and inlaid with gold.
Then Lorkin felt a chill run down his spine.
It’s a black magician’s knife. Ashaki Tariko is a black magician. For a moment he felt a rush of fear that was strangely exhilarating, but it faded as quickly and left behind a disappointing cynicism. Yeah, and so’s your mother, he found himself thinking, and he suddenly knew that living in a land of black magicians wasn’t going to be as thrilling and novel as he’d thought it would be.
His thoughts were interrupted by a stream of men and women, dressed simply in cloth wrapped about their torso and bound with a length of rope about their waist. They bore either a platter laden with food, or pitchers and goblets. Exotic smells assaulted his nose and he felt his stomach rumble in response. Each slave approached Ashaki Tariko, burden held out before them and head bowed, then knelt before him. The first held the utensils with which the host and guests would eat: a plate and a knife with a forked tip. Then goblets were offered and filled with wine. Finally there were successive dishes, the master of the house selecting first, then Dannyl, then Lorkin. Tariko dismissed each slave with a quiet, “Go.”
The master of the house first, Lorkin recited silently. Magicians before non-magicians, Ashaki before landless free men, age before youth, men before women. Only if a woman was a magician and head of her family would she be served before men. And women often eat separately from men anyway. I wonder if Ashaki Tariko has a wife.
The food was richly spiced, some so hot he had to stop and cool his mouth with a mouthful of wine every few bites. He resisted as long as possible, both in the hope he would grow used to the heat sooner, and because he did not want to end up insensible from drink – especially not on his first night as a guest of a Sachakan black magician.
While Dannyl and their host discussed the journey across the wastes, the weather, the food and the wine, Lorkin watched the slaves. The last of them to offer their burdens had waited the longest, but their arms were steady. It was strange to have these silent people in the room, all but ignored as Tariko and Dannyl talked.
These people are Tariko’s possessions, he reminded himself. They are put to work and bred like livestock. He tried to imagine what that would be like, and shuddered. Only when the last of the food had been offered and the last slave dismissed was Lorkin able to pay attention to the conversation.
“How does it affect you, living this close to the wasteland?” Dannyl asked.
Tariko shrugged. “If the wind comes from that direction it sucks the moisture out of everything. It can ruin a crop if it blows too long. Afterwards there will be a fine sanddust coating everything, inside and outside.” He looked up, beyond the walls toward the wasteland. “The wastes grow a little larger each year. One day, maybe in a thousand years, the sands will meet those in the north, and all Sachaka will be desert.”
“Unless it can be reversed,” Dannyl said. “Has anyone here attempted to reclaim land from the wastes?”
“Many.” Of course we have, Tariko’s expression seemed to say. “Sometimes successfully, but never permanently. Those who have studied the wastes say that the fertile top layer of the land was stripped away, and without it water is not retained and plants cannot return.”
Dannyl’s gaze sharpened with interest. “But you have no idea how?”
“No.” Tariko sighed. “Every few years it rains in the northern desert, and within a few days the land turns green. The soil is rich with ash from the volcanoes. It is only the lack of rain that keeps it a desert. We have plenty of rain here but still nothing grows.”
“That sounds like a wonder to see,” Lorkin added in a murmur. “The northern desert in flower, that is.”
Tariko smiled at him. “It is. The Duna tribes come south to harvest the desert plants and sell the dried leaves, fruit and seeds in Arvice. If you are lucky, such an event will happen during your stay, and you will have the opportunity to enjoy some rare spices and delicacies.”
“I hope so,” Lorkin said. “Though I can’t imagine anything more exotic and delicious than the meal we just enjoyed.”
The Sachakan chuckled, pleased at the flattery. “I have always said that of all slaves, good cooks are worth the extra expense. And horse trainers.”
Lorkin just managed to stop himself wincing at such a casual reference to buying people and was glad that Tariko said no more about it. After a discussion about foods native to Sachaka, in which Tariko recommended they try some dishes and avoid others, the Ashaki straightened his back.
“You must be tired and now that I have fed you I won’t keep you from a bath and bed any longer.”
Dannyl looked disappointed as their host rose, but to Lorkin’s relief did not protest. A gong rang out and two young women hurried into the room to throw themselves on the floor.
“Take our guests to their rooms,” he ordered. Then he smiled at Dannyl and Lorkin. “Rest well Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin. I will see you again in the morning.”
