If lower-status Sachakans were given important duties – such as Master Kirota holding the role of Master of War – they gained enough extra status to circulate among more powerful men. Dannyl did not own land, but his role as Ambassador boosted his status to the point where the Ashaki would deal with him. Lorkin, on the other hand, was a mere assistant – not quite equal to a non-heir Sachakan magician because he didn’t know black magic. Perler had warned him that some Sachakans thought the role of assistant was not much better than a servant’s, and had actually treated him with less respect than a free non-magician.
Ashaki Itoki is one of the most powerful men in Sachaka. I have no idea how I should behave around him. And, if that isn’t enough, I still can’t get used to the idea these men are black magicians who might hold immense magical power and could probably fry me to ashes if I happened to offend them.
The slave reached the end of the corridor, took a few steps into the room and threw himself onto the floor. Lorkin felt his stomach lurch and a crawling, uncomfortable feeling run up his spine. I can’t get used to seeing people do that, either. And it’s worse when they do it to me.
He looked up to see a large man, his flashy, overly decorated clothes stretching tightly around his ample girth. As the slave informed him of Lorkin’s identity, the man smiled thinly.
“Welcome, Lord Lorkin. You have a long task ahead of you, so I will not delay you. My slave will take you to my library and do his best to supply you with anything you need.”
Lorkin inclined his head. “Thank you, Ashaki Itoki.”
“Ukka. Take Lord Lorkin to the library,” the Sachakan ordered. The man leapt to his feet, beckoned to Lorkin with his eyes lowered, then moved away toward a doorway. Lorkin nodded to Itoki again, then followed the slave out of the room.
Out of the Ashaki’s presence, Lorkin let out a sigh of relief. He would not relax completely until he had left the man’s house. And then maybe not until he was back at the Guild House. But I’m not here in Sachaka to relax or feel safe and comfortable. I’m here to help Dannyl in his research.
The slave turned into a cluster of rooms similar to those Lorkin had use of in the Guild House, and moved into one of the side rooms. He stopped before a cabinet.
“My master says the records you want to see are in here,” he said, extending a hand toward it. Then he moved to the wall beside the door and stood with his back to it, just as the slaves at the Guild House did when not engaged in a task or dismissed.
Ready to serve me if required. And perhaps to keep watch and make sure I don’t look at anything I wasn’t invited to. Or steal anything.
Opening the double doors, Lorkin examined the piles of papers wrapped in leather satchels, the rolls of parchment and the books. He found the book Dannyl had described and took it out, then drew his notebook out of his robes. Casting about, he realised there was nowhere to sit and no table to work on. He turned to the slave.
“Is there something I can sit on?”
The slave hesitated, then nodded. Curses, I’ve done it again. I must remember to phrase requests as an order rather than a question.
“Bring it to me,” he said, biting back the “please” that he would usually have added, which he’d discovered sounded lame, and both free Sachakans and slaves seemed to find strange and amusing.
The man moved into the main room and brought in one of the simple stools Sachakans preferred. Strange that a people with so much power and all the country’s wealth use such basic furniture. I’d expect them to be reclining in chairs as big and over-decorated as they are.
There didn’t appear to be anything resembling a table in the main room, so Dannyl drew out one of the sturdier books from the cabinet. He sat down, rested the book on his knees and placed his notebook on it. Then he began to read.
Within a few pages of the record book Lorkin began to struggle with uncertainty. Clearly he could not copy the entire contents in the time he had. Dannyl hadn’t told him to copy out any particular passage, just to note anything that might be relevant. It was flattering that the magician trusted Lorkin to judge what was relevant – or else he had no choice but to leave it to me – but that didn’t make the task any easier.
The book wasn’t the rich source of information that Lorkin had hoped, either. It was part accounting, part diary, as record books of landowning magicians often were in those times. He could not afford to skim anything, or become distracted, or he might miss something. But the lists of household purchases and descriptions of trade agreements were hardly fascinating reading.
He noted any reference to magic and the names of visitors to the magician’s home. When he had finished he put the book away and began to read a bundle of letters. They were old but in good condition, written on small squares of paper that hadn’t been folded, so they did not break into pieces. They had been sent to the magician from a friend in Imardin. Lorkin couldn’t tell if the friend was a magician or not, as he knew that the title “Lord” had been used only by landowners and their heirs at the time. The friend enquired in most letters on progress toward ending slavery in Sachaka, which he and others in Imardin were anxious to achieve.
From the sounds of it, that was a matter of great urgency, Lorkin thought. But I suppose it hadn’t been that long since Kyralians had been slaves.
Finishing the letters, he examined the rolls of parchment, which proved to be accounting charts. Other satchels contained more letters, this time from the magician’s sister. She seemed more interested in how the slaves who had been freed were faring, and Lorkin found himself liking her for her compassionate yet practical suggestions.
I wish I could read his replies. I’d like to know the answers to the questions she asks about the Guild’s plans for Sachaka. Maybe that would give us clues as to why Kyralia relinquished control of the country it had conquered.
A slave arrived with food and drink. Lorkin ate quickly, then launched into his work again. When he’d finally read everything in the cabinet, he realised several hours had passed. He looked at his notebook and felt a vague disappointment. I’m not sure I found anything particularly useful, but perhaps Dannyl will see something I haven’t.
As he reached out to close the cabinet doors, he realised he was still holding the book he’d been using as a support for his notebook. Opening it, he saw it was another record book. It appeared to continue where the last one had ended, but only a third of the pages contained text. Lorkin started to read the last entry. Immediately his skin began to prickle. The writing was short and hurried.
“Terrible news. The Storestone is missing. Lord Narvelan has also disappeared and many believe he is the thief. The fool knows it is essential to our control over the Sachakans. I must leave now and join the search for him.”
The blank pages after the entry were suddenly rife with questions and possibilities. Why hadn’t the magician resumed his record-keeping? Had he died? Had he confronted this Lord Narvelan and perished as a result?
And what is this “Storestone” that is so essential to the Guild’s control of Sachaka? Was it recovered? If it wasn’t, was that the reason Kyralia gave control of Sachaka back to its people?
And if it was never recovered, what happened to it? Did some magical object exist that was powerful enough to keep a nation – a feared empire of black magicians – subjugated? Lorkin sat back down on the stool and began to copy out the entry.
I’m right. There is some sort of ancient magic that could help protect Kyralia. It’s been lost for over seven hundred years, and I’m going to find it.
Gol had done his research well. The shop was the kind that bought and sold the belongings of debtors and the desperate. It was also located in a part of the city where Cery was unlikely to be recognised. In one corner, paper window screens of all sizes and shapes leaned against the wall. Coats and cloaks hung on racks and shoes sat in pairs below them. All manner of pottery, glass, metal and stone domestic vessels and objects crowded shelves behind the owner’s chair and side b
ench. And a heavy, decorative ironwork cage protected trays of jewellery – though from the look of it most was badly made or fake.
Another set of shelves held books of all sizes. Some were bound with paper, the threads of the binding exposed and fraying. Some were bound in leather and, of those, most were worn and cracked, but a few gleamed with newness.
“Books on magic, then?” the pawnshop owner said, his voice rising in volume but dropping in tone. He chuckled. “I get a few from time to time. Oh, you won’t find any there, young man.”
Cery turned to find the man looking at him. The man’s smile faltered for a moment as he realised his error.
“The Guild takes them off you?” Cery asked.
The man shook his head. “No, the Guard come by now and then to check but I’m not fool enough to put something like that on display. And the books go too quickly. In and out. My regular customers know they have to come quick when I let them know something’s arrived, if they want to be the one that gets it.”
“How do you get hold of them – if you don’t mind me asking?”