Lifting the cover, Cery leaned close to the spy hole and squinted at the room beyond. It was narrow, but very long, so the overall space was generous. He hadn’t liked the shape, but it could be divided into a string of smaller rooms, and escape routes spaced along the length.
Several men were working within the room, covering the brick walls with panelling, building the framework for the dividing walls, and tiling the floor. Two were working on the fireplace, clearing a blockage. As soon as they were finished and the mess cleared, work would start on decorating, and Cery’s new hideout – and trap for the Thief Hunter – would become a tasteful, luxurious space.
“Are you sure you want to use the same lockmaker?” Gol asked.
Cery turned to see his bodyguard’s eye illuminated by a small circle of light from beyond another spy hole.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You said you didn’t think Dern betrayed you, and if nobody betrays you then the Thief Hunter will never fall into our trap.”
Turning back to the spy hole, Cery watched the men working. “I don’t want people thinking I’m blaming him.”
“I’m still a bit suspicious about the lock. Why would Dern build into it a way to tell if magic had been used, if it was so unlikely magic would be used on it?”
“Maybe he thought it was likely. After all, I’m a Thief. Thieves have been getting murdered for some years now.”
“Then he must have reason to suspect they were killed with the help of magic.”
“Perhaps he has. Perhaps he’s heard the rumours about the Thief Hunter. But I’ve always found Dern to be habitually thorough to the point of ridiculousness and I think that’s why he made it like that, not that he knew anything about the Thief Hunter and his methods.”
Gol sighed. “Well … yes, he does seem that way at times. And while he was thankful to get more work from you, he seemed, well, nervous. Twitchy. Kept saying if the Thief Hunter and the Rogue turned out to be real and the same then what other legends might be true? Like the one about the giant ravis that eat people alive if they go into the sewers, or come up and drag people off the Thieves’ Road.”
“He would have to wonder.” Cery shook his head. “I always thought the Rogue was a myth, too. People have been saying there’s a magician hiding in the city for twenty years, even though Senfel rejoined the Guild after they pardoned him, and died of old age … what? Is it nine or ten years ago?”
“Senfel put the idea into people’s heads – as did Sonea. Now every strange occurrence that could be magical is evidence that more rogues are about.”
“Seems they might have been right about that.” Cery scowled. “But that’s more reason why we need to be sure before we tell Sonea.”
Gol grunted in agreement. “Do you think we should tell Skellin what we’re doing?”
“Skellin?” For a moment Cery wondered why, then he remembered the agreement he’d made with the other Thief. “We don’t know for sure if the person we’re baiting is the Thief Hunter.
If we find evidence that he is, we’ll tell Skellin. Otherwise …” he shrugged. “He never asked me to tell him if I found a rogue.”
For a while they both looked through the spy holes in silence, then Cery let the cover of his hole swing back. The workmen knew of the escape routes they were building, but not of the ones that already existed, or of the spy holes Cery and Gol were watching them through.
“Let’s go.”
The hole of light before Gol’s eye vanished. Cery began walking, trailing a hand along the wall.
I wonder which one of the workmen I’ve hired will leak the location of my new hideout. Though Cery always treated workers well, paying them fairly and without delay, he could never be completely sure of their loyalty or ability to keep secrets. He found out everything he could about them: if they had family, if they cared about that family, if they had debts, who they had worked for in the past, who had worked for them, and if there was anyone, the Guard especially, they’d rather not encounter.
Not this time. Gol has set the information gathering in motion, but there isn’t enough time to be thorough, and that’s fine. For the trap to work Cery needed someone to leak information about it. But if I don’t take some precautions the Hunter might think it out of character, and become suspicious.
The passage turned, then turned again.
“You can open the lamp now,” Cery murmured.
There was a pause, then a faint squeak, and the tunnel was suddenly bathed in light.
“You know, any of those workers could be the Hunter.”
Cery glanced over his shoulder at his friend.
“Surely not.”
Gol shrugged. “Even the Hunter needs to eat and keep a roof over his head. He’s got to have a job of some sort.”
“Unless he’s rich,” Cery pointed out, turning back again.
“Unless he’s rich,” Gol agreed.
Once, it would have been a safe bet to assume the Hunter was rich. Only rich people learned magic. But these days, people of all classes could join the Guild. And if the Hunter couldn’t afford to bribe people, he could always blackmail and threaten them – possibly more effectively using magic to scare people.
The Ambassador’s Mission: Book One of the Traitor Spy Trilogy Page 13