The man shrugged. “Mostly I get ’em from novices. The ones that come from around here. For some reason they can’t send money direct to their families, so they steal books and sell them to me, and I pass on the money.”
“For a fee,” Cery finished.
The man shook his head. “Oh, I make a good enough profit on selling them. I treat my novices good, ’cause there’s plenty of others they could go to if I didn’t.” He scowled. “Of course, some of ’em try to get me to pass the money on to rot sellers instead. I won’t have any of that. Nasty people, those. Don’t want anything to do with them.”
“Me neither,” Cery replied. “How do you know if a book is real or a fake?”
The man straightened. “Many years’ experience. And a couple spent working in the Guild when I was a young man.”
“Really? You worked for the Guild?” Cery leaned toward the man. “What you get kicked out for?”
The man crossed his arms. “Did I say I got kicked out?”
Cery gave the man a hard look. “You left a job like that?”
The seller hesitated, then shrugged. “Didn’t like being told what to do all the time. As my late wife said, it doesn’t suit everyone. ‘Makkin the Buyer’ is a name that suits me best. Better to be Makkin my fortune than Makkin anyone’s dinner or beds.” He chuckled.
“Fair enough,” Cery said. “I don’t think I could put up with it either. So … when do you think you might get some new books? And what sort can I get?”
Makkin’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “They arrive when they arrive. Sometimes you wait days, sometimes weeks. I can try to get my novices to steal what you want, but it’s not always possible – or else it takes longer. Price depends on difficulty, and I have to warn you, sometimes one of my more, erm, influential customers takes an interest and buys out everything I have, no matter who ordered it.” The man rubbed his hands together. “What were you after in particular?”
“Something … unusual. Rare. On a particular subject. I don’t care what, just not beginner’s books.”
The man nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Call back in a few days and I’ll tell you what my boys have or can get.” He beamed at Cery. “Always nice to have a new customer.”
Cery nodded. “Always.” He tilted his head to one side a little. “I don’t suppose you can tell us who your other customers are. Just so I know who I’m up against.”
Makkin shook his head. “Wouldn’t be in business long if I did that.”
“No, I suppose not.” Cery turned toward the door, then looked thoughtful and turned back. “Just curious, but how much would a man have to offer you to be worth risking it?”
“I like being alive too much to even think about it.”
Cery raised his eyebrows. “You must have very influential customers.”
The man smiled. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
Holding back a laugh, Cery turned away. Gol strode forward to open the door for him, and they both stepped out into the street.
It was nearing sunset, and the people still out and about were walking with a hunched and intent stride, no doubt looking forward to getting to their destination. A few steps past the shop, Cery crossed the road and moved into the shadow of the opposite buildings. Then he stopped and looked back.
“What are you thinking?” Gol asked. “You have that look.”
“I’m thinking that Makkin and his shop might be a good location for our trap.”
“So do we arrange for something special to fall into his hands and see who comes to get it, or do we wait until something real comes in?”
“I doubt he’d tell us first, if he got real books. We need to be in control of the transaction as much as possible, and by arranging for the fakes to reach him we can time it to our plans. Though … we have to give our quarry reason to use magic to get hold of it. I wonder … he said he keeps them out of sight. A safebox, perhaps?”
“I’ll find out. It would make it easier to be sure Makkin doesn’t sell the books to anyone else. Hopefully that’ll force the Hunter to break in to get it.”
“And use magic.” Cery nodded. “We’ll need a safe place to watch from. And make sure we can get away if things go wrong or Makkin works out what’s going on.”
Gol nodded. “I’ll look into it.”
It was late when Dannyl finally walked through the door to his rooms at the Guild House. He’d spent the evening visiting an old Ashaki who insisted on filling Dannyl in on the trading exploits of all his ancestors, and was overly gleeful at their success at cheating other traders to the point of ruin.
He glanced into the side room he and past Ambassadors used as an office and, seeing something new on the desk, stopped and looked closer. A notebook lay there. He walked into the room and picked it up. Opening the pages, he recognised Lorkin’s handwriting and suddenly the weariness he’d felt these last few hours lifted.
At some point a previous Ambassador had purchased or had made for the office an ordinary chair with a back. Dannyl sat down with an appreciative sigh and began to read. The first passages Lorkin had copied out were from the record that Dannyl had skimmed through. There weren’t many entries, he noted, and he felt a pang of worry as he realised the young man hadn’t copied out the entry about the house in Imardin. Dannyl hadn’t mentioned it, curious to see if Lorkin would notice.
But it wasn’t an obvious clue. Lorkin will, no doubt, see different things. While he won’t pick up everything I would have, he may find things I wouldn’t.
Sending Lorkin in Dannyl’s place had been a brilliant solution to the problem of being unable to visit important Sachakans twice in a row for fear of showing undue political favour. Nothing would be the same as doing the research personally, but having Lorkin do it for him at least gave him some material to examine and consider until he was free to do it himself.
Reading on, he felt his excitement at having new information slowly ebb. There was little more here of use. Then Lorkin’s handwriting suddenly became bolder and angular, with one word repeatedly underlined. Dannyl read and then reread the copied-out record, and Lorkin’s speculations, and felt his mood lift again.
Lorkin is right. This “storestone” is clearly important. Though he is assuming it is a magical object. It might be something with political value – an object that states the possessor is important, like a king’s band or a religious leader’s treasure.
The name “Narvelan” was familiar, but he could not remember why. He rubbed his forehead and realised he had a growing headache and was thirsty. The meal had been excessively salty, and the only drink offered had been wine. Looking through the doorway into the main room, he saw that there was a slave standing against the far wall.
“Fetch me some water, will you?” he called.
The young man hurried away. Dannyl turned back to Lorkin’s notes, rereading and trying to remember where he’d heard the
name “Narvelan” before. Hearing the slave return, he looked up. Instead of the previous young man, a boy stood there, holding out a jug and a glass.
Dannyl hesitated, then took them, wondering why he was now being served by a different slave. The boy looked down, avoiding his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered who decided which slaves did what. Probably the slave master, who had introduced himself on the first day. Lord Maron had explained that the slaves actually belonged to the king, but were “on loan” to the Guild House. This prevented the Guild from breaking the law against Kyralians enslaving others while in Sachaka – a rule that was designed to prevent Kyralians getting to like the idea and trying to introduce it in their homeland.
The boy bit his lip then took a step toward Dannyl.
“Does my master wish for company in bed tonight?” he asked.
Dannyl felt his insides freeze, then a wave of horror rushed over him.
“No,” he said quickly and firmly. Then he added: “You may leave, now.”
The boy left, showing neither relief nor disappointment in his walk or posture. Dannyl shuddered. Just when I’m getting used to seeing slaves everywhere … But perhaps it was better not to grow too comfortable. Perhaps it was good to be reminded of how barbaric the Sachakan people could be.
But why a boy? None of the female slaves have been so forward. It was likely the Sachakan king’s spies would have looked into his background and picked up on his scandalous but not-so-secret preference for men in his bed instead of women. But that does not mean I’d take a mere child to bed. Or a slave, who had no choice in the matter. The latter thought repelled him, but the former filled him with disgust.
Has Lorkin received a similar offer? The question filled him with anxiety for a moment, but then he remembered the expression Lorkin always wore whenever a slave prostrated themselves in front of him. If he had, I don’t think he’d have taken it up. Still, I need to keep an eye on him.
But not tonight. It was late and Lorkin was probably long asleep. Dannyl ought to retire, too. There would be another Ashaki to visit and listen to tomorrow night, and the night after, and the list of matters of trade and diplomacy to sort out during daylight hours was starting to grow as well.
The Ambassador’s Mission: Book One of the Traitor Spy Trilogy Page 17
